'Shull got the tickets. Who'd he go with?' 'No one, only one ticket was used. It's not proof positive Shull was actually there, he could always claim he gave the ticket away, too. But it was enough - along with my assurances that we're highly likely to pull a DNA match to the hairs on Mehrabian to nudge Judge
Foreman into granting me a limited warrant for Shull's house. After I'm through in Pasadena, I'm driving out to Foreman's house. After that, we converge on Faithful Scrivener. Foreman lives out in Porter Ranch, so I'm figuring at least three, four hours before everything's in place.'
'Where's Shull, now?'
'Last time I talked to Petra he was still home, but that was hours ago. The plan's for an early-morning surprise, say 2 A.M. If he night crawls, Stahl and Petra tail and we take the house. If he's home, we all party.'
'How limited is the warrant?'
'I've requested permission to confiscate all written materials as well as personal belongings of victims, low E guitar strings, and weapons. Reason I'm calling is I want to know if you've got any other suggestions before I complete the application.'
'Audio- and videotapes,' I said. 'Sketch pads, drawings, paintings. Any medium in which Shull might express himself.'
'You're saying he re-creates the killings.'
'There's a good chance he does.'
'Okay,' he said. 'Thanks... this is good, I'm up for it. Time to give him a bad review.'
As I neared Montana Street, the cell beeped again. This time I ignored it.
Thinking what a beautiful night it was. Wondering what Allison would be wearing.
Slow night; a couple of drive-by trawlers, no takers, and some of the women were lounging in the shadows, smoking.
Petra left her Accord two blocks down, continued on foot, found a vantage point near some garbage bins outside a toy warehouse and watched for a while. The air stank of vinyl and fuel. Every so often jumbo jets roared overhead, assaulting the sky.
She took her 9 m.m. out of her purse and transferred it to the lightweight mesh holster that rode her hip, concealed by a loose, black jacket. Richard Tyler mark-down, a real bargain. Way too nice for this kind of thing but the way her life had been going a bit of couture was her sole link to civilization.
What would Tyler think, seeing his duds on Prostie Avenue?
She decided to make her move, walked toward the hookers, aiming for nonchalance but feeling the chill of anxiety. As she passed the first two women, both black, they dangled their cigarettes and stared. One said, 'Hey, sister, you like to munch?'
Giggles.
'Cause I ready for anything.'
Petra continued walking. One of the women called out: 'You ain't even thinking of setting up here, Skin-nylegs, cause this is private property and you dressed for Beverly Hills.'
More laughter, but an edge to it.
Someone with a high, nasal voice said, 'Privates property.'
Receptive audience for the wisecrack. Petra looked for the comedian. A big smirk said it was her quarry: the stocky brunette white girl in the red vinyl ensemble.
Smiling at Petra. Petra smiled back and the woman cocked a hip. The hot pants were tight, ruby sausage casing for flaccid pale flesh. The woman's face was broad, coarse, appeared well beyond middle age, though Petra guessed her age as late twenties.
'Hey,' she said.
Red Vinyl said, 'What can I do for you?'
Petra smiled again, and the woman's hands balled. 'What you lookin' at?'
Petra stepped close, flashed the badge.
The woman said, 'So?'
'I want to talk to you.'
'Talk's by the hour.'
'Here or at the office,' said Petra. 'Your choice.'
'For what?'
'For your safety.' Checking to see that none of the other hookers had inched closer and keeping her eye on the brunette, Petra produced a business card and her penlight and directed a beam on the small print.
The prostitute turned her head, refused to read.
Petra said, 'Take a look.'
Red Vinyl finally complied, lips moving laboriously. Home - horn - icide.
'Someone got killed?'
A jet killed the silence. Then: staccato clatter as the other hookers hurried over. They crowded around Petra, but she felt safe - they were scared.
'Whusup?' said someone.
Petra said, 'That guy who was just here, in the gray Cadillac'
'Oh, him,' said Red Vinyl.
'You know him?'
'He bad? He never been bad to me.'
'I never liked him,' said one of the black women.
'He don't go for you,' said Red Vinyl, shaking her bosoms. Prostie-pride, but forced.
Petra said, 'What's his thing?'
'What'd he do?' insisted Red Vinyl.
Petra smiled.
Red Vinyl said, 'You don't need to do that.'
'Do what?' said Petra.
'Smile like that. It's freaky.'
She drew the woman aside, wrote down the undoubtedly phony name, printed on an impressively state-sealed, bogus California ID.
Alexis Gallant. Alleged address in Westchester.
All Gallant could - or would - tell her was that A. Gordon Shull was a somewhat-regular customer with mundane sexual tastes.
One to three times a month, oral sex, no kinky demands, no complications.
'He takes a little long, but big deal. If they were all like him, my life would be easy.'
Petra shook her head.
'What?' Gallant protested. 'You ain't tellin' me nothin', and what I know is he likes to be blowed.'
'What about the girl who was murdered around here a while back?'
'Shaneen? That was a pimp thing.'
'My colleagues say she and her pimp got along.'
'Your colleagues got they heads up they asses. And that's all I'm sayin'.'
'Suit yourself, Alexis. But Mr Caddy's bad news.'
'You say.'
'Why you being stubborn, Alexis?'
The woman mumbled something.
'What's that?'
'It ain't easy makin' a livin.'
'Ain't that the truth,' said Petra.
Stahl followed the Cadillac to the street where Kevin Drummond's car had been abandoned. A. Gordon Shull parked but kept his engine idling, got out of his car, raised his arms to the sky, and stretched.
Stahl heard something sickening.
Shull howling at the moon.
waving a fist as he did it. Starring in his own private movie. Stahl's hands were cool on the steering wheel. Just the two of them, so easy...
He sat there, and Shull shook his head like a wet dog, returned to the Cadillac, continued another five blocks west to a self-storage unit.
The sign said twenty-four-hour access, but Shull just slowed down, didn't stop. Stahl made a note of the address as the Cadillac put on speed, zipped another half mile, then took a side-street route that forced Stahl to cut his lights again.
They emerged on Howard Hughes Boulevard, where Shull switched direction, yet again. North, back toward the city.
Back to Venice, where Shull, once again, drove west on Rose.
Asshole was on a memory-jog. What memories were here?
Back to the walkway, again? Had Shull done someone here?
But this time, instead of continuing to the end of the road, the Cadillac swung a right onto a side street -Rennie.
Dark block of one-story bungalows and tiny houses.
Shull cruised up, down, up, down.
Stahl wanted to follow but the narrow quiet street made it way too risky. He remained on Rose, close enough to the corner to follow Shull's headlights. Tail-lights.
Back and forth.
The memory of the howl reverbed in Stahl's head.
Bastard saw himself as a big bad predator.
Allison was waiting for me outside her office.
Black suit, orange scarf. Her hair was tied up in a chignon.
She got into the car before I could come around and open the door. Before the dome light switched off I saw that the suit was actually dark green. 'Great color.'
'Black emerald. Glad you like it, I bought it for tonight.' She pecked my cheek. 'You hungry? I'm famished.'
The Bel Air dining room's one of those places that can be nearly full, but still quiet. Irish coffee for her, gin and tonic for me. The complimentary ramekins of soup, then salad, rack of lamb, Dover sole, a bottle of Pinot Grigio. A real waiter, not a pretty-face biding time till the next big break. A man I recognized - one of the Salvadoran busboys who'd earned his way up doing the job well.
We'd made it to dessert when he approached the table looking pained. 'Sorry, Doctor, there's a call for you.'
'Who?'
'Your answering service. They insist.'
I used the phone in the bar. The operator said, 'This is June, I'm sorry to bother you, Dr Delaware, but this guy
keeps on calling, claims it's urgent. He sounds pretty
agitated, so I figured...' The phone ring I'd ignored in the car. 'Detective
Sturgis?'
'No, a Mr Tim Plachette. Did I do right?' 'Sure,' I said, wondering. 'Put him through.'
Tim said, 'Where is she?'
'Robin?'
'Who else?' He was talking loud, nearly shouting, and his gorgeous voice had lost its silk.
'I have no idea, Tim.'
'Don't screw with me, Alex-'
'Last I heard she was in San Francisco with you.'
Pause. 'You'd better be leveling with me.'
'I'm out to dinner, Tim. I'm going to hang up, now-'
'No!' he shouted. 'Please.'
I took a deep breath.
He said, 'I'm sorry, I assumed... it was logical.'
'What was?'
'Robin being with you. She left this morning... we had a fight. I figured she'd run back to you. I'm sorry... where is she?'
'If I knew, I'd tell you, Tim.'
'If you asked me what the fight was about, I couldn't tell you. One minute we were getting along and the next... my fault, I was too damn busy, didn't pay her enough attention, this lousy show-'
'I'm sure you'll work it out, Tim.'
'You didn't.'
I let that ride.
'Sorry,' he said. 'I'm being a total asshole, I'm really
sorry. It's just that she was so angry with me, I assumed she went back because... the truth is, she still feels for you, Alex. It's something I've been dealing with. It's not easy-'
'You have nothing to worry about,' I said. 'I'm having dinner with another woman. Someone I've been seeing for a while-'
'The psychologist. Robin told me. She talks about you more than she realizes. Tries to be casual about it... I'm willing to put up with it if it's just a matter of time... I really love her, Alex.'
'She's a great woman.'
'She is, she is... goddamn, if she's not with you, where the hell is she? Her flight got in at five, I gave her an hour and a half to get home, called, got no answer. Called again, kept calling-'
'Try her friend Debby, in San Diego.'
'I did. She hasn't heard from Robin, either.'
'She probably just needs time by herself,' I said, feeling my stomach knot.
'I know, I know... okay, I'll keep trying. Listen, thanks, Alex. Sorry for being such a moron. I shouldn't have presumed-'
'Don't worry about it,' I said.
Easier said than done.
When I got back to the table, Allison said, 'You look like you just handled a crisis.'
'I suppose I did.'
'Anything you'd care to talk about?'
My mind was racing and shutting her out seemed wrong. I recounted Tim's call.
'Nice of you to calm him down,' she said.
"That's me, Father Teresa.'
She sidled over, showed me the dessert menu.
'Whatever you're in the mood for,' I said.
Allison said, 'Too full for dessert?'
'No, I'm just not picky.'
