by Josh Lanyon
By which, I deduced, the student was someone with whom Guy had remained friendly. I sipped my cappuccino, wondering if Jake had talked to this former student, and what the result had been. It was a sure bet that he wouldn’t rely on Guy’s endorsement.
A group of students sat at a table close to us. I lowered my voice. “Have you ever heard of a group called Blade Sable?”
“Blade what?”
“Sable.”
“No. What is it?”
“I don’t know. A secret cult?” I was smiling, and he laughed.
The laugh seemed genuine. Maybe Blade Sable really was a figment of Gabe Savant’s vivid imagination.
“You realize that Christianity was once a secret cult,” he remarked.
We ate in silence for a few moments, then Guy said, “I don’t believe that Angus is capable of…that.”
“Of murder? I think everyone is capable, given the right set of circumstances.”
“Of killing, yes. Of murder, no.” Those jade green eyes studied me. “I don’t believe you, for example, are capable of murder.”
“You haven’t seen me when someone’s check bounces or customers put books on the wrong shelves.”
His lean brown cheek creased in a smile. “Terrifying to behold, no doubt. But in fact, I wasn’t thinking of murder. I was thinking about this whole situation. Angus is a follower. It’s not in character for him to strike out on his own.”
No pun intended? I said, “I agree. Granted, my ego is involved. It’s hard for me to believe that I could have employed a serial killer for a year and never noticed any of the symptoms.”
He forked a pile of greens neatly into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
“Maybe Wanda’s the mastermind?” I suggested, joking.
Guy made an expression of distaste. “Wanda’s sole interests are getting high and getting laid. I can’t picture her wasting valuable stoner hours on murder.”
I selected another chip, then tossed it back in the basket. I didn’t know Wanda well, but I thought his assessment accurate. She seemed to be strong-willed, but all her will was concentrated on partying. I expected serial killers to have more of a work ethic.
Guy pushed his plate aside and folded his arms on the table. “The police are satisfied that they’ve got the right person: one madman and his girlfriend involved in the occult, picking and choosing their victims at random. They’re not going to keep digging.”
“That’s my guess.”
He sighed. “But you’re not satisfied. You honestly believe there’s an evil organization out there, don’t you?”
“I don’t know how organized they are — if they’re anything like Angus.”
He made an exasperated sound.
I said, still keeping my voice low, “Look, the cult thing is probably a figment of a writer’s imagination. But we both agree that we don’t believe Angus committed this murder, which means someone else did. Someone vandalized my shop. Someone killed these other two UCLA students. And your Betty Sansone may be Student of the Month, but she was pretty damn close to committing assault yesterday. So maybe it’s not a cult. Maybe it’s a clique. Call it what you want. Call it a social club, but at least consider the possibility that there is one — and likely more — person out there with homicidal tendencies and an interest in the occult.”
“The police may have arrested the wrong person, but to leap to the conclusion that there’s an entire cult out there —” He shook his head.
“Forget about the cult,” I said impatiently, ignoring the interest this elicited at the table next to us. “Say it is one person. Are you genuinely okay with knowing that this psycho is still out there? You’re talking about someone who can carve another human into pieces — and use her blood for writing deranged messages to the great beyond.”
Guy gave me an odd look. “You seem to know a lot about it.”
Had the papers not carried the part about the pentagram being written in the victim’s blood? I couldn’t remember. I reached for my cappuccino, took a long drink. I set the cup down deliberately and said, “Who’s this guy you said I should meet?”
He didn’t answer, instead drawing out a pipe. Then he seemed to recollect his surroundings, putting it away again. He said at last, “Have you ever heard of Oliver Garibaldi?”
“The Oliver Garibaldi? I ordered a copy of The Devil’s Disciple this morning.”
His eyebrows rose. “Did you?”
I nodded. “He’s pretty much acknowledged as one of the foremost living experts in the occult, right?”
“Right. In particular, he’s an expert on Satanism.” He studied me thoughtfully. “He lives part of the year in France and part of the year in California. In Los Angeles, in fact.”
“That’s convenient.”
He grimaced. “Please don’t place any sinister significance in the fact that Oliver lives in a county of over ten million people.”
“I won’t. It is convenient, though.”
“Nothing happens on the occult scene that Oliver is not aware of. He’d be able to find out if there’s any truth to this theory of yours about a secret cult — or whether these killings are the work of one freak on acid. He’s helped the police once or twice in the past.”
I wondered if the police would be consulting him any time soon, and whether that might let me in for another chat with Detective Rossini. I decided that the police were content with Angus in the role of Public Enemy No. 1 and wouldn’t bother contacting Garibaldi.
“When can I meet him?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t discussed it with him yet. He’s out of town till the weekend.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
He looked faintly irritated.
“That was the idea, right?”
He leaned forward, said quietly, “You do realize what you’re asking of me, yes? You do realize that if this — these murders culminated out of my course of study, I will be held ultimately responsible. I’ll be ruined.”
“I thought they expected you to be controversial at UCLA?”
“I believe the Board of Regents draws the line at sacrificial murder.”
“I can’t do this on my own.”
He said resentfully, “I know. And that would be better for you. And better for me.”
“Not better for Angus.”
“Fuck. Does it occur to you that you could be wrong? We could both be wrong. Perhaps Angus did snap. Perhaps he did kill those people. And if he didn’t, well, we have to assume the police aren’t complete idiots. This is what we pay them for, isn’t it?”
“Guy —”
He made a brusque gesture, an I-Don’t-Want-To-Hear-It gesture.
“I think you underestimate yourself, Guy,” I said. “I think if you didn’t intend to help me, you wouldn’t have shown today.”
The green eyes met mine. “I showed up today because I believe if you continue to ask these questions you will put yourself in danger,” he said crisply. “I wanted to make sure you realize what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Fair enough.”
A jazz rendition of “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” filled the not-so-merry silence between us.
He gave a peculiar laugh. “And…perhaps I wanted to see you again.”
I met his eyes, and my heart did one of those freaky triple beats — probably the caffeine-laden cappuccino.
“Oh.”
I had sussed he was gay. I had even kind of thought there was maybe a spark of electricity there. You can tell, although I’m not sure how it is that you can tell; it’s to do with the release of pheromones or the dilation of the pupils or…well, you can tell, that’s all. Still, I wondered. You date a cop for nine months. A little skepticism is bound to rub off.
“You intrigue me,” he added dryly.
“Uh, thanks.”
I intrigued him? You don’t hear a lot of that in my line of work. I admit that I was flattered — though still unconvinced. Which didn’t mean that I didn’t
find him attractive. I did. He was an odd mix. That hard, lithe body; his sensual, rather cynical face…the pipe, the books, the fact that he wasn’t afraid to be seen with me. Yeah, maybe I recognized that spark of electricity because it wasn’t one-sided.
His smile held a hint of self-mockery, “I take it from your guarded response that you’re seeing someone?”
I hesitated. “Yes.”
He caught the hesitation. “Well,” he said lightly. “Should the situation change — that is, assuming you don’t get yourself killed —”
“That would certainly be a change,” I agreed.
* * * * *
I watched Guy zip off down Westwood Boulevard in his shiny red Miata, while I sat in my car listening to my voice mail. Jake had left a message on my cell phone.
I studied the familiar number with a strange lack of feeling, hit Play Message. Short and not particularly sweet. “I’ll call you later.”
Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe, baby.
I turned the key in the ignition. As I pulled out, I noticed a red Corolla, the same color as Guy’s Miata, pulled behind after me.
The radio buzzed with the latest update on Angus — which didn’t appear to be anything. There was no news about missing author Gabriel Savant — by which I mean he wasn’t so much as mentioned. That seemed atypical.
On impulse, I made tracks over to the Biltmore Hotel where Bob Friedlander was staying.
The Biltmore is pretty much of a historical landmark. Built back in the ’20s, it’s provided room and board for kings, presidents, and celebrities for decades, but what I find most intriguing about it is that this is the last place the Black Dahlia was seen alive before strolling off into the night and the annals of unsolved mystery. They actually serve a cocktail called the Black Dahlia in the Gallery Bar.
I noticed the red Corolla that had been following me since Westwood had finally dropped off. Not that I had actually thought it was following me, I mean, too funny if Satan’s minions are tailing people in devil red vehicles. I parked one block from the hotel at Pershing Square — not the greatest part of town — walking past the temporary skating rink where skaters glided and spun — and fell — to Christmas music and then worked my way through the usual television and film crews stationed outside the Biltmore.
I remembered from an earlier conversation with Friedlander that he and Savant were staying in the Music Suite. I scrutinized my Day Planner and was pleased to note that I had actually jotted the room number down along with various notes for the signing.
I stepped into an elevator crowded with a high-spirited group of ladies making their way back to their rooms following the Holiday Afternoon Tea. Judging from the winks and smirks I got, they had dosed themselves liberally with eggnog.
I found the room without trouble, knocked several times before the door opened a crack. Bob Friedlander’s bloodshot eye peered out.
“Yes?”
“Hi, Bob. It’s Adrien English. Gabe signed at my store last Friday night.”
“Right, right.” He curved his lips, but it wasn’t exactly a smile. “What can I do for you?”
“I stopped by to see if there was any word.”
“No. No word.”
“I’m sorry. Can I help in any way?”
He stared at me strangely for a long moment, then he backed, allowing me into the room.
I stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, but I made out creamy walls and dark, elegant furniture. A bowl of orchids sat on a low table covered with papers and books and maps. There was a decorative fireplace and a grand piano. The white French shutters were closed. It was hot and stuffy. Gloomy classical music played from another room in the suite.
As Bob stepped back from the door, he withdrew his hand from the sagging pocket of his oversized bathrobe. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. It wasn’t that Bob was happy to see me. Sure as hell, that was a gun in his bathrobe pocket.
I dragged my gaze away from the disquieting bulge in Bob’s dressing gown and noticed that there was a laptop set on the desk. Next to it a printer shot out crisp, typed pages. A pristine printed stack sat to the side.
“Do you want a drink?”
“Sure.”
There was a bottle of Jack Daniels next to a silver ice bucket. Bob poured two drinks, drank half of one down, then topped it again. I’ve had nights like that — though not many afternoons — and I sympathized.
I took the glass he handed me. “Do the police have any leads?”
“The police? The police?” He laughed wildly, threw himself into the chair across from me.
See, this is why it’s always a good idea to call before dropping in on people — it’s so awkward when you catch them in the manic phase.
“The police are investigating, right?” I said cautiously. “Don’t they have any theories on what happened?”
He leaned forward, said bleakly, “Do you think it doesn’t reach to the police department?”
Beyond the distant roar of downtown traffic, I heard the theme from the Twilight Zone playing. Or maybe the Mephisto Waltz.
“Do I think what doesn’t reach to the police department?”
He glared at me. Apparently he was afraid to say The Word. “Like you really don’t know,” he said bitterly, at last.
“I really don’t know.”
“Then I’m sorry for you.” He took another gulp from his glass. “Because you’re probably next.”
I lowered my glass. “Why would I be next?”
“Why not? They targeted you, didn’t they? The Sign of the Demon?”
“How do you know about that?”
He didn’t answer. I guess good news traveled fast in Bob’s circle.
I tried to inspect him without being too obvious about it. He didn’t look well: his face puffy, eyes red-rimmed, lips chapped. He needed a shave. In fact, he needed a bath.
I asked, “Did the disk ever show up?”
He shook his head. “They have it. They have Gabe. But they don’t have me. And they’re not going to get me. They may get you, but they’re not getting me.”
I sighed, wishing he’d stop with the they’re gonna get you riff. “You shared all this with the police?”
“The police think this is all a publicity stunt.”
“Why would they think that?”
He glared at me. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Oh, I explained it, as much as I know. But I don’t know much, do I? No. Because Gabe had to keep it all to himself; this was his project, his baby, so I don’t know anything. There isn’t any reason for them to come after me. Unless Gabe lied to save his own skin.”
I ignored most of that. “But why would the police think that this is a publicity stunt?”
“Because someone” — he leaned so far forward that he nearly tipped out of his chair — “some anonymous person called the cops and told them that Gabe had a habit of taking…stress breaks.”
Stress breaks? Did that mean a drinking binge or booking time at a private hospital?
“He does?”
He gave me another of those red-rimmed glares.
“So…the police think that Gabe disappeared voluntarily?”
He jerked a nod. “So they say,” he said thickly, at last.
“Is that a possibility?”
He said dully, “No. Not this time.”
But other times. That did kind of change matters, at least from the police perspective.
“How long do these stress breaks usually last?”
He got up as though he couldn’t bear to sit still any longer. The metal object in his drooping bathrobe pocket knocked loudly against the end table, and I flinched. I hoped the thing didn’t go off while I was in the room.
Refreshing his drink, he answered, “A few days. A week once. But that time was different. He got married that time.”
I counted backward. Gabe had been gone six days so far.
“So he’s married?”
Bob made a wet sound between a snort a
nd a raspberry — not very attractive. “No. It lasted eight months.”
“Might he have met someone? Or is there already someone in his life? Girlfriend, maybe?”
“Several. He’s the proverbial chick magnet.”
Okay, so he wasn’t gay. And he and Bob were definitely not involved. If anything, Bob was jealous of Gabe’s success with women.
“Does he have any kids?”
“God, no.” He looked at me like I’d suggested something truly aberrant.
“Does he have any enemies?”
He gaped at me. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing. You seem sure that he didn’t take off on his own volition. Maybe he was…kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped!”
“Well, he’s fairly wealthy, I assume?”
A funny look crossed Bob’s face. He slowly put the glass to his mouth and drank, his eyes unfocused.
“His publisher would pay to get him back, I’m guessing.”
“He wasn’t kidnapped!”
“No? No ransom note? No demands?”
I didn’t think for a moment that Gabe had been kidnapped. If he had been, law enforcement would have been all over the case. I wanted to hear what Bob had to say on the subject.
“These people don’t want ransom!”
“You said the night of the signing that Gabe was under a lot of pressure. If he did take off on his own, where would he go? Would he go home?”
“New England in the winter?” He gave a short laugh. “Not likely. He prefers the sunnier climes.” He laughed unsteadily and raised his glass again. “Some like it hot, that’s what they say, right?”
“Did he change his will after he was divorced?”
“No. Yes.” He slopped his drink. “I don’t remember.” He stared at me. “What kind of a question is that? In fact, why are you asking all these questions?”
I said apologetically, “I guess it’s the mystery writer in me.”
He continued to stare at me in glassy-eyed offense.
I decided to push my luck. “You and Gabe must be pretty close after all these years?”
“Yeah, we’re close. We’re like brothers.” He held up two intertwined fingers, which is not actually how I think of brothers. “We’ve been together since…for…you know? And I do not like your insinuations.”