SUICIDE HILL
567
in an evidence envelope, packed up his kit and got the hell out of the tidy loner apartment.
*
*
*
Forty minutes later, Lloyd was at Parker Center, handing the powdered snapshot to Officer Artie Cranfield of S.I.D., saying, “Feed to the central source computer, the one with the D.M.V. and armed forces input. I’ll be up in my office. If you score, get me a printout from R&I.”
Artie laughed. “You’re very authoritative today, Lloyd.”
Lloyd’s laugh was humorless. “I’m authorized on this, the big man himself. It’s the cop killings, so please fucking hurry.”
Artie took off at a jog, and Lloyd busied himself arranging the surveillance reports on Louie Calderon that littered his desk. Thoughts of calling Peter Kapek for an interagency confab crossed his mind, then he saw a memo propped up against his phone: Sgt. Hopkins—meet or call S.A. Kapek at downtown Fed bldg.—12/14—0940. He was debating whether to call or roll when Artie returned, breathless, and handed him a manila folder. “I ran the print. He’s one of ours, Lloyd.”
Lloyd shivered and thought: Gaffaney, then read through the L.A.P.D. personnel file, holding a hand over the full-face and profile snaps that were clipped to the first page.
The file detailed the twelve-year police career of Metropolitan Division sergeant Wallace Dean Collins, age thirty-four. His record was impressive: Class A fitness reports and a number of citations for “Meritorious Service.”
Lloyd scanned the list of Collins’s “special assignments.” Surveillance detail, narco, vice decoy, then a transfer to Metro on the recommendation of Captain Frederick Gaffaney. Since his rookie days, Collins had partnered with Sergeant Kenneth R. Lohmann of Central Division, and there was an addendum memo from the Central personnel officer stating that Lohmann was also flagged for Metro duty—on the next available opening. Lloyd took his hand from the snapshot and smiled. Collins was the driver of the car tailing him down Sepulveda. Looking at the fidgeting Artie Cranfield, he said, “How’d you get the file so fast?”
Artie shrugged. “I told the clerk at Personnel Records you had special clearance from Braverton and up. Why?”
Lloyd handed the file back. “Just curious. Take this back to Records, hold on to the photo and be very quiet about this, okay?”
“Quiet as the grave,” Artie said.
*
*
*
568
L.A. NOIR
Lloyd drove to the downtown Federal Building, thinking of angles to cutthroat Gaffaney and kill the murder indictment now being held over his head. As he pulled to the curb at Sixth and Union, the Metro unit sidled to a stop two car lengths in back of him, Collins at the wheel. Getting out and slamming the door, Lloyd’s thoughts moved from blackmail to a double suicide scene to blow Gaffaney’s career along with his own. Then curiosity about Collins crawling Gordon Meyers’s pad took over, and he ran upstairs to Kapek’s office, rapped on the door and said in his most commanding tone, “Come on, G-man. We’re going cruising.”
“Where to?”
“A hot-dog rendezvous.”
They drove east through downtown L.A., Lloyd silent, with one eye on the road and the other on the Metro unit riding their tail behind a slowmoving Cadillac. Kapek fingered his acne scars and stared at Lloyd, finally breaking the tense quiet. “I’ve been forcing myself to concentrate on the first two robberies exclusively, and I think I may have a hypothetical connection between Hawley and Eggers.”
Lloyd’s mind jerked away from the plan he was hatching. “What?”
“Listen: I checked out both men’s bank accounts and got something weird. They both withdrew similar large amounts of cash, on the same dates—October seventeenth and November first. Two five-hundred-dollar withdrawals for Hawley, two six-hundred-buck shots for Eggers. Non sequitur stuff—both guys are strictly check writers. These withdrawals were from their individual accounts—not the joint accounts they share with their wives. What do you think?”
Lloyd whistled, then said, “Vice. I’ve already put in my Vice query, so you call the squad commanders and have them shake down their snitches for specific info. What happened on those dates? Bookies taking heavy action?
Cockfights, dogfights? I don’t buy Eggers or Hawley as dopers, but I could see Sally and Chrissy doing a few snootfuls of blow, with their sugar daddys footing the bill. By the way, how did the families react to the girlfriend bit?
Any feedback on that?”
Kapek breathed out sadly. “Hawley’s wife moved out. Eggers lost his job, because he lied to us about Confrey, and because the big boss at Security Pacific freaked when he heard about the dead cops and blamed Eggers. Eggers’s wife is still up at Arrowhead, and he went up there to work it out. Both Hawley and Eggers are refusing to talk further to us, under attorney’s orders.”
Lloyd said, “Shit. I wrote out a memo requesting that they be held as ma-