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seen a black-and-white since Beverly Hills, and that one was B.H.P.D. Flipping on his two-way, the dispatcher told him why: “Code Four. Code Four. All patrol units at Pico and Westholme and bank area not directly involved in crowd control or house-to-house search resume normal patrol. Code Four. Code Four.”
Lloyd attached his red light and turned on his siren, then hung a U-turn and sped to Pico and Westholme. “Bank” flashed “Them,” and “house-tohouse search” meant violence. When he was two blocks from the scene, he passed a string of patrol cars driving slowly north with their headlights on. Feeling a wave of nausea, Lloyd floored the gas, then decelerated as Pico, a barricade of sawhorse detour signs and a streetful of nose-to-nose black-andwhites, appeared in his windshield. He braked and parked on the sidewalk, then ran the remaining block, pinning his badge to the front of his suit coat. Two young officers with shotguns noticed him and stepped over a sawhorse, turning the muzzles of the .12 gauges downward when they saw his badge. Catching their red faces and rubber knees, Lloyd said what he already knew: “One of ours?”
The taller of the young cops answered him in a voice trying hard to be detached. “Two of ours, two dead inside the bank. No suspects in custody. It happened forty-five minutes ago. What division are you—”
Lloyd pushed the officer aside and stepped over the detour sign, then walked around the corner to Pico, elbowing his way through the most crowded crime scene he had ever witnessed. Knots of plainclothes cops were huddled together, conferring over notepads, straining to hear each other above the radio crackle put out by dozens of official vehicles; young patrolmen were standing by their units looking fierce, scared and about to burst with rage. Cherry lights were still whirling, and the sidewalk was packed with forensic technicians carrying cameras and evidence kits. Shouted conversations were competing with the radio noise, and Lloyd picked out bits and pieces and knew it was Them.
“. . . guy inside said .45 autos, suppressors and—”
“. . . this spic was talking dirty to this teller and then just fucking offed her and—”
“One woman said one white, two Mexican, another said all white. This is the—”
In the distance, Lloyd could see the top of a forensic arc light reflecting a red shimmer. He shoved past a team of paramedics on the sidewalk di-554
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rectly in front of the bank, steeling himself when he saw a black-and-white sitting under the light, dried blood covering the back window. A technician was standing beside the car, dusting a bullet clip; another S.I.D. man was squatting on the hood, his camera up against the shattered windshield, snapping pictures. Lloyd knew that he had to know, and walked over.
The remains of two young men were death frozen in the front seat. Every inch of their uniform navy blue was now the maroon of congealing blood. Both bore high-caliber entry wounds on their faces, and gaping, brainoozing holes where the backs of their heads used to be. The driver had his service revolver unholstered on the seat beside him, and the other officer had his right hand on the butt of the unit’s Remington pump, his index finger on the trigger at half pull. Wiping tears from his eyes, Lloyd stumbled through the “Official Crime Scene” rope in front of the bank’s double glass doors. A technician dusting the door handles muttered, “Hey, you can’t,” and Lloyd grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him toward the sidewalk, then covered his hands with his coat sleeves and pushed the doors open. Inside the bank, a cordon of Detective Division brass saw him, then stepped aside, casting worried looks among themselves.
Standing on his tiptoes, Lloyd surveyed the bank’s interior straining to see something other than the plainclothes officers who were eclipsing almost the entire floor space. By craning his neck he could pick out an S.I.D. team marking the outline of a woman’s body behind the tellers’ counter, and another team in front of the counter vacuuming for trace elements. A deputy medical examiner was scooping the woman’s brains off the wall and into a plastic bag, and at the back of the bank, near the vault, Peter Kapek and a half dozen feds were talking to distraught-looking people. Lloyd threaded a path in Kapek’s direction. More snatches of conversation hit him, a woman whimpering, “The tall Mexican was so scared and sweet-looking,” a young cop in uniform telling another, “The security guy was a real wacko, he used to talk this weird shit to me. Hey, that’s Lloyd Hopkins—you know, ‘Crazy Lloyd.’ ”
Hearing his name, Lloyd swiveled and looked at the officers, who turned around and backed into a crowd of plainclothesmen. Again standing on his tiptoes for sight of Kapek, he saw the crowd part and create a space. A second later two M.E. assistants carrying a sheet-covered stretcher walked