“I don’t know, Dutch. Do me another favor?”
“Shoot.”
“Call the manager at Cal Federal and set up an interview for me in forty-five minutes. He’s probably been besieged by cops, but tell him I’m new on the investigation, with new questions for him.”
“You’ve got it. Get them, Lloyd.”
Lloyd said, “I will,” and hung up, knowing the statement was aimed at Fred Gaffaney more than Them.
The California Federal manager was a middle-aged black man named Wallace Tyrell. Lloyd introduced himself in the bank’s desk area, then followed him back to his private office. Closing the door behind them, Tyrell said, “Captain Peltz mentioned new questions. What are they?”
Lloyd smiled and sat down in the one visitor’s chair in the room. “Tell me about Gordon Meyers.”
Positioning himself carefully in the swivel rocker behind his desk, Tyrell said, “That isn’t a new question.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“As you wish. Meyers was only with the bank for a little over two weeks. I hired him because he was a retired police officer with a satisfactory record and because he accepted a low salary offer. Aside from that, I had him pegged as a garrulous, good-natured man, one with a fatherly interest in the young policemen in the area. He—”
Lloyd held up a hand. “Slow and easy on this, Mr. Tyrell. It’s very important.”
“As you wish. Meyers used to buttonhole the local officers at the coffee shop next door, apparently to trade war stories. I saw him doing it several times. It was obvious to me that the officers considered him a nuisance. Also, Meyers approached several policemen who had accounts here. Basically, he impressed me as a lonely, slightly desperate type of man.”
“Yet you had no thoughts of firing him?”
“No. Hiring one man to be head of security saves money and avoids having an old pensioner with a gun hanging around, reminding customers of possible bank robberies. Meyers adequately handled vault and safe-deposit-box security and served as a guard—without a uniform. It was extremely cost-effective. As I said before, these aren’t new questions you’re asking me.”
Staring hard at Tyrell, Lloyd said, “How’s this for new? Were there any shortages of cash or safety-box valuables during the time Meyers worked here?”
Tyrell sighed and said, “That is a new question. Yes, two customers mentioned small amounts of jewelry missing from their boxes. That happens sometimes, people are forgetful of their transactions, but rarely twice in one week. If it happened again, I was going to call the police.”
“Did you suspect Meyers?”
“He was the only one to suspect. He was vault custodian; part of his job was to insert the signature key when the customer inserted their key—our boxes are double-locked. He could have made wax impressions of some of the bottom locks—his application résumé said he worked as a locksmith before he joined the Sheriff’s Department. Also, this is a busy time for safety-box transactions—people withdrawing jewelry for Christmas parties and cashing in bonds. If Meyers was very careful, he would have had ample opportunity to pilfer.”
“Have you told any of the other investigating officers this?”
“No. It didn’t seem germane to the issue.”
Lloyd stood up and shook hands with the bank manager. “Thank you, Mr. Tyrell. I like your style.”
“I work at it,” Tyrell said.
Driving away from the bank, recent memories tumbled in Lloyd’s mind. During the pandemonium following the Pico-Westholme bloodbath, he had heard one young patrolman tell another: “The security guy was a real wacko. He used to talk this weird shit to me.” The cops had backed away when he noticed them, but their faces were still in his memory vault, now part of the blurred, but clearing focus of the Gaffaney offshoot of the case. Checking his dashboard clock, he saw that it was 3:40, twenty minutes until daywatch ended. Focusing only on those faces, he drove to the West L.A. Station to make them talk.
His timing was perfect.
The station parking lot was a flurry of activity, black-and-whites going in and out, patrolmen walking back and forth, carrying report notebooks and standard-issue shotguns. Standing by the locker room door, Lloyd scanned faces, drawing puzzled return looks from the incoming officers. The flurry was dying out when he saw the two from the bank approach with their gear.
Lloyd walked over to them, making a snap decision to play it straight but hard. When they saw him, the patrolmen averted their eyes almost in unison and continued on toward the locker room door. Lloyd cleared his throat as they passed him, then called out, “Come here, Officers.”
The two young men turned around. Lloyd matched their faces to their name tags. The tall redheaded cop named Corcoran was the one who had made the remark at the bank; the other, a youth with glasses named Thompson, was the one he’d been talking to. Nodding at them, Lloyd said, “I’m on the bank homicides, gentlemen. Corcoran, you said, quote, ‘The security guy was a real wacko. He used to talk this weird shit to me.’ You told that to Thompson here. You can elaborate on the statement to me, or a team of I.A.D. bulls. Which would you prefer?”
Corcoran flushed, then answered, “No contest, Sergeant. I was gonna tell the squad room dicks, but it slipped my mind.” He looked at Thompson. “Wasn’t I, Tommy? You remember me telling you?”
“Th-that’s right,” Thompson stammered. “R-really, Sarge.”
Lloyd said, “Talk. Omit nothing pertaining to the security man.”
Corcoran spoke. “Tommy and I sort of had lunch with him twice, last week. He came over to our table, flashed his retirement badge from the Sheriff’s and sat down, sort of uninvited. He started asking these weird questions. Should prostitution and weed be legalized? Didn’t we think cops made the best whoremasters, because they knew the whore psyche so good? Didn’t we think that the county could cut costs by legalizing weed and getting inmates up at Wayside to harvest it? Stone wacko. I th—”
Thompson cut in. “I couldn’t believe this clown made twenty years as a cop. He came on like he was from outer space. But I knew he was leading up to something. Anyway, the second time he crashes our lunch, he tries to act real cool and asks us if we know any fences ‘who work good with us.’ Unbelievable! Like he thinks policemen and fences are good buddies.”
Feeling his blurred focus gain another notch of clarity, Lloyd said, “Tell me about Steven Gaffaney. Don’t be afraid to be candid.”
A look passed between the partners, then Corcoran said, “Nobody on the daywatch could stand him. He was a religious crackpot and a freebie scrounger, always hitting the halfer restaurants and pocketing the check, leaving a quarter tip. I heard rumors that he stole stuff from the station and that his old man, some heavy-hitter captain, bribed instructors at the Academy to pass him through. Wh—”
Lloyd interrupted. “What’s the source of that last rumor?”
Corcoran stared at the ground. “I heard the squad room lieutenant talking to Captain Stevenson. The skipper shushed him.”
“How did Gaffaney and his partner get along?” Lloyd asked.
“Paul Loweth couldn’t stand him,” Thompson said. “When they got assigned together, Paul requested another partner, you know, because of a personality conflict. They even took separate code sevens, because Paul couldn’t stand eating with Gaffaney.”
Lloyd said, “Here’s the crunch question. Did you ever see Gordon Meyers and Gaffaney together?”
Both officers nodded their heads affirmatively, and Corcoran said, “About four or five days before the killings I saw Meyers and Gaffaney at the coffee shop next to the bank, talking like old buddies. I didn’t hear what they were talking about; Tommy and I sat down at the counter so the wacko wouldn’t hassle us.”
Bowing with a flourish, Lloyd said, “Thank you, gentlemen,” then ran for his Matador and drove to 411 Seaglade.
Still no car in the driveway; still no activity around the front house; still no “Crime Scene” notice on the door of the gara
ge apartment. Again Lloyd kicked the door in, this time splintering the wood around the lock. Knowing that the pad had already stood two professional prowlings, he went straight for the kitchen and opened drawers until he found a large, saw-edged steak knife. Then he walked into the bedroom, upended the mattress and looked for telltale slits or stitchings. Finding a long seam of catgut near the headboard, he dug the knife in and ripped out stuffing until his blade hit a sharp object.
Lloyd withdrew the knife and stuck in his hand, touching a flat metal surface. His fingers pried it loose, and he pulled it out.
It was a fishing tackle box, rectangular-shaped, about two inches deep and unlocked. Lloyd lifted up the top. Inside were a half dozen Dieboldt “Security” keys, balls of molding wax, loose colored gemstones and a rolled sheaf of papers. Unrolling them and turning on the lamp by the bed, he smiled. No more blur—the Gaffaney offshoot of the case was now crystal clear.
The pages were an official L.A.P.D. form—a West L.A. Division daywatch car plan list, the names of the officers, their sector and unit numbers in one column, their assignment dates in another. The list detailed November-December 1984, and beside sector G-4, the names “T. Corcoran/J. Thompson” were crossed off, while the name “S. Gaffaney” bore exclamation points followed by question marks.
Lloyd stood up and put the form in his pocket, wondering why the old pursuit high wasn’t there. Long moments passed before the reason came to him: Gaffaney Junior probably didn’t have time to receive the stolen jewelry, or flat out resisted the temptation. The two nightclub snapshots were probably evidence of Meyers’ second go-round at recruiting him. The kid was already pegged as a thief within the Department, second-generation kleptomania was not blackmail parity with first-generation murder, and the Gaffaney offshoot was probably coincidental to Them.
Them.
Lloyd thought of Louie Calderon, and of Judge Penzler, still luxuriating at Lake Tahoe. He thought of the blank warrants in his desk at Parker Center, and of the signatures he had forged on stolen payroll checks during college. Forgery to kill a murder indictment was easy parity, even more justified as a means to Them. One thought stuck in Lloyd’s mind all the way to the Center: Who were they?
20
Dusk.
Joe Garcia looked at Anne Atwater Vanderlinden and wondered for the three thousandth time who she was. Crouched in the Griffith Park hideaway he’d discovered in high school, he watched her chain-smoke and stare at the lights popping on all over the L.A. Basin. She’d run with him, away from the lover he’d killed and the old lover chasing her, no tears, no show of fear until she ran out of cigarettes and threw a tantrum in front of a liquor store. Guts, shallowness or dope exhaustion?
She’d fallen asleep in his arms, and holding her made him feel strong, even though he knew he was a dead man. Was it her, or would any woman have done it for him?
They’d slept and talked on and off all day, and he filled her in on Bobby and the money, but not on the bank and dead cops. She took it in with a shrug, looking like a bored rich girl with no connection to dead men and blood money. Stupid, insensitive or just burned out?
Her weird little speeches didn’t make figuring her out any easier. During the day she’d wake up, say things like “Duane and Stan had the same karma,” or “Stan was a pragmatist, Duane just thought he was,” or “Duane didn’t understand my music, so it was easy to split from him,” then doze off again. After a fifteen-hour crash course in closeness, all he knew was that she didn’t know they were up someplace worse than the creek with nada.
Anne pointed to the lights going on in the Capitol Records Tower. “Stan was going to set me up with a producer there. Have you ever been in jail?”
“Yeah.”
“I knew it. It’s your clothes. You’re wearing the kind of clothes Duane would wear if he was trying to fit in someplace he didn’t belong.”
Seeing a picture of himself drenched in ink, Joe said, “These are Duane’s threads. You know we have to get out of here. We can’t stay here forever.”
“I know that. Clothes should reflect a person’s early environment, then, as they put out karma, they transform what they wear. What did you wear when you were growing up? You know, prep like me, or mod, surfer, what?”
Joe watched Anne light a cigarette, then exhale and sniff the air like it could get her high in place of coke. He said, “This isn’t the time to be talking fashion. We’ve got no car and no money, and a crazy man on our ass. I can’t go by my pad or the motel, because he’ll be there. But we have to move, and I have to eat.”
Anne said, “I’ve got friends who can help us, and I can make money. Just answer my question.”
“How? Peddling your pussy?”
“Don’t say that! I can give sex and not sacrifice my karma! Don’t say that!”
Joe put a hand on her arm and said, “Sssh. I’m sorry, but I am in deep trouble.”
“Then answer my question.”
Joe sighed. “I grew up dressing like a ridiculous Mexican gangster. Plaid Sir Guy shirts buttoned to the top when it was ninety-five degrees, bell-bottom khakis that dragged the ground, spit-shined navy shoes and an honor farm watch cap. It was a joke, and it had nothing to do with karma.”
“Everything does.”
“I killed a man last night. Aren’t you scared?”
Anne sniffed the air. “I took a Dilaudid Black Beauty speedball just before it got bad with Stan and Duane, and I’m starting to crash. In about an hour I’ll be real scared. You act like a tough guy, but you talk like you went to college. You’re sort of a phony.”
Only Bobby knew that about him.
Joe put his arms around Anne and whispered, “It’s because of this song I can’t write, and Bobby and Sir Guys and khakis and what I have to do, but I can’t do any more. Does that make sense to you?”
Anne dry-sobbed into his chest. “No no no no no.”
Joe whispered back, “You’re just pretending not to know. You’re a musician, so I know you know. Listen. I’ll tell you exactly what we’re going to do. We’re going to walk down the Observatory Road to Vermont, then steal some rich preppy car. Then we’re going to hit up these friends of yours and get some money and get the hell out of town. Say yes if you think we can do it.”
Anne made a choking sound and nodded her head up and down. Joe looked out at the L.A. skyline and knew for the first time in his life that it was his—because now he could leave it behind.
21
Lloyd pulled up across from Likable Louie’s One-Stop Pit Stop. Seeing no fed units, he grabbed his forged search warrant and Ithaca pump, ran across the street and knocked on the door of the built-on house. A feeling of being close grabbed him, and he flicked off the safety and jacked a shell into the chamber.
The door was opened cautiously, held to the frame by a long chain. A Mexican woman peered through the crack and said, “Luis not here. Police took him.”
Lloyd saw copwise smarts. “You mean federal officers?” he said. “F.B.I.?”
“Luis hip to men watching him. These L.A. cops, green car, big antenna.”
Lloyd shuddered. Metro had glommed the Calderon info. “When?” he asked.
“Half hour. I call lawyer.”
Lloyd ran back to his car and lead-footed it the two miles to Rampart Station, hoping to find Lieutenant Buddy Bagdes-sarian or another detective familiar with Calderon. Parking in the lot, he saw no black-and-whites, only civilian cars, and knew that the station contingent was skeletal—probably because every available unit was aiding Hollywood Division in the cop-killer canvassing. Then he spotted an olive-drab Metro wagon parked crossways in the watch commander’s space. The feeling of being close got claustrophobic, and he ran into the station full-tilt.
There was a single officer on duty at the front desk. Lloyd eased his stride and approached slowly, knowing that the early evening station scene was way too quiet, way off. The desk officer grimaced when he saw him coming. He moved toward the intercom phone on
the wall behind him, then changed his mind and mashed his hands together. Lloyd reached the desk and saw a cross and flag pin attached next to the man’s badge. The abomination made his head reel. He was about to rip the insignia from the officer’s chest when a muffled noise stopped him and made him perk his ears to identify it.
There was a short moment of silence, then the noise again. This time Lloyd knew it was a scream. He ran down a long corridor toward the echo, past the booking area and drunk tank to a half-open storage room door. Behind the door the screams melded with a barrage of other noises: retching, garbled obscenities, loud thuds. Lloyd forced himself to count to ten, an old strategy to resurrect cool. Then a brass-knuckled fist arced across the open door space, followed by a burst of blood. At seven, he attacked.
Collins and Lohmann looked up as the door crashed open; Louie Calderon, handcuffed behind his back to a chair, spat blood and flailed at the Metro cops with his legs. Lloyd moved straight in, both fists cocked and aimed shoulder-high. With no swinging room, he hurled jerky shots, catching Lohmann in the neck, Collins a glancing blow in the chest. Calderon toppled his chair to the floor; Collins tripped over him, missing a wide roundhouse right at Lloyd’s head. Lloyd grabbed his wrist as the blow grazed his shoulder, bringing his knee up flush into Collins’ abdomen. Louie Calderon moaned beneath the tangle of feet, and Lohmann lunged at Lloyd with two brass-coiled fists, his momentum sending them both back into the door. Then hands grabbed Lloyd from behind and pulled him out of the room, Lohmann still on top of him, trying to extricate himself. When the knuck wielder got untangled, Lloyd had a clear shot. He kicked Lohmann in the face and felt his nose crack.
Lloyd was hurled into the holding cell across the corridor. When the cross-and-flag officer got the door secured, he stood up, reached through the bars and tore off his badge. The polished oval hit the floor, and the officer picked it up, looked at Lloyd and hissed, “Satan.”