SUICIDE HILL
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her stuff. Those old heavy .45s are getting scarce, though. Maybe an approach.”
Nodding silently, Lloyd watched dark clouds devour the restaurant atop the Occidental Building; for a moment he forgot that this “case” would probably be his last. Turning to look at Kapek, he said, “So we’re stuck with figuring out where the robbers glommed onto Hawley and Issler, and if either of them have other bank manager friends in similarly vulnerable positions, which is a bitch of a fucking intelligence job.”
Kapek slapped both thighs. “How about an ad in the singles tabloids—
‘Bank Managers involved in extramarital romances please come forward to act as decoy!’ No, I’ve already questioned Hawley and Issler on that—zip. This is a one-shot deal, perpetrated by brainboys who can control themselves. Now the crunch question: what are you going to do about this thing?”
Lloyd cut off Kapek’s eagerness with a chopped hand gesture. “No. First, how are we working this? I’ve been a supervisor and I’ve worked alone, but I’ve never worked an interagency gig with the feds. I realize it’s your investigation, but I want to know what I can ask for, who I can delegate and how much slack I’ve got on doing it my way.”
Kapek muttered, “Your way,” under his breath, then said out loud, “The investigation is structured this way. L.A.P.D. is handling the Issler assaultkidnap, with the squad lieutenant from West Valley dicks supervising. He knows you’re the liaison; he’ll give you any information or assistance you need. I’ve got three men checking out Issler’s and Hawley’s known associates, and the restaurants and motels they frequented, that kind of thing. They’ll be compiling data on the people they come into contact with, checking them out with L.A.P.D. R&I, looking for connections. The traveler’s checks are a long shot, but the serial numbers have been broadcast nationwide, and the West Valley cops have put out the word to their snitches. I want you as a floater between agencies. You’ve probably got snitches up the ying-yang, and I want you to utilize them. There is absolutely nothing in our computer or files on white/Mexican heist teams period, let alone ones given to kidnap-assaults. This caper sounds like street criminals graduating—more your beat than mine. You take it from there.”
Lloyd breathed in the declaration of his second-banana status; it felt like a swarm of nasty little bureaucratic bees buzzing at his brain. His voice was tight and hoarse as he said, “Let’s fucking move, then. You’ve got Hawley intimidated, so grab his credit card bills so we can see where he and Sally 510
L.A. NOIR
have been screwing. Don’t trust his memory on it—subconsciously he’ll be screwing you. Lean on him, polygraph him, rattle his skeletons. You like it?”
Kapek snickered, “Rubber hose him? Threaten him with an I.R.S. audit?
He’s got a son in college who’s gay. Squeeze him by putting it on the six o’clock news? Ease off, Sergeant. The man is cooperating.”
The buzzing grew deafening. Lloyd looked out the window, then jerked his eyes back when the notion of a seven-story jump to oblivion started feeling good. “I want to have a shot at Issler,” he said. “I want to question her about her old boyfriends, and I want to put a tap on her home and work phones. I’ll go easy on her.”
Kapek stood up, put his hands on the desk and leaned forward so that his face was only a few feet from Lloyd’s. “Unequivocally no. That order comes directly from your own immediate superior officer. Captain McManus told me personally to keep you away from her, and all other women involved in this investigation beyond the level of field interrogation. He told me that if you violate that order, he’ll suspend you from duty immediately. He means it, and if you cross me on this, I’ll report it to him in a hot flash.”
Suddenly the bees did a kamikaze attack. Lloyd looked down at his bandaged hand and saw that he had gripped the window ledge so hard that blood was starting to seep through the gauze. He stared out the window at a dark mass of rain clouds. Seeing that the Occidental Building was now completely eclipsed, he said, “It’s your ball game, G-man. I’ll call you every twenty-four unless something urgent comes up. Call me at home or Parker Center if you get anything. You like it?”
“I like it.”
“What else did McManus tell you?”
“He implied that you have emotional problems pertaining to the pursuit of pussy. I told him that my wife’s a black belt in karate, so I don’t have those problems.”
Lloyd laughed. “It’s your ball game, but it’s my last shot. I’m gonna nail these cocksuckers.”
Kapek pointed to the door. “Roll, hot dog.”
*
*
*
Lloyd rolled, first in a cab to Parker Center, where he formally reported back for duty, then in a ’79 Matador to the West Valley Station, staying ahead of the northbound storm clouds that threatened to drench the L.A. basin to the bone.
In the empty West Valley squadroom, he read the reports filed by plain-