Because the Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘his ass is grass and I’m the fucking lawnmower’?”
    â€œI like it! I like it!”
    â€œI thought you would.”
    Lloyd drove to Jack Herzog’s last known address, a twenty-unit apartment house on the valley side of the Hollywood Hills. The pink stucco building was sandwiched between two shopping malls and featured a video game arcade in the front lobby. The directory listed Herzog as living in apartment 423. Lloyd walked up four flights of stairs and checked the hallway in both directions, then jimmied the lock with a credit card and closed the door behind him, almost stumbling over the pile of unopened mail that was spread out on the floor.
    He flipped a light switch and let his eyes fall on the first thing that greeted them, a trophy case filled with award scrolls and loving cups. The ink on Herzog’s death certificate was the scouring powder wipe marks that covered the wood and glass surfaces. A quick check of the rest of the apartment revealed that wipe marks streaked with abrasive powder were spread over every surface capable of sustaining latent prints. It was the job of a conscientious professional.
    Lloyd leafed through the envelopes on the floor. No personal letters or postcards—every piece was either a utility bill or junk mail. Letting his eyes stray over the living room walls, he saw an impersonal habitat come into focus—no artwork of any kind; no masculine disarray; furniture that had probably come with the lease. The award scrolls and loving cups had the look of hand-me-downs, and when he squinted to read the names and dates embossed on them, Lloyd saw that they were track and field awards won by Herzog’s father in Lebanon during the late ’40s.
    The kitchen was even more spare—dishes and silverware stacked neatly by the drainboard, no food of any kind in the refrigerator or on the shelves. Only the bedroom bore signs of personality: a closet stuffed with L.A.P.D. uniforms and a huge supply of civilian clothes, outfits ranging from ragpicker overcoats to skinny-lapel pimp suits to outlaw motorcycle leathers. Beside the bed were tall shelves crammed with books. Lloyd scanned the spines. All the titles were biographies, the lives of generals, conquerors and religious iconoclasts predominating. One whole shelf was devoted to works on Richard the Lion Hearted and Martin Luther; another to books on Peter the Great. Romantic plunderers, despots, and mad visionaries. Lloyd felt a wave of love for Jungle Jack Herzog.
    After checking out the bathroom, Lloyd found the phone and called Dutch Peltz at the Hollywood station. When Dutch came on the line, he said, “I’m at Herzog’s pad. It’s been wiped by a pro. You can scratch Herzog for real, but don’t let anyone know, okay?”
    â€œAll right. Was the pad trashed?”
    â€œNo. I get the feeling the killer was just being cautious, covering his ass from all standpoints. Can you do me a few favors?”
    â€œName them.”
    â€œWhen the Vice Squad comes on, find out from Walt Perkins what bars Herzog was working. Glom any reports he may have filed. I’m going to check out Marty Bergen myself, and I’ll come back here and interview Herzog’s neighbors tonight. I’ll call you at home around seven.”
    â€œSounds good.”
    â€œOh, and Dutch? Have your guys feel out their snitches on antique gun freaks, or any assholes known to use violence who’ve been taking up guns lately. Even if it’s just street bullshit and jive, I want to know about it.”
    â€œYou’re fishing, Lloyd.”
    â€œI know. I’ll call you at seven.”
    Lloyd walked through Jungle Jack Herzog’s barren dwelling place. Locking the door behind him, he said, “You poor noble son-of-a-bitch, why the fuck did you have to prove yourself so hard?”
    It took Lloyd half an hour to drive to the West Hollywood office of the Big Orange Insider. Heat, smog, and