No Cure for Love

by Peter Robinson

  “What about the black eyes?” Arvo asked.

  “You often get that effect with a blow to the back of the head,” Jim Sung explained. “Look, there isn’t a lot more I can do here,” he said, moving away. “Might as well get the specialists in, then call the meat wagon. You guys want to stay in here and talk or go outside and smell the flowers, a nice day like this?”

  Arvo looked around the room. At the foot of the bed was a large TV and VCR set up on top of a couple of shelves of tapes. He glanced at the titles and found a mix of Hollywood classics and gay soft porn.

  “Well?” said Sung.

  “Have you checked out the bathroom?” Arvo asked.

  Joe nodded. “Looks like someone took a shower there recently, but it’s impossible to say when. Judging from the time it takes my own shower to dry out, I’d say maybe last night. There’s what looks like traces of blood on the bottom of the tub, too.”

  “Makes sense,” said Arvo. “There must have been one hell of a lot of it spraying around.”

  Joe nodded and led the way out. After the death room, it was a relief, Arvo felt, to smell the pine and the fresh-cut grass again, and especially the eucalyptus after rain. Sparrows and starlings twittered in the trees. He took a long, deep breath. The sun still shone in a blue sky, laced with wisps of white cloud like milk spills, but the city already seemed a little dirtier now than it had an hour ago.

  As soon as they stood in the backyard again, Joe reached for his cigarettes. Arvo felt his own craving rise as Joe lit up. He gritted his teeth and waited for the urge to pass.

  The blond man on the tree stump had stopped crying and was staring down at his linked hands on his lap.

  “Want to tell us what happened, Mr. Kincaid?” said Joe.

  The man looked up. His eyes were red from crying; the lock of hair still covered one side of his face. He had Nordic features, high cheekbones and ice-blue eyes, their effect enhanced by a touch of smudged blue eyeshadow, and he looked both miserable and frightened. Hardly surprising, Arvo thought, given the circumstances.

  “Must I?” he said. “I’ve already given my statement to Detective Heffer.”

  “Come on, Jaimie,” coaxed Joe. “You’ll feel better if you tell me, too.” They went over to the picnic table, where Arvo, Joe and Kincaid sat down. Heffer remained standing, hovering over them, hands in his pockets, with the beginnings of a sneer twisting at his lips.

  When they had sat, Kincaid squinted at Joe. “What do you mean, I’ll feel better? For what?”

  “What was it, Jaimie, a lovers’ quarrel?”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “No, you wait a minute, Jaimie.” Joe spoke quietly, but his voice carried authority. “Tell me if I’m wrong. You and Jack get a little high and get into a bondage situation, right? Things get way out of hand, maybe Jack says something, or maybe the coke’s rotted your frontal lobes, so you go get the kitchen knife and you kill him. When you see what you’ve done, you take a shower and call the cops. Is that how it went down?”

  Jaimie paled. “No.”

  “Then tell me, Jaimie. I want to help you.”

  “Look, will you just fucking listen to me.”

  “No need to swear, Jaimie. Stay calm. Of course I’ll listen.”

  “How can I stay calm when you’re practically accusing me of murder? Jesus Christ.” He put his head in his hands again and moaned.

  Joe just sat and watched, tapping ash into his little Sucrets tin. “Take your time, Jaimie,” he said. “No hurry.”

  Jaimie took a deep breath and ran his hand over his hair, pushing the errant lock back in place. “Right. Okay. You’re listening?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Jack’s my friend, right, and we were going away together for a few days this morning.”

  “Where?”

  “Jack has a cabin up in the Sierras. Mammoth.”

  “That your car?” Joe pointed to a red Honda Civic parked next to a silver Porsche.

  Kincaid nodded. “Uh-huh. And the Porsche is Jack’s. I came to pick Jack up and I . . . I . . .”

  “You did what, Jaimie?”

  “He didn’t answer the door.”

  “The door was closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it locked?”

  “No. I mean, it opened when I turned the handle. Then I saw the mud and blood on the floor.”

  “You knew it was blood?”

  “That’s what it looked like to me.”

  “What do you do, Jaimie? What’s your occupation?”

  “I’m an interior decorator.”

  Arvo heard Heffer suppress a chuckle, turning it into a cough and putting his hand over his mouth. Kincaid caught it too and glared up at him. Heffer shook his head and wandered up the driveway.

  “Seen a lot of blood in your line of work, have you?” Joe went on, ignoring the brief interruption.

  “Well, no, but . . .”

  “It could have been ketchup, couldn’t it? Or paint?”

  “It was blood. I . . . I just. I could feel there was something wrong.”

  “Feel? You a psychic?”

  “No. Jack and I are close. I just had a feeling, that’s all. A bad feeling.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I called his name. He didn’t answer.”

  “Was he expecting you?”

  “Yes. I told you. We were going to Mammoth. I told him I’d pick him up at seven-thirty. It’s a five- or six-hour drive and we wanted to get there for lunchtime.”

  “You two didn’t live together, then?”

  “No.” He blushed a little. “We wanted to keep our relationship as discreet as possible. Because of Jack’s career.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I’ve got an apartment in West Hollywood.”

  “You didn’t spend Christmas together?”

  “No. We were both with our families.”

  “And your family lives where?”

  “Irvine.”

  “And Jack’s?”

  “The Valley. Northridge.”

  Arvo knew they could find the full address easily enough. Someone would have to break the news to Jack Marillo’s folks.

  “Do you know if Jack was planning to come home last night?”

  “He said he’d probably come home, yes. Get a good night’s sleep before the trip.”

  “And you arranged to pick him up here at seven-thirty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why couldn’t he drive to Mammoth himself?”

  “We didn’t think there was any point taking both cars. Besides, we wanted to spend time together, travel together.”

  “Why not take his Porsche? It’s a hell of a lot smoother ride than a Honda Civic.”

  Kincaid shrugged. “We were going to. But I was going to drive. Jack didn’t like driving long distances. He broke his foot badly in a basketball game when he was at college and it still aches when he drives.”

  “Okay. So you got no answer when you called his name. What did you do next?”

  “Well, it wasn’t like him, but I thought he might have overslept. You know, he’d been working very hard on the series. Anyway, I—”

  “Just a minute,” Joe cut in. “Let me get this clear. When you went in the house, you thought you saw blood mixed with mud on the kitchen floor and you had a real bad feeling. Then you thought maybe Jack had overslept. Which is it, Jaimie?”

  “Look, you’re confusing me. I mean, maybe it was later I thought it was blood. When I came back down. I don’t know. But I didn’t know Jack was dead. I mean, why would I even think something like that?”

  Joe shrugged. “You tell me, Jaimie.”

  “Well, I didn’t. That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Okay. So what did you do?”

  “I went upstairs and I saw the body. My God.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “I couldn’t believe it.” Tears gathered again in his eyes.

  “And then?”
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  “Then I ran back down to the kitchen and called the police.”

  “The kitchen?”

  “I was running out of the house. I wanted to get out. The kitchen’s at the back. When I got to there I knew I had to call the cops, so I did. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “You called from the kitchen phone?”

  “Yes. The red one on the wall.”

  “Did you touch anything else?”

  “No.”

  “You sure you didn’t touch the body, to check if he was dead?”

  “You’ve seen the body,” Jaimie said. “It was obvious even to me that Jack was dead. I . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I wanted to cover him up. He looked so exposed lying there like that.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No. I’ve seen enough cop shows to know not to mess with a crime scene.”

  Joe winked at Arvo. “Well, at least we’ve got something to thank television for. But you did use the kitchen phone?”

  “I had to. I don’t have a car phone and I knew I had to call the cops. Think how it would have looked if I’d gone off looking for a payphone and someone else had found the body. Besides, I had to stay there. I just had to. Sort of keep watch over him. It was very quiet. Only the birds.”

  “You stayed outside?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to go back in.”

  “Did you remove anything from the scene?”

  “No.”

  “Did you use the bathroom at all?”

  “No.”

  “Sure you weren’t sick? It’d be only natural, Jaimie.”

  “No. I wasn’t sick.”

  “Weren’t you scared?”

  “Of what?”

  “The killer might have been still in the house, or maybe somewhere nearby. Didn’t that frighten you?”

  Kincaid looked puzzled, then he turned pale again. “It never entered my mind. I mean, I was upset. I called the cops. I never even imagined there might still be any danger there. Christ, if I had . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I might just have got the hell out of there.”

  “You see, that bothers me. I think most people would be a little nervous, Jaimie. Unless, of course, they knew they didn’t have anything to be frightened of.”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “Accusing me. I’m telling you, I would never have hurt Jack. Never. Not in a million years. I . . . I . . .”

  “You what?”

  “I loved him.”

  “You know what’s behind most murders, Jaimie, when you get right down to it?”

  “What?”

  “Love.” Joe called over one of the uniformed officers. “Take Mr. Kincaid downtown,” he said, then he turned back to Jaimie and smiled. “We’ll talk some more in a little while.”

  Jaimie was still pale. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Jaimie,” Arvo asked. “Did you know Sarah Broughton?”

  “Sarah? Of course.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “I wouldn’t say exactly friends, but we knew each other. The three of us would have dinner sometimes. Why? You can’t think—”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “Only since she started working with Jack. Look, Jack and I weren’t exactly out of the closet, like I said. We tried to keep our relationship as private as we could. Sarah was one of the few who knew. I like her. She didn’t judge.”

  “Have you ever written her any letters?”

  He frowned. “No. Why should I have?”

  “You know anyone who might have done this?” Joe asked.

  Jaimie shook his head.

  “Did Jack play the field? Did he like to pick up strangers, that sort of thing?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Jaimie. “Jack was faithful. I’d stake my life on it. He wasn’t into that sort of sexual promiscuity. Me neither. We’re not all like that, you know.”

  Joe nodded. The uniformed officer took Jaimie by the elbow and led him up the driveway. Joe crooked his finger at Officer Laski, the first officer on the scene. She was a little overweight, Arvo noticed, and she was perspiring in the heat of the morning.

  “What time did you arrive here?” Joe asked.

  “Seven fifty-seven, sir.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went into the house and checked that the victim was deceased. Then I secured the scene and called it in to Division. They sent Detective Heffer first, then you came just after him.”

  “Was Mr. Kincaid here the whole time?”

  “Yes, sir. He was here when we arrived, waiting for us at the end of the driveway, then he stayed outside with my partner, Officer Clark, while I checked the scene.”

  “Did you notice if there were any signs of forced entry?”

  “There weren’t. No broken glass, nothing.”

  “Were any of the lights on?”

  “Just the light on the stairwell.”

  “Did you turn on the bedroom light?”

  “No, sir. I used my flashlight.”

  “Did you open any of the blinds or shutters?”

  “No. They were already open.”

  “Did you call in over the police radio?”

  “No, sir. I used a landline, the kitchen extension. Mr. Kincaid told me he had already used it, so I didn’t think I would be destroying any evidence. I know the media listen in to the police band, and that something like this would get their attention.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Okay,” said Joe. “That’s it for now. Carry on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Officer Laski walked away, gun bouncing against her well-padded hip, rubbing her forearm across her brow. Heffer came back down the driveway and joined Joe and Arvo by the table.

  “Mind if I ask a question first?” he said.

  Joe raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead.”

  Heffer flicked a glance toward Arvo. “What’s the TMU doing here? Why isn’t he out babysitting starlets?”

  “You demonstrate a remarkable ignorance—” Arvo began, through clenched teeth, but Joe held up his hand and quieted him.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said. “You got a point to make, Detective Heffer?”

  Heffer shrugged. “Just want to know what’s missing here, that’s all.” He jerked his thumb back toward the house. “Has lover boy in there been getting threats or something?”

  “Not as far as we know,” Joe said. “And as long as I know why Detective Hughes is here, that’s fine for the moment, okay?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “You got that right. Now, have you got any ideas?”

  Heffer shrugged. “It’s as clear-cut a faggot murder as I’ve ever seen,” he said. “And we do get a few of them in Hollywood, you know.”

  “Oh?” said Joe. “Care to tell us what happened?”

  “Guy’s coming home from Mom and Pop’s, maybe been at the old vino, and he feels, you know, the urge, a little frisky. So he cruises the Boulevard until he finds what he wants. It’s all out there, man, Christmas or no Christmas. Figures he’ll give himself a real Christmas present. Maybe a hot date with one of Santa’s elves. He brings the kid back here, they snort a few lines of prime coke and wham, lights out.”

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “Come on, man, these people don’t need motives. You know that. It’s a fucking sport to them.”

  “I mean why would a male prostitute kill a john? Only motive I can think of is money. And in case you didn’t notice it, Marillo’s wallet was still in the back pocket of his pants with a couple of hundred dollars cash in it, not to mention the credit cards. And from the blood and the scuff-marks, it looks as if Marillo was hit on the head from behind in the kitchen, soon as he got in the house, maybe even while he was opening the door, then carried up to the bedroom and killed ther
e later. Like I said, why?”

  Heffer shrugged. “Kid musta flipped out. Or maybe lover boy over there found them together. He’s waiting and he sees Marillo come back with some kid from the Boulevard. Loses it. Who knows? Point is,” he went on, “those throat and chest wounds are classic faggot style. And the heart with the arrow, the cords around the bed rails. Ritual shit.” He narrowed his eyes and looked at Arvo. “Has Marillo been getting threats?”

  Arvo said nothing.

  Heffer popped another bubble and shrugged. “Okay, so you don’t want to tell me. Fine. I get the feeling it’s not gonna be my case anyway. In fact, I get the feeling you real important boys from downtown want this one. Am I right? And I also get the impression that there’s a lot you’re not telling me. Am I right again? Well, excuse me for just being a fucking drone from Hollywood station. I’ll just go back home to bed, shall I, if that’s all right with you?”

  “Why don’t you do just that,” Joe said, staring him in the eye.

  Heffer held eye contact for a moment, then broke it, muttered, “Assholes,” turned on his heel and took off.

  “Oh, thwarted ambition,” mused Arvo after him.

  “More like that cat’s fast running out of lives,” said Joe. “The way I hear it, the department doesn’t know where to put him next. What’s your theory?”

  “Kincaid didn’t do it,” Arvo said. “Unless he’s behind it all, which I doubt.”

  “Behind all what?”

  “The letters, the Heimar murder.”

  “More speculation?”

  “Partly, but the connections are getting stronger. Listen, Joe . . .” And Arvo told him about the faint outline of the heart he thought he had seen in the Heimar crime-scene photograph.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Joe asked.

  “Because I thought I might be seeing things. Forcing connections where they didn’t really exist. Then I did a lot of thinking after you told me about the pentobarbitol. Look for yourself. It could be some sort of optical illusion caused by the light and wet sand. There’s no report of anyone noticing it at the scene.”

  “Tide was coming in fast. Now what do you think, now you’ve seen Marillo’s body?”

  “I think that whoever’s been writing letters to Sarah Broughton abducted and killed John Heimar, buried him on the beach for her to find and drew a heart in the sand beside the body to let her know he’d done it for her.”