SUICIDE HILL

641

Ithaca up into firing position, and when his vision cleared, he saw that he was muzzle to muzzle with Fred Gaffaney and a cocked magnum.

“Freeze, asshole.”

Lloyd didn’t recognize the voice, and could hardly recognize the man it belonged to. This was a high-ranking witch-hunter of booze breath, slept-in clothes and frazzled nerve ends; a born-again with a three-day beard and a shaky finger on a trigger at half pull. A doomsday apparition.

“Freeze, asshole.”

The second warning came across as hideous self-parody. Lloyd lowered his shotgun, and Gaffaney eased down the hammer of the .357. The two weapons fell to rest at their bearers’ sides simultaneously, and Lloyd said,

“What are we going to do about this, Captain?”

Stepping back into the study, Gaffaney waved his gun at the framed L.A.P.D. group shots on the walls. “I’m not a captain anymore, Sergeant,” he said, his voice regaining its authority. “I resigned this morning. You outrank me. I did it to make it easy for you.”

Lloyd propped the Ithaca up against the doorjamb, keeping it within grabbing range. “I’m not a sergeant anymore. I asked to top out my twenty, but they’ll never go for it. We’re both civilians. That make it easier for you?”

Gaffaney looked at a picture of his wife pinning lieutenant’s bars to his collar. “My resignation was accepted, yours was shelved. Braverton told me this afternoon. He wants you around. He wants you around because he loves you.”

Lloyd kept his eyes on the magnum that Gaffaney dangled by a finger.

“Captain, we’re both down the—”

“Don’t call me that, goddamn you!”

“We’re both down the river! We killed men in cold blood, and the Department has got the fix in on yours, and you’ve got the fix in on mine, and all I want to do is seal the jackets on both deals and go home to my family. That’s as easy as I can make it.”

Gaffaney’s raw-nerved features went lax; his voice went blank. “You didn’t come to arrest me?”

The evidence room charade clicked in as a deliberate big wrong move. Lloyd let his fingers brush the .12 gauge. “I thought I could do it, but I can’t. How about it? Your indictment for mine, then I get out of here before something crazy happens.”

Gaffaney started shaking his head. His arms shook involuntarily, as if 642

L.A. NOIR

his entire body were trying to shout his denial. The .357 dropped to the floor just as he found his voice. “No. No. No. No. No, no, no, no—”

Lloyd made a grab for the magnum. He got it in his hands before Gaffaney could make a move, and had the cylinder emptied just as the string of no’s trailed into a weirdly lucid monotone. “. . . I didn’t come this far for you to betray me.”

Lloyd slipped the shells into his pocket and tossed the revolver back on the floor, then picked up the Ithaca and ejected the round in the chamber. When the carpet was littered with neutralized weaponry, he said, “Why me?”

The witch-hunter’s monotone took on resonance. “Because I was good, but you’re the best. Because you were a punk civilian when you killed that man in Watts, while I was a high-ranking police officer when I committed murder. Because the Department will never let me be prosecuted, because justice in this affair must be total.” Gaffaney paused, then said, “Because I love you.”

Lloyd moved backward until he bumped the wall. “You’re insane if you think I’m going to kill you. I’d let you hang me for Richard Beller before I’d do that.”

With a ghastly smile as segue, Fred Gaffaney said, “We both learned the gift of sacrifice late, Lloyd. That happens with selfish men like ourselves. I’m only sorry that our sacrifices have to conflict. Now tell me in light of this if I’m insane:

“From the tap on your phone I surmised that you wanted to frame a dead man for Joe Garcia’s part in the robberies and killings. I held on to the information. Then this afternoon, when I read the paper and saw what you had gotten away with, I sent Sergeants Collins and Lohmann to check up on Klein. He was involved in the filming of pornographic movies on the dates of the three robberies, in full view of a dozen witnesses. He cannot be connected in any way to Luis Calderon, and a friend of mine in S.I.D. said that he died of knife wounds. He has in his possession a switchblade whose edges perfectly match a biopsied section of Klein’s abdomen. The handle has Joe Garcia’s thumbprint on it.”

“No,” Lloyd said in his own doomsday drone. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Gaffaney said, “Yes,” and started ticking off points. “Klein’s alibi witnesses won’t come forth, for fear of their involvement in porno coming to light, but questioning the Pico-Westholme eyewitnesses with Klein’s and Joe Garcia’s mug-shots should get some interesting feedback, and