BECAUSE THE NIGHT
349
After drying off and dressing, he walked into the kitchen and found Linda fiddling with the radio dial. “I hate to be a downer,” she said, “but I just heard some bad news. An L.A. policeman was murdered in Malibu. I didn’t get all the details, but—”
Lloyd grabbed the radio and flipped the tuner to an all-news station, catching static and the conclusion of a weather report. He sat down and looked at Linda, then put a finger to her lips and said, “They’ll repeat the story. Cop killings are hot news.”
The weatherman said, “Back to you, Bob,” and a stern-voiced announcer took over: “More details on that Malibu killing. L.A. County Sheriff’s detectives have just announced that the dead man found on the beach near Pacific Coast Highway and Temescal Canyon Road is a twenty-two-year L.A.P.D. veteran named Howard Christie, a lieutenant assigned to the Rampart Division. Christie’s decapitated body was found early this morning by local surfers, who called the Malibu Sheriff’s Substation to inform them of the grisly find. Captain Michael Seidman of the Malibu Station told reporters: ‘This is a homicide, but as yet we do not know the cause of death and have no suspects. We have, however, determined that Lieutenant Christie was killed in the parking lot immediately above the spot on the beach where his body was found. We are now appealing to anyone who was in the vicinity of Pacific Coast Highway and Temescal Canyon Road last night or early this morning, people who might have seen or heard something suspicious. Please come forward. We need your assistance.’ Further details on this story as it breaks. And now—”
Linda turned off the radio and stared at Lloyd. “Tell me, Hopkins.”
“It’s Goff,” Lloyd said, with a death’s-head grin. “I’m not going to New York. If you don’t hear from me in forty-eight hours, send up a flare.” He grabbed his sweater and ran out the door. Linda shuddered, imagining her new lover’s departure as a race into hell.
*
*
*
Pacific Coast Highway and Temescal Canyon Road was a pandemonium of police vehicles with cherry lights flashing, TV minicam crews, mobs of reporters, and a large crowd of rubbernecks that spilled over from the parking blacktop, forcing southbound P.C.H. traffic into the middle lane. Lloyd pulled up to the dirt shoulder on the land side of the highway and killed his siren, then pinned his badge to his jacket front and dodged cars over to a diagonal stretch of pavement sealed with a length of rope hung with “Official Crime Scene” warnings. The area behind the cordon was 350
L.A. NOIR
filled with plainclothes officers and technicians with evidence kits, and a long bank of pay phones was crowded with uniformed sheriff’s deputies calling in information. At the rear of the scene a half dozen plainclothesmen squatted beside the wooden railing overlooking the cliffs and the ocean, spreading fingerprint powder on a cracked piece of timber.
“I’m surprised it took you this long.”
Recognizing the voice, Lloyd pivoted and saw Captain Fred Gaffaney push his way through a knot of patrol deputies and plant himself in his path. The two men stared at each other until Gaffaney fingered his cross-and-flag tie bar and said, “This is one sensitive piece of work, and I forbid you to interfere. It’s in the sheriff’s jurisdiction, with I.A.D. handling any connections to collateral cases.”
Lloyd snorted, “Collateral cases? Captain, this is Thomas Goff all the way down the line!”
Gaffaney grabbed Lloyd’s arm. Lloyd buckled, but let himself be led over to the shadow of an empty pay phone.
“Internal Affairs is moving on the other officers whose files were stolen,”
the captain said. “They’re going to be interrogated and perhaps taken into protective custody, along with their families. Except for you. Let’s put the past aside, Sergeant. Tell me what you’ve got so far, and if possible, I’ll help you move on it.”
Lloyd drummed his fingers on the side of the phone booth. “Marty Bergen has at the very least seen the stolen files. He’s missing, but some columns that he left for advance publication indicate conclusively that Herzog passed the files to him. I think we should issue an A.P.B. on Bergen, and get a court order to seize everything at the Big Orange Insider. ”
Gaffaney whistled. “The media will crucify us for it.”
“Fuck the media. I’ve also got a hearsay line on Goff, through a hotshot psychiatrist who has a patient who knows him. But the cocksucker is hiding behind professional privilege and won’t kick loose with the name of his source.”
“Have you considered talking to Nathan Steiner?”
Lloyd nodded. “Yeah. I’m going to run by his office today. What have you got? The radio report said Christie was decapitated, which sounds like possible forty-one stuff.”
Gaffaney’s hands played over his tie bar. “I’ve got an excellent reconstruction from a team of very savvy sheriff’s dicks. The M.E.’s verdict won’t be in for hours, but this is the way they see it: