BLOOD ON THE MOON
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once sang unintelligible rock and roll lyrics; and that with her, as well as now with his wife, his thoughts were of an Irish girl from the old neighborhood. That night Kathleen wrote in her diary:
Today I met a man; a man whom I think fate put in my path for a reason. To me he represents a paradox and possibilities that I cannot begin to access; such is his incongruous force. Enormous physically, fiercely bright—yet of all things, a man content to go through life as a policeman! I know that he wants me (when we met I noticed him wearing a wedding band. Later, as his attraction to me grew more obvious, I saw that he had slipped it off—a roundabout and very endearing subterfuge). I think that he has a rapacious ego and will—ones to match his size and self-proclaimed brilliance. And I sense—I know—
that he wants to change me, that he sees in me a kindred soul, one to touch deeply but also one to manipulate. I must watch my dialogue and my actions with this man. For the benefit of my growth, there must be a give and take. But I must keep my purest inner soul apart from him; my heart must remain inviolate.
9
Lloyd spent the morning at Parker Center, putting in a ritual appearance to appease Lieutenant Gaffaney and any other superior officers who might have noted his prolonged absence. Dutch Peltz called early; he had already initiated informal inquiries on old homosexual assault cases, delegating two desk officers the job of phoning the entire list of retired Juvenile detectives in the L.A.P.D.’s “private” retired personnel file. Dutch would be telephoning current Juvenile dicks with over twenty years on the job himself, and would call back as soon as he had gleaned a solid pile of information for evaluation. With Kathleen McCarthy checking out the bookstore angle, there was nothing Lloyd could do but chase paper—read the suicide files 122
L.A. NOIR
over and over again until something previously missed or overlooked or misunderstood jumped out at him.
It took two hours and digestion of thousands of words to make a connection, and when the number 408 appeared in the same context in two different files, Lloyd didn’t know if it was a lead or a mere coincidence. The body of Angela Stimka was discovered by her neighbor, L.A. County Deputy Sheriff Delbert Haines, badge #408, other neighbors having summoned the off-duty deputy when they smelled gas coming from the woman’s apartment. A year to the day later, officers T. Rains, #408, and W. Vandervort, #691, were called to the scene of the Laurette Powell “suicide.” Rains, Haines—a stupid spelling blunder; the identical badge numbers obviously denoted the same deputy. Lloyd read over the file of the third West Hollywood “suicide”—Carla Castleberry, D.O.D. 6/10/80, the Tropicana Motel on Santa Monica Boulevard. Entirely different officers had filed this death report, and the names of residents of the motel who were interviewed at the scene—
Duane Tucker, Lawrence Craigie, and Janet Mandarano—did not appear at all in any of the other files.
Lloyd picked up his phone and dialed the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Substation. A bored voice answered. “Sheriff’s. May I help you?”
Lloyd was brusque. “This is Detective Sergeant Hopkins, L.A.P.D. Do you have a Deputy Haines or Rains, badge 408, working out of your station?” The bored officer muttered, “Yessir, Big Whitey Haines. Day watch patrol.”
“Is he on duty today?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Contact him on his radio. Tell him to meet me at the pizza joint on Fountain and La Cienega in one hour. It’s urgent. You got that?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Do it now.” Lloyd hung up. It was probably nothing—but at least it was movement.
*
*
*
Lloyd arrived at the restaurant early, ordering coffee and taking a booth with a view of the parking lot, the better to get a visual fix on Haines before their interview. Five minutes later a sheriff’s black-and-white pulled in and a uniformed deputy got out, squinting myopically against the sunlight. Lloyd sized the man up—big, blonde, a strong body going to flab. Middle thirties. Ridicu-