No Cure for Love Page 5

  Stuart handed over the letter and polished the lenses of his glasses. “It’s the third,” he said.

  Arvo picked up the envelope carefully and sniffed it first. You never knew. He had come across any number of enclosures in his time, from that used tampon the soap star had received to human excrement, dried oregano and even a half-eaten tuna salad sandwich.

  Nothing this time. Just a plain, clean paper smell. He took out the letter and examined the printed typeface, then he ran his finger carefully over the front and back of the single page. No indentations. Which probably meant a laser printer, most likely, or an inkjet. Very clean and impersonal.

  Arvo read the letter, then he put it down on the desk. He had seen hundreds of these things, and in most cases there was nothing to worry about; the suspect was unlikely to harm the victim, no matter how vile and terrifying his threats and fantasies looked on paper. In most cases, writing letters was about all they could manage.

  In most cases.

  But there was always the exception, the possibility. Victims had been hurt, even killed by people who started off writing letters. While Arvo couldn’t predict the level of danger, he could assess it statistically. But to do that he needed more than one letter. He needed a pattern of obsessive behavior he could analyze and compare to the profiles already on file.

  “Well?” asked Stuart. “You think there’s anything to worry about?”

  “What happened to the other two?”

  “She destroyed them.”

  “Did the subject sign a name on any of them?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  It was odd that the writer didn’t identify himself with anything other than the initial, M. Usually people who wrote letters like that wanted their victims to know who they were. This one seemed to want her to guess who he was, if the contents of the letter were to be believed. A big if.

  “Any phone calls?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about visits? Home or studio?”

  Stuart shook his head. “Not that we know of.”

  “Has anyone been stalking her?”

  “No. I mean, she did say she felt there might have been someone watching her from a distance. Through binoculars.” He shrugged. “Just a feeling, though.”

  “Could it be someone she’s dumped lately getting revenge, trying to scare her?” Arvo asked.

  Stuart leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. “Arvo, Sarah hasn’t been seeing anyone lately. In fact she hasn’t been seeing anyone all the time I’ve known her, which is nearly a whole year.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Anything like this ever happen to her before?”

  “Not that I know of. And she would’ve told me.”

  “Who’s “Little Star”?”

  “She doesn’t know.” Stuart shrugged. “Must be his pet name for her or something. Don’t they do things like that?”

  “They?”

  “The fucking perverts that write this garbage.”

  “Does the initial M mean anything to her?”

  “She says not.”

  “And?”

  “And I believe her.”

  “What about “Sally”?”

  “It’s her real name.”

  “Interesting,” said Arvo. “I’d like to talk to her.”

  Stuart rubbed his chin. “Well, that’ll be difficult,” he said. “She’s going back home for Christmas. England. Leaving tomorrow evening.”

  “I mean now. Is she around?”

  “She’s on the set. Working.”

  “Maybe she can take a short break.” Arvo picked up the phone and held it out.

  Stuart hesitated a moment, then sighed and took the receiver. “It’s sound stage eighteen,” he said, after a brief conversation. “They’ll be breaking for lunch in about twenty minutes, if you can hold on.”

  Arvo nodded and squinted at the envelope again. “Who is she, anyway, this Sarah Broughton?” he asked.

  Stuart flopped back in his chair. “Jesus Christ, Arvo! Sarah’s only one of the fastest-rising stars of one of the most successful television cop shows the networks have had in years, that’s all. She’s maybe not exactly a household name, but she will be by the end of the season, and you can quote me on that.”

  Arvo smiled. “I don’t watch much television. And I sure as hell don’t watch cop shows. Movies and books, sure, but TV . . .”

  Stuart waved his hand. “Your choice. I just can’t believe it, that’s all. You live in LA and you don’t watch much television. You might as well be on Mars. It’s like living in a fucking whorehouse and being celibate, for Christ’s sake.”

  That hit close to home; for the three months since Nyreen had gone, Arvo had been celibate. Now, he wasn’t quite sure whether it was due to choice or circumstance. “Believe it, Stu,” he said. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

  “Like what?”

  “Read. Think. Watch real movies. Try to recapture some of that lost childlike wonder. Try to make life easier for the Sarah Broughtons of this world.”

  “Uh? Right. Sure.”

  “So,” Arvo said. “Tell me about her.”

  All of a sudden a voice came over a loudspeaker from outside: “Come on out!” it yelled. “We’ve got the place surrounded. You can’t get away. Give yourself up now!”

  Stuart looked at Arvo and shrugged. “See what I mean? Believe me, it’s better with the TV set turned on.”

  Arvo rolled his eyes and gestured toward the window. “Are they serious?” he said. “That kind of talk went out with the rubber hosepipe. Who’ve you got for technical adviser on this one? A rookie?”

  “Why? Looking for a little extra work?”

  “Not me. Go on. Sarah Broughton.”

  “Right.” Stuart went over to his filing cabinet, slid out an eight-by-ten glossy and passed it over. Arvo looked at the black-and-white photograph. It showed the head and shoulders of a strikingly beautiful woman. Though she looked composed and capable, there was also a hint of vulnerability about her, the eyes especially.

  She had short blond hair with ragged bangs over a heart-shaped face; sensual lips with little dimples at each side; a small, slightly retroussé nose; and large, almond-shaped eyes. Arvo couldn’t tell from the black-and-white photograph, but he guessed they were blue. He found himself wanting to know exactly what shade of blue.

  Stuart leaned back and linked his hands behind his head. His belly hung over his black leather belt and Arvo noticed that one of the buttons on his white shirt was undone, giving a glimpse of pale pudgy flesh. “Sarah Broughton,” he began. “Her real name’s Sally Bolton. She’s a Brit. Comes from York-shire or some place like that. Got an accent, anyway.”

  “What kind of person is she?” Arvo asked.

  “Well, she’s a sweet kid, really. She’s very private, bit of a recluse in some ways. She’s taken a few hard knocks in her time and she’s still a little fragile. But she’s got guts. And she’s a hard worker—an incredibly hard worker—not to mention one hell of an actress. She started with rep over in England, then she went to the Royal Academy in London. Did a stint with the National Theatre—Larry Olivier’s people—acted in Shakespeare, Pinter, that kind of stuff. A few artsy British films. All flops. She appeared in a couple of Masterpiece Theatre and Mystery series, and then she dropped out of sight for a while. Now she plays Detective Anita O’Rourke in Good Cop, Bad Cop.”

  “Lousy title.”

  “I know. It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Does she live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Beach house in Pacific Palisades.”

  Arvo whistled. “You must be joking.”

  “Nah,” said Stuart. “She’s got a great deal. Place belongs to this eccentric old broad, used to be in movies. Probably silents, at that. Must be ninety if she’s a day. She had the place built in the thirties and now she spends most of her time in the British
Virgin Islands guarding her bank accounts, but she doesn’t want to sell. So she rents. Through me. Real cheap.”

  Arvo raised his eyebrows. “Let me know if Ms. Broughton decides to move.”

  Stuart laughed. “Back of the line, pal. I let Sarah have it ahead of a few people because I like her. You don’t get to say that often about people in this business.”

  “Is she scared?”

  Stuart frowned. “Not so much scared,” he said. “A little rattled, maybe. Like I said, she might be a bit fragile, but deep down she’s tough, and she can be stubborn when she gets her heels dug in. I just don’t want her any more upset than she is. She’s got a lot of things to concentrate on right now and this kind of shit she doesn’t need.”

  “Who does?” said Arvo. “She own a gun?”

  “No. Do you think she should—”

  Arvo held his hand up. “No, I don’t. Definitely not. I’m asking because if she did get jumpy, and if she did have a gun around, someone could get hurt. That’s all. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. She hates the fucking things. Doesn’t even like handling the TV gun, for Chrissake, and that’s loaded with blanks. Now me, I’ve got a gun and I know how to use it.”

  Almost on cue, the gunfire started up outside. Arvo guessed that the guy in the video shop just didn’t want to come out with his hands up. At least he hoped the gunfire was part of the show. He still felt shaky from yesterday’s confrontation with Chuck. There’s nothing like talking to a guy holding a .38 for concentrating a man’s thoughts, even if it does turn out to be a replica.

  “Any idea who the letter-writer might be?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you think she does?”

  Stuart hesitated.

  “Do you?” Arvo asked again.

  Again, Stuart hesitated.

  Arvo pushed the letter across the desk. “Look, Stu,” he said, “you asked me to come here for a reason. You’ve seen letters like this before. What is it about this one that’s got you so rattled?”

  “It’s just . . . You know, I told Sarah there was nothing to get her panties in a knot about, tried to stop her worrying. Like I said, she doesn’t need that right now. But . . . I don’t know . . . I think there’s more to it. I think it really might be someone she knew once but can’t remember. Someone really weird who’s come back to claim her.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Stuart shrugged. “Just the way she reacted when I asked her about it, that’s all. Hell, it’s mostly just a gut reaction on my part. I’m probably imagining things. But he does say in the letter that he’s known her before.”

  “Oh, come on, Stu. That means diddly. That’s a common fantasy in this type of letter. You can’t take the content of these things at face value. There’s how many million viewers out there? All with the hots for pretty Miss Sarah Broughton. Those are the kinds of dreams you sell, Stu. That’s the business you’re in. What’s the odds that there’s more than a few of them out there two tacos short of a combination platter?”

  Stuart pushed his glasses back over the bridge of his slightly hooked nose. “Can you help, Arvo? Can you tell me how dangerous this guy’s likely to be?”

  “We don’t even know it’s a guy, for a start.”

  “Shit. Are you telling me you get stalking dykes?”

  “Sure we do. It’s an equal opportunities business. No discrimination allowed.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Leave it with me. I don’t think there’s any real danger yet. The highest probability of approach comes from people who have sent between ten and fourteen letters over a long period. But I’ll have a closer look at it.”

  “Thanks, Arvo.”

  “No problem.” Arvo looked at his watch. “Can we go over and talk to her now?”

  7

  ARVO AND STUART WALKED ALONG THE PERIMETER road of the studio lot. As they neared the commissary, a group of people came out and walked toward them. One of them, a small, wizened elderly man, smiled and said hello. He looked familiar, and Arvo felt he should recognize him, but he couldn’t put a name to the face.

  Stuart was smiling. “Know who that was?”

  Arvo shook his head.

  “Mel Brooks.”

  Of course. It was obvious when someone told you.

  They crossed the road to the sound stages, huge, white hangar-like buildings laid out in a grid system over several blocks. There were twenty of them altogether, and in the boom days they might have all been in use. Now, though, many of them stood empty and silent. It was easy to spot the ones that were being used because they had trailers outside for the actors.

  As they walked between the stages, technicians and office workers passed to and fro, some of them using little golf-carts to get around.

  “Here we are,” Stuart said, pointing to the hangar ahead.

  Outside the soundstage door, the caterers had set up barbecues of plump chicken breasts, shrimp and bay scallops on skewers, T-bone steaks, salmon and swordfish. Arvo smelled the sauces and marinades before he even saw the barbecue and realized he had forgotten to eat lunch. Maybe later. If he was lucky.

  They went inside and Stuart led Arvo over to the set. “You might as well stay here,” he said. “I’ll go find her.”

  Arvo looked around. He was in a fake police precinct, which looked as if it had been built in about 1930 and not cleaned or redecorated since. The puce plaster walls were cracked and stained, the wooden desks scratched. The glass in one of the windows was broken and the paintwork around it was chipped and grimy. It looked derelict now, but under the 50,000-watt lights it would look only as grungy as people expected a precinct house to look.

  Outside the window was a night view of skyscrapers across the street, a painted or computer-generated backdrop about ten feet high, which would look real on camera. The duty rosters and wanted posters pinned to the corkboards looked real enough, too, though the paper seemed yellow and dry.

  A couple of minutes later, Stuart walked back in with Sarah Broughton. She was wearing what Arvo took to be her TV uniform, a simple gray suit over a white blouse, and carrying a black purse. Smaller than he had expected, about five-four, she was even more beautiful than her photograph, though he got the sense that she was still at least partly in her character and trying to look rather more prim and severe than she would normally. Her eyes were a deep, disturbing cobalt blue. The color and depth of a cold ocean a man could easily lose himself in.

  “Sarah Broughton, Arvo Hughes,” Stuart introduced them. They shook hands; hers was cool and limp. Then they sat in the rickety chairs, Stuart leaning back against a desk. The irony of a real detective interviewing a TV detective in a fake precinct house wasn’t lost on Arvo.

  Sarah sat erect at the edge of her chair, legs crossed, hands linked just below her right knee. Her right leg was moving slightly back and forth, as if in time to some unheard music.

  “Were all three letters addressed the same way?” Arvo asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did the first two say?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t recall the exact wording. They were short, much shorter than the third. I think he just said how happy he was to find me again after so long and he promised not to let me go this time. He said he would write again soon, that he had a lot to think about.”

  “Were there any sexual references?”

  “No. Not in the first two.”

  “Any threats?”

  “No.”

  “I understand you think someone’s been watching you?”

  “Maybe. But it’s just a feeling. I mean, I haven’t actually seen anyone.”

  “Where?”

  “In the hills across the highway. And further up the beach. I thought I saw binoculars flash a couple of times, but I was already jumpy. It could have been anything, anyone.”

  “Does the name “Little Star” mean anything to you?”

  She hesitated. Her leg started moving mor
e quickly, as if the tempo had increased. “No,” she said. “I mean, I don’t remember.”

  “What don’t you remember?”

  “Anyone calling me ‘Little Star.’”

  “But it is familiar to you, isn’t it? You think it comes from somewhere, means something, don’t you?”

  Her jaw muscles seemed to tighten and her leg moved faster. “I don’t remember.”

  “Okay. What about M?”

  She shrugged. “It could be anyone couldn’t it? I have a friend called Miriam. I know a Michael and a—What are you doing?”

  “Writing the names down. I’ll get the full details from you later. I’ll have to check them out.”

  “But surely that’s not necessary?”

  “It could be someone close to you.”

  “But he . . . he’s crazy. I don’t know anyone like that.”

  “He could appear quite normal. Let me do my job, Ms. Broughton. Just give me the names and addresses. Everyone you know with the initial “M.” First name, middle or last.” He smiled. “I’m not going to haul people in for questioning, you know. I can be discreet.”

  Sarah’s eyes flashed briefly, then she said, “Very well.” She took an address book from her purse and gave him the information.

  Arvo went on. “In the letter, he—let’s assume it’s a he for now—he refers to you as Sally. Stu told me that’s your real name, Sally Bolton.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did you change it?”

  “The studio thought it sounded too . . . I don’t know . . . too lower-class. I’ll never be able to fathom what goes on in the minds of these sales and marketing people. Sarah Broughton just sounded more California Brit to them. More classy.” She flashed a nervous smile. One upper front tooth overlapped the other, and Arvo thought it looked sexy as hell.