Питер Робинсон - No Cure for Love

“Where were you on the evening of December 19?”

Cameron slouched back in his chair and looked down at the table. “How the fuck would I know? Probably at work. How do you expect me to remember that far back? Where were you ?”

“Did you go down to Santa Monica Boulevard that evening? Did you pick up a kid called John Heimar? Did you kill him, dismember his body and bury it on the beach near Pacific Palisades?”

“No. No. And no. What is this?”

“Where were you over Christmas?”

He shrugged. “At work. At home. Visiting friends.”

“What about your family?”

“I don’t have any family. Well, only Mark, my brother.”

“You were with him over Christmas?”

“Some of the time. We don’t see a lot of each other.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“Work doesn’t stop just because it’s Christmas, you know. The club’s busy. People like to party.”

“What about your sister, Marianne?”

“How’d you know about her?”

“Did you see her?”

“No. She lives in Boston. Besides, we don’t get along.”

“Do you own a hammer, Mitch?”

“A hammer? I guess so. In the toolbox. I don’t—”

“Ever heard of Jack Marillo?”

“Yeah. The TV guy who got killed.” He laughed. “Don’t tell me, you’re going to pin that one on me, too, right? Just pick on old Mitchell Cameron. This is absurd. Tell me, why would I want to kill a TV star I’ve never met?”

“How about last night, Mitch? Where were you then? That’s a bit more recent. Maybe you can remember what you were doing then?”

“Working. At the club.”

“Ten Forward?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sure you weren’t up in Brentwood?”

“Brentwood? What the fuck would I be doing in Brentwood? Who do you think I am, man? Member of the country-club set, maybe playing a few holes of golf in Bel Air? Don’t talk stupid.”

They would check his alibi, of course. But Cameron was good, Arvo thought. Even denied cigarettes, he wasn’t showing any of the traditional signs of stress or of lying. Occasionally, he would probe his broken tooth with his tongue, but that was a normal enough reaction to pressure — and to a broken tooth.

He didn’t sweat, fidget or chew his lips, and for the most part, his eyes remained calm and steady, fixed on Joe. They were very expressive eyes, though, Arvo noticed. Most of the time they showed only amused, cynical detachment, but they could turn hard. Arvo also thought he saw a kind of cruel hunger in them, a hunger for power over people, dominance for its own sake. A manipulator.

The absence of guilty body language proved nothing in itself. If Cameron were the man who had terrorized Sarah Broughton, killed John Heimar and Jack Marillo and stabbed Stuart Kleigman, then he could hardly be expected to react in a normal way to interrogation.

On the other hand, he was showing no outward signs of schizophrenia or manic depression. Perhaps he had learned to hide the symptoms; or perhaps his problem lay elsewhere. A serious delusional disorder might not be so obvious to an outsider. As planned, Arvo let Joe carry on asking Cameron about the murders. His turn would come soon. Cameron did seem to be getting a little confused now and then, and maybe that would give them the edge they needed to crack him. He certainly did like to talk.

“Why did you run when we came to question you?” Joe asked.

“You know why I ran. I’ve got a record. You guys come and roust me, you’re looking for an arrest. I mean, if you look at what’s happening right now, it’s point proven. Pretty soon you’ll have me down for every unsolved murder on your books.”

“We don’t work like that, Mitch.”

“Bullshit you don’t.”

“What have you got to hide, Mitch?”

“Nothing. I told you. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

It was there, Arvo noticed. A chink in the armor. Gone almost the moment he saw it, but there: a slight twitch, no more than a tic, at the corner of one eye. In someone as controlled as Mitchell Cameron, it was a sure sign he was lying.

Joe had noticed it, too. “Come on, Mitch, you can’t expect me to believe that old line.”

“I don’t care what you believe.”

“Sure you do. You want us to believe you’re innocent.”

“I am innocent.”

“So tell the truth.”

“I did.”

“Why did you run, Mitch?”

Arvo could see Mitch thinking, weighing up the pros and cons of making up another story.

“Why did you run, Mitch?”

“I owe some men some money, that’s all.”

“Which men?”

“Just men, okay. Loan sharks. The kind who don’t necessarily do things the legal way.”

“What do you owe them for?”

“Money. I borrowed some money for a new guitar.”

Joe paused, then leaned forward and spoke softly. “But the two officers who came to talk to you at Ten Forward identified themselves as police officers, Mitch.” He turned to face Maria and pointed. Her lower lip was swollen and red. “Yet you punched Detective Hernandez here in the face. That’s a serious matter. Did you think she was lying, showing phony ID?”

Cameron shifted a little uneasily in his chair. “Maybe. It wouldn’t surprise me, man.”

“And because of that you hit a woman?”

“Can’t trust nobody these days, man. Women, they can be just as mean as men.” He looked at Maria and bared his teeth in an ugly grin. “Meaner, sometimes.”

“You can do better than that,” said Joe.

“Maybe the guys I borrowed the money from got cops in their pockets.”

“You into conspiracy theories, Mitch? Is that what you’re trying to sell us? I mean, I thought you must be a few cards short of a full deck, but conspiracy theories? Come on, I still think you can do better than that.”

“Oh, yeah? What if I give you names?”

“Cops?”

“Uh-huh. Hollywood Division.”

“Then we’d check them out.”

Cameron gave him two names. Arvo didn’t recognize either of them. Then Joe gave Arvo the signal to ease into his chair and take over questioning. Maria sat beside him, at a sharp angle to Cameron, so he would have to turn his head to look at her. She and Arvo had arranged a signal system for if and when he wanted her to ask the questions.

Arvo took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. Then he loosened his tie.

“You knew Gary Knox, didn’t you, Mitch?” Arvo began.

Cameron hardly reacted at all to the change of questioners; he merely flicked his disdainful eyes in Arvo’s direction, as if he were looking at some sort of lower life form.

“Sure I did,” he said. “Gary and I were close. He liked my songs. If he hadn’t died... ”

“What if he hadn’t died, Mitch?”

“Well, I’d probably be famous, wouldn’t I? A star. He was gonna have me in his band for the next album, record some of my songs.”

“You met him in San Francisco, is that right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“In a bar.”

“Right. Look, if you know all this, why are you asking me?”

“Just want to get it straight, Mitch, that’s all. Do you remember Jim Lasardi, the bass player?”

“Sure.” A guarded look had come into his eyes now, and he shifted in his chair again. He still wasn’t sweating, though, and it was hot in the room.

“Do you remember an incident in Santa Barbara, where you broke Jim Lasardi’s nose and hit a hotel manager?”

“Yes, I remember. Lasardi was ragging me. Had been all evening. The guy was an asshole. A has-been. He couldn’t stand to see the new talent coming in. I could’ve had his job if Gary hadn’t OD’d, you know that?”

“You play bass?”

“Sure. Bass. Lead. Rhythm. You name it.”