BECAUSE THE NIGHT

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flashed across the screen, followed by a jerky panning shot of a bedroom, followed by more blank frames.

Then a blonde woman in a nurse’s uniform began to undress. Close-up shots caught everything fallible about her body: a small abdominal scar, networks of varicose veins, patches of cellulite. When she was naked, she did an awkward vamp dance, then lay down on a mattress covered by a single blue sheet.

A nude man joined her, averting his face from the camera. The couple moved into an embrace, broke it, and moved to opposite sides of the mattress. The woman looked bewildered and the man mashed his face into the sheet. After holding these poses for long moments, the woman rolled underneath the man and they faked intercourse. Linda clutched her purse and said, “What is this, amateur porno film night? I thought this was going to be a therapy session.”

“Shhh,” Havilland whispered. “You’ll catch the drift in just a few seconds.”

The screen went blank, then filled up with a long shot of the blonde woman, now dressed in her nurse’s uniform, leaning against the bedroom wall. Suddenly a man, also clothed, threw himself on top of her. The screen again went blank, then segued into an extreme close-up of a transparent plastic pillow. The muzzle of a gun was pressed to the pillow. A finger pulled the trigger and the screen was awash in red. The camera caught a close-up of the man’s face. When Linda saw the face she screamed “Hopkins!” and fumbled in her purse for the gun. Her finger was inside the trigger guard when the lights went on and the man from the movie jumped out of the closet and smothered her with his body.

23

Lloyd slammed down the phone in response to Dutch’s news: the two women and one man that Hollywood Division detectives had leaned on with “behind the green door” and “beyond the beyond” had immediately clammed up, first threatening the officers with lawsuits, then going into re-396

L.A. NOIR

peated recitations of the phrase “patria infinitum. ” No breakdowns, no recantings of past sins, just indignation at police scare tactics and the rapid expulsion of seasoned cops. Dutch would be deploying a new team of detectives for runs at the guru worshippers, but they would probably be in mantra comas by then. There was only himself, Linda and her magnum, and the unknown quantity of William Nagler.

Lloyd checked the clock on the kitchen wall. 7:45. Linda would still be at her “therapy” session. He could wait and call and ease his mind, or he could move. The ticking of the clock became deafening. He locked up the house and walked to his car.

Headlights flashed across the driveway as he slipped behind the wheel, and a panel truck pulled in front of his unmarked cruiser. Lloyd got out and saw Marty Bergen step in front of the headlights and jam his hands into his pockets. A gun butt extended from his waistband.

“My lawyer glommed me a writ,” he said. “Fred Gaffaney almost shit shotgun shells.”

Lloyd said, “Amateurs shouldn’t pack hardware. Beat it. I’ve got no stories for you.”

Bergen laughed. “When I was on the job I was in love with my piece. Off duty, I always made sure that people could see it. I was in love with it until I had to use it. Then I dropped it and ran. Jack’s dead, Hopkins.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“It’s on me. It’s all on me.”

“Wrong, Bergen. It’s the Department’s and it’s mine.”

Bergen kicked the grill of the Matador, then stumbled backward into the hood of his truck. “I owe, goddamn you! Can’t you see that? All I ever had was what Jack gave me, and even that was all twisted. Some piece of shit took him where he shouldn’t have fucking gone and made him feel things that he shouldn’t have fucking felt, and it was me that he felt them about, and I owe! Don’t make me say the words, Hopkins. Please don’t make me say the fucking words.”

Lloyd sent up a prayer for all guilt-driven innocents seeking jeopardy.

“What do you want, Bergen?”

Former L.A.P.D. Sergeant Martin D. Bergen wiped tears from his eyes. “I just want to pay off Jack.”

“Then get in the car,” Lloyd said. “We’re going to Laurel Canyon to good guy–bad guy a suspect.”

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