No Cure for Love

by Peter Robinson

  “What did she say?”

  Harvey shook his head. “Didn’t say anything. Too stoned.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I told her she’d be better off if she left the bastard, that he was a worthless son of a bitch who’d only ruin her life, if he hadn’t already.”

  “Did she respond?”

  “Just smiled at me through the tears in that stoned kind of way. Christ, she looked so young and lost, like a kid whose favorite doll has just got broken. I told her there was a plane ticket back to England waiting for her in my office anytime she wanted to pick it up.”

  “Did she?”

  “No. I never saw her again. Not until she turned up on TV, anyway. Done well for herself. Good on her.”

  “Did you know any of the hangers-on, any of the people they picked up on the way?” Arvo asked.

  “Like flies to shit, people like that, in my experience.”

  “Ever heard of a guy called Mitchell Lorne Cameron?”

  Harvey frowned and lit another cigarette. Arvo was thankful that the strong urge to start smoking again that swept over him around Christmas had dissipated.

  “No,” said Harvey. “Can’t say as I have. Was he a friend of Knox’s?”

  “In a way.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “They picked him up in San Francisco, him and a couple of others. He stuck to them all the way down here and after. I guess after Knox’s death he was sort of cut loose. He hadn’t been popular with the other band members anyway, so there’s no way they’d tolerate him, not with the boss out of the way.”

  “You got this from Carl Buxton?”

  “Yes. And seeing as I got his name from you, I thought I’d come back to the source.”

  “Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, man. But Carl’s a decent enough bloke. Thinks a bit too highly of himself, but show me one rock musician who doesn’t. Like I said, Carl’s about the only one of them hasn’t fried his brains with drugs.”

  “This Cameron,” said Arvo, “he fancied himself as a bit of a player himself. Do you know what I mean?”

  Harvey nodded, eyes narrowing. “Uh-huh.”

  “Apparently, Gary Knox said he liked Cameron’s poems and songs, and Cameron thought he had a chance to get into the band, or at least into the business. Anyway, we think Cameron is still somewhere in LA, and we’d really like to talk to him.”

  “So exactly what is it you want from me?”

  “Cameron feels he belongs in the music business. He thinks he’s got talent. He’s even done coffee house appearances, that kind of thing, according to people who knew him. Maybe even played with local bands back in San Francisco. He also thinks that Gary Knox saw and recognized his talent. He feels endorsed, somehow, singled out for stardom. It wouldn’t surprise me if he felt it was his job to take over from where Knox left off, so to speak, carry on the flame. What would he do?”

  Harvey reached for another cigarette and lit it from the stub of his old one. At this rate, even the secondhand smoke was getting to Arvo and making him feel dizzy. “Any number of things,” Harvey said. “If he didn’t already have contacts in the business here, most likely he’d advertise in one of the music papers and try to get together with a band. Or maybe he’d look for an ad and answer it. From what you say though, a guy with an ego like his would have difficulty fitting in with someone else’s idea of a band, especially if he fancied himself as a great songwriter. He’d want to gather people around he could control, you know, direct them toward expressing his vision.”

  “Makes sense,” said Arvo. “How long do you think it would take him to find such a band?”

  Harvey shrugged. “It’s variable. Anywhere from a week to a lifetime.”

  “What I’m thinking,” said Arvo, leaning forward, “is that he might be at a stage now, solo or in a band, where he has an agent. And that agent might be able to give me his address.”

  Harvey sucked on his Dunhill. “Could be,” he said. “Could be. But why come to me. I mean, I’m not an agent.”

  “You might be able to save us some time, is all. There’s a lot of agents in this city, but we’re looking for someone who might take on a guy at Cameron’s level. In other words, local, unproven talent. I’ve never heard the guy, so I don’t know if he’s got it or not. I’m assuming if Knox really did think something of his music, then he’s got at least enough talent to get himself a low-level agent.”

  “Hmm,” Harvey murmured. “Could be. And you want some names?”

  “It would help. Look, Stan, we think this guy is very dangerous. The sooner we find him the better.”

  Harvey laughed nervously. “Well, make sure you don’t let him know who told you.”

  “Can you help?”

  “Yeah. I know a few small-time agents might just handle someone at his level, or at least know about him.” He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. Want me to call now?”

  “Let’s give it a try. If you would.”

  Harvey pulled his Rolodex toward him and flipped through it. “Would you do me a favor?” he asked.

  “Sure,” said Arvo.

  “I skipped lunch. There’s a coffee shop and deli just next door does a great Reuben sandwich.”

  “No problem.”

  Arvo left Harvey to the phone and went to pick up the food. While he was there, he also got a corned beef sandwich for himself. When he got back to the office, Harvey looked over and gave him the thumbs down sign.

  Arvo nibbled his sandwich, the first meal he’d had since his greasy-spoon breakfast, sipped hot black coffee and watched it get dark around the Capitol Record Tower.

  It must have been about the fifteenth or twentieth call—Arvo had stopped counting—when, after the usual preamble, Harvey asked his question, and this time a smile started to spread over his rough features.

  “You do know him?” he said, and stuck his thumb up. “Sure? Yeah. Great.” He reached for his pen.

  Gotcha, you bastard, thought Arvo.

  42

  TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY ON THE SANTA MONICA FREEWAY at nine o’clock that evening as Arvo drove the unmarked police car to the address Stan Harvey had got for him. Both Joe Westinghouse and Maria Hernandez rode with him.

  Yes, the agent had said, Mitchell Lorne Cameron was listed with him, though he hadn’t been able to get him any work for three or four months. Problem was, Mitch was getting a bit of a reputation as an arrogant bastard, not to mention an occasionally violent one, and no one wanted to work with him. The last gig he’d played, he’d punched out the manager after accusing him of falsifying the previous night’s attendance records. The kid had some talent, sure, but he lacked the social skills.

  People were also sick to death of hearing him go on about how he was the true successor to Gary Knox and how close he and Gary had been.

  Arvo turned with the hundreds of other red taillights onto the San Diego Freeway, then took Venice Boulevard west. According to the Thomas Brothers Guide, the street Cameron lived on was about as far away from the beach as you could get and still be in Venice: way out in the east side, close to the freeway.

  At the nearest intersection, two police cruisers waited, as requested. The detectives needed back-up, but they didn’t want to go in with sirens blaring and guns blazing. The cruisers would block off the street at both ends in case Cameron made a break for it. The crime-scene techs had also been alerted, and their van was on its way.

  Arvo found the house without much difficulty and pulled up beside a fire hydrant out front. Number 14536 was a small bungalow in a street of similar small bungalows, not affluent, but certainly not run-down either. Typical of the LA single-family dwellings put up in the idealistic thirties, most of them had postage-stamp gardens, where some of the more house-proud owners cultivated a little lawn, a few begonias here and a few geraniums there.

  After getting Cameron’s address, Arvo and Joe had applied to the judge for a “no-knock’ warrant and got one, mostly because Ca
meron’s level of danger was regarded as extremely high, and the chief was taking a direct interest in the case. A quick solution would look really good after some of the disasters that had plagued the LAPD in the past few years. So Arvo knew he had better not fuck up. If he did, then he might find himself transferred to Hollenbeck Division for a little “Freeway Therapy.” And he didn’t like the idea of driving all that way to and from Santa Monica every day. Spring Street was more than far enough, and he had almost considered moving during the months the freeway was closed after the earthquake.

  “To knock or not to knock,” said Joe under his breath as they walked toward the short path leading to 14536. “That is the question.”

  As arranged, Joe went around the back of the house and Arvo and Maria took the front. The porch light was on. Arvo flipped the mailbox open. Empty. Inside, the house was dark and silent as a grave.

  Maria took out her gun and stood to one side of the door. Arvo stood to the other side, stretched out his arm and knocked. More than one cop had bought it with a shotgun blast through a closed door.

  Silence except for the laughter of a television sitcom audience a few houses away.

  He knocked again and called out for Cameron to open up. Still silence. It was a clear, cool night, but Arvo could feel the sweat at the back of his neck moistening his collar, prickling on his brow. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  Curtains twitched across the street. Somewhere, a door opened and swung shut. A car with a really sick muffler passed by. Inside Cameron’s house, the phone rang. The sudden, sharp sound made Arvo and Maria jump. Seven, eight, nine, ten rings and no one answered. No answering machine picked up the message.

  When the ringing stopped, Arvo thought he could hear the M*A*S*H theme music start up from the bungalow next door.

  He kicked the flimsy door and stood back. Maria went in first, crouching low, both arms fully extended, sweeping a hundred-and-eighty-degree angle. Covering her, Arvo flicked on the light switch.

  They stood in a short hallway with coats hung on either side and two doors leading off. The first door led to the kitchen and the second to what seemed to be the living room. After checking the place out quickly, they went to open the back door for Joe, who said he had neither seen nor heard anything outside. Though it looked like there was no one home, they all kept their guns out until they were certain.

  The living room looked ordinary enough. Cheaply furnished with a worn gray three-piece suite and a scratched coffee table, it didn’t give much away. A framed poster of Gary Knox hung on the wall, full length in concert, holding a mike stand, and a red electric guitar rested against a small amplifier directly below the print. The wallpaper was peeling. The room smelled of stale smoke. An overflowing ashtray on the table explained why. Joe touched one of the butts. “Cold,” he said.

  The only other interesting thing in the room was the stereo equipment with two large speakers and compact discs piled haphazardly on the floor. Some of the small, thin discs were out of their jewel-boxes, scattered on the floor. Well, the manufacturers did say you could eat pizza off them or use them as Frisbees.

  The kitchen held nothing it shouldn’t; in fact, it was missing many things that should be there—like plates, pots and pans. Cameron mostly ate out or ordered in, by the look of things, and he favored Mexican and Chinese, going by the empty cartons in the garbage. Next to the kitchen was a small dining area with a Formica-topped table and four matching chairs.

  Another door led off the living room, this one locked. Arvo bent his head and put his ear to the wood, but no sound came from within. With Joe and Maria covering him, he kicked the door open and stood back while Joe knelt in front of him, sweeping the room with his gun. Nothing. Arvo switched on the light. The three of them stood around the entrance.

  “Jesus Christ,” breathed Joe. “A shrine. It’s a fucking shrine.”

  From floor to ceiling, the walls were covered with pictures of Sarah Broughton. Some looked like stills from her movies and television series, others like studio publicity shots; some were head and shoulders, others full length; in some she was clothed, in others naked. Many of the pictures looked like collages, bits and pieces of Sarah pasted together in impossible combinations.

  When he was able to take his eyes off the walls, Arvo noticed the computer equipment. Maria was already checking it out and whistling between her teeth. It took up about a quarter of the whole room, set up around one of the corners. Not only was there a state-of-the-art Macintosh computer and a color laser printer, there was also a digital camera, a 35-mm Film Scanner, a 14,400 bps modem and a double-speed CD-ROM set-up. Two VCRs and a monitor were hooked up to the computer.

  On the bookshelves above stood mostly software for graphics, desktop publishing and image-enhancement. Expensive stuff for a club bouncer and wannabe rock star, Arvo thought, wondering what else Cameron might be into. Drugs? Computer theft? Or maybe he just had a lucrative sideline in desktop publishing.

  Maria picked up a stack of printouts from the desk and passed them to Arvo. More pictures of Sarah. This time Cameron had been editing them, playing with the images on screen, cutting off her head and sticking it on a little girl’s naked body, separating arms, legs, head and torso and mixing them up again in increasingly bizarre combinations. Maria raised her eyebrows. Arvo handed the pictures to Joe, who shook his head slowly.

  “I suppose you guys see lots of this weird shit?” he said.

  Maria shrugged. “It’s not uncommon.”

  Joe put the printouts down and gave a little shudder. “Give me a dead crack dealer any day.”

  Another shelf revealed three back issues of a desktop-published fanzine called, simply, SARAH. Written solely by Cameron, Arvo guessed, it featured more of the same collage-type nudes, bits of Sarah and bits of women from porno magazines. One showed what Arvo took to be a close-up of one of Sarah’s eyes with a spread beaver shot superimposed.

  All the text said was, “Sarah Sally Sarah Sally Sarah Sally Sarah . . .” over and over again in a variety of fonts. Pretty unimaginative, Arvo thought. You’d think the bastard could at least have written her a poem or two. Wasn’t he supposed to be creative? When Arvo put the magazine down he felt like washing his hands.

  “Come and have a look at this, Arvo,” Maria said, and he walked over to join her in the other corner.

  It was an altar. At least that was what it looked like to Arvo, and he had seen such things before. Cameron had erected his homage to Sarah, including his favorite framed photograph. Sarah was looking over her naked shoulder, butterfly tattoo in clear sight, directly into the camera, an enigmatic expression on her face. Cameron had surrounded the photograph with red candles, most of them half burned.

  Lying on the square of black velvet beside the photograph were a wallet and a small spoon. Trophies, most likely. Carefully, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he flipped the wallet open. John Heimar. He put it back for the crime-scene experts to deal with. There was nothing else in the room except a single bed with a red quilt and a bedside table. The sooner they got out of the place and sealed it, Arvo thought, the less likely they would be to spoil any evidence. Besides, the room was starting to give him the creeps.

  Back in the living room, Joe bent over the coffee table. Next to the ashtray stood a yogurt carton full of matchbooks. All of them were from a club called Ten Forward, on Melrose.

  “What do you think?” Joe asked, holding up one of the books so Arvo and Maria could see.

  “Make it so,” said Arvo.

  43

  LA CIENEGA SEEMED TO TAKE FOREVER. EVERY light a red one. Still, Arvo told himself, Sarah Broughton was safe at the hotel, and if Cameron were working at the club, he’d be there until the early hours. There was no hurry. They certainly didn’t want to announce their arrival in a blaze of lights and cacophony of sirens, any more than they had at the house. But still he felt anxious. It wouldn’t be over until they had Mitchell Cameron in custody.

  Between
Pico and Olympic, Arvo radioed in to arrange for patrol cars to secure the area around the club, then he used the car phone to call Sarah. She sounded bored and irritable but said she was okay. Arvo told her to hang in there and keep her fingers crossed, they were getting close.

  On Melrose, Arvo pulled up by the curb right outside Ten Forward, ignoring the No Parking signs. A group of kids hung around the entrance, arguing with a tall man with a shaved head and a black T-shirt who towered head and shoulders over them. The T-shirt must have been XXXL, if such a size existed, Arvo thought, and it was still tight over his biceps and pecs. He wouldn’t have stood there arguing with the guy. But kids always do think they’re immortal, and with the designer drugs they take these days, they think they’re omnipotent, too.

  Finally, the doorman managed to shoo the teenagers away. When he saw Arvo, Joe and Maria approach, he made a disgusted sound and said, in an unexpectedly high-pitched and raspy voice, “Fucking kids, huh. Underage. Cops?”

  “That obvious?” said Joe.

  The man grinned, showing a gaping black hole in an otherwise seamless band of white where one of his upper front teeth was missing. “I don’t want no trouble,” he said.

  “Hey, man, you won’t get any from us,” said Joe. “Guy named Mitchell Cameron work here?”

  “Mitch Cameron? Sure.”

  “He inside now?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Since when?”

  “Started at nine.”

  “Back entrance?”

  “Uh-huh. Round the alley.”

  “And no one gets past you, right?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Okay. We’re going in.”

  The man gave a little bow and extended his arm toward the door. “Be my guests.”

  Joe said he would take the rear entrance while Arvo and Maria went into the club to smoke Cameron out. They might look a bit less like cops than he did, he added with a grin. At about six-four, wearing a dark suit, white shirt and low-key tie, he was probably right.