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their black-and-whites and said, “You’re troubled, Dutch. Tell me what it is and I’ll help.”

Dutch put down the quartz bookend he was fingering. “Jungle Jack Herzog. Ring a bell?”

Lloyd shook his head. “No.”

Handing him a manila folder, Dutch said, “Officer Jacob Herzog, age thirty-four. Thirteen years on the job. An exemplary cop, balls like you wouldn’t believe. Looked like a wimp, bench pressed two-fifty. Worked Metro, worked Intelligence Division plants, worked solo on vice loan-outs to every squad room in the city. Three citations for bravery. Known as the

‘Alchemist,’ because he could fake anything. He could be an old crippled man, a drunk marine, a fag, a low rider. You name it.”

Lloyd’s eyes bored in. “And?”

“And he’s been missing for three weeks. You remember Marty Bergen?

‘Old Yellowstreak’?”

“I know two jigs blew his partner in half with a ten-gauge and Bergen dropped his gun and ran like hell. I know he faced a trial board for cowardice under fire and got shitcanned from the Department. I know he published some short stories when he was working Hollenbeck Patrol and that he’s been churning out anticop bullshit for the Big Orange Insider since he was fired. How does he figure in this?”

Dutch pointed to the folder. “Bergen was Herzog’s best friend. Herzog spoke up for him at the trial board, made a big stink, dared the Department to fire him. The chief himself had him yanked off the streets, assigned to a desk job downtown—clerking at Personnel Records. But Jungle Jack was too good to be put to pasture. He’s been working undercover, on requests from half the vice commanders on this side of the hill. He’d been here at Hollywood for the past couple of months. Walt Perkins requested him, paid him cash out of the snitch fund to glom liquor violators. Jack was knocking them dead where Walt’s guys couldn’t get in the door without being recognized.”

Lloyd picked up the folder and put it in his jacket pocket. “Missing Person’s Report? Family? Friends?”

“All negative, Lloyd. Herzog was a stone loner. No family except an elderly father. His landlord hasn’t seen him in over a month, he hasn’t shown up here or at his personnel job downtown.”

“Booze? Dope? A pussy hound?”

Dutch sighed. “I would say that he was what you’d call an ascetic intel-216

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lectual. And the Department doesn’t seem to care—Walt and I are the first ones to even note his absence. He’s been a sullen hardass since Bergen was canned.”

Lloyd sighed back. “You’ve been using the past tense to describe Herzog, Dutchman. You think he’s dead?”

“Yeah. Don’t you?”

Lloyd’s answer was interrupted by shouting from the downstairs muster room. There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and seconds later a uniformed cop stuck his head in the doorway. “Liquor store on Sunset and Wilton, Skipper. Three people shot to death.”

Lloyd began to tingle, his body going alternately hot and cold. “I’m going,” he said.

3

The man in the yellow Toyota turned off Topanga Canyon Road and drove north on the Pacific Coast Highway, dawdling at stoplights so that his arrival at the Doctor’s beach house would coincide exactly with dusk. As always, the dimming of daylight brought relief, brought the feeling of another gauntlet run and conquered. With darkness came his reward for being the Doctor’s unexpendable right arm, the one person aside from the Night Tripper who knew just how far his “lonelies” could be tapped, dredged, milked, and exploited.

Spring was a sweet enemy, he thought. There were torturously long bouts of sunshine to contend with, transits that made nightfall that much more satisfying. This morning he had been up at dawn, running an eight-hour string of telephone credit checks on the names gleaned from the john books of the Doctor’s hooker patients. A full day, with, hopefully, a fuller evening in store: his first grouping since taking three people for the mortal coil shuffle and maybe later a run to the South Bay singles bars to trawl for more rich lonelies.

The man’s timing was perfect; he pulled off P.C.H. and down the access road just as the Doctor’s introductory music wafted across the parking area.