“What about Jaimie Kincaid?”
“Kid’s clean. And, believe me, we went at him hard. The DA’s office really liked him for it at first. Pretty young faggot, lovers’ quarrel. So we really put him through it. He stuck to his story. We got a search warrant and went through his place, gave it the works. Nada. No physical evidence whatsoever connecting him to the murder. Given that Marillo bled like a stuck pig, it would’ve been hard to get rid of every last drop. Footprints aren’t his, either.”
“So you’ve let him go?”
“Yup.”
“I told you he didn’t do it.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You?”
Arvo took a sip of Coke. “I talked to Sarah’s shrink, Dr Fermor, on the phone. Seems Sarah was pretty much in isolation while she was out at the Shelley Clinic, and she didn’t form any relationships at all, even at a distance. I also phoned Stan Harvey, who promoted the Gary Knox tour in LA. He put me on to a guy called Carl Buxton down in Orange County. I’m going to see him in a couple of days, when he gets back from Mexico. This guy was the drummer on the tour. He should have some firsthand knowledge of what went on.”
“What makes you think that’ll help?”
“Well, if the killer really does know Sarah from somewhere, from what I’ve heard that tour might have attracted more than a few crazy hangers-on. I want to see if Buxton remembers anyone in particular. Sarah disappeared from public view for over a year after she split with Knox, then she resurfaced, with a new name, as the star in a major network series. The timing makes sense, Joe. It also gives him a year to brood over his lost love.”
“But wouldn’t she remember someone like that?”
“Not necessarily. Dr Fermor also told me that Sarah’s illness might cause some memory loss. If that period of her life is really as hazy as it seems, then the illness might explain why she doesn’t remember. Some sort of retrograde amnesia. When I first talked to her, I was sure that ‘Little Star’ meant something. Maybe the truth is that she can’t remember exactly what it means, or who said it. Maybe it was someone on the periphery. A guy like this wouldn’t need much to set him off. Maybe she smiled at him once.”
“I guess. But what’s he after, Arvo? That’s what I don’t get. Is he just trying to scare her?”
“Scare her? No, I don’t think so. Not the way he sees it. Mostly, he’s trying to impress her.”
“What? By killing people in front of her, dropping them at her feet? I’ve worked homicide a few years now, and I thought I’d seen pretty much everything, but this scenario... ” He shook his head.
Arvo finished his chili dog, dropped the wrapper in a garbage bin and took a long swig of Coke to cool the heat in his mouth. “Like a cat does,” he said. “Ever noticed that, Joe? We had a cat when I was a kid. Called him Watson. My father’s idea. He was a criminology prof. Anyway, he got run over when I was about twelve — Watson, not my father. But the point is, I remember him once getting on the roof, killing a pigeon and bringing it in his mouth through the bedroom window and dropping it on the floor in front of me looking for approval. My pa yelled at him and threw the pigeon out in the garbage, but goddammit if he didn’t come back with another half an hour later. And another after that. No matter what we said. And what I remember especially is that look on his face: ‘See what I’ve done for you? Isn’t it wonderful? Love me for it.’”
“You saying this guy’s the same? But surely he must know how much he is scaring her, whether he means to or not?”
“He’s out to impress her, he’s looking for approval, but he’s tuned in so close to his own frequency that he doesn’t hear her screaming at him to stop. It’s like he’s watching a different movie from the rest of us, Joe. To him, screams signify love, and murder gains respect.”
“Where is she now?”
“Sarah? She’s at the studio. Then she’s going to stay with Stu in Brentwood until this is all over. They’ll have a bodyguard watching over them, and Stu’s no slouch. Also, I want to put the beach house under surveillance, though I think he’s smart enough not to show up there again.”
Joe dropped his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and ground it out with his heel. “Is she in serious danger,” he asked, “or is it just the people around her?”
“You read the letters, Joe. That weird stuff about the mirrors of the sea, cutting away the flesh and all. Now he’s jealous as hell, too, going out of control. Love, approval, jealousy, murder — they’re all mixed up together for him. And he says he’s coming for her soon. The gloves are off now. I sure as hell hope she doesn’t have to face him alone.”
28
The black stretch-limo left Stuart’s Brentwood home at ten in the morning on December 31. Karen, Leora and Ben had come back from Santa Barbara for the day, and they sat in the car along with Stuart and Sarah.
The three days Sarah had spent at Stuart’s house had been uneventful. Every evening Arvo phoned to make sure everything was okay. Sarah was getting used to his concern, but she still resented his intrusion into her life, the way he seemed to have taken control out of her hands, and she still felt annoyed that he had seen her naked.
As it turned out, Jack’s murder meant that there was a lot of work to do at the studio, retaking scenes, rethinking plot lines and so on. At least work took Sarah’s mind off her problems part of the time. Pity it was so bloody depressing on the set without Jack.
So it had been a simple routine: drive to the studio, work, drive back to Brentwood, read or watch TV, then sleep. Every time they went back to the house, the bodyguard, Zak, drove on ahead to check the place out. He was close to them even now, on the way to the funeral. The saving grace was that his presence was so unobtrusive Sarah hadn’t even seen him yet.
The day was warm and hazy inland. As they drove through Sepulveda Pass on the freeway, cool and comfortable in the luxury car, Sarah glanced through the separating glass and the windshield and saw the San Fernando Valley spread out below them, its neat little blocks of grid-work streets stretching as far as the distant mountains, all shimmering under a thin veneer of amber smog.
She remembered what a powerful sight it had been the first time she saw it, which must have been that evening Jack took her for Thanksgiving dinner at his folks’ house in Northridge. She had never had any reason to go to the Valley before that; she didn’t know anyone who lived there. It was night time then, and all she could see were the lights spread out across the broad, flat valley-bottom as far as the eye could see. It was like seeing the city from a plane coming in to land.
Closer to home, Jack had shown her the earthquake damage, too: a three-story apartment building collapsed to two; a Bullock’s store with the entire roof caved in; house after house fenced off, waiting for demolition. Jack’s parents had been lucky; all they lost was their chimney and a few roof tiles.
After heavy traffic on the Simi Valley Freeway, the limo finally pulled up at the cemetery at ten to eleven, ten minutes before the service was set to begin.
It was a small funeral, only immediate family members, a few personal friends, like Jaimie, and colleagues from the show, such as Sarah, Stuart and Lisa, who turned a few heads in a black gown cut just an inch or so too low for the occasion.
Network security and Jack’s family had done a great job of keeping the media at bay. There was a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, but that was about all. No TV cameras. Arvo Hughes was there, Sarah noticed as she followed Stuart into the cool chapel, and his presence felt like an intrusion into the privacy of her grief.