BECAUSE THE NIGHT
237
“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?”
Linda Wilhite’s eyes circled the office; her hands smoothed the arms of her chair. Brilliantly varnished oak walls, a framed Edward Hopper original. No couch. The chairs she and the Doctor were sitting in were upholstered in pure cashmere. “You love nice things,” she said. Havilland smiled. “So do you. That’s a very beautiful dress.”
“Thank you. Why do most people come to see you?”
“Because they want to change their lives.”
“Of course. Can you guess what I do for a living?”
“Yes. You’re a prostitute.”
“How exactly did you know that?”
“You called my service and made an appointment without asking to speak to me personally, and you wouldn’t say who referred you. When a woman contacts me in that manner, I assume that she’s in the Life. I’ve counseled a great many prostitutes, and I’ve published several monographs on my findings, without ever violating the anonymity of my patients. In criminal parlance I’m a ‘stand-up guy.’ I don’t have a receptionist or a secretary, because I don’t trust such people. Women in the Life trust me for these reasons.”