BECAUSE THE NIGHT

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incidence and that it was nice to know that “Big Stan” got laid occasionally, he continued his transcribing until he hit “Polly Marks” and put down his pen and laughed out loud. Thus far, the only two women listed in the book were hookers. No wonder Rudolph had to shine his own shoes and drink generic soda pop—he had two expensive habits. The N through V section contained the names of over fifty men and only four women, two of them hookers that Lloyd had heard about from vice squad buddies. Writers cramp was coming on when he turned to the final page and saw “Linda Wilhite—275-7815.” This time the little tremor became a 9.6 earthquake. Lloyd replaced the address book and left the obsessive little condo before he had time to think of his next destination and what it all meant.

*

*

*

Parked outside Linda Wilhite’s plush high-rise on Wilshire and Beverly Glen, Lloyd ran through literal and instinctive chronologies in an attempt to logically explain the remarkable coincidence that had just fallen into his lap. Dr. John Havilland was in love with Linda Wilhite, who was probably a very expensive prostitute, one who had tricked with Stanley Rudolph, who had bought stolen goods from Thomas Goff and the Doctor’s anonymous source. Havilland did not know Goff or Rudolph, but did know Wilhite and the source. The coincidence factor was strong, but did not reek of malfeasance. Unanswered questions: Did Linda Wilhite know Goff or the source; or, the wild card—was the shrink, who had the air of a man in love, protecting Linda Wilhite, the real source, by giving him correct information from a bogus “informant,” this way protecting both his professional ethics and the woman he loved? Was the Doctor playing a roundabout game, wanting to aid in a homicide investigation, yet not wanting to relinquish confidential information? Lloyd felt anger overtake his initial sex flush. If Linda Wilhite knew anything about Thomas Goff or his left-handed friend, he would shake it out of her.

He ran into the high-rise and bolted three flights of service stairs. When he raised his hand to knock on the door of Linda Wilhite’s apartment, he saw that he was shaking.

A security peephole slid open. “Yes?” a woman’s voice said. Lloyd put his badge up in front of the hole. “L.A.P.D.,” he said. “Could I speak to you for a moment, Miss Wilhite?”

“What’s this about?”

322

L.A. NOIR

Lloyd felt his shaking go internal. “It’s about Stanley Rudolph. Will you open up, please?”

There was the sound of locks being unlatched, and then she was there, wearing an ankle-length paisley caftan. Lloyd tried to stare past her into the apartment, but Linda Wilhite held the center of his vision and rendered the background dull black.

“What about Stanley Rudolph?” she asked.

Lloyd walked into the apartment uninvited, taking a quick inventory of the entrance hall and living room. It was still hazy background stuff, but he knew that everything was tasteful and expensive.

“Don’t be shy, make yourself right at home,” Linda Wilhite said, coming up behind Lloyd and pointing him toward a floral-patterned easy chair. “I’ll have the butler bring you a mint julep.”

Lloyd laughed. “Nice pad, Linda. Out of the low-rent district.”

Linda feigned a return laugh. “Don’t be formal, call me suspect.”

Lloyd stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out snapshots of Thomas Goff and Jungle Jack Herzog. He handed them to Linda and said,

“Okay, suspect, have you seen either of these men before?”

Linda looked the photos over and returned them to Lloyd. There was not the slightest flicker of recognition in her eyes or her hands-on-hips pose.

“No. What’s this about Stan Rudolph? Are you with Vice?”

Lloyd sat down in the easy chair and stretched his legs. “That’s right. What’s the basis of your relationship with Rudolph?”

Linda’s eyes went cold. Her voice followed. “I think you know. Will you state your purpose, ask your questions, and get out?”

Lloyd shook his head. “What do you know?”

“That you’re no fucking Vice cop!” Linda shouted. “You got a snappy comeback for that one?”

Lloyd’s voice was his softest; the voice he saved for his daughters. “Yeah. You’re no hooker.”

Linda sat down across from him. “Everything in this apartment calls you a liar.”

“I’ve been called worse than that,” Lloyd said.

“Such as?”

“Some of the choicer shots have included ‘urban barracuda,’ ‘male chauvinist porker,’ ‘fascist cocksucker,’ ‘wasp running dog,’ and ‘pussy hound scumbag.’ I appreciate articulate invective. ‘Motherfucker’ and ‘pig’ get to be boring.”