He’d heard parents, husbands and wives, sisters and brothers and lovers, insist they knew everything there was to know about a victim’s or criminal’s life. And from long experience had learned that no one knew everything about another person; that in fact, people knew remarkably little about each other.
Diana Woodruff was a smart woman, but she fit the surviving-relative pattern . . . which gave him a badly needed shot of superiority.
He said, “She might have been a passenger in the cab, or witnessed the shooting from the street. She might have been chased by the killer; gone several blocks before she was caught and killed. That’s our best hope for a solution.”
“Why? I thought gangland executions were rarely solved.”
“Oh, we solve a few. Because we can use snitches—police informants—who are often underworld figures themselves. But if it’s a random killing, then we’re in big trouble. That’s why I thought . . .” He stopped, and she finished for him:
“That Carla was a prostitute. Because psychopaths often pick on streetwalkers, or those they classify as such. From Jack the Ripper on. But would such a man be satisfied with one victim? The Ripper wasn’t. The Hillside Strangler kept killing; so did Son of Sam.”
“There’s no way of telling. For every repeat killer, there might be a thousand one-shot psychos who never get identified as such, or even caught. But one thing is certain: Here in Los Angeles, we’ve had no recent killings that match your sister’s.”
“Have you interviewed the tenants in that apartment house near where she was found?”
“More than half, and we’re still in the process. So far, no one saw a thing or heard a sound.”
“Not a sound? How can that be—a gun going off on a quiet street at night?”
“Small calibers like twenty-twos don’t make all that much noise. And then there’s the possibility it’s a silenced weapon. Professional killers sometimes use them. A professional killer wouldn’t go out hunting hookers—those he thinks are hookers. Which is reason to believe your sister witnessed the driver’s death and was eliminated because of it. Then again, there’s no law which says a psycho can’t get hold of a silenced weapon.”
“Any other prospects?”
“We’re hoping the lab comes up with skin, hair, or cloth under your sister’s fingernails. If she struggled with the killer . . .” He shrugged. “It’s not likely she got the chance with a pro. And if it was a random killing, the odds aren’t good that we’ll find him.”
“Unless he kills again.”
“Right. Then the odds begin to narrow.”
“Though Jack the Ripper was never caught.”
He spread his hands, apologizing for the failings of his profession.
“I guess it was simpler in Chaucer’s day,” she murmured. “ ‘Murder will out,’ he said. Cervantes said it too.”
He remembered Chaucer from an English Lit course. “Maybe they were talking about religion, not detection. Some people believe a murderer is punished by God and his conscience, no matter what the law does.”
She was looking at him, surprised . . . which both insulted and pleased him. “Do you believe that?” she asked.
He would have liked to comfort her. But then again, he doubted she would believe such crap. He said, “Unless we kill them or jail them, they get away with it. And even when we jail them, I don’t think I’ve seen one killer in ten who’s sorry for anything except that he got caught.”
She nodded, and their food came. He enjoyed his fresh snapper, looking from the sea to her every so often, trying to get her to share the experience. But she kept her head down, eating quickly. Maybe too quickly, because she suddenly stopped, pressing her hands to her stomach.
“Excuse me,” she said, and left the table.
She was gone about five minutes, and returned holding a tissue to her mouth. “Would you mind if we went home?”
He called for the waiter.
At her door, he said, “Don’t bother asking me in,” because he was sure she wasn’t going to. Also, he wanted to make some sort of impression on her. She’d certainly made one on him!
At the same time, he couldn’t help wondering if her stomachache was real, or an act to dump him early.
He began to turn away.
She said, “Will you call me again?”
“Or drop in at the parlor,” he muttered.
She opened her door.
“Forgot. No cops allowed,” he said.
She went inside.
He wondered why the hell he should feel ashamed, and stalked off. But he turned back before he reached his car.
She answered the bell. He said, “Sorry. I’ll call again.”
She said, “I’ll look forward to it. And to holding my dinner down next time.” She smiled.
He wanted to kiss that beautiful smile. Wanted to very badly. But he nodded and walked away.
He used Sunset to drive from the shore to Laurel Canyon, then took Laurel north past Mulholland into the Valley to Studio City. It was better than an hour’s trip, and he never traveled that far for a chick.
But as he entered his apartment, he realized he could hardly wait for the next time.
SIX: Monday, July 31
Mel finally got her on the phone at two in the afternoon, which wasn’t all that late for his beautiful honky wife to sleep when she’d been dancing at the club till three and screwing around with Chris, the manager, till God knew what hour. Chris was now her main man, though he wouldn’t last any longer than the others; not any longer than her husband.
Anyway, she sounded reasonably awake and not yet stoned, and he said, “Hey, love, are we gonna have that reconciliation?”
So how does she answer ole black Mel layin’ his heart on the line? “Glad you called. I need a lid of Columbian, lightly dusted.”
“Yeah, and how you been?” he muttered. A real user, Beth-Anne. A real cunt. He’d known it from day one, and no way could he fall for her when she was just another nude dancer and the Sunset Strip was full of them and he’d had his way with so many he was certain he was immune to anything as cube-like as love. But he’d surprised himself by being the john of johns—ended up marrying her after a week in Vegas, in one of those plastic quick-job chapels.
“We’ll talk tonight,” she said. “You might as well bring the pot.”
“Might as well,” he mocked. But his pulse had picked up speed and there was a stirring in his pants. She’d almost fucked him to death during their five months of togetherness. At fifty-six, he wasn’t quite the man the twenty-three-year-old stripper needed, though he had never let her know this. He performed whenever she snapped her pussy—and, man, could it snap! Also taught her a few things about vibrators, big and rectal size, she hadn’t known.
But it wasn’t only sex he’d wanted from her. And it was only sex she’d wanted from him: sex and bread and dope, which he’d provided in unlimited quantities. Which meant he’d had to take chances he normally wouldn’t take.
He was a dealer, yes, but only in a small way, more to get the girls than the bread. When a dancer was broke, he worked a trade—what she needed for what he wanted. Before Beth-Ann, he had paid the rent and the grocery bills, and given away as much as he sold. One pickup a week, and then he used his phone to arrange meetings with the chicks, or with the rare male he supplied—who in turn supplied him with chicks.