SUICIDE HILL

485

“And I have a nominal regard for due process myself. Gaffaney is on the promotion list. He’ll be a commander very shortly, and he’ll probably take over I.A.D. when Stillwell retires. As far as that goes, he deserves the job; he’s a good exec.

“But he’s a born-again Christian loony, so far right that he scares me. He’s been playing savior to some very well placed junior officers—field sergeants in Metro, I.A.D. dicks, uniformed officers in a half dozen divisions. Sergeants and lieutenants, all born-agains and all ambitious. He’s offered them his patronage and promised to move them up as he moves up.”

McManus whistled, then said, “What’s his ultimate end?”

Braverton repeated his expansive gesture. “Chief of police, then politics?

Who knows? The man is forty-nine years old, twenty-three years on the Job and fucked up on religion. My wife suggested male menopause. What do you—”

McManus raised a hand in interruption. “Sir, where did you get this information?”

“I was getting to that. Gaffaney has a son in the Department, Steve Gaffaney, a rookie working West L.A. Patrol. The kid has been pilfering from the station, clerical supplies, ammo, that kind of thing, for months. Finally the daywatch boss got pissed and called Intelligence Division, because if he initiated an investigation through I.A.D., Gaffaney senior would pick up on it. Intelligence checked the kid out and discovered that he had been suspended from high school for pilfering from lockers and that Captain Fred had bribed the principal of the school to erase all notations pertaining to disciplinary problems on the kid’s record, and to improve his grades. Junior wouldn’t have been admitted to the Academy with his real transcript.”

McManus whispered, “And, sir?”

“And Intelligence did some more checking on Jesus Freak Fred and got wind of his little cross-and-flag coterie, which of course is perfectly kosher within departmental regulations.”

“What’s the upshot?”

“For now I’m going to sit on it. If the kid fucks up big or Captain Fred gets obstreperous, I’ll lower the boom.”

McManus smiled as the chief of detectives’ machinations moved into out-and-out barter. “Sir, you still haven’t told me where Hopkins fits in, and you want something.”

Smiling back, Braverton said, “The Intelligence dicks said that Jesus Fred has got a shitload of personal dirt files on officers he hates and wants to 486

L.A. NOIR

curry favor with. He hates Hopkins’s guts, and I know for a fact that he’s privy to a lot of the sleazy stuff Lloyd has pulled over the years. That charade was to confirm that the files exist. His reaction proved that they do.”

“And, sir?”

“And, John, what’s your reaction to all this?”

“Cut Hopkins loose, blackmail Jesus Fred into retiring by threatening to expose the kid, fire the kid and stonewall the whole fucking mess.”

Braverton gave his new protégé a round of applause. “Bravo, except your love of due process and lack of paranoia is appalling. First we have to neutralize Gaffaney’s files, which may take a while.”

“Then?”

“First things first. Today is December sixth. On January first you will leave Robbery/Homicide and take over the Violent Crime Task Force in South Central L.A. I want a broad-minded man down there, someone who can deal rationally with blacks.”

McManus’s throat went dry; his first reaction was to offer effusive thanks. Then respect for the barter game took over. “What’s it going to cost me?”

Braverton’s eyes clouded. “I want to ease Hopkins out,” he said. “Hopefully without a trial board. I want you to call him back from San Francisco and give him some sort of assignment that does not involve homicide and will not insult his intelligence. I want him around Parker Center where I can talk to him. He’s got to be cut loose, but I want it done gently.”

McManus winced at the price of his high-visibility promotion. “You could have made it an order.”

“Not my style,” Braverton said. “Liberals should be adept at trading up, seeing as how they’re handicapped from the gate.”

The epiphany clicked into McManus’s head and made him forget caution. “You love him.”

“Yes. And I owe him, and you owe him. He got the Slaughterer and Havilland and Goff within fifteen months. Do you know the story on the Slaughterer?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t want to know. Will you do this for me?”

McManus felt old notions of duty crumble in the pit of his stomach.

“Yes.”

“Good. Do you have an appropriate assignment for him?”

“Not right now. But something should come up soon. It always does.”

8

Duane Rice stood in a phone booth adjoining a 7-11 store in Encino. He was wearing a three-piece suit bought for ten dollars at a Hollywood thrift shop, and a curly-haired wig and beard/mustache combo purchased at Western Costume. His shoulder holster held a silencer-attached .45; his rear waistband a tranquilizer dart gun loaded with PCP darts. His hands were covered with surgical rubber gloves. He was ready. At exactly 7:45 the phone rang. Rice picked up the receiver and said,

“Yes?”

The gloating voice was unmistakably Bobby Garcia’s: “Got her. Broke in the side door. Nobody saw us, nobody’s gonna see us. She’s scared shitless, but the kid is playing Mr. Nice Guy and sweet-talking her. Have lover boy call.”

Rice said, “Right,” then hung up and dialed the home number of Robert Hawley. The phone rang twice, then a female voice yawned, “Hello?”

“Robert Hawley, please,” Rice said briskly.

The woman said, “One minute,” then called out, “Bob! Telephone!”

There was the sound of an extension being picked up, then a male voice calling, “I’ve got it, Doris. Go back to sleep.” When he heard the original line go dead, Rice said, “Mr. Hawley?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

“It’s a friend of Sally Issler.”

“What the he—”

“Listen to me and be real, real cool and we won’t kill her. Are you listening?”

“Yes, oh God . . . What do—”

Rice cut in, “What do you think we want, motherfucker! The same thing you rip off from your own fucking employer!” When he heard Hawley start 488

L.A. NOIR

to blubber, he lowered his voice. “You want to be cool or you want Sallypoo to die?”

“B-be cool,” Hawley gasped.

“Then here’s the pitch: One, I’ve got photographs of you pilfering the B. of A. tellers boxes, with the clock in the background, showing that you’re on the job when you’re not supposed to be, and some juicy infrared shots of you and Sally fucking. If you don’t do what I want, my buddies chop Sally to pieces and the pictures go to your wife, the L.A.P.D., the bank and Hus- tler magazine. Dig me, dick breath?”

The gasp was now a whimper. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Good. Now, I want you to call Sally and have her introduce you to my colleagues. I’ll call you back in exactly three minutes. There’s a tap on your phone, so if you call the cops, another colleague will know and call Sally’s roommates and tell them to do some chopping. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.”

Rice said, “Three minutes or chop, chop,” then hung up. He watched the second hand on his Timex, pleased that his spontaneous bullshit about the photographs and phone tap had been so easy. When the hand made three sweeps, he again dialed Hawley’s number.

“Yes?” A groveling whimper.

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I want you to get in your car and take your usual route to the bank. I’ve been tailing you for days, so I know the route. Park on the west side of Woodman a half block north of Ventura. I’ll meet you there. You’re being tailed, so don’t fuck up. I’ll see you there in twelve minutes.”

Hawley’s reply was a barely audible squeak. Rice hung up and walked very slowly to his Pontiac, forcing himself to count to fifty before he hit the ignition and eased the car into traffic. When he was six blocks from Hawley’s house, he resumed counting, figuring that the bank manager would pass him in the opposite direction before he hit twenty-five. He was right; at twenty-two, Hawley’s tan Cadillac approached at way over the speed limit, swerving so close to the double line that he pulled to the right to avoid a head-on. There were no cop cars anywhere. Nothing suspicious. Just business going down.

Rice cut over to side streets paralleling Ventura, pushing the car at fortyfive, so that he wouldn’t get stuck waiting for Hawley to arrive. At Woodman he turned right and parked immediately, a solid hundred and fifty yards