No Cure for Love Page 2

  Sarah recognized a couple of bit-part actors she had worked with on the series and said hello as she passed by. Most of the diners, however, were tanned, female shoppers taking a break from Rodeo Drive, the ultra-chic Melrose or La Brea.

  Wherever she ate, Sarah tried to guess whether the waiters were aspiring actors or screenwriters. This one, who introduced himself as Mark, was tall, with dark good looks, a muscled body and sleek black hair tied in a ponytail. Definitely an aspiring actor. Rarely had Sarah known writers to look as good as that.

  Stuart looked at the tables crammed close together in the small patio area. “Fuck,” he complained, “these things must multiply overnight. And I thought this place was supposed to be so crowded nobody comes here any more.”

  Sarah raised her eyebrows.

  “Yogi Berra,” Stuart explained.

  “What?”

  “Yogi Berra. You know, the baseball guy. Known for his redundancies and non sequiturs.”

  Sarah shook her head. Mark scraped her chair back over the terracotta and beckoned her to sit. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, where a parkful of greenery climbed and entwined, occasionally offering a white or red blossom to the close observer. Mark explained the specials, then handed them menus, handwritten on laminated fuchsia cards about four feet by two.

  “‘It ain’t over till it’s over,’” Stuart tried. “‘It’s déjà vu all over again.’”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve heard that before.” Sarah thought she should mollify him a little.

  Stuart beamed. “See. Yogi Berra. He said that.”

  Sarah laughed. Stuart Kleigman was about fifty years old and twenty pounds overweight, tanned, wore black-rimmed glasses and had sparse silver-gray hair swept back to reveal a pronounced widow’s peak.

  Dressed very conservatively for Hollywood, in an expensive lightweight gray suit and cheap maroon-and-ivory striped tie, he always stood out among the Hollywood crowd, with their silk shirts buttoned up to the top, their T-shirts, jeans and running shoes. Stuart’s shoes were handmade in Italy, and the black leather was so highly polished that you could see your face in them. He reminded Sarah of a bank manager from one of those fifties American comedies that ran day and night in syndication: I Love Lucy or The Beverly Hillbillies.

  Stuart was head of casting at the studio, but he had also become her friend, and he meant more to her than anyone else in the country; he had believed in her, given her a chance at fame and fortune, without demanding anything in return. But it was more than that; he had given her back her self-respect and her confidence. Well, some of it, anyway.

  She turned back to the menu. California cuisine. It never failed to amaze her. Back in Yorkshire, where she had been born and raised, the standard fare was fish and chips—fries, as they were called here—with a side order of mushy peas and maybe, for the truly adventurous, a dollop of curry sauce on the chips. A salad usually consisted of one limp, translucent lettuce leaf with a thin slice of greenish yellow tomato squatting on top of it, and there was generally a bottle of salad cream nearby, too, if you really wanted it.

  Now, though, here she was in Hollywood trying to decide between a Swiss chard and leek frittata or Belgian endive and dandelion greens with Cabernet vinaigrette. Salad dressings alone must be a growth industry in California, she thought. If only her mother could see her now. Or her father. She could just picture him scanning the menu with a scowl on his face and finally commenting, “There’s nowt edible here,” most likely within the hearing of the chef.

  Finally, she decided on the endive and dandelion with a glass of Evian water. Stuart went for rosemary chicken strips and fettucini with sun-dried tomato and garlic cream, but then he always did overeat. That was why he was twenty pounds overweight.

  “Going to Jack’s birthday party tonight?” Stuart asked after Mark had disappeared with their order.

  Sarah sighed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “That’s my girl. I’ll pick you up at eight. So where’s this letter you were telling me about on the way here?”

  Sarah opened her purse, took out the letter and handed it to him. “It’s probably nothing, really,” she said. “I just . . .”

  Stuart pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and frowned as he read.

  “Hmm,” he said, putting it back in the envelope. “I’ve seen worse. I’d say the real mystery is why you haven’t had anything like this before now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Stuart waved the envelope. “This kind of thing. It’s all over the place in this business. Occupational hazard. Everybody gets them. Fuck’s sake, Sarah, you’re a beautiful woman. You’re in the public eye. Hardly surprising some fucking wacko has decided he’s in love with you, excuse my French.”

  “But what should I do?” Sarah asked. “Should I go to the police?”

  “I can’t see that they could do very much.”

  “It’s the third,” Sarah admitted.

  Stuart raised his eyebrows. “Even so. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Believe me, I’ve seen dozens of these things, much worse than this. These guys are usually so sick all they can do is write letters. If he ever met you face to face he’d probably crap his pants if he didn’t come in his shorts first.”

  “Stuart, you’re disgusting.”

  “I know. But you still love me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  “I’ve heard of cases where they turn violent,” Sarah said. “Rebecca Shaeffer. Didn’t she get shot by someone who wrote letters to her? And what about that man who shot Reagan to impress Jodie Foster?”

  “Hey, look, kid, we’re talking about serious wackos there. This guy, he’s just . . . You’ve only got to read the letter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he’s even fairly literate, for a start. Most of the guys who write these things don’t know how to spell or put a sentence together. What’s with this “Little Star” business, anyway? Someone been listening to Little Anthony and the Imperials?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know.” But even as she spoke, a faint, distant bell rang deep in the darkest part of her memory, sounding a warning.

  “Sure it doesn’t mean anything to you?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “And he calls you Sally, too.”

  “Yes. But he could have got that from the TV Guide interview. Or maybe Entertainment Tonight.”

  “I guess so. That was a great feature on ET, by the way. Should up your profile a few notches.”

  They kept quiet as Mark delivered their food. It looked very pretty—nicely color-coordinated—and it tasted good, too.

  “I just don’t want you to worry, sweetheart, that’s all,” said Stuart.

  “It is a little scary,” Sarah admitted. “I’ve had fan letters before, back home, and some of them were a bit racy, maybe, but . . . I mean, he says he knows me.”

  “In his dreams.”

  “I think someone’s been watching me through binoculars, too. I’ve seen them glint in the sun.”

  “You don’t know that for sure. Same way you can’t really believe him when he says he knows you from somewhere. Sarah, these guys live in a fantasy world. They watch you on television once and think they’ve known you forever. They read about you in a fan magazine, find out your favorite color, foods and zodiac sign and they think they know your most intimate secrets.”

  Sarah shrugged. “I know. But even so . . .”

  “Look, when are you going back home?”

  “Thursday.”

  “How’s your father doing, by the way?”

  Sarah stirred her food with her fork and shook her head. “Not so well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But listen to my point. In a couple of days you’ll be gone, miles away in England. Right?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “How long?”

  “Nearly a fortnight.”

  “A “fortnight”?”

  Sarah smiled. “T
wo weeks.” She was getting used to having to explain herself to Americans.

  “Okay. So by the time you get back, your Romeo will have probably found someone new to pester.”

  “You think so?”

  “I guarantee it. Look, if you want, I can arrange with the post office to have your mail sent through me or the studio, get it vetted. A lot of people do that.”

  “Maybe that’s a good idea,” Sarah said.

  “Consider it done.”

  Mark appeared again out of nowhere and asked if their meals were all right. Given the attention they were getting, Sarah suspected he had recognized Stuart as a casting director. They told him things were fine and he faded back into the greenery. Sarah hadn’t been aware of the conversations around her, but now she heard low voices, the occasional burst of laughter, drinks rattling on a tray.

  Stuart spread his hands. “You’re welcome to come stay with Karen and me till you leave, if you want.”

  “No. Thanks, Stuart, but I’ll be okay.”

  Stuart picked up the letter. “Can I keep this? There’s a guy I’d like to show it to, just to get his opinion. Like I said, it’s nothing, but maybe he can put you a bit more at ease.”

  “A policeman?”

  “Uh-huh. He can at least have a look at the letter, reassure you there’s nothing to worry about. It’s his job. He deals with shit like this all the time. He’s an expert.”

  “Okay,” said Sarah.

  Mark came back and asked them about dessert. Sarah only wanted a decaf cappuccino, but Stuart went for the pink gingered pear compote with cassis, which was duly delivered.

  “Now,” he said when Mark had vanished again. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to do this Nora in this . . . what is it?”

  “A Doll’s House. Ibsen.”

  “Right. Are you sure it’s a good idea to do this thing on Broadway?”

  “I should be so lucky. Jane Fonda played her in a movie.”

  “That’s right,” Stuart said. “That’s right, she did. Now I recall.” He paused, ate a spoonful of compote, then fixed her with a serious gaze and said, “But, Sarah, sweetheart, think about it. Do you really want to end up making exercise videos and marrying a millionaire tycoon?”

  “Well, I suppose there are worse things in life,” she said, laughing. But her laughter had a brittle, nervous edge.

  4

  SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?” MARIA ASKED, LOOKING at her watch.

  Arvo shrugged. “Give him fifteen, twenty minutes, then we’re out of here.”

  It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon. Detectives Arvo Hughes and Maria Hernandez, from the Threat Management Unit of the LAPD, had been sitting in a diner near Sunset and Vine for almost two hours waiting for Sandi Gaines’s self-styled boyfriend, Chuck, to turn up.

  Last week, Sandi, who worked as a waitress in the diner, had been referred to the TMU by Hollywood Division. A guy called Chuck, whom she had dated casually once or twice and then ditched, had been pestering her, phoning and making threats and racist insults. He had also walked into the diner the last two Tuesdays, just after the lunchtime rush, and acted weirdly, threatening to kill her and himself if she didn’t give him another chance.

  On both occasions, Sandi had been able to persuade him to leave without much trouble, but she was shaken and worried. So Arvo and Maria were here to talk to him. The detectives on the TMU usually worked alone, except on interventions like this. Arvo didn’t expect any trouble, and rarely got any, but you had to be careful. The simple obsessionals—the ones you had known and been emotionally involved with—were by far the most dangerous kind of stalkers.

  The diner was an old-style bar and grill, with a lot of brass around the bar and booths separated by dark wood panels. The tablecloths were starched white linen, the benches plush red leather, and paintings of coastal scenes hung on the burgundy walls.

  The owners had made a couple of seasonal concessions, including a fold-out Santa Claus on the wall, a few streamers on the ceiling, fluttering in the draft from the air conditioner, and red and green napkins on the tables.

  A shabby Christmas tree, about three feet high, stood in the corner near the entrance to the men’s room. One or two gift-wrapped packages had been placed underneath it, presents from staff members to one another, most likely. Or empty boxes. It wouldn’t do to leave your Christmas presents lying around in open view in a place like this.

  “So tell me about Nyreen while we’re waiting,” Maria said. “You never did tell me how you met.”

  Arvo laughed. “On a stake-out. Can you believe it?”

  “Like this one?”

  “No. No, this was a Hollywood job.” He looked around. “I mean celebrity Hollywood, not like this place. This soap star, he’d been getting weird letters from a female fan for about a year. She’d send him locks of her hair, toenail clippings, you know the routine. Once she even sent him a used tampon.”

  Maria wrinkled her nose.

  “Anyway, she approached him a few times at public events and eventually he found her lurking around his neighbourhood, going through his trash, that sort of thing. We’re not talking Beverly Hills security here, you understand. The guy wasn’t that big. I think he lived in West LA, if I remember correctly. Anyway, when he got a temporary restraining order against her, she sent him a death threat, said she’d carry it out where all his friends could see. So what does he do? He holds this big birthday bash at The Bistro, and we’re there running interference in case she turns up.”

  “Did she?”

  Arvo shook his head. “Nope. While we were soaking up the Parisian ambience and stuffing ourselves with gravlax and swordfish, she was hanging herself in Orange County with the cord from her bathrobe. A neighbor found her two days later.”

  Maria shook her head. Her mass of shiny black curls bounced around her shoulders. She had a dark complexion, with warm hazel eyes where humor and sadness mingled, a small, straight nose and full lips that looked as if they were shaped for long, lingering kisses.

  Arvo could make out the outline of her white bra under the cotton blouse, cupping her full breasts, and though he couldn’t see at the moment, he knew that her small waist swelled gently into hips that looked sensational in tight jeans. So sensational, in fact, that he thought she should be doing ads. Maybe she should audition, get an agent. Lots of cops moonlighted.

  Arvo pulled himself up short. Only in LA from Detroit three years himself and already starting to think like a native. Scary.

  Some of the guys said Maria was gay, but Arvo suspected that was because they had made their pitches and struck out. She was funny and smart as well as being a great-looking woman, and a lot of men felt threatened by that. Born into a large, poor immigrant family—her father was a cab driver in San Diego—she had worked her way through school as a waitress and got a degree in psychology. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, she was a valuable member of the TMU. Nobody talked down to Maria Hernandez and got away with it.

  Sandi came by and topped up their coffees. From where Arvo sat, he could see the door. He always liked to sit with his back to a wall and his eyes on the door. Sandi said she’d give him the nod when Chuck walked in. It was ten after three now, and the crowd had thinned out since lunch. Apart from one group of five celebrating someone’s birthday at the table near the window, the place was empty.

  Arvo looked at his watch. “Is he likely to come this late?” he asked.

  Sandi nodded. “Says where he works they sometimes have late lunches.”

  “But he didn’t say where he worked?”

  Sandi shook her head. “Nope. Just said he worked in movies, that’s all, the lying creep.”

  Jesus, Arvo thought, looking at the statuesque Sandi in her micro-skirt and white silk blouse, with her model-school posture and chocolate-colored, beauty-clinic skin, does everyone around here want to get in the movies?

  “I just hope you catch the bastard trying something that’ll land his ass in jail and out of my face, that�
�s all,” Sandi said, turning away.

  It was an unfortunate turn of phrase, Arvo thought. He looked at Maria, who raised her eyes and smiled. “What about when you met Nyreen?” she asked. “You didn’t get to that.”

  Arvo sighed. “Ah, Nyreen. Well, she was at that party I was telling you about. She worked in public relations for the studio.” He held his hands out, palms up. “What can I say? I fell for her right there and then. Love at first sight. She was blond and beautiful. She seemed bright and she had a great body. She was also full of life and vitality, and she laughed a lot. Two weeks later we were married, and nine months later it was over.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  “I didn’t know that. So you really waited till you’d got to know each other first, right?”

  “Okay. No need to rub it in.”

  “What I don’t understand is how an intelligent guy like you could fall for a bimbo like Nyreen. I’m sorry, Arvo, but I mean it.”

  Arvo shook his head. “Whatever Nyreen might be, she’s not a bimbo. But how did it happen?” He shrugged. “Hormones, I guess. Lapse of judgement. I don’t know. If we could explain things like that, I suppose life would be a hell of a lot easier.”

  Maria laughed and touched him lightly on the arm. “And maybe a lot more boring, too,” she added.

  Arvo looked out past the neon Coors sign in the window, where the sun flashed on the windshields of the passing cars. The air-conditioner hummed and the atmosphere in the diner felt cool and clammy. He didn’t want to think or talk about Nyreen any more. Talking about her just made his guts knot up and his chest constrict. Made him feel stupid, too.

  “Anyway,” Maria went on, maybe sensing Arvo’s mood shift, “it just goes to show you, doesn’t it?”