“Uptight,” said Stahl.
“When I met him, he was totally mellow, loose. Real easygoing. That’s what I liked about him. I’ve had enough stress in my life, who needs bad vibes.” She shrugged. “I thought his vibes were good. Guess I’m stupid.”
Stahl’s thigh, where her hand rested, had grown hot. He patted her fingers lightly. Removed her hand and got up.
She said, “Where are you going?”
Alarm in her voice. Stahl said, “Stretching.”
He moved closer to the bed, stood by her.
She said, “When I woke up- when you woke me up- I was freaked out to learn he was gone. How am I supposed to get back to my place?”
Stahl said, “I’ll take you.”
She said, “You’re really cool.” Reached for his zipper, pulled it down very slowly.
“Nice,” she said. “Nice man.”
Stahl let her.
44
I put the photocopies down. “It’s pretty obvious.”
It was 10 P.M. and Milo had dropped by to show me the end-of-year summaries Elizabeth Martin had pulled from Shull’s faculty file. When I scanned the material, bloated paragraphs jumped out at me. Phrases bunched together like Tokyo commuters. Disorganization, pomposity, lack of grace. Shull could plot and carry out murder with cleverness and decisiveness, but when faced with the written word, his mind lost traction.
He’d proposed a course he wanted to develop.
I reached into my file box, found what I was looking for: the
I pointed it out to Milo. “He recycles. Limited creativity. It’s got to be frustrating.”
“So he’s a hack,” he said. “So why couldn’t he just write for the movies instead of killing people?” Muttering, he circled the matching phrases with red pen.
“Now that we know it’s him,” I said, “I’m getting a new slant on his victim selection. Until now, I’d been thinking along purely psychological lines: capturing stars on the ascent, swallowing their identities before they became corrupted.”
“Psychic cannibalism,” he said. “I was starting to like that. You don’t, anymore?”
“I do. But another factor is the disconnect between Shull’s inflated sense of self and his accomplishments. The grand artiste who’s failed at music and art. He hasn’t killed any writers, so he probably still thinks of himself as a viable writer.”
“The novel he talks about.”
“Maybe there is a manuscript in a drawer,” I said. “The bottom line is, Shull’s a good bet for bitterness and pathological jealousy, but that’s only part of it. I think he’s being practical: Murder someone really famous, and you bring down big-time publicity and persistent scrutiny. Pulling off something that grandiose would be tempting for Shull, but at this point he’s smart enough to be deterred by the risk. So he lowers his sights, targets not-quite- celebrities like Baby Boy and Julie Kipper and Vassily Levitch. Their stories don’t make the papers.”
“You’re saying he’ll eventually go for the big time?”
“If he keeps succeeding. Murder’s the only thing he’s ever been good at.”
“You’re right. With a famous victim, I’da gotten a warrant a long time ago.”
“Still no luck?”
“I tried the three most permissive judges I know. Went to the D.A. for backup, no dice. Everyone says the same thing: The totality is suggestive but insufficient foundation.”
“What do they want?”
“Short of an eyewitness, body fluids, anything physical. Detective Stahl may have helped things along. Early this morning, he watched Shull pick up a girl at a bar on Sunset, take her to a motel in Malibu, and leave the place without her. Stahl assumed the worst and abandoned the tail to check the room, but it was just a case of Shull leaving early. But while he was interviewing the girl, ol’ Eric got consent from her to look around. She was the resident, so it’s full consent. What he took with him was a cardboard coke chute, a tissue caked with snot and what’re probably blood flecks, a drinking glass the girl said Shull used, and the bedsheet. Any of that matches the little red hairs in Armand Mehrabian’s beard, we’re in business.”
“When will you know?”
“We put a rush on, but we’re still talking days. Still, it’s progress.”
“Good for Stahl.”
“Weird guy,” said Milo. “But maybe our hero.”
“Speaking of Mehrabian’s beard,” I said, “you phrased it as Shull getting in his victim’s face. I’m wondering if he actually kissed Mehrabian.”
“Kiss of death?”
“The image might’ve appealed to Shull- seeing himself as a mafioso or the Angel of Death. The sexual ambiguity might also be relevant. That would tie in with his relationship with Kevin.”
“Think Kevin’s alive?”
“I wouldn’t take odds on it,” I said. “Whether or not he was Shull’s confederate, once I started asking about him, Shull would’ve seen him as a liability.”
“Petra says no one can confirm seeing the two of them together, so whatever they collaborated on, it was private.”
“One thing I’d wager: Shull financed Kevin’s magazine and got himself an outlet for his writing. Ten to one he’s been trying for years to get in print at real magazines, piled up the rejection slips.”
“Kevin was his vanity press,” he said.
“Shull used Kevin as a front because Kevin was young, edgy, and impressionable, and if anything went wrong with
He frowned.
I said, “What’s next?”
“More of the same. This is Stahl’s second day on surveillance. He called in an hour ago, and all Shull’s done so far is spend a few hours on campus, run errands, come home. He’s still there, but Stahl figures he’ll likely get going soon. He usually begins night-crawling around now.”
“Where does he crawl?”
“All over town. Clubs, bars, restaurants. He drives a lot, moves around constantly- which fits, these guys are always mileage freaks. Tonight, Stahl switched cars to a rental SUV, just in case. Petra’s run out of things to do, so she may join in. A two-person surveillance is always better. I showed Shull’s photo to the gallery people and Szabo and Loh. No one recognized him, why would they? He wears the uniform, black-on-black, your prototypical L.A. Guy. His name doesn’t show up on Szabo’s invite list, either, but I’ll keep looking.”
“What kind of girl did Shull pick up?” I said.
“Stahl didn’t say. The main thing is, he didn’t kill her. Stahl describes Shull’s general demeanor during the pickup as relaxed. He’s certain Shull’s unaware we’re looking at him. So maybe he’ll slip up, actually make a move on someone.”
“Caught in the act,” I said.
