Slater’s lips were pressed together so tightly that they had almost disappeared.
“Manic depressive, wasn't he? Ups and downs. Can’t have been an easy man to live with. Is that why you changed your name?”
Still Slater said nothing. He lowered his head so that his chin touched his chest. Mitchell couldn’t tell if Slater’s eyes were open or closed behind the impenetrable lenses.
“Or did you just think that Slater was a better pen name?”
“It’s my real name. It was a legal change.”
“Oh, I know that. Passport, driver’s license. You are Adrian Slater, no doubt about that. But of course there’s no birth certificate and no record of you before you were eighteen. That’s when you became Adrian Slater. Before that you were Adrian Henderson.” Mitchell grinned. “What, did you think we wouldn’t find out? Do you think you could keep your little secret? This isn’t a novel, Slater. This is the real world, and in the real world detectives detect.”
Mitchell sipped his coffee again. Slater looked at his watch.
“We’re not keeping you, are we, Slater?” said Mitchell, putting his coffee back on the table. He sat back in his chair and interlinked his fingers. “Funny that he didn’t leave a note,” he said. “Him being a writer and all. You’d think he’d want to leave some last words. A message to you, maybe. Or his wife.” Mitchell frowned. “Oh, but she was in hospital wasn’t she? When he shot himself in the head.”
Slater said nothing.
“So why do you think he did a Hemingway, Adrian? His books were doing great, he was one of the most sought-after American writers. Was that it, do you think? He wanted to go out at the top? Couldn’t face the long slow slide back into obscurity?”
“I don’t think about it, much,” said Slater quietly.
“Oh come on, of course you think about it. You’re a teenager and your dad kills himself. You’d have to wonder why. Maybe blame yourself a little? Maybe think that if you’d been a better son he wouldn’t have done it. Those sorts of thoughts would only be natural. Understandable.”
There was a long silence as the two men stared at each other.
“What happened to your mother, Adrian?” asked Lumley, breaking the silence.
“I’m sure it’s in the file.”
“I haven’t read it.” She looked across at Mitchell. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“So this is what? Informed cop and stupid cop? Do these games actually work?”
“This is the first I’ve heard about your mother,” said Lumley. “First I’ve heard of your father, too. Looks like I’m playing catch-up at the moment.”
“Been keeping your cards close to your chest, Ed?” asked Slater. “What’s the problem? Don’t you trust Joe?”
“Tell us what happened to your mother,” said Mitchell. “Or do you want me to? It’s just that I’d hate to get any of the details wrong.”
Slater glared at Mitchell, then turned his head to look at Lumley. “My mother has mental health issues,” he said. “It started when she was pregnant with me and got worse as I was growing up. She was in and out of hospitals. All private, my father paid whatever needed paying to make sure that she got the best treatment.”
“But the treatment didn’t help, did it?” said Mitchell. “Nutty as a fruitcake, right?”
Slater ignored Mitchell and continued to look at Lumley. “She started self-harming after my father died. She hasn’t left the hospital since it happened.”
“It can't have been easy. Your father killing himself and your mother sick like that.”
Slater leaned forward, towards her. “Don’t bother trying to empathize with me. You’re wasting your time. I’m a writer. I spend a lot of time getting into the heads of my characters. So I can see what you’re trying to do and I’m just telling you, it won’t work.”
“There’s no need to be so sensitive, Adrian,” said Mitchell. He pointed at Slater’s head. “I really want to know what’s going on in there. There’s something not quite right, we both know that. It’s probably in the DNA. Your father kills himself and your mother’s a Fruit Loop. With the best will in the world you were never going to turn out right, were you?”
Slater sat back and folded his arms. “I’m done talking,” he said.
CHAPTER 28
Mitchell and Lumley watched through the window as five floors below Slater crossed the road, his black coat flapping behind him. His trademark RayBans were back on and as he reached the sidewalk he stopped and lit a cigarette.
“He enjoys playing with us, you know that,” said Lumley.
“Give him enough rope and he’ll hang himself,” said Mitchell.
“What do you mean, Ed? You want him to kill, is that what you’re saying?”
Mitchell looked across at her, his eyes narrowing. “Where did that come from, Joe?”
Lumley put up a hand. “I’m not arguing with you, I’m just saying we’re not doing a great job of warning him off, are we?”
Down below Slater turned and looked up at their window. He grinned and flashed them a mock salute. Mitchell made a gun of his right hand, pointed it at Slater and mimed firing it. Slater did the same with his left hand as he blew smoke, then walked off down the street.
“Bastard,” said Mitchell.
“And what was that about his father? Why didn’t you tell me Slater wasn’t his real name?”
“Only found out just before I went into the interrogation room. Got an email from Los Angeles PD.”
“A heads-up would have been nice,” said Lumley. “So who was the father?”
“Ben Henderson. Wrote a slew of action movies but before he went Hollywood he won a Pulitzer for a book he wrote. Summer Sons, remember?”
“I’m not a big reader,” said Lumley.
“Me neither, but I remember Oprah raving about it. Blew his head off with a shotgun.”
“That’ll do it,” said Lumley.
“What with that and his mother in the nuthouse, it’s hardly surprising that Slater’s turned out to be such a psycho.”
There was a coffeemaker on top of a filing cabinet by the door and Lumley went over to get herself a fresh coffee. “You want one?” she asked Mitchell.
Mitchell shook his head. “Doctor says I’ve got to cut down.” He grimaced. “What the hell, go on. What do doctors know, right?”
Lumley made two mugs of coffee. Black with one sugar for Mitchell, just a splash of milk for her. “Ed, do you really think that Slater is a potential killer?”
“You’ve spoken to him, what do you think?”
“Until you dropped the bombshell about his parents I was coming around to thinking that he’s all talk.”
“And now?”
Lumley carried over the coffees and gave Mitchell his mug. “The father’s death, it definitely was self-inflicted?”
“I’ve only just got the email, but I would have thought the LAPD would have been pretty thorough if a high-profile was found dead. Why, are you thinking Slater might have killed his father?”
“The mum blames the dad, resentment simmers over the years, the boy becomes a man and takes his revenge.”
“Are you serious, Joe?”
Lumley frowned as she sipped her coffee. “He’s either a stone-cold sociopath or he’s a smartass who gets a kick out of giving us the runaround. There’s no real middle ground here. He’s either a killer, potential or otherwise, or he’s a writer who’s pushing the creative envelope and forcing us to be part of that. My money’s on the sociopath.”
Mitchell sat down. “I think you mean psychopath, don’t you?”
“Same thing, right?” said Lumley. “What is it the experts call it? Anti-Social Personality Disorder? Someone who causes pain to others without feeling any guilt.”
“Yeah, but the last time I was on a psych course they were saying that sociopaths are disorganized and psychopaths are organized. So a sociopath will act rashly and make an extreme response to a normal situation, as if the
ir impulse control has been switched off.”
Lumley’s jaw dropped in surprise. “Are you shitting me?” she said.
Mitchell grinned. “Hey, the woman giving the lecture had a great rack, what can I say? I paid attention and I asked questions. “But she said that psychopaths were more organized and often fantasized about their acts before carrying them out. And that’s what Slater’s doing, right? He’s writing down what he plans to do, which is about as organized as you can get. Anyway he’s a psychopath. Doesn’t matter what’s on the label just so long as we put him away.”
“Except he hasn’t actually done anything yet, has he?”
“Yeah, well I’m gonna get his file and go through it line by line. Back then they were probably treating him like a distraught family member, it might start to look different if we’re thinking of him as a cold, hard killer.”
“So we go through his file and bring him back in, is that the plan?”
“Sure, but when we do, keep your distance,” warned Mitchell.
“What do you mean?”
“Psychopaths can be charming. Charismatic. Manipulative. That’s how they get close to their victims.”
Lumley’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Ed? I’m a moth to his flame, is that what you think?”
“I’m just saying be careful, that’s all.”
“I’m not the victim type, Ed,” she said. “Never have been, never will be.”
CHAPTER 29
Grose’s cell phone rang and he took it out of his jacket pocket. He was sitting in the Faculty library, reading through Slater’s manuscript again. He had given the original copy to the two detectives but had been back into the Faculty office and asked Marion to print him another copy from the thumbdrive. As he read he sucked on the end of his Mont Blanc fountain pen. He was trying to pin down dates and times so that he could see about proving that Slater had been following him. He looked at the phone’s screen. It was a cell phone but he didn’t recognise the number. He took the call.
“Dr Grose, this is Detective Lumley, NYPD.”
“Yes Detective. What’s happening? Is he under arrest?”
“We had Mr Slater in for an interview but that’s now come to an end. We’re satisfied that we’ve done all that we can so far.”
“He’s not in jail?”
“It doesn’t work like that, Dr Grose. It’s going to take time to build a case.”
“What about conspiracy to murder?”
“You need more than one person to have a conspiracy, Dr Grose.”
“He’s planning a murder. Doesn’t that count for something? And he was in my house. What’s that, trespass? Can’t you charge him with trespass?”
“We don’t have any evidence that he was actually inside your house.”
“You have his manuscript. His work in progress. He describes me, he describes my wife, our car and our house. What more do you need?”
“We need hard evidence, Dr Grose.”
“So come and check for fingerprints at my house.”
“He said he was driving his motorcycle. So he’d be wearing gloves.”
Grose cursed. “So you’re saying that’s it? There’s nothing you can do?”
“Not at the moment. But we will be watching him. And if he does in any way threaten you again, let us know.”
“So you haven’t done anything, basically.”
“Dr Grose, Adrian Slater hasn't committed an offence. We've spoken to him, we've warned him....”
“Warned him!” shouted Grose. Several students turned to look at him and Grose lowered his voice and cupped his hand over the phone. “He's planning to kill one of my students and you've warned him! Christ, woman, can't you see what he's up to?”
“I understand how upset you are, Dr Grose.....”
“I don’t want your understanding, Detective. I want you to do something. He's going to kill a girl and dismember her, and he's going to bury the bits in some sort of psychopathic treasure hunt.”
“Dr Grose, please…”
Grose ended the call and banged the phone down on the table. Two students at a neighboring table turned to look at him and he glared back. “What?” he shouted. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
CHAPTER 30
Andrew Yates lay with his eyes closed listening to the girl breathing next to him. What was her name? Lisa? Linda? Laura? Something beginning with L. Lindsay? Yes, Lindsay felt right. From Ohio. Or Omaha. She was a paralegal. Fragments of the previous evening began to fall into place. He’d met her at a bar in 53rd Street. He’d been with three of his friends from the office, she’d been with a married girlfriend who had a husband waiting for her so when the friend left Lindsay had tagged along with Andrew and his group. No, not Lindsay. Leena. Definitely Leena. They’d hit another bar and then Andrew’s friends had taken the hint and left them to it. He’d bought her a burger and then more drinks and then gone to a club where he’d given her an ecstasy tablet and taken one himself and that was pretty much all he could remember. No, not Leena. Elle. Her name was Elle. Or was that her nickname and Leena was her full name. That felt right. Her name was Leena but everyone called her Elle.
He looked at his watch. Half past eight. It was Saturday so he didn’t have to get to work but his wife was due in at noon, back from a two-day sales conference in Seattle. He had to be at the airport to meet her or there’d be hell to pay. He tried to remember what had happened after he’d got back to Elle’s room. There had been sex, he remembered that much. And she’d had some coke, which had been nice and a surprise. She’d had a drawer full of sex toys as well, which had been less nice. He could never understand girls who wanted to bring sex toys into the bed when they had full use of the real thing. He just hoped that she hadn’t marked him. He hadn’t felt any scratches and he hadn’t let her get her mouth anywhere near his neck just in case she’d thought that biting was sexy.
Elle moved in her sleep and Yates edged his body away from hers. She didn’t look half as attractive in the cold light of day. Her mascara had smudged and her cheeks were peppered with small white spots and for the first time he noticed the brown roots of her dyed hair. She told him that she was twenty-eight but in the cold light of day she looked closer to her mid-thirties, almost as old as his wife.
He rolled out from under the duvet, slowly so as not to wake her, gathered up his shoes and clothes and carried them to the bathroom. He draped his clothes over the side of the bath and looked at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He ran his hand over the stubble on his chin and decided to shave. If one of the neighbors saw him going into his apartment looking as if he’d been out all night then tongues would start wagging. Especially old Mrs Wilkinson who lived next door. She’d always hated him since he’d complained about her yapping Yorkshire Terrier and she’d relish the opportunity of telling his wife that he’d been out all night. He looked around for shaving foam but there was a lady razor in the shower so he took it and splashed water on his face and then used a bar of soap to work up a lather. He looked at his watch again. He had more than enough time to pop into a convenience store on the way home so that anyone who saw him would just assume he’d popped out for some shopping.
“Andrew, are you okay?”
Yates flinched as he heard Elle’s voice. He had hoped to get out without waking her. “I’m fine, baby. Just shaving.”
“Do you want coffee? Or green tea?”
“Coffee would be great, baby. Two sugars and milk, please.”
Yates gritted his teeth. Now he was going to have to talk to her before making his excuses and getting the hell out of her apartment. He stared at his reflection as he ran the small plastic razor down his cheek but flinched when a smear of red appeared. Blood. He cursed under his breath. He wasn’t used to wet shaving, he’d used an electric razor for years. He started to shave under his chin and as he ran the razor along the soapy skin a second blob of blood appeared high up on his cheek.
He took a step back, frowning.
As he looked quizzically at his reflection a small drop of blood splattered on the side of the sink. Yates looked at the razor in his hand, then back at the red smear on the sink. That didn’t make any sense. He slowly looked up and gasped when he saw the wet scarlet patch in the ceiling above his head.
CHAPTER 31
Ed Mitchell showed his badge to a bored uniform cop standing guard at the entrance to the apartment. The cop nodded and stepped to the side. Lumley was standing in the hallway, scribbling in her notebook. “It’s Saturday, Joe,” he said. “I don’t do Saturdays.”
“You’ll want this one, Ed,” she said, looking up from her notebook. She was wearing a black suit with a long jacket that reached almost to her knees and she’d tied her hair back with a scrunchy.
Mitchell looked over her shoulder into a white-tiled bathroom where two CSU investigators in pale blue paper suits were taking photographs and sketching the area. Even from where he was standing Mitchell could see that the floor was awash with blood.
“They’re doing the second walk-through,” said Lumley.
“Where’s the body?” asked Mitchell.
“That’s a very good question, Ed.”
“Please tell me that you haven’t called me in on a Saturday and there’s no body?”
“There’s a lot of blood but no corpse.”
Mitchell sighed. “Today’s the day I get to take my boy out,” he said. “Two Saturdays a month.”
“Your boys fifteen, Ed,” said Lumley, “and you’re always bitching about how much he hates you. The apartment’s rented by a Jenny Cameron.”
Mitchell frowned. The name meant nothing.
“She’s on Doctor Grose’s creative writing course,” said Lumley.
“You’re shitting me,” said Mitchell.
“Sadly, I’m not,” said Lumley, putting away her notebook. Her badge was hanging from a thin steel chain around her neck.
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