Because the Night by James Ellroy Page A

disappearing?”
    â€œHerzog is an exceptional man, Miss Barnes. Everything I’ve discovered about him has pointed that out. I’m just trying to get a handle on his state of mind around the time he disappeared.”
    â€œI can tell you about that,” she said. “Jack was either exhilarated or depressed, like he was on a roller-coaster ride. Most of his conversation had to do with vindicating Marty Bergen. He said he was going to fuck the L.A.P.D. high brass for what they did to him.”
    â€œWhy did you think I was Bergen?” Lloyd asked.
    â€œBecause Bergen and I are the only friends Jack has in the world, and you’re big, the way Jack described Bergen.”
    Lloyd spent a silent minute mustering his thoughts. Finally he asked, “Did Herzog say specifically how he was going to vindicate Bergen or fuck the high brass?”
    â€œNo, never.”
    â€œCan you give me some specific instances of his exhilarated or depressed behavior?”
    Meg Barnes pondered the question, then said, “Jack was either very quiet or he’d laugh at absolutely everything, whether it was funny or not. He used to laugh hysterically about someone or something called Doctor John the Night Tripper. The last time I saw him he said he was really scared and that it felt good.”
    Lloyd took out his Identikit portrait. “Have you ever seen this man?”
    She shook her head. “No.”
    â€œDo the names Howard Christie, John Rolando, Duane Tucker, Daniel Murray, or Steven Kaiser mean anything to you?’
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAvonoco Fiberglass, Jahelka Auto King, Surferdawn Plastics, Junior Miss Cosmetics?”
    â€œNo. What are they?”
    â€œNever mind. What about my name—Lloyd Hopkins?”
    â€œNo! Why are you asking me these things?”
    Lloyd didn’t answer. He got up from the couch and tossed the upholstered pillow he was leaning against on the floor, then carried the coffee table over to the wall. When he turned around, Meg Barnes was staring at him. “Jack’s dead,” she said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMurdered?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAre you going to get the person who did it?”
    Lloyd shuddered back a chill. “Yes.”
    Meg pointed to the floor. “Are you sleeping here?” Acceptance had taken the controlled edge off her voice. Lloyd’s voice sound numb to his own ears. “Yes.”
    â€œYour wife kick you out?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œYou could come home with me.”
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œI don’t make that offer all the time.”
    â€œI know.”
    She got up and walked to the door. Lloyd saw her strides as a race between her legs and her tears. When she touched the door handle, he asked, “What kind of man was Herzog?”
    Meg Barnes’ words and tears finished in a dead heat. “A kind man afraid of being vulnerable. A tender man afraid of his tenderness, disguising it with a badge and a gun. A gentle man.”
    The door slammed shut as tears rendered words unnecessary. Lloyd turned off the lights and stared out the window at the neon-bracketed darkness.

7
    â€œT ELL me about your dreams.”
    Linda Wilhite measured the Doctor’s words, wondering whether he meant waking or sleeping. Deciding the latter, she plucked at the hem of her faded Levi skirt and said, “I rarely dream.”
    Havilland inched his chair closer to Linda and formed his fingers into a steeple. “People who rarely dream usually have active fantasy lives. Is that true in your case?” When Linda’s eyelids twitched at the question, he thrust the steeple up to within a foot of her face. “Please answer, Linda.”
    Linda slapped at the steeple, only to find the Doctor’s hands in his lap. “Don’t push so hard,” she said.
    â€œBe specific,” Havilland said. “Think exactly what you want to say.”
    Linda breathed the