No Cure for Love

by Peter Robinson

  Tell me you accept my simple Offering. Now do you see how I can provide for you, how I can Honor you as no one else can? With your Love, there can be no Fear. With your Love, there will be no Limits.

  But you must not think I enjoy causing pain. No, that is not it at all, that is not my purpose, surely you can see? The boy wanted Death. Every night he cruised the Boulevard looking for Death, for someone who would deliver him to his Destiny. The Boulevard of Death. I put him to sleep like a kind Anesthetist before I performed my Operation. My Knives were sharp. I spent hours sharpening them. I was gentle when I bent over him. He didn’t feel a thing. Please believe me.

  The disentanglement of Spirit from Flesh has a Scent and an Aura all of its own, my Love. One day I will show you, let you Smell and Taste it with me. We will disentangle our Spirits from our Gross Bodies and entwine forever, cut away the wretched excess. I will bury my head between your Milk White Thighs and drink the Blood and Baptize myself with your Menses. Outside our Skins we will know Eternal Love.

  I must stop now. I am Weary and my Heart aches for you, my Love. Darkness falls and more Visions await me.

  I am Yours, your Loving and Adoring Servant, unto all Eternity,

  M.

  Outside, Sarah could hear the waves crashing against the sea wall and the wind gusting and moaning about the rooftops. A shutter was banging somewhere. Inside, she was aware of the loud beating of her heart. My God, she thought, he did do it. She had seen the heart with her name in it drawn in the sand. It wasn’t an illusion. But who was he?

  Down the street, the wind whipped a tile from someone’s roof and sent it smashing to the ground.

  15

  ARVO DROVE UP THE COAST HIGHWAY ON SATURday morning with the top of his tan convertible open and the Allman Brothers singing “Statesboro Blues” on the radio. The ocean breeze ruffled his hair and forced its way deep into his lungs. He needed it to blow the cobwebs out of his mind and bring him back to life.

  Last night had been a bad one, starting when he found that I Married a Monster from Outer Space had been delayed by a late-running hockey game, leaving him with only the first ten minutes of the movie.

  As a substitute, he had dashed out and rented Ilsa, Harem Keeper of the Oil Sheiks, which was every bit as much of a turkey as the guy in the rental store had warned him.

  He had woken just after four in the morning with a dry mouth and a pounding head, courtesy of the Scotch and Sam Adams chasers he had drunk after the leftover pizza. He hadn’t been able to get back to sleep again, mostly for thinking about the Sarah Broughton case. He had arranged to meet Stuart Kleigman in Santa Monica for lunch, but first he wanted to take a look at the crime scene.

  The backs of the houses that faced the Coast Highway were nondescript. Mostly, they were simple flat-roofed rectangular boxes of varying heights and widths, some beige or white stucco, some wood-frame. Some of them had high windows facing the road, but most presented a blank façade. Because the houses were close together, the narrow gaps between them had been closed with high chain-link fencing.

  A hundred yards or so west of the houses was a white three-story office building, with stairwells visible through the large plate-glass windows. Architecturally, it was nothing but a cube of white stone fitted with windows. The parking lot, with spaces reserved for ten cars, was empty, and Arvo pulled into the one marked “Dr S.A. Pedersen.” You wouldn’t catch a doctor or a dentist working on a Saturday if he could help it. Not as long as there were golf courses within driving distance.

  He walked down the stone steps to the beach, the route Joe reckoned the killer must have carried John Heimar’s body parts, probably in a plastic garbage bag.

  At the bottom of the steps, Arvo stepped into the fine sand and looked around. Gulls skimmed the water’s surface, looking for fish. The only people on the beach were two men walking a dog.

  There were no signs left of the horror that had taken place here just a few days ago, nothing even to mark the spot where John Heimar’s body parts had been buried. Since then, the tide had been in and out a few times and washed everything away. The crime-scene techs had had to work fast. Like King Canute, even the LAPD couldn’t hold back the tide.

  Set on a long promontory about twenty feet high, the houses had steps carved in the rock leading down to the beach. Each also had a high gate at beach level. Despite the difficult access, though, it wasn’t a private beach, and such security as existed there—gates, wire—was pretty Mickey Mouse, in Arvo’s opinion.

  On the other hand, it wasn’t a natural choice for dumping a body, and if the killer really wanted to show off his handiwork to the world at large, why not try Santa Monica, Venice or Redondo, further south? Maybe even have a good laugh when one of the bodybuilders on Muscle Beach pulled the severed arm loose? Plenty of people there, every day of the week.

  Could Sarah Broughton have been the only audience he wanted? Arvo remembered the letter: “I have much to Plan and Execute before we can be together as Fate intends. My mind Boils and Seethes with the Burden, the Weight and the Glory of it. All for you. Let me prove I am more than equal to the Task.”

  He shivered and returned to the car. In Santa Monica, he found a parking space in a side street and walked over the arched bridge onto the pier. Behind him, the white buildings along Ocean Avenue sparkled in the late December sun. To the north, across the bay, Arvo could just about make out the contours of the coastal hills behind where he had just been. Breakers crashed on the beach with a deep booming sound, churning up spume, and diamonds danced on the greenish-white ocean.

  Just beyond the carousel, a Hispanic family stood busking: the father played guitar; the teenaged son sang in Spanish and looked as if he’d rather be just about anywhere else; the daughter danced as awkwardly as any spindly nine-year-old would; and the toddler stood with his mournful-looking mother by the upturned, white top hat, looking cute. Arvo grinned at him and flipped in a couple of quarters.

  Stuart Kleigman was leaning against the chain-link fence past the Playland Arcade staring down the boardwalk toward Venice, where an endless stream of roller skaters glided back and forth.

  At least Arvo thought it was Stuart. He was wearing light blue slacks and a shiny red blouson jacket, and when Arvo greeted him, he turned, revealing a blue-and-gold crest on the front of his jacket. Probably his bowling team, Arvo thought, unable to make out the lettering. The breeze blew a lock of Stuart’s gray hair over his eyes and he pushed it back. Arvo had never seen him dressed so casually before.

  Stuart raised an eyebrow and squinted out to sea. “Probably five years since I’ve been here,” he said. “You wouldn’t think so, would you, Brentwood being so close, but it’s true. Karen and I used to come here sometimes when we first got married, but that was ten years ago now. And we brought the kids here once or twice when they were little. Leora sure loved that carousel. Now the neighborhood’s gone downhill—you wouldn’t catch me here after dark—and the developers have ruined the waterfront. You live around here?”

  “Santa Monica, yes. Seafront, no.”

  “Uh-huh. So what is it? Have there been any developments?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? Sounds like a lawyer’s answer to me. Nothing’s happened to Sarah, has it?”

  “Not as far as I know. What I mean is, I’m not sure whether there have been any developments or not.”

  “Look, let’s go get something to eat, shall we?” Stuart rubbed his stomach. “I’m starving. Then you can tell me all about it.”

  They walked along the pier. Arvo caught glimpses of the sea through the gaps between the boards. It made him feel a little dizzy. They went into the English-style pub.

  It was more of a wooden shack than a pub, really. A few of the tables were occupied by young couples and groups of young people taking a break from skating on the boardwalk; a couple of sullen teenagers were playing darts in the corner; and one group of obvious east-coast tourists looked a
round with sheepish smiles as their kids painted the tables and floors with food. They looked as if they were remembering how cute everyone thought it was when the kids made a mess like that in South Duxbury, Massachusetts, but starting to worry that maybe you could get shot for it in LA.

  When the stoned-looking waiter wandered by, Arvo ordered a pint of Harp lager and a tuna melt, and Stuart asked for a Diet Coke, fries and a cheeseburger with the works.

  “So what is it?” Stuart asked. “This yes-and-no business?”

  “It’s about the body Sarah found on the beach.”

  Stuart waved his hand in the air. “Oh, that. Yeah. Some faggot kid from West Hollywood, right? Half a column inch in the Los Angeles Times and one pissy little item on the local news about how an actress who played a homicide cop on TV discovered a real dead body on her morning jog, that’s all. Cute story. It was a joke to them. Filler on a slow news day. Soon as she was done with the cops I took her to Brentwood for the day and made sure nobody got near her. They lost interest soon enough. Especially after that dumb kid from the new NBC sitcom ran his fucking Porsche off the Coast Highway Thursday night.”

  Their drinks arrived. Arvo took a long swig of Harp to slake his thirst. It was good. Cold, clean and hoppy.

  Stuart pointed to his Diet Coke and made a face. “Doctor’s orders,” he said. “Can you believe it? Fifty years old and not a day’s hospitalization in my life, and I’m supposed to go on a fucking diet.”

  “Hey, Stuart, you want to live forever like everyone else in this town, then you better follow your doctor’s orders.”

  “Fucking doctors. What do they know?”

  The food arrived. Stuart started burying his burger under relish, pickles, hot peppers and ketchup, which he then liberally poured over his fries. Arvo looked away and tucked into his tuna melt. So much for Stuart’s doctor’s orders, he thought, looking at the mess of fat, cholesterol and red meat on the plate.

  Stuart bit into his burger. Yellow mustard and green relish oozed out the sides and dribbled down the corners of his mouth. He wiped it with a napkin.

  “Did Sarah jog along that part of the beach every morning?” Arvo asked.

  “Sure. I mean, I think so. She said she did, and I had no reason to think otherwise. She loved her morning run. I can’t say I was ever around there that early, myself.”

  “Same time, same place?”

  “Yeah. That was her routine. I mean, you live somewhere nice like that, why go somewhere else to work out? Know what I mean?”

  Arvo nodded. “Have there been any new letters?”

  “Not that I know of.” Stuart frowned. “Look, Arvo, I don’t like what I’m hearing, if I’m hearing your tone right. Is there something I’m missing, something I ought to know?” He pushed the basket of fries toward Arvo, who waved it away.

  “No, thanks.” Arvo took another sip of Harp and shook his head. “I wish I knew. I’m sorry, Stu. I’m not trying to hide anything. I’m just looking around for some way to get a handle on this.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. The letters and the stiff. You think there’s a connection. I’m not that fucking stupid. What I don’t see is how or why.”

  Arvo told him about the heart.

  Stuart frowned and shook his head. “A heart usually symbolizes love, right? You’re saying the stiff was planted there for Sarah to find. Like an offering, a gift?”

  “I’m saying it could have been.”

  Stuart put the remains of his hamburger down. “Jesus H. Christ. And you said there was nothing to worry about.”

  “I said there was probably nothing to fear yet, that we didn’t have enough to go on. We’re dealing in statistical probabilities, Stu, not certainties. If new information comes in, the whole pattern changes. If he’s suffering from schizophrenia or some personality disorder that involves delusions or hallucinations, then the normal rules don’t apply any more.”

  “But why would anyone want to do a thing like that? Crazy or not. Plant a body for someone to find?”

  Arvo finished his Harp. “No reason that would make sense to you or me,” he said. “But people often have their own logic: attention, exhibitionism, vindictiveness, need for approval.”

  “A psycho. You’re talking about a fucking psycho, aren’t you? Silence of the fucking lambs, that’s what it is.”

  “I told you, I don’t know. But I want to look into it. If it’s some stranger living out a fantasy, we’ve got a problem, but if there really is a connection, and it’s someone from her past, then maybe we can find him before she comes back. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

  Stuart ran his hand through his hair. “Okay. Sure. Look, do you think she’s in any danger in England?”

  Arvo shrugged. “I doubt it. Stalkers have been known to travel great distances after their prey. One guy even went so far as to go to Australia looking for Olivia Newton-John. But things like that cost a lot of money, take a lot of planning. And if all she’s got so far is three letters, he’s still in the early stages. You might give her a call and suggest she take care, but I don’t really think there’s anything to worry about. After all, we don’t even know for certain that there is a link between Sarah and the body. It’s just a theory I’m working on.”

  Stuart nodded. “So where do we go from here?”

  “To start with, I need to know as much as you can tell me about Sarah Broughton.”

  Stuart slapped down enough cash to cover the bill. “Okay,” he said. “But let’s walk. This fucking cheeseburger’s giving me indigestion.”

  They walked into the hazy sunshine. Stuart screwed up his eyes against the light, and Arvo put his sunglasses on. Outside on the pier, a puppeteer had set up his show, spinning a grinning marionette through a grueling break-dance to loud rap music. Quite a crowd had gathered around. Stuart clapped his hands over his ears and hurried ahead.

  They crossed the walkway to Ocean and turned left toward Palisades Park, a stretch of grass and trees right between Ocean and the cliffs above the Coast Highway. Christmas decorations hung across the street. The music began to fade into the distance. Joggers lumbered by, dripping sweat, grunting with shin splints and gasping for breath. Couples walked hand in hand. Homeless people slept against the boughs of the palms and sheltered under the smaller shrubs by the path. Many of them were wrapped in heavy overcoats, despite the heat, and some clutched plastic bags full of meager possessions.

  “Truth is,” Stuart said, “now I come to think of it, I hardly know a thing about Sarah except what I’ve told you.”

  “You don’t know anything about her past?”

  “A scrap or two, at best. Nothing interesting.”

  “She said her last boyfriend was dead. Know who he was?”

  “Gary Knox. The rock singer. Have you heard of him?”

  Arvo whistled. He had heard of Gary Knox but hadn’t known about his association with Sarah. It seemed an odd combination. Knox was hardly Sarah’s type, from all Arvo had seen and heard.

  Gary Knox had found rock-legend immortality when he walked out of a Hollywood hot-spot after his US tour last summer and dropped dead right on the sidewalk. Drug overdose. Arvo remembered reading the endless obits and eulogies in the press, many of the writers obviously trying hard to find a kind word to say about the obnoxious, egomaniacal junkie Knox had apparently been toward the end. Well, now he was part of that eternal junkie jam session in the sky, him and Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Elvis, Kurt Cobain and the rest. At least he was beyond doing anybody harm now.

  “How long were they together?” Arvo asked.

  “I don’t know. She came over here from London on the tour with him last year. I think that started in the spring, playing outdoor stadiums all across the country. Apparently they’d split up before he died. That’s all I know.”

  “Why did they split up?”

  Stuart shrugged. “She didn’t say. Just walked out on him.”

  “I don’t remember hearing anything about them bei
ng an item. Wasn’t there a lot of publicity surrounding their relationship?”

  “Not particularly. I mean, she wasn’t well known then. You’d have had to cast a pretty fucking wide net around here to find anyone who’d heard of Sally Bolton. You think everyone sits down and tunes in to PBS?”

  “I guess not.”

  “You bet your ass not. As far as most people are concerned it’s strictly Beavis and Butt-head, The Simpsons and Married with Children. You can forget your fucking Middlemarches and your endless P.D. James adaptations. Your average television viewer ain’t got the attention span for shit like that. And she looked different then.” Stuart laughed. “Boy did she ever look different. I’ve seen pictures. You know, the frizzy hair, green and orange, and the weird makeup, black lipstick, skin-tight leather pants, bare midriff. Fucking earrings as long as your arm. She even had a tattoo of a butterfly on her left shoulder. Still got it, I guess.” He laughed again. “She sure wasn’t the Sally Bolton who came to my office that day with Ellie.”

  “Sarah mentioned Ellie, too,” Arvo said. “Said she was the one who brought the two of you together. That right?”

  “Right. Ellie Huysman. She and Sarah went to drama school together in London, then Ellie decided she didn’t have either the talent or the stamina for acting, so she came over here and went into the business side. Eventually got into casting and ended up working for me. Small world, huh?” Stuart laughed. “I think after a couple of years she wished she’d stuck with acting. Would’ve been a lot fucking easier.”

  “And you met Sarah through Ellie?”

  “That’s right. I was meeting with her one day about this new cop show the network was coming up with and she mentioned she thought Sarah would be perfect. They were looking for something different but the same, as usual on TV, if you get my meaning, and there’s always a pretty good market for the right kind of Brit women. You know, Amanda Donohoe, Emma Thompson, Helena Bonham Carter and the rest. So I ordered some videos of Sarah’s work from PBS, and I saw what Ellie meant.”