Because the Night
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A botched liquor store heist leaves three grisly dead. A hero cop is missing. Nobody could see a pattern in these two stray bits of information–no one except Detective Sergeant Lloyd Hopkins, a brilliant and disturbed L.A. cop with an obsessive desire to protect the innocent. To him they lead to one horrifying conclusion--a killer is on the loose and preying on his city. From the master of L.A. noir comes this beautiful and brutal tale of a cop and a criminal squared off in a life and death struggle.
“Bravo. Bravo.” His monotone sent the woman into new gales of laughter. The man she had coupled with was still trying to catch his breath. Goff imagined him lying on the bed on the verge of a coronary. The Doctor spoke again. “Later, Helen. I want to check the victim’s pulse. You may have gone too far this time.” “Beyond the beyond,” Helen said. “Isn’t that our motto, Doctor?” “Touché,” the Doctor said. “I’ll call you Thursday.” When a full five minutes of silence followed the sound of little
who was a lovable dude, but weird himself.” Lloyd felt fragments of his case burst into a strange new light: Marty Bergen had seen the missing L.A.P.D. Personnel files. Swallowing to hold his voice steady, he said, “You told me that Bergen let you keep one of the columns. Have you still got it?” The woman nodded and rolled out her galley sheet on the desk. “Marty gave real specific instructions on how to set it,” she said. “He said it had to have a heavy black border and that it had to run on
policeman?” “I’m a defector. I’ve quit the cops, and I’m seeking asylum with the counterculture fourth estate. I want to peddle my memoirs. Take me to your wisest ghost writer.” “You have thirty seconds to vacate the premises.” Lloyd took a step toward the young man. The young man took two steps backwards. Seeing the fear in his eyes, Lloyd said, “Shit. Detective Sergeant Hopkins, L.A.P.D. I’m here to see Marty Bergen. Tell him it’s about Jack Herzog. I’ll be waiting by the reception desk.”
his office or Beverly Hills condo—but a beach house owned by an especially trusted worshipper would be the ideal place for individual or group meetings. He read the name of the realtor on the front of the brochure—Ginjer Buchanan Properties. The phone number was listed below it. Lloyd dialed it on the off-chance that an eager beaver salesperson might still be at the office. When all he got was a recorded message, he called information and got a residential listing for a Ginjer Buchanan in
begin trying the hasps when he saw that the middle window was wide open. Holding the shotgun out in front of him, he walked over and pulled back the curtains that blocked his view. Seeing nothing but an empty bedroom, he stepped inside and padded to the door. Opening it inward with trembling hands, he saw a long carpeted hallway and heard Marty Bergen’s voice surrounding him: “We’re reasonable men, aren’t we? Compromise is the basis of reason, isn’t it? We—” Lloyd pulled the door shut,