BECAUSE THE NIGHT

273

light and shut the door behind him, he was thinking of a black vinyl Vietnam body bag he had won as a joke prize at a med school beer bust and of dogs exploding into red behind a barbed wire fence. 8

Lloyd awoke in his den, already calculating hours before he was fully conscious. Thirty-six since Dutch’s ultimatum and no new leads—report Herzog missing. Well over a hundred hours since the liquor store slaughter—all leads dead-ended. Start cross-checking the three hundred thousand yellow Jap cars and begin hauling in known armed robbers, leaning on them hard, squeezing all known and suspected pressure points in hope of securing information. Shit work all the way down the line.

Lloyd stretched and rolled off the convertible bed in one motion, then walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, letting the cold air bring him to full consciousness. When goose bumps formed beneath his T-shirt and boxer shorts he shivered and dug out a half consumed container of cottage cheese, eating with the spoon that was still stuck inside. Almost gagging on the sticky blandness, he looked around the three small rooms he had allotted himself in his family’s absence: den to sleep, think, and study in; kitchen for the preparing of such gourmet fare as cottage cheese and cold chili from the can; the downstairs bathroom for hygiene. When he started doing calculations as to the number of hours since Janice and the girls had left, his mental calculator quit in midtransaction. If you start running tabs you’ll go crazy and do something crazy to get them back. Let it be. If you stalk them, they’ll know you haven’t changed. It’s a penance waiting game. Finishing his breakfast, Lloyd showered hot and cold, then dressed in a day old button-down shirt and his only clean suit, an unseasonable summer pinstripe. Murmuring “Now or never,” he sat down at his desk, dug out a spiral notebook and wrote:

4/28/84

To: Chief of Detectives

274

L.A. NOIR

From: Det. Sergeant Lloyd Hopkins, Rob/Hom. Div.

Sir:

Four days ago I was contacted by my friend, Captain Arthur Peltz, the commander of Hollywood Division. He told me that Officer Jacob Herzog, a Personnel Records clerk at Parker Center who was working on a sub-rosa loan-out to Hollywood Vice, had been missing for nearly a month. Captain Peltz asked me to investigate, and in doing so I discovered that Herzog’s (intact) apartment had been professionally wiped of fingerprints. I questioned Herzog’s best friend, former L.A.P.D. Sergeant Martin Bergen, who told me that he hadn’t seen Herzog in over a month and that Herzog had been “moody” at the time of their last meeting. An interview with Herzog’s girlfriend confirms his month long absence and “moody” behavior. My opinion is that Herzog is the victim of a well-planned homicide and that his disappearance should be immediately and fully investigated. I realize that I should have reported this earlier, but my sole purpose in not reporting was to first establish evidence (however circumstantial) of wrongdoing. Captain Peltz ordered me to report to you immediately, but I violated that order.

Respectfully, Lloyd Hopkins, #1114

Lloyd read over his words, strangely satisfied at having taken the bulk of the risk in incurring high brass wrath. He ripped the page out of the notebook and put it in his inside jacket pocket, then clipped on his .38 and handcuffs and made for the front door. He had his hand on the doorknob when the phone rang.

He let it ring ten times before answering—only Penny pursued a phone call that persistently.

“Speak, it’s your dime.”

Penny’s giggle came over the wire. “No, it’s not, Daddy! It’s my dollarforty.”

Lloyd laughed. “Excuse me. I forgot inflation. What’s the scoop, Penguin?”

“The same old same old. What about you? Are you getting any?”

Lloyd feigned shock. “Penny Hopkins, I’m surprised at you!”

“No, you’re not. You told me I was jaded in my crib. You didn’t answer my question, Daddy.”