by Stuart Woods
“I laid out some fresh things; I hope you’ll approve of my choices.”
“Let me guess: jeans and a T-shirt.”
“You’re clairvoyant.”
“I’m without anything else to wear.”
“We’ll fix that; we’ll get Danny to take you shopping properly.”
“We’re getting awfully bold, aren’t we?”
“We’re going to be bold from now on.” The son of a bitch had been there when they were making love, and Larsen was going to find a way to kill him for it. Fuck probable cause.
He stopped for some things at a little grocery store and then drove home. The house seemed as they’d left it; Chris’s Mercedes was parked at the curb. He should have put that in the garage, he thought; it was lucky no one had broken into it.
He made scrambled eggs and smoked salmon for them, opened a bottle of champagne, and mixed it with orange juice. They both ate greedily.
Larsen thought about Admirer’s uncanny ability to find them wherever they were, and he decided there was nothing uncanny about it. While Chris did the dishes he went into the garage and flipped on the lights. He slid his shop jack under the Mustang, hoisted it a few inches, put steel supports under the axle, then lowered the car until it rested on the supports. He got a work light on a long cord, plugged it in, and stretched out on his back on the creeper that allowed him to work under the car.
He didn’t find it at first. A cursory examination of the car’s underside turned up nothing; then he did the job more carefully, and he found it stuck magnetically to the body—just a little plastic box with a short antenna. He pushed out from under the Mustang and then performed the same search under the MG, with the same result. He backed the Mustang into the drive, pulled it to one side, then went back into the house.
“Where are your car keys?” he asked. “I think your car ought to be in the garage.”
She pulled them from her pocket and tossed them in his direction. “Thank you.”
He drove the Mercedes into the garage and made another search. Another black box. No doubt there was one on Danny’s new car as well.
He turned off the garage lights and went back into the house.
“Does it still have a radio?”
“Listen, this is a decent neighborhood, not like Bel Air.”
“Sure; I’m lucky it still has axles.” She looked reflective. “I wonder if I’ll ever drive it again.”
“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “You’ll be driving in no time.”
“This morning I stood at the window at the hotel, and for a moment I thought I could see the horizon.”
“Maybe you did see it.”
“I thought I had it in focus for just a second, and then I couldn’t get it again.”
“Relax, and you’ll get well sooner.” He left her in the living room, went into his little book-lined study, and made a phone call to a man he knew who specialized in exotic electronics.
“Jim, it’s Jon Larsen; how are you?”
“I’m okay, Jon. What’s up?”
“I found a bug on my car.”
“Sound or location?”
“Location. Maybe sound, too; I haven’t looked that thoroughly.”
“What do you want to do about it?”
“I want to be able to disable it at will, without actually removing it.”
“You mean you want it to work sometimes, but not others?”
“That’s right.”
“It has an antenna?”
“Yes.”
“You’re fairly handy, as I remember.”
“Yep.”
“You want to get a second output to the antenna; you follow?”
“What kind of output?”
“Doesn’t matter, but the radio will do fine. Here’s what you do: you mount a switch on your panel somewhere, then you run a wire from the switch to a speaker wire and from there to the antenna of your bug. Then, when your radio is on, all you have to do is flip the switch, and you’ll get output from the radio into the bug antenna. What that’ll do is screw up the signal the guy’s receiving; he’ll be getting more signal than he wants, and it’ll screw him up, whether he’s tracking you on a CRT screen or, more likely, if he has some sort of handheld radio direction finder. Got that?”
“I’ve got it,” Larsen said. He hung up, went back to the garage, and found some wire and some switches in his tool chest, then went to work. The Mustang no longer had a radio, of course, so he concentrated on the MG and Chris’s Mercedes.
CHAPTER
53
Danny picked up Larsen and Chris later in the morning, and they went shopping. Chris and Danny combed Rodeo Drive, plus Saks and Neiman’s, while Larsen hung back a few yards and watched their backs.
They had lunch at the Bistro Garden, then Chris wanted to buy furniture, so they did Melrose Avenue and the decorators’ shops. She needed the most basic things, like beds, so by the time they had finished, the shops were closing. They had an early dinner at Valentino’s, then drove back to Santa Monica, walked through the pedestrian district, and found some dessert. It was well after dark when, exhausted, they returned to Larsen’s house, where Danny dropped them, then went back to his own home. Larsen didn’t tell him about the bug on his car; there was time for that, if it became necessary.
Larsen unlocked the front door and helped Chris in with her packages.
“What’s that smell?” she asked.
“What kind of smell?”
“Like a roadkill or something.”
“Your sense of smell is better than mine,” he said, switching on a light. He started to take the packages to the bedroom, then stopped. There was someone seated at the little writing desk in the living room.
“What’s wrong?” Chris asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, steering her toward the bedroom.
“Jon, I can tell by the way you stopped and by your voice. What is it?”
“I’ve just remembered that I have to meet with some other cops here. Come on, you’re exhausted; let’s get you into bed, and we’ll try not to keep you awake.”
He settled her in the bedroom and went back to the living room, closing the door behind him. She was sitting at the desk, neatly dressed, her legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, handbag sitting on the floor beside her. He picked up the telephone.
“This is Larsen; get me Martinez in Homicide.”
“He’s gone for the day,” the dispatcher replied.
“Patch me through to him at home,” Larsen said. “It’s urgent.”
Martinez sounded sleepy. “Yeah?”
“Al, it’s Jon Larsen; I think you’d better come over to my house. The rest of Helen Mendelssohn has turned up.”
Martinez was wide-awake now. “Where?”
“In my living room. You want to get over here with a full team as soon as possible?” He gave the detective his address.
“I’ll call everybody, then I’m on my way.”
“I guess we’d better call Santa Monica Homicide, too. Will you handle that?”
“It’s our call,” Martinez said. “Why do we need them?”
“Part of the victim is on their turf. We’d better do it by the book.”
“Yeah, okay.” Martinez hung up.
Larsen put down the phone and walked around Helen Mendelssohn’s body. The long nails were painted a bright red, and two of them were broken; it was wearing jewelry, even; it was dressed in a business suit and seemed ready to go to work, except for the absent head.
He went back into the bedroom to be sure Chris was all right.
She was nearly asleep. “You coming to bed soon?”
“I’ll be a while; you go to sleep.”
“Mmmm. Okay.”
He left her and went back to the living room to wait with Helen Mendelssohn for the cavalry to arrive.
CHAPTER
54
They came in force—Beverly Hills Homicide, the medical examiner, a photographer,
an ambulance with two attendants, and, finally, Santa Monica Homicide. Larsen kept them as quiet as he could.
“Okay, Jon, we’re all here now,” said Martinez. “What the hell is this about?”
“I told you I was working a stalker,” Larsen said.
“Yeah, now tie it all together for me,” Martinez said.
The Santa Monica man spoke up. “Yeah, tie it all together for me, too. You can start by telling me what the fuck you guys are doing working a homicide on my turf.”
Martinez turned to the man. “The homicide occurred on my turf the night before last, and we’ve got the head down at the morgue with our tag on it, okay?”
“Well, we’ve got a lot more than a head,” the Santa Monica man said. “We’ve got legs and arms and a torso, and that’s a hell of a lot more than a head.”
“It didn’t happen here,” Larsen explained. “It happened in Beverly Hills, so it’s our case. Jurisdiction comes down where the crime is committed.”
“Says who?” the Santa Monica man asked.
“Listen,” Martinez said, “we called you in as a courtesy, because we’re courteous guys. Now if you can’t be courteous, get the hell out of here.”
“My chief…”
“Fuck your chief and the horse he rode in on, pal; we’re working this case, and you had better start getting used to the idea. Now, you want to be embarrassed in front of your chief, you bring him over here, and I’ll embarrass you.”
“Okay, okay,” the Santa Monica detective said, holding up his hands. “You work it, I’ll watch; you screw it up, and I’ll go get my chief.”
“Good. Now, Jon, you were going to tie this together for me.”
“Right. I’m working a stalker case, anonymous, bothering a young woman for some time now—flowers, notes, then, recently, it got more serious—picture of open-heart surgery and a dog’s head in a gift box.”
“A real dog’s head?”
“Right. And now there’s flowers and a cat’s head in Helen Mendelssohn’s apartment, so I think we’ve got the same MO going.”
“Sounds that way,” Martinez agreed. “You’ve got a lead on the guy, you said.”
“A lead, and that’s all; it’s very tenuous. What it boils down to is we think the perp, who styles himself Admirer, drives a gray Ford van and a red motorcycle. My complainant is building a house, and one of the subcontractors has the same van and all the skills necessary to do what Admirer has been doing. I’ve been surveilling him, and he lost me right before he burned down the lady’s house. But I can’t prove it was him, and I don’t have probable cause to arrest him.”
“Why don’t we have a talk with him?” Martinez said.
“If you do that, Al, he’s going to pull back into his shell, and we’ll have nothing but a bad arrest. I want him free to make a mistake, so I can nail him.”
“He’s also free to do this again,” Martinez said, nodding at Helen Mendelssohn’s corpse.
“I have a theory about that,” Larsen replied. “I think he got frustrated dealing with my complainant, and he killed Helen Mendelssohn to relieve the pressure. I think he’ll be okay for long enough for me to make the case.”
“That’s a dangerous theory,” Martinez said. “Can you imagine what the chief is going to say to us if the guy decapitates another woman?”
“Listen, Al, what did you find in Helen Mendelssohn’s apartment?”
“Not a fucking thing.”
“Right, and you’re not going to. This guy is very, very bright, and he hasn’t made a mistake yet. You’re just not going to get a good bust right now, and that’s it.”
“So what makes you think he’s going to make a mistake sometime soon, if he never makes mistakes?”
“I’m setting something up, and in a few days I think I’ll have him.”
“You been surveilling this guy alone?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, the least I can do is pitch in; maybe we can make the surveillance wall-to-wall.”
“That would be great, Al, but he’s disappeared. He called in to his business and said he’d be out for a few days, and I haven’t been able to put him at his house. Last night he was in a hotel where my complainant was staying, so he’s around somewhere; he just seems to have gone to ground.”
“What’s his name?” Martinez asked.
“I’m going to hang on to that for the time being,” Larsen said. “I don’t want him rousted until I’m ready.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility to take, Jon. Sure you don’t want some help?”
“Do I get to say exactly how much help?”
Martinez sighed. “Okay, you call it.”
“And Herrera doesn’t hear about it?”
“And Herrera doesn’t hear.”
“Okay, his name is Melvin James Parker, aka James Melvin Potter. He did time for child molestation and was released three years ago. He changed his name and started a security business, and some way or other he got past the fingerprint check”—he turned to the Santa Monica detective—“which should have been done by the Santa Monica department. I tried to get somebody there to dig out the original application, but no luck; it’s in long-term storage.”
“I can put a guy on his house and his business,” Martinez said. “This is an important case.”
Larsen gave him the two addresses. “He moves around a lot, installing and servicing alarm systems, and he’s as cunning as a sewer rat. You’re going to have to have two cars on him, or he’ll make the surveillance.”
“I can only spare the two guys, but these two addresses aren’t too far apart; when he goes on the move, one can call the other in.”
“Fine, and don’t mess with his house; he’s got the biggest dog you ever laid eyes on—a real monster.”
“Okay, no B & E,” Martinez said.
The medical examiner approached the group.
“What have you got for me?” Martinez asked.
“From the looks of it, the body was stripped before the decapitation took place and then dressed again; there’s not a drop of blood on any of the clothing. The body’s been refrigerated, so I can’t give you even an approximate time of death. There are a couple of broken nails, so she may have put up a fight; there’s nothing under any of the nails, though; she’s clean as a whistle.”
“Could he have scrubbed her down?” Martinez asked.
“Wouldn’t be surprised.”
Larsen broke in. “That would line up with the rest of his MO—super careful.”
Martinez turned to Larsen. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a motive.”
“Yeah, I have; I think he killed her to piss me off.”
“What?”
“I’ve been covering the other case very tightly, and I’ve gotten in his way. Helen was an old target of his, one he’d dropped for some reason, but he figured I had been on the case. That’s why he left the body here; he wants to piss me off.”
“A very strange motive,” Martinez said. “Did it work?”
“It sure did,” Larsen said. “I don’t know when I’ve been more pissed off.”
The Santa Monica detective spoke up. “Tell you what, you guys work this one. I’m outta here.”
CHAPTER
55
They were having breakfast at Larsen’s house, and Larsen was groggy from lack of sleep. The cops hadn’t left until after one o’clock, and he hadn’t slept well; he’d kept waking up, thinking there was a headless corpse in his living room, then remembering that it had been taken away.
“I’d like to go out to the house today,” Chris said. “The party’s tomorrow night, and I move in the following day, so I want to see how Mike is coming along. Will you take me?”
“Sure. I had planned to spend the day with you anyway.”
“Not at work?”
“I am at work, and it’s nice work if you can get it.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Larsen was thinking ahead: the Mustang’s b
ug hadn’t been dealt with, and the MG still had a broken windshield. “Mind if we take your car?” he asked.
“Of course not.” She dug into her jeans for the keys. “It needs driving.”
They washed the dishes, then went to the garage. Larsen had never driven a Mercedes, let alone a red convertible, and he felt vaguely uncomfortable in the midst of all that leather and luxury. He was accustomed to his still-ratty Mustang and his ancient English sports car. He backed out of the garage and turned toward the east.
“Shouldn’t we be going the other way?” Chris asked.
“I’m going to take the long way around,” Larsen replied. He drove through the residential streets of Santa Monica, making frequent turns and checking his rearview mirror often. So far, it didn’t seem that they were being followed.
As he turned another corner he flipped on the switch that he had installed, then he made for the Pacific Coast Highway. The car was marvelous, he thought as he whipped in and out of traffic and accelerated to overtake other cars. “This isn’t bad,” he said, “for a new car.”
“But you prefer the old cars?”
“Well, I thought I did, but this is something else. If you don’t mind my asking, how much did it cost?”
“Eighty-something thousand,” she said. “I’m not sure exactly; Jack Berman did the deal, and it was delivered to the house.”
“That’s more than a year of my salary,” he muttered to himself.
“I hope you can find a way not to worry about things like that,” she said. “It’s just a car, even if it is expensive.”
“I know I should think that,” he said, “and I’ll try. It just takes some getting used to.”
When Larsen pulled up in front of the house, he was surprised to see that a permanent fence had been erected, and an electronically operated gate was being installed. Inside the fence was room for half a dozen cars, and landscapers were laying out flower beds and planting shrubbery.
“This is going to be very nice,” he said.
“As long as it’s very nice by tomorrow night,” Chris replied. “I gave them that deadline.”