No Cure for Love

by Peter Robinson

  “He probably waited a long time outside Marillo’s house, too,” said Joe. “There’s no way he could have known where Marillo was, or even if he was coming back that night. Shit, it was Christmas Day. Normal people spend it with their families or close friends.”

  Sure, Arvo thought, remembering his own solo Christmas celebration. “I don’t think Christmas means a hell of a lot to the guy we’re looking for,” he said. “You read the letter. He’s very confused about family.”

  “I guess so, if he could spend all Christmas Day hiding in the woods waiting for Marillo.”

  Arvo nodded. “He’s a loner. Fits the profile. He’s also either very brave or very foolish. He put that letter I just showed you in the mailbox at Sarah’s beach house last night.”

  “She was there?”

  “Yeah. From the airport. I told Stu it seemed like the best environment to talk to her, where she’d feel most comfortable, be most likely to open up.”

  “What about protection?”

  “I was there, too.”

  Joe raised an eyebrow and his eyes twinkled with humor. “All night?”

  “Don’t say a word, Joe,” Arvo told him. “Not a word.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Sure it didn’t, Arvo.”

  “The bastard slashed my tires.”

  “Jealous?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “Then you’d better be careful.”

  “That thought had occurred to me. Anything else on the Marillo killing?”

  Joe threw away his chili-dog wrapper and lit a cigarette. “Found some footprints in the ground back of the house—cheap Korean sneakers—but that’s all. Mostly dead ends, nothing but dead ends. And believe me, we’ve been pushing it. There’s plenty of pressure from above.” He pointed with his thumb toward the sixth floor of Parker Center, where the Chief had his office.

  “What about Jaimie Kincaid?”

  “Kid’s clean. And, believe me, we went at him hard. The DA’s office really liked him for it at first. Pretty young faggot, lovers’ quarrel. So we really put him through it. He stuck to his story. We got a search warrant and went through his place, gave it the works. Nada. No physical evidence whatsoever connecting him to the murder. Given that Marillo bled like a stuck pig, it would’ve been hard to get rid of every last drop. Footprints aren’t his, either.”

  “So you’ve let him go?”

  “Yup.”

  “I told you he didn’t do it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. You?”

  Arvo took a sip of Coke. “I talked to Sarah’s shrink, Dr Fermor, on the phone. Seems Sarah was pretty much in isolation while she was out at the Shelley Clinic, and she didn’t form any relationships at all, even at a distance. I also phoned Stan Harvey, who promoted the Gary Knox tour in LA. He put me on to a guy called Carl Buxton down in Orange County. I’m going to see him in a couple of days, when he gets back from Mexico. This guy was the drummer on the tour. He should have some firsthand knowledge of what went on.”

  “What makes you think that’ll help?”

  “Well, if the killer really does know Sarah from somewhere, from what I’ve heard that tour might have attracted more than a few crazy hangers-on. I want to see if Buxton remembers anyone in particular. Sarah disappeared from public view for over a year after she split with Knox, then she resurfaced, with a new name, as the star in a major network series. The timing makes sense, Joe. It also gives him a year to brood over his lost love.”

  “But wouldn’t she remember someone like that?”

  “Not necessarily. Dr Fermor also told me that Sarah’s illness might cause some memory loss. If that period of her life is really as hazy as it seems, then the illness might explain why she doesn’t remember. Some sort of retrograde amnesia. When I first talked to her, I was sure that ‘Little Star’ meant something. Maybe the truth is that she can’t remember exactly what it means, or who said it. Maybe it was someone on the periphery. A guy like this wouldn’t need much to set him off. Maybe she smiled at him once.”

  “I guess. But what’s he after, Arvo? That’s what I don’t get. Is he just trying to scare her?”

  “Scare her? No, I don’t think so. Not the way he sees it. Mostly, he’s trying to impress her.”

  “What? By killing people in front of her, dropping them at her feet? I’ve worked homicide a few years now, and I thought I’d seen pretty much everything, but this scenario . . .” He shook his head.

  Arvo finished his chili dog, dropped the wrapper in a garbage bin and took a long swig of Coke to cool the heat in his mouth. “Like a cat does,” he said. “Ever noticed that, Joe? We had a cat when I was a kid. Called him Watson. My father’s idea. He was a criminology prof. Anyway, he got run over when I was about twelve—Watson, not my father. But the point is, I remember him once getting on the roof, killing a pigeon and bringing it in his mouth through the bedroom window and dropping it on the floor in front of me looking for approval. My pa yelled at him and threw the pigeon out in the garbage, but goddammit if he didn’t come back with another half an hour later. And another after that. No matter what we said. And what I remember especially is that look on his face: ‘See what I’ve done for you? Isn’t it wonderful? Love me for it.’”

  “You saying this guy’s the same? But surely he must know how much he is scaring her, whether he means to or not?”

  “He’s out to impress her, he’s looking for approval, but he’s tuned in so close to his own frequency that he doesn’t hear her screaming at him to stop. It’s like he’s watching a different movie from the rest of us, Joe. To him, screams signify love, and murder gains respect.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Sarah? She’s at the studio. Then she’s going to stay with Stu in Brentwood until this is all over. They’ll have a bodyguard watching over them, and Stu’s no slouch. Also, I want to put the beach house under surveillance, though I think he’s smart enough not to show up there again.”

  Joe dropped his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and ground it out with his heel. “Is she in serious danger,” he asked, “or is it just the people around her?”

  “You read the letters, Joe. That weird stuff about the mirrors of the sea, cutting away the flesh and all. Now he’s jealous as hell, too, going out of control. Love, approval, jealousy, murder—they’re all mixed up together for him. And he says he’s coming for her soon. The gloves are off now. I sure as hell hope she doesn’t have to face him alone.”

  28

  THE BLACK STRETCH-LIMO LEFT STUART’S BRENTWOOD home at ten in the morning on December 31. Karen, Leora and Ben had come back from Santa Barbara for the day, and they sat in the car along with Stuart and Sarah.

  The three days Sarah had spent at Stuart’s house had been uneventful. Every evening Arvo phoned to make sure everything was okay. Sarah was getting used to his concern, but she still resented his intrusion into her life, the way he seemed to have taken control out of her hands, and she still felt annoyed that he had seen her naked.

  As it turned out, Jack’s murder meant that there was a lot of work to do at the studio, retaking scenes, rethinking plot lines and so on. At least work took Sarah’s mind off her problems part of the time. Pity it was so bloody depressing on the set without Jack.

  So it had been a simple routine: drive to the studio, work, drive back to Brentwood, read or watch TV, then sleep. Every time they went back to the house, the bodyguard, Zak, drove on ahead to check the place out. He was close to them even now, on the way to the funeral. The saving grace was that his presence was so unobtrusive Sarah hadn’t even seen him yet.

  The day was warm and hazy inland. As they drove through Sepulveda Pass on the freeway, cool and comfortable in the luxury car, Sarah glanced through the separating glass and the windshield and saw the San Fernando Valley spread out below them, its neat little blocks of grid-work streets stretching as far as the distant mountains, all shimmering under a thin veneer o
f amber smog.

  She remembered what a powerful sight it had been the first time she saw it, which must have been that evening Jack took her for Thanksgiving dinner at his folks’ house in Northridge. She had never had any reason to go to the Valley before that; she didn’t know anyone who lived there. It was night time then, and all she could see were the lights spread out across the broad, flat valley-bottom as far as the eye could see. It was like seeing the city from a plane coming in to land.

  Closer to home, Jack had shown her the earthquake damage, too: a three-story apartment building collapsed to two; a Bullock’s store with the entire roof caved in; house after house fenced off, waiting for demolition. Jack’s parents had been lucky; all they lost was their chimney and a few roof tiles.

  After heavy traffic on the Simi Valley Freeway, the limo finally pulled up at the cemetery at ten to eleven, ten minutes before the service was set to begin.

  It was a small funeral, only immediate family members, a few personal friends, like Jaimie, and colleagues from the show, such as Sarah, Stuart and Lisa, who turned a few heads in a black gown cut just an inch or so too low for the occasion.

  Network security and Jack’s family had done a great job of keeping the media at bay. There was a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, but that was about all. No TV cameras. Arvo Hughes was there, Sarah noticed as she followed Stuart into the cool chapel, and his presence felt like an intrusion into the privacy of her grief.

  The service was brief. Jack’s parents had never been particularly religious, and though Jack himself had flirted briefly with the Catholicism his Italian background suggested, it hadn’t really taken hold. How could it, Sarah thought, with such a medieval attitude toward gays?

  A nondenominational minister said something about the frailty of the flesh and how we must always be ready to face God because we never know when He will call us to His bosom. He made Jack’s murder sound like more of a blessing, a joyous occasion, than a tragedy.

  Then Jack’s older brother, Denny, gave the eulogy. They hadn’t been close, Sarah knew, and generally when they met they argued. But the eulogy moved her to tears because it didn’t skirt the family problems; it confronted them head-on.

  The brothers had fallen out partly because Denny couldn’t handle Jack’s being gay. This was his younger brother, his reasoning went, and he was supposed to keep up the family tradition of handsome, macho Italian maleness. Instead he’d become a goddamn sissy and shamed his family.

  Jack’s parents, Sarah knew, usually avoided the issue altogether, pushing the question of Jack’s sexuality right to the backs of their minds. After all, they had a lot to be proud of. Jack had done well for them in so many ways and Denny was still only a glorified used-car dealer. So what if they were BMWs; they were still used cars.

  In his eulogy, Denny spoke of their arguments, of the torment he suffered because he thought his brother wasn’t normal, about how he worried about Jack getting AIDS. But he also said he wished he’d sloughed off his prejudice and taken the time to get to know his brother better. And that Jack had been there for him when he needed it, no questions asked. When it came right down to it, maybe they were too much alike ever to get along easily. The circumstances were different, but what Denny said made Sarah think of the way she and Paula related, or failed to relate.

  Dabbing her eyes, Sarah followed the others outside, still in a daze after seeing the coffin wheeled away. It was hot and humid outside the air-conditioned chapel. Sarah felt the beads of sweat gather around her brow and temples, and a tiny rivulet tickled as it coursed down the groove of her spine.

  After she had given her commiserations to the Marillos, she felt someone touch her elbow and turned to see Arvo Hughes standing beside her. Sarah flinched at his touch. She wasn’t ready for him again right now. Not here. Not in this state. She had revealed too much of herself to him already. He must think she did nothing but break down and cry.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked rather more sharply than she intended. “You didn’t know Jack. Are you expecting his murderer to turn up and gloat, or something?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But that usually only happens in your line of work. Believe it or not, the cases I work aren’t just numbers to me.” He nodded toward the chapel. “I never met him, but he seemed like a decent guy.”

  “He was.”

  “And in case you’re beating yourself over the head about it, I still don’t think there was a hell of a lot you could have done to prevent what happened. Joe Westinghouse agrees.”

  “He does? Well, isn’t that wonderful. Thank you both very much. I feel so much better now.”

  “Christ, you’re pricklier than a porcupine. There’s no need to be sarcastic. What I’m saying is, letters or no letters, there’s no way we could have predicted this would have happened. No way. And even if we could have, do you think we could have found a way of protecting everyone you knew? No. So don’t go blaming yourself. What could you do, anyway? Has M given you any choice about when and who he kills? All we’ve got is twenty-twenty hindsight.”

  “Well it’s a pity you policemen don’t have a lot better vision than that, isn’t it? Have you ever thought about that? Maybe if you were doing your jobs instead of . . . instead of . . . Oh!” She pushed him aside and walked away in tears. She felt embarrassed and phony doing it—like she was playing the prima donna or something—but she knew she would only have felt worse if she had stayed.

  “What you doing here? We did not invite you.”

  Sarah heard the raised voice and turned. Oh no. It was Jack’s mother, and she was waving her fist at Jaimie Kincaid.

  “You no-good pervert,” she went on, her voice getting louder. “You kill my Jack. Is your fault my Jack’s dead. You hear me? Police should have keep you locked up. You go away now. I call police.”

  She saw Jaimie walk off, slump-shouldered. Jack’s father put his arm around his wife to calm her down. Denny went after Jaimie. Sarah hoped, after the eulogy, that he would have a few kind words to say rather than simply repeat what Mrs. Marillo had said, punctuated by blows.

  Christ, Sarah thought, is everyone looking for someone to blame? The detective was right; she did still blame herself, especially after he had told her about the heart carved into Jack’s body. She knew that, logically, he had been right today, too. Even if she had told the police everything right from the start, it still wouldn’t have saved Jack. She also felt guilty for suspecting Stuart, even for one fleeting moment. Since she had overcome her reservations and gone to Brentwood, he had been nothing but solicitous and steadfast.

  But the truly frightening thing was that there was an evil force out there, and she was beginning to wonder if anyone could stop it before it reached its intended destination: Sarah herself.

  29

  WAITING. WAITING. WAITING. SOMETIMES LIFE SEEMED to consist of nothing but waiting. He remembered those hours in the woods at the back of the canyon house, so focused and unmoving he had felt himself become an animal, operating only on instinct, out of appetite and necessity.

  He had crept so stealthily across the dirt that his prey hadn’t heard a sound before the hammer came down with a sharp crack on the back of his head and he pitched forward onto the kitchen floor. It had been perfect.

  And it had been perfect because he had waited so long. Anticipation heightened awareness; it honed all his senses to razor-edge sharpness, and brought into play some he didn’t even know he had.

  Afterward, he decided that luck was a sense, too, not just some random deal of the cards; if you got into the right state of mind, you could use luck the way you would use sight or smell. Courage, too, perhaps, and maybe even silence.

  Now he was sitting in his car on a street in Santa Monica, waiting again. The light was on in the house; he could see it through the slats in the shutters. It was New Year’s Eve, and a block north someone was holding a loud party. But his quarry seemed to be alone. At least the house was quiet, and he had seen no one go
in during the hour he had been waiting there.

  He knew this one had to be next, but he also knew he had to think it out clearly. For a start, he didn’t have a gun, and his quarry did. Somehow guns didn’t fit with the kind of hunt he had set himself. He knew where to get one easily enough, but they were too distant, too abstract. You pointed and pulled the trigger and someone far away fell down dead.

  With guns, there was no real contact, no sense of flesh yielding to hammer or the knife. And that was what he liked about killing. The sound the hammer made, for example, when it fractured the skull, or the way flesh resisted cutting far more than he had thought it would, then how the fat, muscle and sinew under the skin seem to peel back in layers as you cut, presenting colors you had never imagined inside the human body. Maybe he should have been a surgeon.

  But not having a gun was definitely causing a problem here. He needed total surprise on his side. And tactics.

  And it wasn’t as if there was any choice in the matter of who it had to be. This person had spent the night at Sally’s, keeping her prisoner, and people must be made to see that they shouldn’t do things like that.

  He was certain nothing had happened. In fact, it never even entered his mind for a moment that she would be unfaithful to him or that she had been anything other than an unwilling captive. But someone had been in the house, keeping him away, and all night he had suffered headaches and stomach pains. She must see that was not good. These people would only exert a bad influence on her, and she was so impressionable.

  First, he had presented her with a random offering; now he was working on real obstacles, on cutting them all out of her life so she could come to him and they could live or die the way destiny intended. It would be soon.

  Then, suddenly, a car pulled up outside the house and someone else went in. Two of them. One would have been difficult enough, but two would be too much of a risk. Unless he could think of something, maybe come up with a new sense.