“I didn’t say I minded.”
“Good.”
“Just who have you been talking to?”
“Stan Harvey, Carl Buxton, a woman called Candi. She was with Mitch when Gary picked him up in San Francisco.”
“I hope you don’t believe everything you hear.”
“I’m a cop. I take most things with a large pinch of salt. There is just one more thing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Maybe when all this is over you’ll let me give you some driving lessons?”
“Bastard!” Sarah grasped the pillow beside her and threw it with all her might. But she couldn’t move her neck, and her might wasn’t up to much at the moment. Arvo dodged it easily. Then he was gone and Sarah was left alone in the stark white room with her black thoughts.
38
AT ELEVEN-THIRTY THAT MORNING, ARVO SAT with Joe Westinghouse in a greasy spoon near Broadway and Fourth watching the seemingly endless parade of panhandlers and street people. It was probably happening in most big cities these days. Mixed in with the tall shiny office towers, the food courts, delis, pretty girls sitting by fountains, you also got the homeless and the crazy. You could always spot the crazies, he thought; they’re the ones who wear woolly hats and tattered overcoats when it’s eighty-five degrees and sunny out there. Maybe they have to keep their brains at a higher temperature than the rest of us.
Having eaten nothing that morning but a bag of salty pretzels on the plane, Arvo tucked into his ham and over-easy eggs with a total disregard for their cholesterol content. So, maybe he should have gone for the fresh fruit and bran special even the greasy spoons offered in LA these days. So what? He mopped up runny egg yolk with his enriched white-bread toast and enjoyed every mouthful.
Joe sat wedged in the booth opposite Arvo, shoulders taking up so much room no one could have found space next to him. He was wearing a neatly pressed brown suit, dazzling white shirt and muted tie. Arvo hadn’t been home yet and was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. They’d been to San Francisco and back on him, and they felt like it, too.
Joe held a sheet of paper in front of him and read as Arvo ate, pausing only to sip his coffee every now and then. He seemed able to do that without taking the toothpick out of the corner of his mouth.
“We got this from the Social Security number. Mitchell Lorne Cameron. Born January 3, 1967, Bakersfield, California.” Joe looked up and grinned. “Well, what do you know? Looks like the little slimeball has a birthday today. I dug out the state birth records. Mother, Marta Cameron; father unknown. After that it got easier. According to the Bakersfield PD, Marta used to run with the local biker crowd, real motorcycle mamma, had a few run-ins over drugs, fights and the like, but nothing serious, no dealing or trafficking as far as they know.”
“What happened to her?”
“OD’d on heroin, July 21, 1972.” Joe sipped some more coffee. “But not before she’d had three kids to three different fathers. Mitch was the middle one. He’s got an older half-sister, called Marianne, and a younger half-brother, Mark. After Marta OD’d, a distant relative in Eureka took them all in.”
“Did you talk to this relative?”
“Nope. She’s been dead five years.”
“Anything on the other two kids? They might be able to lead us to Mitch.”
“We’re trying to trace them. It’s early days yet.”
“Bar manager in San Francisco said something about the brother being disabled. She thought he was blind.”
“That’s something we can check. Got to be registered somewhere.” Joe made a note.
“Anything else?”
“Sure. Plenty. Listen, while you’ve been having fun up in San Francisco watching strippers and sitting around here talking to pretty starlets, I’ve been on the phone, fax or computer. All morning.”
“Okay, so give me a hard time, why don’t you.”
Joe grinned. “I checked with ATF. No firearms registration.”
“Huh. Like half of LA. Doesn’t mean he’s not carrying, though, does it?”
Joe raised his eyebrows. “He hasn’t used a gun so far.”
“True,” said Arvo. “But I don’t think it’s because he couldn’t get hold of one. For some reason it’s just not part of his scenario. Anything from DMV? I was going to call in from the hotel last night but I got the message about the accident first.”
“Yup. Drives a red 1990 Honda Civic. I got the number out on the street. The black-and-whites are keeping an eye open.”
“Photo?”
“Uh-huh. Driver’s-licence photo. Not much good. Could probably be any blue-eyed blond kid in LA. After a while they all get to look the same to me.” Joe’s eyes sparkled for a second and he flicked the toothpick toward his nose. “The lab phoned and told me they did find some blond hairs at the Marillo scene. Dyed blond hairs.”
Arvo pushed his plate aside and sipped some coffee. “It’s looking good, isn’t it? If only we could find the bastard. What about the address on the driver’s licence?”
Joe put down his toothpick and lit a cigarette. “Eureka. And I mean the place, not the classical allusion. The distant relative’s address. It’s a dead end. The people who live there now never even knew the old lady.”
“Shit.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“What about the phone company, utilities?”
“Still checking. Nothing yet. At least not under his real name.”
“Why would he use an alias?”
“Maybe there are people he doesn’t want to find him?”
“Like us?”
Joe shrugged. “Maybe others, too. Maybe he owes money. Who knows? Anyway, all I could find was that he skipped out of San Francisco owing Ma Bell a few hundred bucks and they haven’t come across his name since. Maybe that’s why.”
“Can you pull the phone records?”
“Already being done.”
“Have you checked mental institutions?”
“Wondered when you’d get around to that. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have to. I ran him through records. Seems he has a history of assault charges, mostly minor stuff, but about ten years ago in Stockton he went down on a felony assault charge. Bar fight.”
“What happened?”
“They sent him for psychiatric evaluation. Must’ve checked out okay because after that he did eighteen months in Tehachapi. Witnesses said the other guy started it. That went in his favor. Anyway, we’ve got his prints, for what good they’ll do us.”
“Have you checked them against the Heimar and Marillo killings?”
“We got nothing from Heimar and only partials from the Marillo place. No guarantee they were the killer’s, either. We ran a fingerprint check, but we couldn’t come up with a positive match. The lab also found red cotton fibers, which indicated he probably wore gloves.”
“What about Stuart Kleigman’s car?”
“I don’t think we’ll find anything there, either, but it’s being done. This guy plans, Arvo, he doesn’t just act on the spur of the moment.”
“But he’s getting more and more careless. I don’t suppose he’s on parole or probation?”
“No such luck.”
“Did you check with the military?”
“Uh-huh. Drew a blank there, too.”
“What about the psychiatric evaluation? What were the conclusions?”
Joe stubbed out his cigarette in the foil ashtray. “I’ve got someone digging it out for me,” he said. “They’ll fax it to us as soon as they can. I wouldn’t hold out much hope, though. It’ll probably just say Cameron had a short fuse and needed to learn to control his temper.”
“Probably. But you never know. Now, how do we find the son of a bitch? Anything from the IRS?”
The waitress came by with the coffee pot, and Joe pushed his cup and saucer toward her. Arvo declined. He’d already had too much coffee for one morning. Besides, it tasted like battery acid.
“You know
how close-mouthed those bastards are,” said Joe, “but I did get the date of his last return and the address it was sent from.”
“And?”
“Two years ago. An—”
“Let me guess, an address in the Castro, San Francisco?”
“You got it. Same one I got from the phone company.”
“Shit. That gets us no further. It’s like he never got an address in LA at all.”
“I know. I’ve got a couple of guys back at Parker Center still checking around. You know, Welfare, State Licensing Board, Workmen’s Comp.”
“I won’t hold my breath. It looks like this one’s slipped between the cracks since he left San Francisco.”
“Sure looks that way. For what it’s worth, I also got a couple of guys putting more pressure on some of the agencies that sell celebrity addresses. Nothing so far, but you never know.”
“Right. And now we can try the car-rental agencies, too.”
“Why?”
“Because of what happened last night,” said Arvo. “My guess is that Mitch has been watching Sarah’s routine for a few days, just like he did when she was at the beach house. He noticed that Zak, the bodyguard, always went on ahead to check the house before Sarah and Stuart went back there from the studio. Last night, Zak rode shotgun for Stuart to a meeting in Hollywood while Sarah was safe at the studio. The stalker must have followed them and taken his chance on the way back. According to the accident report, there’s at least one witness thinks someone deliberately pulled in front of Zak’s car and forced him onto the hard shoulder. It’s a miracle Zak wasn’t killed.”
“But why check the rental outlets? We already know Cameron drives a red Honda Civic.”
“Because Sarah Broughton said she saw Zak’s silver Toyota in the carport at Stu’s house. Since we know it can’t have been Zak’s, Mitch must have gone and rented the same model, same color.”
Joe whistled. “Know how many car rental agencies there are in LA? Know how many people per day rent cars?”
“We’re only interested in silver Toyotas rented over the last three or four days. That should narrow things down a bit.”
“Uh-huh. Any other bright ideas?”
“One,” said Arvo. “We know that about the only work the guy’s done is security, club bouncer, and that he thinks he belongs in the rock business. Now, we can easily find out if he’s working for any of the big, official security companies like Loomis or Brinks because he’d have to be bonded, right?”
“Right. We have, and he isn’t.”
“Okay. So if he is working, he’s probably somewhere they pay cash, no questions asked.”
“Like a bar or a nightclub?”
“Exactly. Or a strip joint. Just like he did in San Francisco.”
“Great,” said Joe. “Only about ten thousand in the city.”
“You’re right.” Arvo rubbed his eyes. “Shit. There’s got to be another way. Let’s think it through. The guy comes into town with Mr. Big Shot, Gary Knox, and his entourage. He must have some pretty big ideas about himself, right?”
“Uh-huh. Then the goose that lays the golden eggs OD’s and the party’s over.”
“Right, and the entourage is cut loose. The band members drift off into session work, retirement, or whatever. It’s like the Stones without Mick.”
“The Vandellas without Martha.”
“Right. And I suppose the road crew and sound technicians find similar work with someone else.”
“And the hangers-on, the groupies?”
“They find someone else to fuck. Now, Mitch’s position is ambiguous, I’d guess. Nobody liked him but Gary, or so it appeared. So no one’s gonna take pity on him and give him a job. He’s got no real skills or talent and probably no money, given he got fired in San Francisco and skipped out owing the phone company.”
“So?”
“So he’s got a number of problems. He’s already got a car. Next, he needs somewhere to live. Then he needs a job.”
“A job without too many questions asked,” Joe added. “From what you’ve told me I doubt he’d get much of a reference from that broad in San Francisco.”
“You’re right there. But there’s something else. Mitch is a liar and a dreamer, a big talker. He thinks he’s got talent, thinks he’s got a future in the music business. He’s also a man with a powerful will. So, do you think he’s just gonna sit on his ass strumming his guitar, or work as a nightclub bouncer, till his big break comes?”
“If you’re thinking—”
Arvo leaned forward and put his hands palm down on the table. “An agent. It makes sense, Joe. Everyone in this city has an agent.”
Joe laughed. “That’s true enough. I even know a few cops have agents. Know how many of them there are?”
“I didn’t say it’d be quick, just that it would be worthwhile, maybe quicker than checking all the bars. And if we concentrate on small agents representing musical acts . . . What do you think?”
“Could be.”
Arvo smiled. “Unlimited resources,” he said. “That’s what the Chief told me.”
“What now?”
“First I’m gonna go home, take a shower and change my clothes. Then we’re going to make a concentrated effort to find Mitchell Lorne Cameron.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
And they walked out into the bright noon sun.
39
AT THREE O’CLOCK THAT SAME AFTERNOON, STILL no closer to finding Mitchell Cameron, but at least clean and wearing a fresh set of clothes, Arvo pushed a wheelchair out of Cedars-Sinai right into a throng of newspeople waiting outside.
Sarah Broughton sat in the chair. Her right eye was swathed in bandages, and she was wearing a neck brace. She also wore dark glasses over the bandage to protect her one good eye against the bright January sun.
As soon as she hit the street, the questions began:
“Ms. Broughton, can you tell us why you were driving down Sunset Boulevard yesterday evening without a license?”
“Is there any truth in the rumor that you’ve been receiving death threats?”
“How will your injuries impact on Good Cop, Bad Cop?”
“Is it true that the network is thinking of axing the series?”
“Was it a publicity stunt?”
“Ms. Broughton, why were you in the car with Stuart Kleigman? Why had his wife and children gone to stay with family in Santa Barbara?”
“Do these letters have anything to do with Jack Marillo’s murder?”
“Ms. Broughton. What’s the connection between the body you found on the beach and the murder of Jack Marillo?”
“Are you being stalked, Ms. Broughton?”
“Could you comment on the statement made by Luanna Costello, the famous psychic, that someone has put a curse on Good Cop, Bad Cop?”
“Is it true that the killer cut the hearts out of both victims and mailed them to you?”
And so it came from all sides—from the Los Angeles Times to the National Enquirer, from CNN to KFMB—boom microphones, mini-cassette recorders, TV cameras. Just the way it had been when she arrived at LAX after the news of Jack’s murder.
Sarah kept her head down as Arvo helped her into the unmarked car, scanning the crowd and the surrounding area as he did so. He drove her the short distance round the block to Ma Maison Sofitel, the nearest hotel, on Beverly Boulevard.
Security at the beach house would be difficult to organize because the area was so open, Arvo had explained, so Sarah had agreed that even a hotel would be better than the hospital. At least it wouldn’t smell of antiseptic.
Arvo accompanied Sarah up to her room, then, after checking the locks on the door and window and assuring her that she would be well guarded, he left, reminding her to lock up after him.
One of the hotel employees had picked up some books that Sarah had requested in advance and placed them on the coffee table: Alan Bennett’s Writing Home, the latest William Boyd paperback and a Sharon McCone myster
y by Marcia Muller. Beside them lay a New Yorker magazine and a copy of last week’s London Sunday Times. After all, they hadn’t got Mitch Cameron yet; she might be here for a while.
Alone, Sarah set the deadbolt, put the chain on and leaned against the door to take a deep breath. Then she went into the bathroom, took the bandages off and examined her bruises for the first time. By the looks of them, her eye had a whole rainbow of colors to go through yet. Arvo was right, though; the writers could probably work her injuries into the show the way they had written in Jack’s murder. Now the painkillers were wearing off, her face and head had started to ache.
Back in the room, she stood and looked out of the floor-to-ceiling window. It framed a spectacular and panoramic view from the eastern edge of the Santa Monica Mountains, on her left, through Beverly Hills to the Hollywood Hills to her right. The sky was pale blue, with a few swirls of cloud over the hills, and today there was hardly any smog to obscure the scene.
Dotted all around the ragged purple-brown horizon were clusters of buildings, signs of human habitation everywhere. To the far right, Sarah could just about make out the HOLLYWOOD sign. In the foreground were the streets of West Hollywood, mostly residential areas of small bungalows and low-rise apartment buildings, along with the trendy shopping streets like Melrose and La Brea.
As she scanned the view, inhibited by the damn neck brace, Sarah had an odd, disembodied feeling, as if she were slipping into a dream. It was as if the hotel wasn’t there, and she was suspended in mid-air over Hollywood. Her senses felt enhanced, as they had sometimes when she was stoned. But her mind was clear. She knew what was happening. Had known since she remembered Mitch calling her “Little Star.”
Somehow, the terror of the chase or the car accident itself had jogged her memory and released a flood of information.
Sarah turned away from the window, feeling a little dizzy, and paced the room. God, she was tired; she hoped they caught the stalker soon. They were close; she could sense it in Arvo’s manner, in the way he had hurried off after bringing her to the room, like a hound on the fox’s scent. It was the thrill of the chase, the whiff of blood. She wanted her life back. All of it.
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