“But why check the rental outlets? We already know Cameron drives a red Honda Civic.”
“Because Sarah Broughton said she saw Zak’s silver Toyota in the carport at Stu’s house. Since we know it can’t have been Zak’s, Mitch must have gone and rented the same model, same color.”
Joe whistled. “Know how many car rental agencies there are in LA? Know how many people per day rent cars?”
“We’re only interested in silver Toyotas rented over the last three or four days. That should narrow things down a bit.”
“Uh-huh. Any other bright ideas?”
“One,” said Arvo. “We know that about the only work the guy’s done is security, club bouncer, and that he thinks he belongs in the rock business. Now, we can easily find out if he’s working for any of the big, official security companies like Loomis or Brinks because he’d have to be bonded, right?”
“Right. We have, and he isn’t.”
“Okay. So if he is working, he’s probably somewhere they pay cash, no questions asked.”
“Like a bar or a nightclub?”
“Exactly. Or a strip joint. Just like he did in San Francisco.”
“Great,” said Joe. “Only about ten thousand in the city.”
“You’re right.” Arvo rubbed his eyes. “Shit. There’s got to be another way. Let’s think it through. The guy comes into town with Mr. Big Shot, Gary Knox, and his entourage. He must have some pretty big ideas about himself, right?”
“Uh-huh. Then the goose that lays the golden eggs OD’s and the party’s over.”
“Right, and the entourage is cut loose. The band members drift off into session work, retirement, or whatever. It’s like the Stones without Mick.”
“The Vandellas without Martha.”
“Right. And I suppose the road crew and sound technicians find similar work with someone else.”
“And the hangers-on, the groupies?”
“They find someone else to fuck. Now, Mitch’s position is ambiguous, I’d guess. Nobody liked him but Gary, or so it appeared. So no one’s gonna take pity on him and give him a job. He’s got no real skills or talent and probably no money, given he got fired in San Francisco and skipped out owing the phone company.”
“So?”
“So he’s got a number of problems. He’s already got a car. Next, he needs somewhere to live. Then he needs a job.”
“A job without too many questions asked,” Joe added. “From what you’ve told me I doubt he’d get much of a reference from that broad in San Francisco.”
“You’re right there. But there’s something else. Mitch is a liar and a dreamer, a big talker. He thinks he’s got talent, thinks he’s got a future in the music business. He’s also a man with a powerful will. So, do you think he’s just gonna sit on his ass strumming his guitar, or work as a nightclub bouncer, till his big break comes?”
“If you’re thinking—”
Arvo leaned forward and put his hands palm down on the table. “An agent. It makes sense, Joe. Everyone in this city has an agent.”
Joe laughed. “That’s true enough. I even know a few cops have agents. Know how many of them there are?”
“I didn’t say it’d be quick, just that it would be worthwhile, maybe quicker than checking all the bars. And if we concentrate on small agents representing musical acts... What do you think?”
“Could be.”
Arvo smiled. “Unlimited resources,” he said. “That’s what the Chief told me.”
“What now?”
“First I’m gonna go home, take a shower and change my clothes. Then we’re going to make a concentrated effort to find Mitchell Lorne Cameron.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
And they walked out into the bright noon sun.
39
At three o’clock that same afternoon, still no closer to finding Mitchell Cameron, but at least clean and wearing a fresh set of clothes, Arvo pushed a wheelchair out of Cedars-Sinai right into a throng of newspeople waiting outside.
Sarah Broughton sat in the chair. Her right eye was swathed in bandages, and she was wearing a neck brace. She also wore dark glasses over the bandage to protect her one good eye against the bright January sun.
As soon as she hit the street, the questions began:
“Ms. Broughton, can you tell us why you were driving down Sunset Boulevard yesterday evening without a license?”
“Is there any truth in the rumor that you’ve been receiving death threats?”
“How will your injuries impact on Good Cop, Bad Cop?”
“Is it true that the network is thinking of axing the series?”
“Was it a publicity stunt?”
“Ms. Broughton, why were you in the car with Stuart Kleigman? Why had his wife and children gone to stay with family in Santa Barbara?”
“Do these letters have anything to do with Jack Marillo’s murder?”
“Ms. Broughton. What’s the connection between the body you found on the beach and the murder of Jack Marillo?”
“Are you being stalked, Ms. Broughton?”
“Could you comment on the statement made by Luanna Costello, the famous psychic, that someone has put a curse on Good Cop, Bad Cop?”
“Is it true that the killer cut the hearts out of both victims and mailed them to you?”
And so it came from all sides — from the Los Angeles Times to the National Enquirer, from CNN to KFMB — boom microphones, mini-cassette recorders, TV cameras. Just the way it had been when she arrived at LAX after the news of Jack’s murder.
Sarah kept her head down as Arvo helped her into the unmarked car, scanning the crowd and the surrounding area as he did so. He drove her the short distance round the block to Ma Maison Sofitel, the nearest hotel, on Beverly Boulevard.
Security at the beach house would be difficult to organize because the area was so open, Arvo had explained, so Sarah had agreed that even a hotel would be better than the hospital. At least it wouldn’t smell of antiseptic.
Arvo accompanied Sarah up to her room, then, after checking the locks on the door and window and assuring her that she would be well guarded, he left, reminding her to lock up after him.
One of the hotel employees had picked up some books that Sarah had requested in advance and placed them on the coffee table: Alan Bennett’s Writing Home, the latest William Boyd paperback and a Sharon McCone mystery by Marcia Muller. Beside them lay a New Yorker magazine and a copy of last week’s London Sunday Times. After all, they hadn’t got Mitch Cameron yet; she might be here for a while.
Alone, Sarah set the deadbolt, put the chain on and leaned against the door to take a deep breath. Then she went into the bathroom, took the bandages off and examined her bruises for the first time. By the looks of them, her eye had a whole rainbow of colors to go through yet. Arvo was right, though; the writers could probably work her injuries into the show the way they had written in Jack’s murder. Now the painkillers were wearing off, her face and head had started to ache.
Back in the room, she stood and looked out of the floor-to-ceiling window. It framed a spectacular and panoramic view from the eastern edge of the Santa Monica Mountains, on her left, through Beverly Hills to the Hollywood Hills to her right. The sky was pale blue, with a few swirls of cloud over the hills, and today there was hardly any smog to obscure the scene.