by James Ellroy
Lloyd sat in the outer office of the Los Angeles F.B.I.’s Bank Robbery Unit, kneading his gauze-bandaged right hand and musing on his new lease on professional life. McManus had called him in Frisco with the word: his suspension was over, he was back on duty with a liaison gig with the feds; report tomorrow morning to Special Agent Kapek at the F.B.I. Central Office and don’t fuck up. The “lease” was a phaseout, he decided; a stratagem to keep him occupied and docile while the high brass figured out a discreet way to give him the big one where it would do the most damage. On the flight down and cab ride over he had been exultantly happy, then a look at the clerk/receptionist’s face when he flashed his badge brought it all to a crash. It had to be a shit assignment, or they would have given it to a field lieutenant. His glory days were dead.
A severe-looking woman poked her head out of the connecting door and said, “Sergeant Hopkins?”
Lloyd pushed himself out of his chair with both hands; his right hand throbbed. “Yes. To see Special Agent Kapek. Is he here yet?”
The woman walked toward him, holding a manila folder and a sheaf of loose pages. “He’ll be here soon. He said you should please wait and read these reports.”
Lloyd took the papers with his good hand and sat back down, dismissing the woman with a nod of the head. When he was alone again, he opened the folder, smiling when he saw that it contained a series of L.A.P.D. crime reports. The first report was submitted by a West Valley Division daywatch patrol unit, and detailed events of Wednesday, 12/7/84, less than twenty-four hours before. While on routine patrol of Woodman Avenue, the officers of Unit Four–Charlie–Z came upon a middle-aged white male urinating in the open window of a 1983 Cadillac Seville. When they approached, they de-506
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termined that the suspect was heavily under the influence of a narcotic substance, and cautiously advised him of his rights before arresting him for indecent exposure and public intoxication. The man screamed incoherently as he was handcuffed, but the officers were able to pick out the words “bank rob” and “ray gun.”
At the West Valley Station booking area, the suspect was searched. His identification revealed him to be Robert Earle Hawley, forty-seven, the owner of the Cadillac Seville. Finding the name familiar, the booking officer checked with the daywatch commander and learned that security personnel at the Bank of America on Woodman and Ventura had entered the bank at opening time to find the cash boxes ransacked and the bank’s manager, Robert Hawley, missing. Hawley’s booking was postponed. The F.B.I. Bank Robbery Unit was notified of the bank manager’s incarceration, and a team of detectives drove him to U.S.C. County General Hospital for detoxification. After determining that Hawley was under the influence of “angel dust,” a counterdose of Aretane was administered. When Hawley returned to a sober state, F.B.I. Special Agent Peter Kapek and a team of L.A.P.D. detectives again advised him of his right to remain silent and have an attorney present during questioning. Waiving those rights, Hawley gave the officers the following account of his morning’s activities: At 7:45 A.M. he received a phone call from an unknown man, directing him to call the home of his “girlfriend,” Sally Issler. The man told Hawley (who is married) that Miss Issler would be killed if his demands were not met, and that he would call back in exactly three minutes. Hawley called Miss Issler. A man with a Mexican accent answered, then put Miss Issler on the line. She screamed that she was being held captive by two men with guns and knives and to do whatever their friend said. Hawley said he would, then hung up. The man called back as he said he would, and told Hawley to meet him on Woodman near the bank in ten minutes, warning him that his phone was tapped, and any attempts to contact the police would result in Miss Issler’s death. Hawley met the man near the bank, and described him as “white, late twenties, light brown hair, blue eyes, 5'11''–6'1'', 160–170
pounds, with neatly trimmed beard and mustache, wearing three-piece tan suit.” The man forced Hawley to open the bank and empty cashboxes containing approximately $60,000 in traveler’s checks into a briefcase, then walked him back to his car, where he shot him twice with what looked like a “ray gun.” Welts on Hawley’s neck and collarbone and small metal darts
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still stuck to his clothing indicated that he was telling the truth. Officers were dispatched to the home of Miss Issler. They found her bound and gagged, but otherwise unharmed. She told them that her captors wore ski masks that covered their faces, but were obviously Mexicans. They spoke fluent English with Mexican accents. One man, the “softer-spoken” of the two, was tall and slender; the other, who “talked dirty” to her, was short and muscular. She placed both men as being in their early thirties, and said they were both armed with army-issue .45 automatics with attached silencers. Lloyd skimmed through the remaining reports, learning that Hawley was treated for toxic poisoning and was not charged with a wienie-wagger beef or with anything pertaining to the robbery, and that Sally Issler was treated for shock at a local hospital and then released. The disparate facts started to sink in, pointing to solid criminal brains. He was about to give the initial pages another go-around when he sensed someone watching him read. He looked up to see a tall man of about thirty hovering near the doorway.
“Pete Kapek,” the man said. “Nice caper, huh? You like it?”
Lloyd stood up. “Bank robbery’s not my meat, but I’ll take it.” He walked over to the doorway. Kapek stuck out his right hand, then noticed the bandage and switched to his left. Lloyd said, “Lloyd Hopkins,” and fumbled a handshake. Kapek said, “I’ve heard you’re smart. What do you think, right off the top of your head?”
Lloyd walked into Kapek’s office and went straight for the window and its view of downtown L.A. seven stories below. With his eyes on a stream of antlike people scuttling across Figueroa, he said, “Right off the top, why me? I’m a homicide dick. Two, what’s with Hawley? Presumably, he was chosen because his affair with the Issler woman made him particularly vulnerable to a blackmail angle. Again presumably, his wife didn’t know about Issler. Then why did he spill his guts so quickly?”
Kapek laughed. “It wasn’t in the report, but the phone man told Hawley he had infrared fuck shots of him and Sally. He threatened exposure of the affair as well as Sally’s murder. I sized up Hawley as a wimp and made him a deal. Talk, and we wouldn’t press charges on him for flashing his shlong, and we’d keep the whole mess out of the media’s clutches. You like it?”
Lloyd turned around and looked at Kapek, noticing acne scars that undercut his Fed image and made him seem more like a cop. “Yeah, I like it. Also right off the top of my head: one, we’re dealing with brains. Stupider guys would have gone straight for Hawley’s wife, right there at his pad, and kept her hostage, which might have driven Hawley to the cops from jump street. That’s 508
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impressive. If the wrong guys got ahold of a family hostage idea and got away with it once, they’d keep going until someone was killed. As it stands, this is probably a one-shot deal, which leads us back to Issler. She been polygraphed?”
Kapek sat down and poked a pencil at the papers on his desk. “She’s clean. No polygraph yet, but while she was at the hospital, I had a forensic team and latent prints team do a job on her apartment. They found jimmy marks on the side door, and rubber glove prints on all the surfaces the Mexicans would have touched. We got a bunch of viable latents, and the team stayed up half the night doing eliminations against Sally, Hawley, and a list of friends and relatives that Sally gave us, working with D.M.V., armed forces and passport records. You know what we got? The above nonsuspects, and one unaccounted-for set that later turned out to be some dipshit L.A.P.D. rookie who saw all the black-and-whites out front and thought he’d make the scene. The forensic guys got soil and mashed-up flower petals coming through the side door; the beaners trampled a flower garden on their way in. No, Sally baby was not in on it.”
Lloyd said, “Shit. Competent print men?”
<
br /> Kapek laughed. “The best. One guy is a real freak. He dusted the bedposts and logicked that Sally likes to get on top. You like it?”
“Only on Tuesdays. Let’s get the obvious stuff out of the way. The phone man wore gloves and Hawley can’t I.D. him from mug shots?”
“Right.”
“No eyeball witnesses at either crime scene?”
“Right.”
“The bank checks bug me. What can they yield cash—a quarter on the dollar?”
“If that. But they’re green—and from a distance, you know, during a casing job, they might appear to be the real thing, which doesn’t make our boys look too smart.”
Lloyd nodded. “Employees and ex-employees, known associates of Issler and Hawley?”
“Being checked out. If we don’t bust this thing in a week or so, I’ll plant a man in the bank. Our approaches are narrowing down. You like it?”
Lloyd collected his thoughts by looking out the window at low-hanging clouds brushing the tops of skyscrapers. “No, I don’t. One of the reports said Issler made the Mexicans as carrying army-issue .45s. That’s a strange perception for a woman.”
Kapek chuckled. “Sexist. Issler’s father was a career officer. She knows
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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
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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-
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clothes officers who had canvassed the two crime scenes late the previous day. The Woodman and Ventura house-to-house was a total blank—three housewives had noticed Hawley passed out in his Cadillac, but no one had seen him in the company of another man. The canvass of Sally Issler’s neighborhood was an even bigger zero—no male Mexicans, alone or traveling as a pair, were seen on the street, and no unknown or suspicious vehicles were parked on or near her apartment building. Sally Issler’s formal statement, made after she came out of her hospitaladministered sedation, was more illuminating. Asked about the personalities of her two captors, she had stated that the “tall, slender” man seemed
“passive for a criminal; soft-spoken, maybe even educated,” and that the
“short, muscular” man “came on like a sex freak, like one of those Mexicans who hit on every chick they meet.” When asked exactly what the short man said, she refused to answer.
Lloyd called Telecredit and asked for lists of Robert Hawley’s and Sally Issler’s recent credit card transactions, emphasizing restaurant and bar bills and motel accommodations. The operator promised to phone him at Parker Center with the information.
Running down options in his mind, Lloyd left a note for the lieutenant handling the Issler investigation to call him at the Center, then wrote out a memo to be teletyped to all L.A.P.D. divisions for roll call: “All units be alert for two-man stickup team: male Mexicans, early thirties, one tall, slender and ‘soft-spoken,’ one short, muscular and a possible sex offender. Both armed with silencered, army-issue .45 autos. Also be alert for B. of A. Greenback traveler’s checks, serial number and denominations in West Valley Div. 12/7/84 robbery bulletin. Direct all queries and field interrogation reports to Det. S
gt. Hopkins, Robbery/Homicide Div. x 4209.”
On his way out, Lloyd left the memo with the watch commander, who assured him it would be transmitted in time for the nightwatch crime sheet. Then he rolled back to Parker Center, this time straight into the storm clouds. He was skirting the east edge of Hollywood when the rain hit. Hawley, Issler and Mexican bandits rolled out of his mind, and Janice rolled in, freeze-framed as she looked the last time he saw her. After punching out the lawyer’s bookcase, he had walked through Chinatown, pressing his bloody hand into his shirttail, numbed and directionless until it started to rain in buckets and he realized he was only a few blocks from Janice’s apartment. He knocked on the door and Roger answered in a bathrobe, his yappy dachshund cowering in back of him.
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Roger himself backed off as if fearing a blow. Lloyd walked past him into the kitchen, holding his hand tightly to avoid dripping blood on Janice’s Persian carpet. The dog alternately yapped, growled and took a bead on his ankles as he wrapped a dish towel around his gashed knuckles. Janice had walked in then, carrying a pitcher of frozen daiquiris. She jumped back at the sight of Lloyd, and the pitcher fell to the floor, banana and rum fizz flying in all directions. Lloyd held up his hand and said, “Oh shit, Jan,” and the dachshund began lapping up the goo. Roger entered the kitchen as the dog began to reel from the booze. He tried to grab him, but slipped on banana residue and hit the floor ass first. The drunken hound lapped his face, and Janice laughed so hard she had to grab Lloyd for support. He held her with his good arm, and she burrowed into him until he could feel them melding into each other the way they used to. Then Roger broke the spell by blubbering about his robe being ruined, and Janice drew away from her husband and back to her lover. But a brush fire had been ignited. Lloyd whispered, “I love you,” as he retreated from the kitchen. Janice formed “yes” with her lips and touched her hands to her breasts. Back at his Parker Center cubicle, Lloyd let the brush fire smolder as he figured out shit work logistics, first making notes for computer cross-checks, then writing an interdepartmental memo alerting Detective Division personnel to the case and its salient facts. The work forged the facts even deeper into his own mind, pushing back a notion to pad the job and thus postpone the inevitable.
