Suicide Hill (29 page)

“First, what did you get from Intelligence Division on Gaffaney?”

“Gaffaney's in deep shit in the Department,” Dutch said. “Intelligence has him nailed as having bribed school officials to doctor up his son's records so he could secure an appointment to the Academy. Apparently the kid was a long-time petty thief with a lot of crazy religious beliefs. Also, Gaffaney is building up a huge interdepartmental power base—right-wing hot dogs from Metro, I.A.D. and various uniformed divisions. To what end, I don't know.”

Lloyd let the information settle on him, then said, “I need a favor.”

“You always need favors. I forgot to mention that right when all hell started breaking loose a guy came to the station looking for you, said he had info on the first two bank robberies. He read about you, and about the rewards, and he wants to talk. I was about to tell him to split, then one of my squad room dicks told me he had two armed robbery convictions. I've got him in a holding tank. Ask your favors quick; I want to broadcast those names.”

“I want complete paper on the three names, plus Anne Vanderlinden, W.F., twenties,” Lloyd said. “R&I, parole and probation department files, jail records. You've got the juice to shake the right people out of bed to get them, and you can send one of your reservists to make the run, then deliver them to my pad.”

Now Dutch's voice was incredulous. “Don't you want to be on the street for this?”

Lloyd said, “No. It feels like I'm inches away from the biggest fuckup I've ever pulled, and if I hit the bricks I'll go nutso. This whole mess is so full of weird angles that if I don't figure them out I won't survive, and I just want to think. Hold that guy for me, I'll be at the station in fifteen minutes.”

“What do you mean, ‘you won't survive'?”

“No. Don't ask again.”

Lloyd hung up and looked around for Rhonda. He found her smoking a cigarette by an open window, and said, “Come on. Don't mention Stan Klein to anybody, and you may still make a few bucks out of this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Survival.”

“Whose survival?”

“That's the funny thing. I don't know.”

Outside Hollywood Station, Lloyd handcuffed Rhonda to the steering column and said, “I'll be no more than half an hour. While I'm gone, think about Rice and his girlfriend, and where she'd go if she were scared.”

“I think better without handcuffs.”

“Too bad, I don't trust you, and with Rice on the loose you're in danger.”

“That's a laugh. He didn't drag me all over town and handcuff me.”

Lloyd slammed the car door and walked into the station. A uniformed reserve officer noticed him immediately, handed him a sheaf of papers and said, “Captain Peltz said to tell you that he's busy, but he sent the other reservist to get your paperwork. Here's a memo and the stats on that clown who wants to talk to you. He's in a holding cell.”

Lloyd nodded and read the memo first:

To: Det. Sgt. L. Hopkins, Rob/Horn

From: Det. Lt. E. Hopper, West Valley Vice

Sergeant—Regarding your inquiry as to vice activities of R. Hawley and J. Eggers, informers have reported that both men are long-time heavy gamblers known to utilize Valley area bookies. Hawley said to sporadically pay debts through “percentage arrangement” with blank bank checks (assumed by informant to be stolen). Different informant states that Eggers has also paid debts with blank check lots—“gpast six weeks or so.”

Hope this helps—Hopper.

Feeling
the
connection breathing down his neck, Lloyd turned to a rap sheet in Dutch's handwriting.

Shondell Tyrone McCarver, M.N., 11/29/48. A.k.a. “Soul,” a.k.a. “Daddy Soul,” a.k.a. “Sweet Daddy Soul,” a.k.a. “Soul King,” a.k.a. “Sweet King of Soul.” Conv: Poss. Dang. Drugs—(2)—6/12/68, 1/27/71. Armed Rbry—(2)—9/8/73, 7/31/77. Paroled 5/16/83—clean since—D.P.

Shaking his head, he looked at the officer and said, “Bad nigger?”

The reservist said, “More the jive type.”

“Good. Crank the door in sixty seconds, then lock it again.”

The officer about-faced and walked to the electrical panel, and Lloyd strode through the muster room to the jail area. Passing the framed photographs of Hollywood Division officers killed in the line of duty, he pictured another frame beside them and the station hung with black bunting. He knew he was pumping himself up with anger to fuel his interrogation, and that it wasn't working—at 2:00 a.m. on the longest night of his life, all he could drum up were the motions.

Except for some babbling from the drunk tank, the jail was quiet. Lloyd saw his man lying on the bottom bunk of a cell on the misdemeanor side of the catwalk. The door clanged open a second later, and the man shook himself awake and smiled. “I'm Sweet Daddy Soul, the patriarch of rock and roll,” he said.

Lloyd stepped inside, and the door creaked shut behind him. Sizing up the man, he saw a good-natured jivehound who thought he was dangerous and might even be. “Not tonight, McCarver.”

Shondell McCarver smoothed the lapels of his mohair suitcoat. “Another time, perhaps?”

Lloyd sat on the commode and took out a pen and notepad. “No. You said you've got information, and you've got a heist jacket, so I'll listen to you. But catch my interest quick.”

“You know I want that reward money.”

“You and everyone else. Talk.”

“Some brothers I know said you was always good for some rapport.”

“Cut the shit and get to it.”

McCarver crossed his ankles and laced his fingers behind his head. “Guess they was wrong. How's this for starters: bet you don't know how the guys who pulled them kidnap heists snapped to the two girlfriends. That safe to say?”

Lloyd's exhaustion dropped; his head buzzed with the coming of a second mental wind. “You've got my interest. Keep talking.”

“The heists was my idea,” Shondell McCarver said. “Up till about two weeks ago I had a bouncer job going, a temporary gig every other week or so, two hundred scoots a night, working for these people of the Eye-talian persuasion.

“The basic scene was this setup trying to re-create the sporting houses back in the old days, you know, like in New Orleans. For a c-note admission you get complimentary coke within reason, high-class whores, a shot at a few semi-pro ladies, crap game, high-stakes poker, old Ali fights on big-screen TV, fuck films, nude swimming, sauna. What—”

“Where?” Lloyd said.

“I'm getting to that,” McCarver said, drawing out the words teasingly. “The spot was a big house in Topanga Canyon. The two bank guys, Hawley and Eggers, brought their chicks to the parties. They—”

“How often were they held?”

“Every two weeks or so. Anyway, there was these mirrored bedrooms, you know, for romance. They was all rigged for sound, and one of my jobs was to listen for good info, like stock tips and the like. That's where I heard Hawley and Eggers talking to their bitches, and where I figured out Hawley was pilfering from his tellers boxes. Still got your interest, Mr. Po-liceman?”

Lloyd remembered Peter Kapek's mention of Hawley's and Eggers' large cash withdrawals. “Were parties thrown on October seventeenth and November first?”

McCarver laughed. “Sure were. I got a righteous memory for dates. How you know that?”

“Never mind, just keep talking.”

“Anyhow, I heard Hawley run down his scam to his bitch. He told her that Greenbacks were left overnight at the tellers cages and—”

Lloyd interrupted: “Did you know that Greenbacks is a brand name of traveler's check?”

Slapping his knee, McCarver said, “Ain't that a riot? Shit. I read that in the paper, and it made me fuckin' glad I never got to utilize my plan. Anyhow, I think he's talkin'
cash.
He tells the bitch that he goes to the bank early on certain mornings, gloms the Greenbacks from the teller drawers, runs a transaction with a duplicate bankbook belonging to some senile old cooze with big bucks, doctors tally slips so that it balances out and looks like a cash withdrawal—to the cooze, who of course is Hawley boy.

“See, Hawley is scared, 'cause the scam only works if the cooze don't get hip to the missing bucks, and he's heard the old girl's relatives is about to have her declared noncompas mental and grab the fuckin' scoots. So Hawley is pouring his soul out to his bimbo, and, unbefuckingknowst to him—me.”

Lloyd looked up from his notepad. “What about Eggers?”

McCarver said, “I'm getting to that. Anyhow, I concocted the plan that ultimately got utilizized by them guys you're looking for. I staked out Hawley for days, watched him glom them Greenbacks, thinkin' they was cash, watched him do his number with the tally slips and bankbook and computer. I'm thinkin', ‘Too bad there's only one of these scamsters,' when this bookie workin' the house tells me about Eggers bein' way behind on his vig. So I think, ‘Gifts in a manger' and nudge the bookie to nudge Eggers into the scam that Hawley pulls. Then I start tailing Eggers, and damned if he didn't start pulling the same tricks. You dig?”

Lloyd said, “I dig. But you never saw Eggers with cash in his hands, right?”

“Right. His hands was out of sight when he did his rippin'. I just assumed that since he followed Hawley's procedure, it had to be cash.”

“And it was about six weeks ago that you told the bookie to nudge Eggers?”

“Yeah. How'd you know that?”

“Never mind, keep going.”

“Anyhow, I never told the Eye-talians about any of this, and I cased the kidnap part of the deal real good—the bitches' cribs, the managers' cribs, the whole shot. Then I got me a partner, then he decided to take off a liquor store and got busted. You follow so far?”

“I'm ahead of you,” Lloyd said. “Wrap it up.”

McCarver lit a cigarette, coughed and said, “Homeboy's a righteous partner. A little on the impetuous side, but solid. Except that he's fat-mouth motherfucker, which ain't as bad as bein' a snitch, but still ain't good. When I read about my plan gettin' utilizized, I called Homeboy at Folsom, got through 'cause he got this cush orderly job. I said, ‘Who the fuck you shoot your fat motherfuckin' mouth off to?' He says, ‘Who, me?' I says, ‘Yeah, you, motherfucker, 'cause whoever you blabbed to utilizized my plan, plus one other, and killed four people, includin' two cops, and there is seventy thou in reward bucks on that motherfucker's ass.'

“So … Homeboy tells me he talked to two paddy dudes in the High-Power Tank at the New County—Frank Ottens and Chick Geyer. I figure, righteous, those are cop killer motherfuckers. Then I back off and think, ‘What if those dudes blabbed to someone else, and righteous third- or fourth-or fuckin' fifth-hand info was responsible for the utilizization of my plan?' So I call the jail, and they tell me Ottens and Geyer is still in High-Power fighting their beefs. So, big man, you find out who Ottens and Geyer blabbed to, and you find your fuckin' cop killer. Now, is that a righteous tip or a righteous tip?”

Lloyd stood up and stretched. What would have cracked the case twenty-four hours before was now stale bread. The High-Power Tank adjoined the Ding Tank, where Duane Rice was incarcerated until two weeks ago. Gordon Meyers was the night jailer there, and he had incurred Rice's wrath as a member of the overall robbery scheme or for some other reason—stale bread also, because Meyers was dead, and Rice was unlikely to live through the night. Everyone involved in the twisted mess was dead or marked for death, including himself. Thinking inexplicably of Louie Calderon's “The kid was just too scared to say no. Don't let them kill him,” Lloyd looked at McCarver and said, “A righteously too late tip, but I'll give you some righteous advice: walk real soft around cops, because nothing's going to be the same with us anymore.”

McCarver said, “What the fuck,” and Lloyd walked out to his car and handcuffed witness. A crew of reservists were hanging black bunting on the front doors of the station as he drove away.

Pulling into his driveway a half hour later, Lloyd saw a stack of L.A. County interagency records sleeves beside his kitchen door. Killing the engine, he said to Rhonda, “You're staying with me until Rice is kill—I mean captured.”

Rhonda rubbed her wrists. “What if I don't like the accommodations? You also mentioned money a while back.”

Lloyd got out of the car and pointed to the door. “Later. I've got some reading to do. You sit tight while I do it, then we'll talk.”

The records sleeves were thick and heavy with paper. Picking them up, Lloyd felt comforted by the bulk of the cop data. He unlocked the door, flicked on the light and motioned Rhonda inside. “Make yourself at home, anywhere downstairs.”

“What about upstairs?”

“It's sealed off.”

“Why?”

“Never mind.”

“You're weird.”

“Just sit tight, all right?”

Rhonda shrugged and started opening and closing the kitchen cabinets. Lloyd carried the sleeves into the living room and arrayed them on the coffee table, noting that the paperwork came from the L.A. County Department of Corrections, L.A. County Probation Department, County Parole Bureau and California State Adult Authority. The pages were not broken down by the names of his four suspects, and he had to first collate them into stacks—one for Duane Rice, one each for the Garcia brothers, one for Anne Vanderlinden. That accomplished, he broke them down by agency, with R&I rap sheets on top. Then, with the sounds of Rhonda's kitchen puttering barely denting his concentration, he sat back to read and think and scheme, hoping to pull cold facts into some kind of salvation.

Duane Richard Rice, quadruple cop killer, grew up in the Hawaiian Gardens Housing Project, graduated Bell High School, had a 136 I.Q. The first of his two arrests was for vehicular manslaughter. While working as a mechanic at a Beverly Hills sports car dealership, he lost control of a car he was test-driving and killed two pedestrians. He ran from the scene on foot, but turned himself in to the Beverly Hills police later that same night. Since Rice possessed no criminal record and no drugs or alcohol were involved, the judge offered a five-year prison sentence, then suspended it on the proviso that he perform one thousand hours of public service. Rice shouted obscenities at the judge, who retracted the suspension and sentenced him to five years in the California Youth Authority Facility at Soledad.