Over the Edge

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Robin came home in a great mood, showered, put on jewelry, and changed into a slinky little black dress. I dressed in a tan linen suit, blue pinpoint oxford shirt with a white spread collar, navy and claret tie, and calfskin loafers. Very stylish, but I felt like a zombie. Arm in arm we walked out onto the terrace and down to the Seville.

  She settled in the passenger seat, took my hand, and squeezed it. Reaching up, she opened the sunroof and let warm California air flow over her face. She was in fine spirits, fairly glowing with anticipation. I leaned over and kissed her cheek. She smiled and lifted her lips to mine.

  The kiss was warm and prolonged. I mustered all the passion at my disposal but was unable to clear Milo's call from consciousness. Dark, disturbing thoughts kept peeking around the empty corners of my mind. I struggled to contain them and, feeling like a louse for failing, vowed not to ruin the evening.

  I started the engine and slipped Laurendo Almeida on the tape deck. Soft Brazilian music filled the car, and I started the engine and tried to summon forth imagery of carnivals and string bikinis.

  We dined at a dark, saffron-saturated place in Westwood Village, where the waitresses wore belly dancer costumes and looked as Indian as Meryl Streep. Despite the cheap theatrics, the food was excellent. Robin made her way -daintily but inexorably - through lentil soup, tandoori chicken, cucumbers in yogurt dressing, and a dessert of sweetened milk balls coated with candied silver foil. Hoping she wouldn't notice the masochism, I punished my palate with extra-hot curry.

  I let her do most of the talking and contented myself with nods and smiles. It was a continuation of the deception born with the kiss in the car - I was miles away - but I pushed aside my guilt by rationalizing that knavery conceived in love was sometimes kinder than honesty. If she saw through it, she said nothing, perhaps engaging in a loving artifice of her own.

  After dinner we cruised Wilshire to the beach and looped down to Pacific Coast Highway. The sky was inky and starless; the ocean, a rolling meadow of black satin. We drove in silence toward Malibu, and the breakers provided a rhythm section for Almeida as he coaxed a samba, out of his guitar.

  We stopped at Merino's, just past the pier. The interior of the club was hazy with smoke. From a corner stage a four-piece group - drums, bass, alto sax, and guitar - was embroidering Coltrane. We ordered a brandy apiece and listened.

  When the set ended, Robin took my hand and asked me

  what was on my mind. I told her about Milo's call, and she listened gravely.

  'The kid's in trouble,' I said. 'If it has anything to do with the Slasher, huge trouble. The hell of it is I don't know if he's a survivor or a suspect. Milo wouldn't give me the time of day.'

  'That doesn't sound like Milo,' she said.

  'Milo hasn't seemed like Milo for a while,' I reflected. 'Remember how he didn't show up for the New Year's thing and never called to explain. Over the last few weeks I've phoned him at work and at home, must have left a dozen messages, but he hasn't returned one of my calls. At first I thought he was on some kind of undercover thing, but then his face was all over the tube when they found the last Slasher victim. It's obvious he's distancing himself from us - from me.'

  'Could be he's going through a rough time,' she said. 'Working on that case has got to be incredibly stressful for someone in his position.'

  'If he's stressed, I wish he'd turn to his friends for support.'

  'Maybe he just can't open up to someone who hasn't been through it, Alex.'

  I sipped my brandy and thought about it.

  'You might be right, I don't know. I've always assumed the gay thing wasn't any big deal for him. When our friendship took hold, he brought it up, said he wanted to clear the air, claimed he'd made his peace with it.'

  'What did you expect him to tell you, honey?'

  There was a half inch of brandy left in the snifter. I rolled the stem between my fingers and watched the liquid shift like a tiny golden sea at storm.

  'Think I've been insensitive?' I asked.

  'Not insensitive. Selectively unaware. Didn't you once tell me that people do that all the time, that we use our minds as filters, to keep things sane?'

  I nodded.

  'You have to admit, Alex, it's unusual for a straight guy and a gay guy to be as close as you two. I'm sure there are whole segments of Milo that he keeps to himself. Just as you do. Both of you have had to do some heavy denying to keep the relationship going, haven't you?'

  'Like what?'

  'Like do you ever actually think about what he and Rick do in bed?'

  I was silent, knowing she was right. Milo and I talked about everything but sex. Up, down, over, and around the topic, but never squarely on it. It was denial of the first order.

  'The funny thing,' I said, 'is that this afternoon, when I was reviewing my notes on Jamey and asking myself if I could have done anything differently, I fantasized about introducing him to Milo. The kid is gay - or thought he was then - and I wondered if having him meet an adult homosexual who'd made a good adjustment would have been helpful.' I frowned. 'Pretty damned naive.'

  My throat was tight, and the last of the brandy went down hot and rough.

  'Anyway,' I said bitterly, 'the two of them got together without any help from me.'

  We cleared our heads with a walk along the beach, got back in the Seville, and drove home in silence. Robin rested her head on my shoulder; the burden was comforting. It was just past midnight when I pulled north onto Beverly Glen, ten after when I unlocked the front door.

  An envelope fluttered in the draught and settled on the parquet. I picked it up and examined it. It had been hand-delivered by a Beverly Hills messenger service at 11:00 P.M. Inside was an urgent request to phone the law offices of Horace Souza as soon as possible next morning ('Re: J. Cadmus') and a number with a mid-Wilshire exchange.

  Finally there was someone who wanted to talk to me.

  Chapter 5

  RISING EARLY, I had the paper in my hands a minute after it landed. There was a teaser at the bottom of the front page - 'POSSIBLE BREAK IN LAVENDER SLASHER CASE' - but it contained no new information other than that LAPD, the Beverly Hills Police, and the sheriff's department were expected to announce new developments at a joint press conference later in the day. The rest was rehash - stale facts, interviews with the victims' still-aching families, a dispassionate chronology of the serial murders that had begun a year before and continued with bimonthly regularity.

  The Slasher's victims were boy hookers, ranging in age from fifteen to nineteen. Most were runaways from Middle America. All six had been garroted with lavender silk and mutilated after death. The killings had been carried out at an unknown place, the bodies then dumped at various locations around the city. There was a westerly pattern to the dumping, with the first corpse discovered in a back-alley trash bin off Santa Monica Boulevard, in the heart of

  Boystown, the sixth near a hiking path in Will Rogers State Park. Four bodies had been found in West Hollywood - the sheriff's bailiwick - the last two in West L.A. Division. Geographically Beverly Hills was sandwiched between the two turfs like a sweetmeat, but it had been passed over.

  I put the paper down and called Horace Souza's office. It must have been a private line because he picked up the phone himself.

  'Doctor, thank you for returning my call so promptly.'

  'What can I do for you, Mr. Souza?'

  'A former patient of yours, James Cadmus, is a client of mine. I'm representing him in a criminal case and would greatly appreciate talking to you about it.'

  'What's he charged with?'

  'I'd prefer to discuss the matter in person, Doctor."

  'All right. I can be at your office in an hour. Where are you located?'

  'Don't fuss with directions, Doctor. I'll have someone pick you up.'

  At eight the doorbell rang. I opened it and came face-to-face with a chauffeur in grey livery. He was in his early thirties, tall and rangy, with a strong nose and a weak chin. In
the shadow of the nose a thick black moustache had sprouted, covering most of his mouth. His face was pale and freshly shaved and bore several razor nicks along the jawline. His peaked cap had been pushed back so that it rested precariously atop a thatch of long brown hair that flowed over his collar. Satin-edged trousers tapered to needle-toed bullhide cowboy boots. His eyes were dark and, at first glance, lazy. But when they locked onto mine, I sensed plenty of analysis despite the absence of movement.

  'Dr. Delaware? I'm Tully Antrim, here to take you to Mr. Souza. I didn't wanna scratch the car, so I parked it a ways down.'

  I followed him off my property and down the access road, walking quickly to keep up with his long stride.

  A hundred yards above Beverly Glen was a turnaround

  shadowed by tall trees. On it sat twenty feet of Rolls-Royce - a gleaming, black Phantom IV limousine, I'd seen a picture of one like it in a spread on Prince Charles and Lady Di's wedding. That car had belonged to the mother of the groom.

  The chauffeur held open the door to the passenger area and, when I was settled, closed it carefully, walked around, and got into the driver's seat.

  The car was big enough to dance in. The interior was grey felt with the feel of cashmere and lots of wood, all of it madly burled and polished to a mirror finish. Crystal bud vases in silver filigree holders were bracketed to the cloth behind each passenger door. Each held a fresh American Beauty rose. The side windows were etched lightly with a floral motif and partially concealed by pullback velvet drapes.

  The glass partition separating driver from passenger was closed. Locked in hermetic silence, I watched the chauffeur go through a series of pantomimes: straightening his cap; turning the ignition key; fiddling with the radio; swaying to what I assumed was the ensuing music.

  The Rolls wheeled smoothly toward Beverly Glen. Morning commuter traffic from the Valley was thickening; Antrim was skilful, edging the huge car seamlessly into the flow. He drove south to Wilshire and headed east

  I sat back, feeling like a child amid the grand scale of the limousine. The chauffeur's shaggy head was bopping to music I couldn't hear. There were several ivory buttons on the armrest, each labeled with a tiny silver plaque. I pushed the one that said DRIVER

  'Yes, sir?' he responded without looking back or breaking rhythm.

  'Why don't you open the partition? I'd like to hear the music'

  'You've got an automatic tape system back there. Controls right on the armrest. Easy listening.'

  'That'll put me back to sleep. What are you tuned to?'

  'KMET. ZZ Top.'

  'I'll take it.'

  'Yo.' He pushed a button, and the glass slid open. The car was filled with eardrum-rupturing rock-and-roll - the Texas trio rhapsodising about a girl with legs who knew how to use them. Antrim sang along in a whiny tenor.

  The song was followed by a commercial for an abortion clinic selling itself as a feminizt health centre.

  'Some car,' I said.

  'Yeah.'

  'Must be pretty rare.'

  'Probably. Used to belong to some Spanish guy, buddy of Hitler.'

  'Franco?'

  'That's the one.'

  'How does it drive?'

  ' 'Sail right for a big car.'

  Van Halen came on the radio and demolished the potential for further conversation. We hit a red light at Rexford during a news break. While he lit a cigarette, I asked him, 'Is this typical treatment?'

  "Whaddya mean?'

  'Picking people up in limousines.'

  'Mr. Souza tells me to do something, I do it,' he said irritably, then found another rock station and cranked up the volume.

  We passed through Beverly Hills and the Miracle Mile and entered the mid-Wilshire financial district. The buildings lining the boulevard were Deco-tinged columns of pink and white granite, seven to ten storeys tall, built in the forties and fifties, when people took earthquakes seriously and shied away from genuine skyscrapers.

  The structure we stopped at was older and smaller", four storeys of red-roofed Italianate wedding cake, a rare remnant from the turn of the century, when Wilshire had been residential. The chauffeur swung up the circular driveway in front of the mansion and parked. The entry door was a nine-foot nest of gargoyles in mahogany. To its right were two discreet brass plates. The first said SOUZA AND ASSOCIATES. A LEGAL CORPORATION. The second listed Souza's name and those of a dozen other lawyers.

  Antrim ushered me into an arched hall decorated with dried plants and western art, down a corridor floored in black-and-white marble checkerboard, and through the open doors of a small elevator. He operated it with an old-fashioned lever and unlatched the door at the fourth floor.

  We exited to a landing carpeted in silver plush, at the top of a winding carved staircase. High, spotless windows offered a view of what once were formal gardens and now served as the parking lot. In the distance were the elegant, shaded avenues of Hancock Park.

  The chauffeur beckoned toward a doorway and led me into an anteroom hung with more western art. In the centre of the room was a small writing desk, unoccupied. To the right was a large oil of a depressed-looking Indian on an equally morose horse; to the left, a carved door. He knocked on the door.

  The man who answered was medium-sized, sixtyish, and balding, with a wide, blocky body and large, thick hands. He was heavy without being fat, and his low centre of gravity suggested he'd be hard to topple. His features were broad and strong - he'd photograph better than life - his skin was steam room pink, and what hair he did have was cropped, coarse, and sandy. He was in shirtsleeves. The shirt was white Egyptian cotton, monogrammed on the pocket and tucked into navy blue trousers of exquisite cut. Navy suspenders banded a barrel chest. His tie was muted blue and yellow paisley; his shoes were as glossy and black as the Rolls.

  'Here's the doc,' said Antrim.

  'Thank you, Tully,' said the bald man sonorously, 'you can go now.' He stepped forward, emitting a light citrus scent, and grasped my hand.

  'Dr. Delaware, I'm Horace Souza. Thank you so much for coming on such short notice.'

  'No problem. How's Jamey?'

  He gave my hand a hard squeeze and let go.

  'I saw the boy a couple of hours ago. Psychologically he's at rock bottom. And this is just the beginning. Once the police hold their press conference, he'll cease to be James

  Cadmus and will don a new persona: the Lavender Slasher. Monster of the Month.'

  I experienced a sudden, sinking feeling, like being dropped down one of those bottomless shafts that crop up in bad dreams. It wasn't shock, or even surprise; since I'd talked to Milo, the worst-case scenario had slithered in and out of my brain like some nasty little snake. But now the serpent had emerged brazenly, bared its fangs, and struck, murdering hope.

  'I can't believe it,' was all I could say.

  'I've had trouble believing it myself. I was at his christening, Doctor. He was a fat little babe, a handful and a half.'

  He kneaded his chin between thumb and forefinger.

  'I'm very worried about him, Doctor. He's been unstable for some time, and once the arrest is made public, any remaining coherence will shrivel. You know the times we're living in. The public wants blood. He'll be lynch mob fodder. The DA is in the process of filing on two counts of murder one with six more to follow shortly. Multiple homicide is special circumstances, which means the gas chamber if it's not handled correctly. By correctly, I mean organization, teamwork. Can I count you on my team, Doctor?'

  'Just what is it you think I can do?'

  'Let's discuss that. Please come in.'

  His sanctum was a large corner room brightened by French doors and ringed by a balcony. On the balcony were pots brimming with azaleas and camellias. The walls were carved architectural paneling brightened by still more frontier art - these paintings looked like original Remingtons - and topped by ornate white molding and a domed white ceiling. The floor was bleached oak, over which a Navaho rug had been laid. In one corner sat a C
hippendale table holding a china tea set. The rest was standard high-price law office: oversized desk; leather chairs; ten square feet of diplomas, testimonials, photographs, and gavels on plaques; a glass case filled with antiquarian legal tomes.

  A man about my age sat stiffly in one of the chairs, staring at his shoes. He turned at the sound of our approach, rose unsteadily, and adjusted his tie.

  Souza went to his side and placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

  'Doctor, this is Mr. Dwight Cadmus, the boy's uncle and guardian. Dwight, Dr. Alexander Delaware.'

  Showing no sign of recognizing my name, Cadmus held out a hand that was soft and moist. He was tall and stooped, with thinning brown hair and soft, defeated eyes blurred by thick glasses and rouged by grief. His features were regular but vague, like a sculpture that had been abraded. He wore a brown suit, white shirt, and brown tie. The clothes were expensive, but they looked as if they'd been slept in.