Питер Робинсон - No Cure for Love

“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.”