No Cure for Love

1

Sarah Broughton’s hand shook as she let the letter drop on the glass-topped table. She wiped her palm on the side of her jeans.

It was the third letter in two weeks, and by far the most detailed. The others had merely hinted that she should begin to prepare herself for a special event. This was also the first one to contain anything even remotely sexual.

Sarah walked over to the sliding glass doors. Beyond the deck and the narrow strip of lawn, the rocky promontory on which her house stood dropped twenty feet. Below, fine white sand sloped down to the Pacific Ocean, darkening where the breakers pounded the shoreline not more than fifty yards out.

Sarah stood and watched a wave swell until its rounded peak turned translucent green then burst into a crest of foam that rushed horizontally along its length until everything churned into a roiling white mass. Sometimes she thought she could stand and watch the waves forever. The roar was deafening, and through the open door she could smell salt and seaweed and something dead, that odor of primordial decay that always seemed to linger around the edges of the sea.

Though the temperature was in the mid-sixties, Sarah shivered and hugged herself. Her nerves weren’t that good to begin with, hadn’t been for over a year, and now she felt defiled, violated and scared. But even as she trembled, she found herself probing the feeling, storing it for later use. If she ever had to play a victim again, this memory could be useful.

She walked back to the table, picked up the letter and made to rip it up like the others, but she stopped herself in time. No. She would show this one to Stuart. No more procrastination.

It was close to eleven in the morning, and she was due to have lunch with him in a couple of hours. She would show him the letter then. Stuart would know what to do.

She looked at the envelope again. It was postmarked Pasadena, dated 14 December, which was Friday, four days ago, and addressed to Sarah Broughton at the beach house address on the Coast Highway.

So how had “M,” whoever he was, found out her address and phone number? Like most people in the movie and TV business, Sarah guarded her privacy well. Or thought she did.

He could have found out from the article in TV Guide that mentioned she lived in Malibu. Which wasn’t quite true. Strictly speaking, the house was in Pacific Palisades, close to the Los Angeles city limits, but that probably didn’t sound quite as glamorous to Josephine Q. Public, Ottumwa, Iowa, who liked to read about actors and actresses in TV Guide.

All in all, Sarah supposed, the secrecy was probably something of an illusion. When it came down to it, no address was that hard to come by in Hollywood. Everything was for sale.

Stop worrying, she told herself, folding the letter and putting it back in its envelope. There are millions of perverts out there drooling over actors and rock stars, and this is probably just one of them. A harmless one, more likely than not.

She imagined some overweight, pimply nerd with Coke-bottle glasses, dandruff and halitosis masturbating in a candlelit room with nude pictures of her plastered all over the walls. Somehow, it wasn’t a comforting image.

Sarah slipped the letter in her purse and decided to take a walk on the beach. She slid open the door, walked down the wooden steps from the deck to lawn, then down the stairs carved in the rock. At the bottom stood a gate made of six-foot-high metal railings, painted black, all with very sharp points. It didn’t offer much security, though, Sarah realized. Anybody who really wanted to could climb up the rocks beside it easily enough.

On the beach, she slipped off her sandals and wiggled her toes in the sand. Though the sun was only a white ball through the haze, its brightness made Sarah squint and reach in her purse for her sunglasses.

There was hardly anyone around. For Sarah, the mid-sixties was warm enough for sunbathing, but it was chilly to the natives. Also, while this area of the beach wasn’t exactly private property, access was difficult because of the solid wall of houses, flanked on both sides by low-rise office buildings.

Out toward the horizon, water and sky merged in a white glare. A light ocean breeze ruffled Sarah’s cap of short blond hair. It would soon dispel the sea-mist. She walked with her hands in her pockets, eyes scanning the beach for interesting shells and pebbles.

To the north, the mountains were almost lost in the haze, and to the south she could just about make out the Santa Monica Pier with its restaurants and amusement palaces. Funnily enough, it reminded Sarah of childhood holidays in Blackpool, staying at Mrs. Fairclough’s boardinghouse. Of course, it was rarely over sixty degrees in Blackpool — more often than not it was about fifty and raining — but her mum and dad would always splurge on one good variety show at the pier theater, and it was there that her love of show business had begun. And just look at her now. Top of the world, Ma. Well, getting there, anyway. Such a long journey, such a long, long way from Blackpool to Hollywood.

As usual, thinking of her mum and dad brought her other problem to mind: the family she had put off dealing with for too long. She hadn’t been home in two years now. Her mother was dead, had been since long before the rift, but there were still Paula, her dad and the kids. Well, she would be facing them at Christmas.

And now, on top of everything else, the letters.

As she walked along the edge of the beach, Sarah felt uneasy. Not for the first time these past couple of weeks did she keep looking over her shoulder. And whenever she did notice anyone walking toward her, she felt herself tense, get ready to run.

There was something else as well. Earlier that morning, when she was coming back from her run, she had seen something flash in the sun, way up on the crest of the hills above the Coast Highway. Of course, there were a lot of houses up there, and there could be any number of explanations — windows opening, even car windshields glinting in the light — but she had felt as if someone were looking down on her through binoculars.

Now she thought she saw something flash again, further up the beach this time. But she was being silly. It could be someone’s glasses, a ring, anything at all. Maybe just a birdwatcher.

She told herself not to be so paranoid, but she couldn’t shake the feeling. There was something else that bothered her, too. This time, in the letter, he had called her Sally.

2

She should have left for work hours ago, but he hadn’t seen her go. Usually a cab or that gray-haired man in the Cadillac picked her up to take her to the studio around eight-thirty. Not today. She had to be still in the house. He hadn’t seen her leave, and he knew he couldn’t have missed her; he had been in the area for four hours, since before dawn, watching her house just like he had every day for the past two weeks, first up in the hills, now down on the beach.

As usual that Tuesday morning, he had found his safe, secluded spot in the hills before dawn and watched her run. His powerful Zeiss binoculars silhouetted her moving image against the slowly brightening sea. Every morning she ran at least a mile up the beach and back as the sun came up. She was always alone, the only one out at that time.

As he had lain high above her, though he could sense the city throbbing and buzzing behind him, hardly a soul stirred nearby. He could see the lights of ships twinkling out at sea, the headlights of cars on the Coast Highway, already pale in the light of the rising sun as they arced around the long curve between Topanga and Santa Monica.

She timed herself against the sunrise, as if following and emulating its natural rhythms, in tune with it, like the dawn goddess. Or so it seemed to him. Every day now the sun rose a little later, but it was always just hidden behind the eastern hills when she started out and balanced on top of them like a huge fireball when she got back.

He watched the tide, too, how it ebbed and flowed. She always ran right along the water line. He had seen the spent waves foam and sparkle around her feet as if she were the very rebirth of Venus.

Suddenly, here she came again. Walking out of the gate onto the beach. Not to run this time, but just walking, looking contemplative. His heart expanded so much he thought it would explode in his chest. She was thinking about him. He knew it. She must have received his latest letter and read it. Now she was walking alone on the beach thinking about him.

He lay on a rock about a quarter of a mile further west, on the Topanga State Beach. It was eleven in the morning now and there were a few people around, some brave surfers and couples walking hand in hand. They didn’t bother him, though. He knew he just looked like someone lying on a rock watching the seabirds. Plenty of other people did that. It didn’t look strange at all.

In fact, living here, you would have to think very hard to find anything that really did seem weird, he thought. His kind of city. The place where he had finally become what he had been from the start but had only vaguely sensed before; where he had recognized himself at last; the place where he had both lost and found his soulmate, his life’s companion.

He pulled her into focus through the lenses. The binoculars were so strong that he could fill them with her head and shoulders. She wasn’t silhouetted now, and he could see her downcast eyes, see her chewing softly on her lower lip, that slightly crooked tooth overlapping at the front, the only blemish on a perfect face. Well, that could easily be altered.

He could almost hear her thoughts, how she was racking her brains to remember who he was, who it was loved her so much, so she could come to him. He felt her calling out to him. But no, not yet. There was still much to do before they could truly be together. For a moment, he felt guilty for torturing her so, but it passed. After all, wasn’t anticipation one of the sweetest parts of conquest? And he had yet to conquer her.

While he didn’t know what would happen after the consummation — when he thought of that, everything turned red — he knew that he would continue to feel this exquisite blending of aching and longing, of joy and desolation, while he courted her from a distance. And he knew that she could feel it too.

There was also something special, something subtly erotic about watching her through the binoculars. To the naked eye, she was nothing but a dot in the distance, but when he raised the lenses, there she was, right in front of him, in his face, her thoughts clear for him to read in her almost-perfect features. And when she made those little unconscious gestures, the things he loved her for so much, like scratching the side of her nose with her pinkie, and he knew he was the only one in the world watching her, he felt such pride and power in his possession that it was all he could do to stop himself from jumping up and running into her arms.

But no. Not yet. For now, he must give himself up to the alternate waves of ecstasy and terror that swept through him, made him dizzy and wild, that whispered to him what he must do to win her love. He must worship her from a distance. It was all too new; he wasn’t ready yet, and he didn’t think she was either. Oh, he loved her; Lord knew how much he loved her. But he had to make her realize that she loved him, had to make her see that he was the one. Soon, it would be soon...

As he lay there on his stomach watching her poke at small shells and pebbles with her bare toes, her little nails painted pink, his hands started to shake and he felt himself getting hard against the rock.

3

They ate lunch at one of those Hollywood restaurants where six red-coated valets drag you out of your car and drive off with it if you so much as slow down out front. The first time it had happened, Sarah had seriously thought they were being carjacked, having read about such things in the papers, but Stuart had just laughed. He often laughed at her English ways. Stuart himself was Southern Californian all the way through.

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. “Two 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?”

“Goes to show what?”

“You never can tell what might happen on a stake-out.”

Her eyes flashed with humor as she spoke, but she held Arvo’s gaze long enough to make him a little hot under the collar. Maybe the three-month hormonal freeze was coming to an end.

Before he could respond, the door opened and a young man in his mid-twenties walked in. Good-looking, in an Iowa farm-boy sort of way, he was about six-two, slim build, with hair the color of wheatfields in August, and he was wearing a navy blue suit that had seen better days. He also looked as if he had been drinking. His face was flushed, his eyes a little wild, and his brow was oily with sweat.

Sandi, in the middle of the floor with a tray full of mixed drinks for the birthday party, looked at Arvo and nodded vigorously. Arvo started to edge his way out of the booth.

Because they hadn’t been able to pinpoint where Chuck lived or worked, the idea was to get him out of the bar with a minimum of fuss and have a good talk, point out the error of his ways. Sometimes it worked with the simple obsessionals. But the best laid plans of mice and men...

Chuck glanced around nervously, saw Sandi and walked right over to her. While Arvo was still stuck between the table and the bench, Chuck pulled a gun from the inside pocket of his suit and pointed it at her head. It looked like a.38 revolver.

Sandi screamed and dropped the tray. Glasses shattered and booze splashed everywhere. The mingled smells of gin and bourbon filled the air. Everything became very quiet for maybe a couple of seconds while everyone in the place took in what was happening. Then the bar staff ducked down behind the counter, and the people in the birthday group screamed and dived under the tables.

Shit, thought Arvo. Whatever the rule book or the training courses said about situations like this didn’t seem to count when they really happened. All you could do was keep talking, keep calm and try not to get yourself killed.

Arvo slid out of the booth and walked very slowly over to Sandi. He knew that Maria was behind him, still sitting, covering him. If anything went wrong, he hoped she was a good shot. He prayed he wouldn’t have to find out.

Chuck flicked his eyes sideways at Arvo and licked his lips. “Stay there,” he said. “You stay right there or I’ll blow her brains out. I mean it.” He had the gun pointing at the side of Sandi’s head.

Sandi whimpered and shook. Arvo stood still and held his hands up. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll stay here. I’m not moving. But we’ve got to talk, Chuck.”

“What about? Who the fuck are you anyway? You her new boyfriend?”

“No, Chuck. I’m not her boyfriend.” Arvo told him who he was. As he spoke, he felt himself shift into what he called no time. He’d been there twice before: once during a hostage-taking in Detroit, and again during a domestic intervention, similar to this one, in Van Nuys. The first time, he had successfully talked the hostage-taker down; the second time, the ex-husband’s gun had jammed. It was no time because you had no time to do anything but talk. It was no time because time seemed suspended. And it was no time because that might be all the time you had left.

“A cop?” Chuck scowled at Sandi. “Bitch. I might have known.”

Arvo had to keep his attention, get his focus away from Sandi and calm him down. “Look, Chuck,” he said, hands spread in the open, “why don’t you put the gun away and we can talk?”

“What about?”

“Your problems. Whatever you want. Just put the gun down.”

Chuck laughed harshly. The gun wavered in his hand but remained pointed in the general direction of Sandi Gaines’s head. “You want to talk about my problems. Man, that’s a laugh. The minute I put this gun away you’ll have me on the floor and be beating the shit out of me like I was Rodney King.”

“That’s not true,” Arvo said softly, “and I think you know it. You’re smarter than that. Put the gun down, Chuck.”

Chuck licked his lips again. Again, his gun hand wavered, but he didn’t put the weapon down. He didn’t want to fire it, Arvo could tell, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

“Ask her what my problems are,” Chuck said, glaring at Sandi. “Ask her why I’m here in this state, all to pieces. I can’t sleep because of her. I lie awake thinking about her all night. How much I want her. How much I love her. The black bitch. Black witch. She’s put a spell on me. What’s wrong, Sandi? White man’s meat not good enough for you, huh?”

He pushed the gun closer until the barrel was touching Sandi’s temple. She flinched. Sweat prickled on Arvo’s brow.

“Chuck,” he said as calmly as he could, “this isn’t helping matters at all. You don’t want to hurt anyone. I know that. You know that. But accidents happen. Give me the gun and we’ll sit down and talk like rational human beings, okay?” He held out his hand.

Chuck looked at the hand, then ignored it. “Rational?” he echoed. “She didn’t behave like a rational human being, did she? She never even gave me a chance. What is it, Sandi? They really do have bigger cocks, your own kind? That it? This not big enough for you?”

He fumbled at his fly with his free hand.

“There’s no need for this, Chuck,” said Arvo. “Come on, give me the gun. You’re making everyone nervous.”

“Let ’em sweat. I get no sleep because of this bitch. I get headaches. Here. This not good enough for you?” His dick hung limply out the front of his pants. “Why don’t you kiss it, bitch! Why don’t you go on your knees and kiss it.”

“Oh, God. Don’t kill me. Please!” Sandi wailed.

Chuck was crying now, passing his peak like a roller coaster on its way back home. Arvo figured if he could get through the next few seconds there might be a chance that they would all get out of the place alive.

“Come on, Chuck,” he said, holding out his hand. “We can talk about this. I know we can. You’re an intelligent man. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Give me the gun, Chuck.”

Chuck looked directly at Arvo for the first time, his face slick with sweat, tears flowing down his cheeks. Arvo held eye contact for what seemed like hours, aware only of the sound of the streamers fluttering in the draft, but at the end of that time, he knew he had him. The man was a habitual loser, just desperate, trying a little harder than usual to succeed at something, at anything.

“Ah, what the fuck,” he said finally, shoulders slumping. “It’s only a replica anyway.” He handed the gun to Arvo, put his dick away and zipped up his fly.

Arvo felt like smashing his stupid face in. Instead, he gritted his teeth and patted Chuck down. Though he was sure the man would hardly use a replica when he had a real gun in his pocket, it was best to be safe and follow routine procedure. He didn’t bother with cuffs. That could wait until a patrol car arrived. Chuck wasn’t going anywhere right now. He looked like a man who wanted to talk.

Sandi dashed off to the washroom, hand over her mouth. Slowly, the members of the birthday party started peeking from under the table and getting to their feet, all a little sheepish now it was all over. Pretty soon, Arvo thought, they’d be indignant. They’d start asking for their money back, replacements for the drinks that got spilled, maybe even threaten a lawsuit. He’d seen it happen before. Then they’d embellish what had happened for their friends, be the center of attention at parties.

The bar staff stood up and dusted themselves off. One of them poured himself a stiff shot of Scotch. Arvo nodded to Maria, who went to call Hollywood Division, then led Chuck by the elbow to one of the booths and jammed him in the corner.

Chuck wiped his face with a napkin. The tissue was so thin that it shredded and pieces stuck in little clumps on his cheeks and chin, like the bits of paper you put over shaving nicks.

“I’m glad it’s over,” he said. “You know that? I’m glad it’s over. I feel such relief. I haven’t slept for two weeks thinking about her. You know that? You know what that does to your mind? I loved that woman. Do you believe it? Loved her. She treated me like dirt. I couldn’t kill no one, man.”

“Calm down, Chuck,” Arvo said. “You only dated her a couple of times, isn’t that right?”

“So? What does it matter how many times I dated her? Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”

Arvo sighed and wondered if he should give an honest answer. If truth be told, he’d lost a fair bit of sleep over Nyreen, too. Before he could say anything, though, Sandi stormed over to the booth and stood over them, hands on her hips. “Now look what you’ve done, you piece of white trash. A whole tray. You’re gonna have to pay for them drinks.”

Chuck fell silent for a moment, mouth open, then he started laughing through his tears. Arvo almost felt like laughing with him.

Sandi just stood there, eyes flashing, and Chuck looked at Arvo. “Isn’t she unbelievable? Isn’t she magnificent?” Then he turned back to Sandi, adoration clear in his eyes. “How about bringing me a drink, honey? Make it a Martini. Very dry. With a twist.” He glanced at Arvo again. “And maybe one for my friend, here, too.”

Arvo shook his head. One of those days. Then he heard the welcome sound of a police siren.

5

Sarah stood on Jack’s deck and looked at the lights of the other houses across Laurel Canyon. Some of them had Christmas displays, chains of green, red, yellow and blue winking on and off in the night. Someone had even put up a tall Christmas tree outlined in lights about halfway up the hillside. It was a clear evening, and cold enough that Sarah needed to wear a sweater over her blouse. The stars shone thick and bright above, and car lights meandered along the canyon road way below. She could smell woodsmoke in the air.

Standing so high up the canyon side, Sarah felt suspended in space. Behind her, the party was in full swing. People were laughing, dancing, drinking. Janis was belting out “Get It While You Can’ into the night air. But Sarah was taking a moment’s breather from the crowd.

Her peace was soon broken. Guests came out onto the deck and stopped to tell her how much they loved the show, how “great’ she was, or how “great’ she looked, the way people did in Hollywood, as if it were the only thing in the universe that mattered.

In return, Sarah smiled and made small talk as best she could, sipping on the same glass of rum and Coke that Jack had poured her when she arrived. The ice had melted by now, and the Coke had lost most of its fizz. Between conversations, she would glance around nervously now and then to make sure Stuart, her escape route, was still nearby.

The sweet, acrid smell of marijuana drifted through the air. Two young actors who played uniformed cops on the show stood near the door snorting coke through a rolled-up dollar bill. Or it could have been a twenty. Apart from the numbers, American money all looked the same to Sarah. She turned away from the actors; the scene brought back too many memories, all of them bad.

Music blasted out of Jack’s megawatt stereo system in the main room. Janis gave way to the Rolling Stones doing “Angie.” Sarah studied the lights of the houses across the canyon again and wondered if M were watching. Was she on stage tonight?

Inside the house, people danced wildly, tossing frantic shadows over the stark white walls. Sometimes the shadows and the dancers didn’t seem to connect, as if so much wildness disconnected them the way a retina might be detached from the back of the eye. Sarah looked for Jack, hoping he would manage to get away from the throng for a minute.

Jack Marillo was her co-star in Good Cop, Bad Cop, the biggest early-season hit the network had had for years, such a success that it was even being shown in the UK already.

People said the main reason for the show’s success was the chemistry between Sarah’s controlled, repressed and icy blond homicide detective, Anita O’Rourke, and her spontaneous, rule-bending, bed-hopping partner Tony Lucillo, played by Jack. Why was it, Sarah wondered, that female TV cops always had names that started with an “O’ and male cops had names that ended with one?

Sarah’s character was tough and competent, with a hint of vulnerability, an occasional hairline crack in the professional carapace. She was the one who always kept her cool when Lucillo shouted, gesticulated and went into his tantrums, but she also shed a tear or two in private after discovering the raped and murdered corpse of a twelve-year-old street kid.

Stuart said the audience liked the characters because they kept people in suspense about whether they’d end up in the sack together. They had filmed a kiss for the Christmas special — a chaste one, but with definite possibilities — then the network would be showing reruns for a couple of weeks to keep the viewers on tenterhooks.

Stuart also said the male viewers loved Sarah because, although she seemed a bit aloof and prim, very Brit, they just knew she was a screamer between the sheets. All that repressed passion. Strictly footprints on the ceiling.

Sarah took all the praise with a pinch of salt, and she took Stuart’s crude comment as a compliment. That, to her, was what acting was all about. Being someone different. She was by nature shy and quiet; her shyness was a personal prison she could only escape through acting. She could only be truly alive and real on stage or in front of the cameras.

Being reserved, Sarah didn’t like parties very much, either, but she understood the importance of attending them, especially in Hollywood. It wasn’t just a matter of being seen at the right places. Certainly that was important, as Sarah was still only an up-and-coming star, rather than a fully fledged one. But she was also relatively new to America, and she wanted to make friends; she wanted to be liked. It was especially difficult being English. People were inclined to think you were stuck-up and stand-offish just because of your accent.

So she showed up when she was invited, mingled and said the right things. She never really made any close friends that way, but at least she collected more faces to smile at when she dined at Spago’s, which she usually tried to avoid because it was too noisy there to hear yourself think.

Sarah turned to the sliding door and smiled to see Jack coming toward her with a bottle of beer in his hand. She liked Jack. Of all the people she’d met in Los Angeles — Stuart aside — he was the closest she had to a friend.

Handsome in a TV star sort of way, Jack was tall and slim, not exactly muscular, but in good athletic shape, with a dark complexion and a great head of shiny black hair. Sarah liked him because he was straightforward — no games, no bullshit — full of mischief and energy, and he had a sense of humor. Jack could act, too, not like some of the people in the show, who had walked right out of toothpaste commercials and used-car lots.

Sometimes they went out together to restaurants, plays and concerts. There had been one or two media attempts at rumors of romance, of course, but even the greenest of entertainment reporters hadn’t been able to maintain that fiction for long, reverting instead to the cliché of the beautiful star’s lonely life, her Garboesque love of solitude and privacy.

Sarah knew that Jack was gay, and that the one marriage he had tried, to appear hetero, had been a dismal failure. If the gossip columnists also knew, they weren’t saying anything. Hollywood could be very funny about things like that, even today.

“Playing wallflower again?” Jack asked, standing next to her. They turned to face the canyon and he draped his arm over her shoulder in a brotherly fashion. The solid wooden fence they leaned against was all that stood between the two of them and a long plunge into the dark.

“Oh, shut up, Jack,” Sarah said, thumping his arm. “You’re such a party animal, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Jack feigned a frown. “Not for much longer. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s my birthday. I’m getting old.”

“Thirty-seven’s not old.”

“Easy to say that when you’re only thirty-four.”

“How did you know that?”

Jack winked. “Same way I know your real name’s Sally Bolton. No problem if you flirt a bit with one of the secretaries.”

“Swine.” Sarah nudged him in the ribs, but a chill went through her when he mentioned knowing her real name.

“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Jack joked. “Especially with that plummy London accent.”

“Plummy?” Sarah countered, switching to the broad Yorkshire she’d lost after years playing other people, other voices. “Ee bah gum, lad, tha mun’t call us plummy.”

Jack laughed.

“Is that true?” Sarah asked him. “About the secretary?”

“No. You told me yourself in the fall. Don’t you remember?”

“So I did. It’s just... ”

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

Sarah shrugged. “No. Well, not really.”

He took his arm away, grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Come on, Sarah,” he said in his TV voice. “It’s me, Tony Lucillo, your partner.”

Sarah slipped out of his grasp and turned to face the canyon. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “It was just you saying how easy it was to find out things about me. You know, personal details. I got some weird letters, that’s all.” She turned to face him and touched his arm. “Please don’t say anything. I’d hate it if everyone knew about them.” The music stopped. Sarah heard police sirens in the distance.

“We all get weird letters. I got one from my ex-wife’s lawyer just the other day. She wants more money. Stop being so goddamn British. What was it, threatening, dirty?”

“Neither, really. But... well, a bit of both, maybe.” Sarah turned back to the canyon and told him about it.

“Ooh,” said a voice behind them when she’d finished. “That is creepy.” Sarah and Jack turned around and saw Lisa Curtis. Lisa looked as gorgeous as ever in a low-cut, strapless black dress, which contrasted with her creamy skin, and her thick, glossy chestnut hair falling in extravagant curls and waves over her shoulders. “Sorry,” she said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“Oh, it’s you, Lisa,” Sarah said. “That’s all right. Just don’t go broadcasting it around, okay? I could do without the attention. It’s nothing really.”

Lisa, who played the police dispatcher in the show, pointed to her impressive chest. “Moi? Broadcast? But I’m the soul of discretion, Sarah, you ought to know that.”

“Right.” Sarah laughed. “Aren’t you cold, dressed like that?” she asked.

“Goose-bumps are in. Anyway, I think they’re fascinating.”

“What? Goose-bumps?”

“No, dummy. Your letters.”

Jack excused himself to attend to his guests and said he’d be back later. Lisa cornered Sarah by the edge of the deck. The music started again; this time it was Kiri Te Kanawa singing an aria Sarah recognized from Tosca. Jack sure had catholic tastes, and this was clearly the Italian in him coming out. Te Kanawa’s strong, clear voice rang out over the canyon.

“Something like that happened to a friend of mine,” Lisa went on. “Well, a friend of a friend, really. I mean, I never actually met her. She dated this guy, like, a few times, and he got too serious, too possessive, so she dumped him. Time to move on, right? Like, get a life. Anyway, this is the kind of guy who won’t take no for an answer. He starts sending her letters every day. Like, really graphic ones about the things they used to do together in bed and how he would love her for all eternity and couldn’t bear being away from her body. That kind of thing. Real yukky. Then next it’s phone calls, flowers, the whole deal.

“She tries to tell him she’s not interested, right, but it’s like he isn’t even hearing her. He says he knows she still loves him and she knows it, too, deep down. She’s just like fighting it because her feelings are so overwhelming and so powerful they frighten her. Can you believe it? This asshole tells her if she looks deep inside herself she’ll find the truth and the courage to act on it. Well, she tells him the only thing that frightens her is his behavior, but he just laughs and tells her not to be a silly girl, like one day she’ll wake up and know it’s true.”

Sarah sipped her warm rum and Coke and nodded in all the right places. That was one thing about a conversation with Lisa; it wasn’t too demanding, if you had plenty of patience. Laughter spilled from inside the house, glasses tinkled and Kiri sang on about how she lived for art, her warm soprano soaring in the clear night air.

“Next he starts hanging around outside the bank where she works,” Lisa went on. “She was an assistant manager. I mean, she’s one bright lady. And the guy was a stockbroker or something. We’re not talking lowlifes here. Anyway, finally she gets really freaked. She starts to believe it really is her fault, that she must be encouraging him in some way, giving him signals. Like, maybe she really did want him.” Lisa put her index finger to her temple, turned it a hundred and eighty degrees and back, and mimicked the Twilight Zone theme.

“What happened?” Sarah asked.

“He goes too far is what. Just when she’s starting to feel like it might be easier to give in than keep on dealing with him. I mean, he’s got her so messed up she’s even starting to feel flattered by the attention. This guy would neglect his job and hang around outside the bank all day just to catch a glimpse of her. I mean, just a glimpse. She wouldn’t even talk to the sucker. He keeps telling her he loves her, buys her diamonds and stuff and she won’t give him the time of day.”

“But how did he go too far?” Sarah asked, fascinated despite herself. “What did he do?”

“I guess he didn’t feel he was getting anywhere. Like, she never answered his calls or his letters. She always returned his presents. She’d even cross the street to avoid him and make sure there was someone with her when she went out on her lunch break. Well, one time she’d been to lunch with this guy, you know, from the bank, a few times, and he comes out from work one day and finds his tires slashed. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who did it, right?”

“What did your friend do?”

“She confronted him with it next time he phoned.”

“And did he admit it?”

“Sure he did. Tells her it’s just a friendly warning. That she belongs to him. Then he starts talking about how if he can’t have her alive they can be together in death. That, like, brought her to her senses again. What a loser. I mean, the guy’s almost got there after months of presents and stuff, then he blows it. Anyway, she’s all freaked now and he’s like getting really mad.”

“Did she go to the police?”

“Not at first. She just warned him, like that was it. No more. Nada. Goodbye. That’s all she wrote.”

“And?”

“And one day while she’s at work he, like, breaks into her house. You know what he does?”

Sarah shook her head.

“He steals a pair of shoes, that’s all.”

“Shoes?”

“Uh-huh. Navy pumps. Is that weird, or what? But wait for it. Not only does he steal a pair of her shoes. The next time he phones, do you know what he tells her?”

“What?”

“He tells her he’s had the fucking shoes bronzed, that’s all. Bronzed!”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Cross my heart.”

“What happened next?”

“She calls the cops. What she should’ve done right from the start, you ask me. They slap a restraining order on him. Like, he isn’t supposed to go within two miles of her or something. This is a while ago. I hear we’ve got better laws now.”

“Did he obey the order?”

“Dream on. Two days later he breaks into her house again. This time while she’s there. First he shoots her in the head, then he takes her clothes off. Then he gets undressed, puts his arm around her and shoots himself in the head. The cops find them huddled naked and dead together on the sofa like some modern-day Romeo and Juliet. Isn’t that just so bizarre?”

Sarah shivered. Even the sweater wasn’t warm enough to keep out the chill of Lisa’s story. Kiri finished and Jack started with the sixties music again. This one Sarah recognized; it was Led Zeppelin doing “Whole Lotta Love.”

“Anyway, don’t worry about the letter, honey,” Lisa said, resting her hand lightly on Sarah’s arm. “I mean, this was different. The guy knew her. They’d dated. It wasn’t just like, you know, some pervert writing out of the blue. That happens all the time. See you later, sugar, I just have to go and dance to this song.”

And Lisa dashed off inside the house. Sarah finished her rum and Coke and chatted with a few other guests, her mind hardly on it at all, then looked for Stuart to take her home.

Not being able to drive was a hell of a drawback in Los Angeles, she had found, but the idea of getting behind the wheel of a car — especially on the freeways — terrified her even more than the inconvenience of calling cabs or relying on friends.

She wasn’t “big’ enough yet to merit a limo and driver from the network, so Stuart would often give her a ride to the studio. He lived in Brentwood, which, while it was practically in the opposite direction, wasn’t very far away. If Stuart couldn’t make it, she would call a cab.

The show’s producer wanted Sarah to learn how to drive — at least enough to look comfortable behind the wheel of a police cruiser on TV. Stuart had taken her out in the desert a couple of times for lessons, and she’d learned the basics, like how to turn on the ignition and put it in “Drive,” which was the gas pedal and which was the brake, but that was as far as she had got. The roads out there had been empty; she couldn’t imagine herself ever driving in traffic.

Led Zeppelin rocked on. The bass and drums were so loud that Sarah worried the vibrations would shake the house loose and send it careening down the hillside the way mudslides often did in the canyons.

The whole setting was ridiculous anyway: a house propped up on stilts near the top of a steep slope. How could Jack live up here, perched so precariously? Sarah didn’t think she could.

Still, it seemed that no matter where one lived in Los Angeles, there was danger from the forces of nature. Impermanence was a fact of life that insinuated itself into people’s psyches in odd ways. Sarah had often thought that explained some of the general craziness of the place. Nothing’s permanent, so don’t get hung up on anything.

Since she had been living in LA, there had been fires, heavy rains and a major earthquake, and she had heard people say that the four seasons in Southern California are called flood, fire, earthquake and riot. Yet here she was, standing on the deck of a stilt-house high on a canyon side probably within spitting distance of the San Andreas fault. Crazy.

Talk about floating on air. It was bad enough feeling as if she were forever wobbling on stilts, constantly feeling that someday someone would come and pinch her and say, “It’s all been a mistake, love, you’re not really a star, you’re just a snotty-nosed little girl from Yorkshire and all this has just been an illusion, now it’s back to the meat-packaging factory where you belong.”

Bad enough feeling it, let alone living it. Suddenly she felt an attack of vertigo coming on; she had to get back to solid ground. Brilliant, our Sal, she thought, catching Stuart’s eye across the deck, now Los Angeles is a metaphor for your insecurities.

Before she left, she looked again at the Christmas lights across the canyon and shivered. “This was different,” Lisa had said of her friend. “The guy knew her.” Then she turned and looked at the party crowd. Could it be someone close to her, someone who knew her, someone who knew her real name and her address, like Jack and Stuart? Then she tried to dismiss the idea from her mind as ridiculous. Jack and Stuart were the only real friends she had here. They weren’t perverts. They couldn’t be.

6

“What are the chances of an ordinary person becoming the target of the kind of person you’ve been talking about? Someone like me, for instance.”

Arvo scanned the sea of faces for his questioner and noticed that she was a good-looking redhead in a green silk blouse. She had a southern accent. Arvo straightened his tie, the one with the Salvador Dalí melting watch design.

Tall and tanned, with the physique of a long-distance runner rather than a sprinter, and smartly dressed in a lightweight wool suit, Arvo was generally thought attractive by women.

He was thirty-five years old, had thick brown hair, perhaps a shade too long over the collar, and a boyish smile enhanced rather than hindered by slightly crooked teeth. He also had good bone structure, including high cheekbones and a strong jaw, which he had inherited, along with his unusual first name, from his Estonian mother.

His brown, expressive eyes always gave the impression of being interested in whatever people were saying to him, but if you looked closely you could see a diamond glint of toughness at their center. They were eyes that had seen violent death and faced danger; they were cop’s eyes.

Arvo didn’t know what he had acquired from his Welsh father, except perhaps his crooked teeth and his public-speaking abilities. The Welsh, his father had told him, had a tradition of great oratory.

That was no doubt why the lieutenant had chosen him to speak on “Assessing Erotomaniacs and Love Obsessionals’ to a National Law Enforcement Convention in the Pasadena Hilton that morning.

The LAPD Threat Management Unit was the only such department in the country. As the unit could only operate within the Los Angeles city limits, its members always seemed to be advising out-of-town police departments, acting as consultants to the FBI, the Secret Service or the CIA, and giving talks like this. Arvo had even appeared on a PBS TV special, where he had been so nervous all he remembered now was how hot the studio lights had been.

“It’s a subtle difference,” Arvo answered carefully. “In most cases, both erotomaniacs and love obsessionals target unattainable objects, almost always people they have never met. Senators, congressmen, movie stars and suchlike. Erotomaniacs generally believe that the person they have chosen is in love with them. For the love obsessionals, though, that doesn’t matter. They’re in love with whoever they’ve chosen and they believe that that person will probably come to love them in time, if they do the right things. The danger to ordinary individuals is far more likely to come from what we call “simple obsessionals”: that is, someone they know, someone they have been intimately involved with and spurned. A past lover, for example.”

The redhead thanked him. He could tell by the way her eyes smiled along with her mouth when she looked at him that if he stayed around after the talk she would approach him with another question, that he would ask her out to dinner and she would only hesitate as much as good taste demanded before saying yes, and that at the end of the evening they might end up in bed together, probably in her hotel room.

Knew it, but didn’t want it. If he wanted to go to bed with anyone, it was with Maria. But that situation was fraught with complications: they worked for the same department; they were friends; they were both on the rebound. Plenty of reasons not to.

Instead of hanging around, he ducked out fast onto Los Robles. It was clear and seventy-five degrees in Pasadena, and the San Gabriel Mountains rimmed the northern horizon like a jagged dark-green chalkboard streaked with white doodles. He put on his shades. The traffic on the Pasadena Freeway was as light as it ever got at eleven o’clock in the morning.

Arvo tuned in to FM 93.1, an oldies station, and listened to The Association, Quicksilver Messenger Service and Strawberry Alarm Clock. Downtown, he exited the freeway at Hill, drove through the colorful Chinatown strip, then turned east on Temple. A group of press people with microphones and cameras stood interviewing someone outside the Criminal Courts Building. Arvo turned south on Spring.

The Threat Management Unit, part of the Detective Support Division, was located at 419 Spring Street, the south-west corner of Spring and Fourth, in the heart of shabby downtown Los Angeles. Across the street was the run-down façade of the old Pacific Grand Hotel — which now looked like the kind of place even a hooker might avoid taking her client — and a liquor store barricaded with mesh and metal grilles against the street people and aggressive panhandlers who infested the area.

Arvo took the elevator to the fourth floor, turned left and walked along the flecked carpet. The unit was located at the far end of a largely empty open-plan office. The desks faced one another, each with a teal blue divider coming up to about shoulder height when the person was sitting, so the detectives could see one another over the tops. The lieutenant had his own desk at the far end.

“Well, if it ain’t Pro-fess-or Hughes,” said Eric Mettering when Arvo walked up to his hutch. There were only eight detectives on the Unit at the moment, and most of them were out. Eric had hung his jacket over the back of his chair. His top button was open and his tie loose. He ran his hand over his shiny bald head. “How’d it go?” he asked.

“Fine,” said Arvo. “Had them hanging on my every word. Anything new?”

“Nope. Pretty quiet morning, so far. Apart from the phone’s been ringing most of the time.” He pointed to Arvo’s desk. “One for you. Called twice.”

Arvo checked the message. It was from Stuart Kleigman, asking him to call back. Arvo knew Stuart, had worked with him before, and knew he wasn’t the kind of guy to cry wolf.

Stuart answered on the third ring. “Arvo,” he said. “Good of you to call. Can you come over to the studio?”

“Problem?”

“Weird letters.”

“Hold on.” Arvo covered the mouthpiece. “Where’s Maria?” he asked Eric. He wanted to talk to her about the paperwork on the Sandi Gaines case.

“Out in Devonshire talking to some guy who’s scared shitless his ex-wife’s gonna do a Bobbit number on him.”

“When d’she leave?”

Eric looked at his watch. “About half an hour ago.”

Devonshire. The Valley. It was just after noon now, so that meant she wouldn’t be back for a while. Hell, the paperwork could wait. He took his hand off the mouthpiece. “Stu?”

“Yeah. Look, Arvo, I can come over to Spring Street if it’s a problem for you.”

“No problem. I’ll be there soon as I can.”

“Great. Thanks. See you soon.”

Arvo told Eric where he was going, then he left the building and got into his car again. The engine was still warm after his drive back from Pasadena.

The security guard at the studio gate eyeballed his ID and waved him through. Arvo parked in the visitors’ lot and walked over to the long, narrow office building. He checked in at reception and went up to Stuart’s second-floor office.

The door was ajar. Arvo tapped lightly and went in. He had already heard the TV set from the corridor and remembered it from his last visit. He wondered if Stuart always had it turned on while he was working. Right now it was showing a Flintstones rerun. Yabba-dabba-doo.

“Coffee?” Stuart offered.

“Sure.”

“Sit down.” Stuart picked up the phone and ordered.

“Can you turn the TV down?” Arvo asked.

“What? Oh, sure.” Stuart pressed the mute button. Arvo could still see Barney Rubble from the corner of his eye.

“You get used to it,” Stuart said. “Can’t think without it on these days. And at least it’s a kind of constant noise, covers up the racket outside.” He pointed to the window. Arvo had heard some shouting, so he went over and looked out.

Opposite Stuart’s window was a street that the studio had constructed for a movie set so long ago no one could remember its title. But the street remained. It looked like thirties New York to Arvo — definitely an eastern city, anyway. It came complete with grimy tenements, fire escapes out front, black metal railings, fading ads for Pears soap and Dr. Graves high on the end-of-block walls, and even something that looked like a New York subway exit in the middle of the sidewalk. There were basement shops and restaurants, too, all of them empty.

One corner shop, down some steps with black railings at each side, had been given signs proclaiming it as a video rental center, and that was where the cameras, actors and studio technicians were milling around filming a scene. All around it, scaffolding had been erected to accommodate the various lights and camera angles. A couple of TV cop cars were parked outside at sharp angles, and some of the actors were wearing Kevlar vests.

The coffee arrived. After Stuart’s secretary had poured, Arvo sat down and asked, “What can I do for you this time?” He had helped a couple of Stuart’s clients in the past couple of years, and he liked the man. Stuart Kleigman was one of the old guard, a gentleman in a business populated largely by sharks and cut-throats, and he had still managed to hold on to a good reputation. His easygoing exterior, Arvo guessed, must cover a mind like a steel trap and guts of seasoned leather.

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 sound-stage 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 more 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.

“How long have you been living here?” he asked.

“About fifteen months. Since a year last September, to be exact.”

“Before that?”

She shrugged. “I lived in London. I travelled... ”

“And you came over here to work on this series?”

“No. That came later.”

“How much later?”

She looked at Stuart. “Let me see,” she said. “They started casting last January.”

“Did you apply?”

“No. I was staying with an old friend from England, Ellie Huysman. She used to be Stuart’s assistant here. When the part came up, she thought of me.”

“When did you change your name?”

“March.”

“Any idea who might be sending the letters?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Ex-boyfriends?”

She reddened a little but kept her composure. “There haven’t been very many.”

“Who was the last?”

“It’s of no relevance. He’s dead.”

“How did he die? When?”

Sarah paused for a moment. Arvo noticed a tic at the left side of her jaw. “I told you it’s irrelevant, but if you must know, he died of a drug overdose. Late last year.”

“Were you with him at the time?”

“No, we’d split up.”

“What about the one before that?”

“The only serious one was Justin. Justin Mercer. I lived with him for five years in London, but that was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Ten years. He was older. An actor. I was new in the business. It started as an affair, then he left his wife... ” She shrugged. “I can’t very well see Justin pursuing me this way. He dumped me for a younger model just after my thirtieth birthday.”

“I didn’t see his address in your book. Mercer does begin with an “M.” Have you still got it?”

“No. We haven’t stayed in touch. You should be able to find out easily enough, though. He’s quite famous.”

“He still lives in England?”

“As far as I know, he does.”

“What about while you’ve been here, in Los Angeles.”

She shook her head. “There’s been no one.”

“Anyone who might like to have been?”

That small smile came to her lips again, just revealing the overlapping teeth. “Probably a few,” she said. “But nobody who’s been really troublesome.”

“What about dates, casual affairs?”

“You mean one-night stands?”

“If you like.”

“I don’t go in for that sort of thing.”

One of the director’s assistants walked in and said something about getting the show on the road again. Technicians started ambling among the snaking cables at the edges of the phony precinct house.

“Okay,” Arvo said to him. “Almost finished.” Then he turned to Sarah again. She sat down slowly. “Are you sure you can’t think of anyone who might be doing this?”

“No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Well, think about it, will you? And think about “Little Star.” You might remember something important. If the writer did know you, it could help us find him.”

“I’ll try. Is that all?”

“For now.” Arvo stood up and handed her his card. “And get in touch immediately if anything else happens, okay?”

She nodded.

“I understand you’re leaving the country tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Between now and then, I suggest you take extra security measures, just in case. Make sure everything’s locked up properly, avoid walking around alone, that sort of thing. Common sense stuff.”

“I will,” she said.

Outside the sound-stage, Stuart picked up two skewers from the barbecue and offered Arvo one. He accepted. The shrimp was delicious, marinated in some sort of Thai sauce, spicy and sweet at the same time.

“What do you think?” Stuart asked as they walked back to the administration block.

“I don’t know,” said Arvo. “But I think you’re right. I got the feeling that she’s either holding something back or she really can’t remember. Either way, “Little Star” means something to her.”

“Why would she hold anything back?”

“That’s one of the things that puzzles me. But if she’s not holding back, then why can’t she remember? Whatever the reason, it’s worth opening a file.” He popped the last shrimp in his mouth, said goodbye to Stuart and headed for his car.

8

The Boulevard Was a kaleidoscope of broken color, shards of green, orange, red and blue neon fragmenting through his windshield as he cruised, looking for the right place.

He stopped at a red light. His chest felt tight and his breath was coming in sharp, rapid gasps. Hanging from the rearview mirror was his talisman, a small framed icon of Sarah/Sally. She was naked from the waist up, her small breasts firm and rounded, thrust forward like the figurehead of a ship. And she was smiling at him.

The light changed and the car behind him honked its horn. A wave of anger swept through him and for a moment he felt like... but no. He knew he had to keep control; he mustn’t give in to blind rage. This was for Sally.

Slowly, he edged down the throbbing Boulevard. From store windows, mannequins followed him with their gaze; crowds wandered from bar to bar, oblivious to him. But that would soon change.

Finally, he found the stretch he had been looking for. A place where the pickings would be easy. It didn’t matter who the victim was, only what. Like a cat, he thought. Does a cat really care which bird it captures? Doesn’t one pigeon look just like another?

He pulled over and parked by the curb, engine still ticking over, and wound down the window.

Maybe it was okay to be a little nervous. It gave him an edge; it honed his vision. The lights had never looked so sharp; they felt like knifepoints piercing his eyeballs. He knew that he would never see anything as clearly as what he was to do tonight. And it was all for her. He gazed proudly at his icon.

A figure separated itself from a small group standing outside a minimart and strutted toward him. He held his breath and gripped the wheel tightly. His pigeon.

9

Sarah woke with a start at four-fifteen in the morning. At first she felt confused, not sure what had woken her. For a while she just lay there, hardly daring to breathe, frightened that there was someone in the house. But it was probably just a siren or a squeal of brakes on the Coast Highway. As the policeman had suggested, she had locked up everything securely, including the outside gate to the beach. She lay still and listened for ten minutes. Nothing. All she could hear was the ceaseless rolling of the waves and her own heart beating too loud and too fast.

When she was certain she could hear no one else in the house, she got out of bed and walked over to the sliding glass doors that led to the second-level deck. She left the light off, just in case there was anyone watching her, and slid the doors open slowly and quietly. If he was out there somewhere, she didn’t want him to know that she had heard him.

But she could see nothing out there, either, only the ocean rippling and rolling under its pale blanket of moonlight. She thought she saw something further up the beach, the sudden movement of a flashlight, perhaps, but it was gone before she could be certain.

She wondered if she should phone the police, but decided they would think she was getting paranoid. After all, she had only received three weird letters. As Stuart said, there was nothing special about that in Hollywood.

Still a little nervous, she knew she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. She was also thirsty from the red wine she’d had with Jack at dinner that night, and Italian food always gave her heartburn. First, she padded to the bathroom, where she drank a large glass of water and took a couple of Maalox tablets. Then she went downstairs to the kitchen and put water and ground beans in the coffeemaker.

She would have to watch the drinking, she admonished herself, feeling the weight of a mild headache as she moved. For over a year now she had hardly touched a drop; even at Jack’s party she had held on to one rum and Coke for the entire evening. But last night at dinner, she had drunk four glasses of red wine and laughed too loudly. Bad signs.

It was her habit most mornings to get up around dawn. First she would make coffee, then, while it was brewing, she would go for a run. It was too early yet, though. She liked to wait until she could sense the first light before she set off.

She put on her tracksuit, drank coffee, ate toast, did a little housework and read J. B. Priestley’s The Good Companions for a while. It was the third time she had read the book, and it always made her feel homesick. Then, when she felt the light growing outside, she stood up and stretched. After her warm-up exercises, she set off. Originally a chore, the morning run had soon become compulsion, and now it was a pleasure.

She liked to run in the damp sand by the shore and feel the foam wet her feet. As she ran, she would watch the sun coming up behind the mountains, the light growing in the water, and breathe the ozone that the crashing surf seemed to exhale into the atmosphere.

This morning, as she ran, her reading of The Good Companions made her start thinking about her own childhood and how she began playing parts to escape the grime and the coal dust, the suffocating aura of defeat, poverty and broken dreams all around her. She remembered the time she organized a couple of her friends and, with sheets borrowed from the washing-line, they improvised the story of Ruth among the alien corn that they had learned in Sunday school the previous week.

Sarah’s mother had been livid. Not only had her daughter been participating in the trivialization of a Bible story, she had also dirtied freshly washed sheets. In her mother’s mind, Methodism and theater weren’t as close as cleanliness and godliness.

Sarah hadn’t run more than a quarter of a mile when she noticed something about a hundred yards ahead of her in the sand. It was an odd, humped shape she couldn’t quite make out. Probably driftwood.

It had been an odd relationship, she thought, the one she had had with her mother. Alice Bolton’s religion had been deeply enough ingrained to make her theologically opposed to most forms of human artistic endeavor, even if they were dedicated to the praise of God, yet she had been proud of her daughter. More so than her father. If only—

Sarah stopped dead in her tracks as another childhood memory thudded into her mind with the force of a hammer blow.

Let’s bury Daddy in the sand.

It was a game they used to play on seaside holidays in Blackpool, on the rare warm days. She and her older sister, Paula, would dig a hole in the sand and Daddy would lie down in it, then they would cover him with sand and pat it down. In the end, only his head would be showing. He would stay there for a while, then all of a sudden he would jump up and chase them, as they giggled and screamed, into the cold, gray Irish Sea.

The figure that lay in front of her now hadn’t been quite so well buried. The hands and forearms stuck out, as did the feet. The face was above the surface, but it was covered with a light dusting of sand, as if blown there by the breeze, and she couldn’t make out the features. She couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.

Sarah stood and stared, hands on her knees, panting for breath. She didn’t know what to do. In panic, she looked around but there was no one in sight. There never was at this time. Only the gulls screeching and squealing overhead in the pale morning light. Was the person dead? She thought so. Should she run back to the house and phone an ambulance? Maybe she should make sure first?

Gingerly, she leaned forward and grasped one of the hands. She braced herself for the weight, but as soon as she exerted the slightest pressure, she fell back on the sand.

Then she saw it. In her hand, she held a human arm, severed just above the elbow, where she could see the dark, clotted blood and tissue matted with sand. She dropped it and got to her feet. Blood roared and waves pounded in her ears.

Just before she turned away to run back to the house, she saw something else, something that made her blood freeze.

The image looked as if it had been drawn in the sand with a sharp stick. It showed a heart pierced by an arrow, like the ones teenage lovers used to carve into trees or chalk on walls. Inside the heart was her name: Sally.

Sarah put her hand to her mouth and staggered back a few paces before turning to run back to the house.