'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 Dali melting watch design.
Tall and tanned, with the physique of a long-distance runner rather than a sprinter, and smartly dressed in a light weight wool suit, Arvo was generally thought attractive by wome. he was thirty-five years old, had thick brown hair, perhaps a shade toolong 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 the 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, expect 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 met. Senators, congressman, 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 whosever they've to love them in time, if they do the right things.
The danger to a 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 she saying yes, and 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 wanted 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 into. 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 a light as it ever got at eleven o'clock in the morning. Arvo tuned in to FM 93, an oldies station, and listened to The Association, Quicksilver Messenger Service and Strawberry Alarm Clock. Downtown, he excited the freeway at Hill, drove through the colourful 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, was located at 419 Spring Streets, the south-west corner of Spring and Fourth, in the heart of shabby downtown Los Angeles. Across the streets was a run-down facade of the old Pacific Grand Hotel-which now 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 the 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 Kleighman, 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 for 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 shit-less his ex-wife's gonna do a Bobbit number on him.'
'When'd she leave?' Eric looked at his watch. 'About half and 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 can wait. He took his hand from the mouthpiece. 'Stu?' 'Yeah. Look, Arvo, I can come over to Spring Street if it's a problem with 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 visitor's lot over walked 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. 'Coffe?' Stuart offered. 'Sure.' 'Sit down.' Stuart picked up the phone and ordered. 'Can you turned 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 it,' Stuart said. 'Can't think without it on these days. And at leasr 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 look out. Opposite Stuart's window was a street that the studio had constructed for the movie set so long ago no one could remember its title. But the streets remained. It look 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 soaps 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 centre, and that was the cameras, actors and studio technicians were milling around filming a scene.
All round it, scaffolding had been erected to accommodate the various lights and cameras angles. A couple of TV cops cars were parked outside at sharp angels, and some of the actors were wearing Kevlar vests. The coffe arrived. After Stuart's secretary had pouted, 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 Kleighman 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 polish 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 use of 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 too unlikely to harm the victim, no matter how vile and terrifying his threats and fantasies looked on paper.
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 behaviour he could anaylze 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 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 knew of. And she wouldn't 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 means anything to her?' 'She says not.' 'And?' 'And I believe her.' "What about Sally"?' 'It's her real name.' 'Interseting,' 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 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 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 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 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 towards the window. 'Are they serious?' he said. 'That kind of talk went over 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 blonde hair with ragged bangs over a heart-shaped faces; sensual lips with little dimples at each side; a small, slightly retrousse nose; a 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 exaclty 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 pudge flesh. 'Sarah Broughton,' he began. 'Her real name's Sally Bolton. She's a Brit. Comes from Yorkshire 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, Printer, 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 Palisade.' 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 in silents, at that. Must be a ninety if she's a day. She had the place build 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 people because 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's does?' said Arvo. 'She own a gun?' 'No. Does you think she should-'Arvo held his hands 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 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 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 came 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 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 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 planer?' Stuart pushed his glasses back over the bridge of his slightly hooked nose. '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 closer look at it. Thanks, Arvo.' ' No problem'. Arvo looked at his watch. 'Can we go over and talk to her now?'