"Anyone ever tell you you answer the phone like a cop?"
Dutch laughed. "Yeah, you. Got a pencil?"
"Shoot."
"Herzog was working two singles bars, the First Avenue West and Jackie
D.'s, both on Highland north of the Boulevard. He was specifically looking for bartenders taking bribes to serve minors and hookers giving head in the hat-check room; we'd had a dozen complaints. He worked those joints for over six weeks, never blowing his cover, always calling narco or patrol from a pay phone when he saw something coming down. He figured in six coke busts and one for prostitution. As a result, the A.B.C. has both joints up for suspension of their liquor licenses."
Lloyd whistled. "What about the reports he filed?"
"No reports, Lloyd. Walt Perkins's orders. The arresting officers filed.
Walt didn't want Jack compromised."
"Shit. That means you can scratch revenge as a motive."
"Yeah, at least as far as his recent arrest record is concerned. What happened with Bergen?"
"Nothing. Bergen hasn't seen Herzog in over a month, says he was moody, troubled. He took the news hard. He was drunk at two in the after noon. Poor bastard."
"We're going to have a file a Missing Persons Report, Lloyd." "I know. Let Internal Affairs handle it, which means you and Walt
Perkins are going to catch shit for not reporting it earlier and probably even heavier shit for working Herzog off the payroll."
"You might get the case if it goes to Robbery/Homicide."
"They'll never find the stiff, Dutch. This job is pro all the way. I.A.D. will go at it sub rosa, then stonewall it. Let me give it another forty-eight hours before you call them, okay?"
"Okay."
"What have you got from your snitches on the liquor store job?" "Nothing yet. I sent out a memo to all officers on it. It's still too early for a response. What's next on Herzog?"
"Barhopping, Dutchman. Yours truly as a swinging single." "Have fun."
Lloyd laughed and said, "Fuck you," then hung up.
Bombarded by disco music, Lloyd competed for floor and bar space at
First Avenue West. Showing his insurance agent's business card and Jack
Herzog's personnel file photo to three bartenders, four cocktail waitresses and two dozen singles, he got negative responses, distinguished only by hostile looks and shakes of the head from low-rider types who made him for fuzz and annoyed brush-offs from young women who didn't like his style. Lloyd walked out the door angrily shaking his head as the washout continued. Jackie D.'s, three doors down, was almost deserted. Lloyd counted heads as he took a seat at the bar. A couple doing a slow grind on the dance floor and two overaged swingers feeding coins to the jukebox. The bartender slipped a napkin in front of him and explained why: "Twofers at First Avenue West. Every Tuesday night I get killed. First Ave. can afford it, I can't.
I keep my prices low to do volume and I still get killed. Is there no mercy in this life?"
"None," Lloyd said.
"I just wanted a confirmation. What are you drinking?"
Lloyd put a dollar bill on the bar. "Ginger ale."
The bartender snorted, "You see what I mean? No mercy!" Lloyd took out the snapshot of Jack Herzog. "Have you seen this man?" The bartender scrutinized the photo, then filled Lloyd's glass and nod ded. "Yeah, I seen him around here a lot."
Lloyd's skin prickled. "When?"
"A while back. A month, six weeks, maybe two months ago, right before those A.B.C. cocksuckers filed on me. You a cop?"
"That's right."
"Hollywood Vice?"
"Robbery/Homicide. Tell me about the man in the picture." "What's to tell? He came in, he drank, he tipped well, he didn't hit on the chicks."
"Ever talk to him?"
"Not really."
"Did he ever come in with or leave with anyone?"
The bartender screwed his face into a memory search, then said, "Yeah.
He had a buddy. A sandy-haired guy. Medium height, maybe early thirties." "Did he meet him here?"
"That I can't tell you."
Lloyd walked over to the pay phone outside the men's room and called
Hollywood Station, requesting Lieutenant Perkins. When he came on the line, Lloyd said, "Walt, this is Lloyd Hopkins. I've got a question." "Hit me."
"Did Herzog work his bar assignments alone?"
There was a long moment of silence. Finally Perkins said, "I'm not really sure, Lloyd. My guess is sometimes yes, sometimes no. I've always given Jack carte blanche. Any arrangements he made with individual squad members would be up to him. Shall I ask around tomorrow night at roll call?" "Yes. What about a sandy-haired man, medium height, early thirties.
Herzog might have worked with him."
"That's half our squad, Lloyd."
There was another stretch of silence. Finally Lloyd said, "He's dead. I'll be in touch," and replaced the receiver. The barman looked up as he strode toward the door. "There's no mercy!" he called out.
Battered by sleeplessness and dwindling options, Lloyd drove downtown to Parker Center, hoping to find an easily intimidated nightwatch supervisor on duty at Personnel Records. When he saw the man behind the records counter dozing in his chair with a science fiction novel lying on his chest, he knew he was home.
"Excuse me, Officer!"
The records supervisor jerked awake and stared at Lloyd's badge. "Hopkins, Robbery/Homicide," Lloyd said. "Jack Herzog left some files for me in his desk. Will you show me where it is?"
The supervisor yawned, then pointed to a bank of Plexiglas enclosed cubicles. "Herzog's daywatch, so I don't know exactly where his desk is. But you go help yourself, Sergeant. The names are on the doors." Lloyd walked into the Plexiglas maze, noting with relief that Herzog's cubicle was well out of the supervisor's sight. Finding the door unlocked, he rummaged through the desk drawers, feeling another impersonal habitat come into focus as pencils, notepads, and a series of blank office forms were revealed. One drawer; two drawers; three drawers. Herzog the cipher. Lloyd was raising his fist to slam the desktop when he noticed the edges of several slips of paper on the floor, wedged into the juncture where the wall met the carpet. Squatting, he pulled them out, going cold when he saw file requisition slips with the officer's name, rank, date of birth, and badge number on top and the requesting officer's name and division below.
Squinting, he read over the five slips. The officers' names were unknown to him, but the requesting officer's name wasn't. Captain Frederick T.
Gaffaney, Internal Affairs Division, had requested all five files. Old bornagain Christian Fred, who had given him grief as a Robbery/Homicide lieutenant. Squinting harder, Lloyd felt the coldness run up his spine into his brain. He knew Gaffaney's signature. These were blatant forgeries. Lloyd got out his notebook and wrote down the names of the officers whose files had been requested. Tucker, Duane W., Lieutenant, Wilshire Division; Murray, Daniel X., Captain, Central Division; Rolando, John L.,
Lieutenant, Devonshire Division; Kaiser, Steven A., Captain, West Valley
Division; Christie, Howard J., Lieutenant, Rampart Division. He stared at the names, then on impulse ran his hand under the carpet again, coming away with a last slip of paper, going dead ice cold when he read the name printed on top: Hopkins, Lloyd W. #1114, 2/27/42, Sergeant,
Robbery/Homicide Division.
5
Thomas Goff's surveillance photographs had not prepared him for the woman's beauty; nothing in Goff's oral and written reports came close to describing her aura of refinement. A thousand-dollar-a-night whore in a thousand-dollar raw silk dress. Dr. John Havilland leaned back in his chair, pretending to be tongue-tied. Give the woman the temporary upper hand, let her think her charisma had dented his professionalism. When Linda Wilhite didn't fidget under his gaze, he broke the long introductory silence. "Will you tell me something about yourself, Ms. Wilhite? The reasons why you've decided to enter therapy?"