Питер Робинсон - No Cure for Love

Set on a long promontory about twenty feet high, the houses had steps carved in the rock leading down to the beach. Each also had a high gate at beach level. Despite the difficult access, though, it wasn’t a private beach, and such security as existed there — gates, wire — was pretty Mickey Mouse, in Arvo’s opinion.

On the other hand, it wasn’t a natural choice for dumping a body, and if the killer really wanted to show off his handiwork to the world at large, why not try Santa Monica, Venice or Redondo, further south? Maybe even have a good laugh when one of the bodybuilders on Muscle Beach pulled the severed arm loose? Plenty of people there, every day of the week.

Could Sarah Broughton have been the only audience he wanted? Arvo remembered the letter: “I have much to Plan and Execute before we can be together as Fate intends. My mind Boils and Seethes with the Burden, the Weight and the Glory of it. All for you. Let me prove I am more than equal to the Task.”

He shivered and returned to the car. In Santa Monica, he found a parking space in a side street and walked over the arched bridge onto the pier. Behind him, the white buildings along Ocean Avenue sparkled in the late December sun. To the north, across the bay, Arvo could just about make out the contours of the coastal hills behind where he had just been. Breakers crashed on the beach with a deep booming sound, churning up spume, and diamonds danced on the greenish-white ocean.

Just beyond the carousel, a Hispanic family stood busking: the father played guitar; the teenaged son sang in Spanish and looked as if he’d rather be just about anywhere else; the daughter danced as awkwardly as any spindly nine-year-old would; and the toddler stood with his mournful-looking mother by the upturned, white top hat, looking cute. Arvo grinned at him and flipped in a couple of quarters.

Stuart Kleigman was leaning against the chain-link fence past the Playland Arcade staring down the boardwalk toward Venice, where an endless stream of roller skaters glided back and forth.

At least Arvo thought it was Stuart. He was wearing light blue slacks and a shiny red blouson jacket, and when Arvo greeted him, he turned, revealing a blue-and-gold crest on the front of his jacket. Probably his bowling team, Arvo thought, unable to make out the lettering. The breeze blew a lock of Stuart’s gray hair over his eyes and he pushed it back. Arvo had never seen him dressed so casually before.

Stuart raised an eyebrow and squinted out to sea. “Probably five years since I’ve been here,” he said. “You wouldn’t think so, would you, Brentwood being so close, but it’s true. Karen and I used to come here sometimes when we first got married, but that was ten years ago now. And we brought the kids here once or twice when they were little. Leora sure loved that carousel. Now the neighborhood’s gone downhill — you wouldn’t catch me here after dark — and the developers have ruined the waterfront. You live around here?”

“Santa Monica, yes. Seafront, no.”

“Uh-huh. So what is it? Have there been any developments?”

“Yes and no.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? Sounds like a lawyer’s answer to me. Nothing’s happened to Sarah, has it?”

“Not as far as I know. What I mean is, I’m not sure whether there have been any developments or not.”

“Look, let’s go get something to eat, shall we?” Stuart rubbed his stomach. “I’m starving. Then you can tell me all about it.”

They walked along the pier. Arvo caught glimpses of the sea through the gaps between the boards. It made him feel a little dizzy. They went into the English-style pub.

It was more of a wooden shack than a pub, really. A few of the tables were occupied by young couples and groups of young people taking a break from skating on the boardwalk; a couple of sullen teenagers were playing darts in the corner; and one group of obvious east-coast tourists looked around with sheepish smiles as their kids painted the tables and floors with food. They looked as if they were remembering how cute everyone thought it was when the kids made a mess like that in South Duxbury, Massachusetts, but starting to worry that maybe you could get shot for it in LA.

When the stoned-looking waiter wandered by, Arvo ordered a pint of Harp lager and a tuna melt, and Stuart asked for a Diet Coke, fries and a cheeseburger with the works.

“So what is it?” Stuart asked. “This yes-and-no business?”

“It’s about the body Sarah found on the beach.”

Stuart waved his hand in the air. “Oh, that. Yeah. Some faggot kid from West Hollywood, right? Half a column inch in the Los Angeles Times and one pissy little item on the local news about how an actress who played a homicide cop on TV discovered a real dead body on her morning jog, that’s all. Cute story. It was a joke to them. Filler on a slow news day. Soon as she was done with the cops I took her to Brentwood for the day and made sure nobody got near her. They lost interest soon enough. Especially after that dumb kid from the new NBC sitcom ran his fucking Porsche off the Coast Highway Thursday night.”

Their drinks arrived. Arvo took a long swig of Harp to slake his thirst. It was good. Cold, clean and hoppy.

Stuart pointed to his Diet Coke and made a face. “Doctor’s orders,” he said. “Can you believe it? Fifty years old and not a day’s hospitalization in my life, and I’m supposed to go on a fucking diet.”

“Hey, Stuart, you want to live forever like everyone else in this town, then you better follow your doctor’s orders.”

“Fucking doctors. What do they know?”

The food arrived. Stuart started burying his burger under relish, pickles, hot peppers and ketchup, which he then liberally poured over his fries. Arvo looked away and tucked into his tuna melt. So much for Stuart’s doctor’s orders, he thought, looking at the mess of fat, cholesterol and red meat on the plate.

Stuart bit into his burger. Yellow mustard and green relish oozed out the sides and dribbled down the corners of his mouth. He wiped it with a napkin.

“Did Sarah jog along that part of the beach every morning?” Arvo asked.

“Sure. I mean, I think so. She said she did, and I had no reason to think otherwise. She loved her morning run. I can’t say I was ever around there that early, myself.”

“Same time, same place?”

“Yeah. That was her routine. I mean, you live somewhere nice like that, why go somewhere else to work out? Know what I mean?”

Arvo nodded. “Have there been any new letters?”

“Not that I know of.” Stuart frowned. “Look, Arvo, I don’t like what I’m hearing, if I’m hearing your tone right. Is there something I’m missing, something I ought to know?” He pushed the basket of fries toward Arvo, who waved it away.

“No, thanks.” Arvo took another sip of Harp and shook his head. “I wish I knew. I’m sorry, Stu. I’m not trying to hide anything. I’m just looking around for some way to get a handle on this.”

“Yeah, I can see that. The letters and the stiff. You think there’s a connection. I’m not that fucking stupid. What I don’t see is how or why.”

Arvo told him about the heart.

Stuart frowned and shook his head. “A heart usually symbolizes love, right? You’re saying the stiff was planted there for Sarah to find. Like an offering, a gift?”

“I’m saying it could have been.”

Stuart put the remains of his hamburger down. “Jesus H. Christ. And you said there was nothing to worry about.”

“I said there was probably nothing to fear yet, that we didn’t have enough to go on. We’re dealing in statistical probabilities, Stu, not certainties. If new information comes in, the whole pattern changes. If he’s suffering from schizophrenia or some personality disorder that involves delusions or hallucinations, then the normal rules don’t apply any more.”