"He'll be very sorry to see you go."
"I know. He's a very brilliant shrink, but I shouldn't associate with men who are obsessed with me. Having pictures of me on the wall is just too sad. Even though he takes them down for my visits, I still feel manipulated. Do you remember the pictures? Exactly how was I posed?"
"You weren't posed. They were candid type shots."
Linda's face clouded. "Really? That's strange. All the pictures in the book were posed."
Lloyd shrugged, then felt an overlooked connection hit him. "Never underestimate your power, even over hardnoses like Havilland. Listen, did you ever mention Stanley Rudolph to him?"
Linda said, "Yes, but not by name. All I mentioned was that he liked to take nude pictures of me. Why? I don't want to talk about your case or my clients."
"Neither do I. What do you want to talk about?"
"Tell me why you broke up with your wife."
"It's not a pretty story."
"It never is."
Lloyd turned over on his back, wanting to distance himself from Linda. He tried to find the appropriate words to begin his story, then realized that unless he looked her straight in the eye, his prelude would be self-serving lies. Twisting back around and locking into eye contact, he said, "It happened last year. I had been neglecting my family and cheating on my wife with various women for years before that, but last year was when it all exploded.
"I was working Robbery/Homicide, pretty much on the cases I pleased, when I got an anonymous phone call that led me to a murder victim. A young woman. I headed the investigation and dug up information that pointed to a mass murderer who was so fucking smart that no police agency in L.A. County connected any of his killings. At the time I went to my superiors with my information, he had killed at least sixteen women."
Linda raised a hand to her face and bit the knuckles. Lloyd said, "My superiors wouldn't authorize an investigation; it was too potentially embarassing to too many police departments. So I went after him myself. Janice left me about that time, taking the girls with her. There was just me and the killer. I found out who he was-a man named Teddy Verplanck. He made the media very big as the Hollywood Slaughterer. You probably heard about him. I went out to get him, but a woman I was seeing got in the way. He killed her. I went out to kill Verplanck. We shot each other up, and another officer, my best friend, killed him. That part of it never hit the media. Janice and the girls don't know exactly what happened, but they do know that I was shot, and that the whole episode almost cost me my career. Now I've got some nightmares to live with and a lot of innocent blood to atone for."
Linda astonished Lloyd by smiling. "I was expecting some tawdry little tale of other men and other women, not a gothic epic."
Baffled by the reaction, Lloyd said, "You almost sound titillated by it."
Linda kissed his lips softly. "My father shot my mother and then blew his brains out. I was ten. I'm no neophyte. Sometimes my thoughts are very dark. Let's go to sleep on a happy note, though. I want us to be together."
Lloyd got up and closed the bedroom door, shutting out all traces of light. "So do I," he said.
The morning began with a muffled cadence counting issuing from the living room. Lloyd put it off as Linda gyrating to a TV exercise program and went back to sleep, only to be awakened again minutes later by a firm bite on his neck. He opened his eyes and saw Linda squatting beside the bed in a black leotard. She was sweating and holding one hand behind her back. He leaned forward to kiss her, only to have her dart out of the way of his lips. "What size sweater do you wear?" she asked.
Lloyd sat up and rubbed his eyes. "No kiss? No offer of breakfast? No 'when will I see you again?' "
"Later. Answer my question."
"Size forty-six. Why?"
Linda muttered "shit," and handed Lloyd a Brooks Brothers box tied with a pink ribbon. He opened it and saw a carefully folded navy blue pullover sweater. Stroking its downy front, he whistled and said, "Cashmere. Did you buy this for me?"
Linda shook her head. "I'll tell you the story some day. It's a size too small, but please wear it."
Standing up, Lloyd grabbed Linda and consummated their morning kiss. "Thank you. I'll lose weight so it'll fit better."
"I wouldn't put it past you. What's the matter, Hopkins? You're scowling."
Lloyd broke the embrace. "Delayed reaction to joy. My already complicated life has just gotten much more complicated. I'm glad."
"It's mutual. What happens next?"
"I'm going to New York in a day or so. Thomas Goff comes from there. I'm going to cruise his old haunts and talk to people who knew him. It's my only remaining out. When I get back I'll call you."
"You'd better. Why don't you shower while I make some coffee and toast? I've got my yoga class in an hour, but at least we can have breakfast together."
Lloyd showered, alternating hot and cold jets of water over his body, lost in the sound of the spray and the hum of music coming from the kitchen. After drying off and dressing, he walked into the kitchen and found Linda fiddling with the radio dial. "I hate to be a downer," she said, "but I just heard some bad news. An L.A. policeman was murdered in Malibu. I didn't get all the details, but-"
Lloyd grabbed the radio and flipped the tuner to an all-news station, catching static and the conclusion of a weather report. He sat down and looked at Linda, then put a finger to her lips and said, "They'll repeat the story. Cop killings are hot news."
The weatherman said, "Back to you, Bob," and a stern-voiced announcer took over: "More details on that Malibu killing. L.A. County Sheriff's detectives have just announced that the dead man found on the beach near Pacific Coast Highway and Temescal Canyon Road is a twenty-two-year L.A.P.D. veteran named Howard Christie, a lieutenant assigned to the Rampart Division. Christie's decapitated body was found early this morning by local surfers, who called the Malibu Sheriff's Substation to inform them of the grisly find. Captain Michael Seidman of the Malibu Station told reporters: 'This is a homicide, but as yet we do not know the cause of death and have no suspects. We have, however, determined that Lieutenant Christie was killed in the parking lot immediately above the spot on the beach where his body was found. We are now appealing to anyone who was in the vicinity of Pacific Coast Highway and Temescal Canyon Road last night or early this morning, people who might have seen or heard something suspicious. Please come forward. We need your assistance.' Further details on this story as it breaks. And now-"
Linda turned off the radio and stared at Lloyd. "Tell me, Hopkins."
"It's Goff," Lloyd said, with a death's-head grin. "I'm not going to New York. If you don't hear from me in forty-eight hours, send up a flare." He grabbed his sweater and ran out the door. Linda shuddered, imagining her new lover's departure as a race into hell.
Pacific Coast Highway and Temescal Canyon Road was a pandemonium of police vehicles with cherry lights flashing, TV minicam crews, mobs of reporters, and a large crowd of rubbernecks that spilled over from the parking blacktop, forcing southbound P.C.H. traffic into the middle lane.
Lloyd pulled up to the dirt shoulder on the land side of the highway and killed his siren, then pinned his badge to his jacket front and dodged cars over to a diagonal stretch of pavement sealed with a length of rope hung with "Official Crime Scene" warnings. The area behind the cordon was filled with plainclothes officers and technicians with evidence kits, and a long bank of pay phones was crowded with uniformed sheriff's deputies calling in information. At the rear of the scene a half dozen plainclothesmen squatted beside the wooden railing overlooking the cliffs and the ocean, spreading fingerprint powder on a cracked piece of timber.