by Stuart Woods
“Hello?”
“It’s Jon. How are you?”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Annoyed,” she said. “He’s been calling every day, and I’ve talked to him the way you suggested.”
“Have you learned any more about him?”
“No, and it’s maddening. He knows everything about me.”
“What sort of things?”
“Where I shop, restaurants I like, that sort of thing; not to mention every biographical detail.”
“He can get that in a library.”
“I know. I wish I’d never had an entry in Who’s Who.”
“So what are you doing on a Sunday afternoon?”
“Listening to one of your sister’s tapes,” she replied. “They’ve been wonderful, and so has the watch; will you thank her for me?”
“Sure I will. Listen, I thought you might like to get out of the house this afternoon.”
“I’d love to, and I’m sure Danny would like an afternoon off. He’s been stuck here with me all this time.”
“Can I pick you up in about an hour?”
“All right, but I get to choose what we do.”
“Okay by me.”
“Promise? No arguments?”
“Okay, I promise.”
“See you in an hour.” She hung up. “Danny!” she yelled.
“What?” he called back from the living room.
“I’ve got a date! You get the afternoon off.”
Danny came into the study. “I’ll bet it’s with the cop.”
She felt herself blushing. “Well, I’ll feel safe, anyway.”
“And I get to have a sex life again!” Danny crowed. He picked up the phone and started dialing.
Larsen helped her into the car.
“What is it?” she asked, feeling the dash.
“It’s an old MG TF 1500,” he said, walking around the little car. “Built in 1954; the last of the classic MGs.” He got in beside her. “I spent two years restoring it.”
“What color is it?”
“A silver gray, with a white top, which is down at the moment. Mind getting your hair blown?”
“Not a bit.”
“Good; it’s a little claustrophobic with the top up. Now, I said I’d take you anywhere you want to go. What’ll it be?”
“I want you to take me to a particular place, and when we get there I’ll tell you more.”
“All right; where to?”
“Do you know where the other end of Mulholland Drive is?”
“You mean way the hell out there, almost to Malibu?”
“Yes. It starts there and runs all the way to Beverly Hills.”
“We used to go out there and neck in high school,” Larsen laughed. “It’s been that long since I was there.” He started the car and drove off.
“Let’s take Sunset down to Pacific Coast Highway,” she said. “You can enjoy all the curves.”
“My thought exactly,” Larsen said. He turned right on Sunset and accelerated.
“I love it!” she cried.
“I love a girl who loves it,” Larsen replied. She was easy and natural for an actress, he thought.
“Are you an L.A. native?” she asked as they crossed over the freeway. She wanted to know more about him.
“Yep. Born and raised in Santa Monica. Went to UCLA, both undergraduate and law school.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Passed the bar, never practiced.”
“Why not?”
“My father was a lawyer; I think that’s why I went to law school. I had graduated before I found out how he really felt about practicing law.”
“How did he feel?”
“He hated it. He was a partner in a little firm in Santa Monica, did general work, and as the years wore on, he hated the work more and more. He found it boring and repetitive, and he hated being at the beck and call of clients, hated listening to them whining about their problems, hated dealing with the courts.”
“Most of the lawyers I’ve known felt that way by the time they were forty,” she said. “Except the entertainment lawyers—they’re making too much money to care.”
“Pity I didn’t think of that,” he said. “Maybe I wouldn’t have become a cop.”
“Why did you become a cop?” He seemed too polished, too smart to be a cop; she thought of cops as cruder, somehow.
“I had a criminal law instructor who was a cop; I liked him a lot, and he made the work seem interesting, took me on patrols, let me look over his shoulder.”
“Has the work been interesting?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Cops get hooked on their work; not many I’ve known have dropped out.”
“Not much money, though.”
“You’re right about that. I managed to stay single, though, so I’ve done okay. My tastes are simple.”
“My tastes were simple, until I started to make money,” she said. “Funny how sophisticated they can become in a very short time.”
“You mean you think that if I had more money I’d consume more champagne and caviar?”
“Metaphorically speaking, yes.”
“I don’t think I would.”
“Let me ask you something,” she said. “If you could have any car in the world, free, what would you choose?”
“That’s easy: a Porsche Cabriolet.”
“Aha!” she crowed. “Not such simple tastes after all.”
He laughed.
“Let’s say you suddenly started practicing law,” she said, “and suddenly, you could afford the Porsche. You know what would happen then?”
“What?”
“You live in an apartment or a house?”
“An apartment.”
“Well, one day you’d come home from work, and you’d notice that, somehow, your apartment house didn’t exactly go with the Porsche. So you’d move into a classier place, and then you’d notice that your furniture didn’t quite go with the new apartment, and when you got new furniture, your clothes wouldn’t quite go with that, and so on.”
“I see your point,” he admitted.
“Being rich is all about keeping up with yourself, not the Joneses.”
“Has that happened to you?”
“Of course it has. Now I’m trying to level off and let the money catch up with my tastes.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“That’s what my manager keeps telling me.”
They had reached the coast now, and soon he turned right and started uphill. “We’re headed up into the mountains,” he said. “We’ll be on Mulholland in a few minutes.”
“Good. I’ll bet you can’t guess what I want to do when we get there.”
“You want to neck,” he said.
“Nice try.”
“That’s what all the other girls I took up here wanted to do.”
“I’m not surprised,” she laughed. “Danny says you’re good-looking, and he’s a pretty good judge of beefcake.”
Larsen hooted with laughter. “Well, I’m glad somebody finds me attractive these days.” He drove around a series of curves, then turned right. “It’s going to get bumpy,” he said.
Mulholland Drive was nothing but a dirt track at this end, the province of teenage lovers and dirt bikers. Larsen drove slowly, taking care of his little car. “Any particular place you want to go?” he asked.
“When you start to be afraid for your car and nobody else is around, you can pull over.”
“We’re there,” he said, pulling off the road onto the grassy shoulder. “Now what?”
Chris reached into her handbag and pulled out a small automatic pistol. “I want you to teach me to use this,” she said.
CHAPTER
17
The day was warm, and a breeze stirred the grass at their feet. The coast was a dim outline through the smog.
“I thought you told me you weren’t going to buy a gun,” he said.
“Nope; you told me. I’m afraid I ignored your a
dvice; as soon as you left, I asked Danny to buy one for me.”
Larsen picked up the little pistol and looked at it. “You realize that by having this in your bag you were carrying a concealed weapon?”
“Sue me.”
He laughed and examined the pistol. “Italian, .22 caliber.” He slid the clip out. “Takes six or seven cartridges. Did Danny buy ammunition, too?”
Chris took a box from her purse and handed it to him.
“Hollowpoints,” he said.
“What are hollowpoints?”
He removed a cartridge from the box and held her finger to the tip. “Feel that? Each lead slug has been hollowed out. That means that when the bullet strikes its target, it will penetrate, then spread out, like a mushroom. A .22 is a small caliber, but this slug will do a lot of damage; it’s the sort of thing that Mafia hit men put into people’s heads.”
“Good.”
He was surprised. “Do you think you could kill another person?”
Chris did not hesitate. “I could kill Admirer, if I were ever in the same room with him again.”
“Would you just point at his voice and pull the trigger, or would you wait until he did something to you?”
“I’m not sure I could answer that, in the circumstances.”
“Does Danny know anything about guns?”
“He had never even held one, until he bought this for me.”
“Well, I guess I’d better show you how to use it; otherwise you’d end up shooting yourself with the damned thing.”
“That occurred to me,” she said.
“Danny got some good advice,” he said. “This is the right sort of weapon for the circumstances. It’s for close work; you’d never hit anything with it beyond about ten feet. It’s small; you can put it in the pocket of your jeans.” He shoved the pistol into her pocket. “Those jeans are pretty tight; see if you can get it out in a hurry.”
Chris reached into her pocket and yanked on the gun. It caught on her pocket and she had to struggle with it.
“You’ll have to practice that,” he said, taking the weapon back. He removed the clip and put it in her hand, then put a cartridge in her other hand. “Feel this; you point the bullet in this direction and push down and back. It’s spring-loaded.”
Chris dropped the bullet.
“Try again,” he said, dusting the cartridge off and handing it back to her.
This time she managed it.
“Now, let’s see how many it will hold.” He fed her more ammunition. “Good, seven; remember that number. Now, take hold of the pistol here—feel the rough place in the metal—pull the slide back and release it.”
Chris followed instructions.
“Now there’s a bullet in the chamber. Feel this little protrusion? That’s the safety; it’s on when it’s up and off when you push it down.”
Chris pushed the safety down with her thumb.
“Hang on, point it away before you do that.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
He walked her a few feet and faced her toward an embankment. “Now, right in front of you is a bank of earth about a foot taller than you are. I want you to hold the pistol out in front of you and fire one round.”
Chris did as she was told, and a popping sound was heard.
“Congratulations, you hit the bank.”
“I thought it would make more noise,” she said.
“It’s a little gun; it makes a little noise.”
“Oh.”
He picked up some pebbles. “Listen, now, shoot at the sound.” He tossed a pebble toward the bank, to her right.
Chris turned and fired in the direction of the sound.
“You missed it by about two feet, but that’s not bad at the distance. Here’s another.”
Chris fired again and came close.
Larsen continued with the exercise until the clip was exhausted. He took the pistol from her, removed the clip, and worked the action. “Now you’re sure the pistol is unloaded,” he said, putting it back into her hand. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him. “Shoot me,” he said.
“You’re sure it’s unloaded?”
“I’m sure.”
She pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.
“You have to work the slide, and then take the safety off.”
She did as he told her, then pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. A sharp click was heard.
“Do it again, but this time, get close to me and put the gun to my heart.”
She moved in close and pressed the gun to his body.
“Go on.”
She pulled the trigger again.
He took her gun hand and pressed it to his chest. “This is my heart, right here, just left of center.” He took her free hand and placed it on his neck. “Now you know where my head is; you can press the gun up under my jaw and shoot there.”
She felt her way and pulled the trigger again.
“Once you’re close to him and know where you’re shooting, keep pulling the trigger; it may take more than one to do the job. The trick is not to panic and start shooting too soon.”
She nodded. “I don’t like pointing the gun at you.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he laughed.
“I mean, I don’t think I’d have any trouble emptying it into Admirer, but…”
“I appreciate the thought. Not wanting to kill me could be the basis of a…friendship.”
She laughed. “It could, at that.”
He loaded the pistol for her, put the safety on, and placed it in her hand again. “You’ve done enough shooting. Now the gun is ready to use; all you have to do is work the action, take the safety off, and pull the trigger. If you think you might have to use it, work the action before you put it in your pocket, but be absolutely sure the safety is on.”
“I understand,” she said.
“I hope you do,” he replied. “And for God’s sake, don’t ever tell anybody who taught you to use it. The department frowns on that sort of thing.”
“I won’t. I’m grateful for your help.”
Larsen took her arm and steered her back toward the little MG. As he opened the door, he looked up and, in the distance, shimmering a little in the smog, he saw a man on a motorcycle, stopped in the road half a mile behind them. As he closed the door he reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a pair of small eight-power binoculars and raised them to his eyes. When he focused he saw things more clearly.
The motorcycle was red, and the rider was dressed in black leather and a black helmet. His face was obscured by a pair of binoculars. He was looking at Larsen and Chris.
“What is it?” Chris asked. “What are you doing?”
“Just tucking in my shirttail,” Larsen said. He went around to the other side of the car and got in.
Driving back to Bel Air, he occasionally caught sight of the motorcyclist in his rearview mirror, far behind them in traffic.
They had a bite to eat, and by the time they got back to the house it was getting dark and Danny was waiting for them. Larsen said his good night, and as he started to leave, Danny waved at him and mouthed the word “wait.”
Larsen left the house, but waited outside. A moment later, the front porch light went on and Danny came outside.
“Thanks for waiting,” he said. “I wanted to show you something, and I didn’t want Chris to know about it.”
“What is it?” Larsen asked.
Danny pulled an envelope from his pocket. “This was in the mailbox when I got home.”
Larsen opened the envelope and carefully removed a Polaroid photograph. He held it up to the porch light and looked closely at the image. “Jesus Christ,” he said.
CHAPTER
18
Larsen sat at his desk and looked at the photograph again, this time through a clear plastic evidence bag. He had looked at it over and over during the past fifteen hours, but it still made him feel ill.
Feeling at a loss f
or something to do, he switched on his computer and gazed blankly at the screen while the program was loaded into memory.
STALKER PROFILE
Prepared for the Threat Management Unit of the Los Angeles Police Department by C. E. Ripley, M.D.
This program is confidential and use by unauthorized persons is prohibited.
The profile was useless, because he had no personal information about Admirer. Suddenly he focused on the screen. He reached into a bottom desk drawer, found a phone book, looked up the number, and dialed.
“Dr. Ripley’s office,” a woman’s voice said.
“Good morning, this is Detective Jon Larsen of the Beverly Hills Police Department. May I speak with Dr. Ripley, please?”
“He’s with a patient at the moment. May I take a message?”
Larsen hesitated. “Would it be possible for me to see Dr. Ripley sometime today? It’s in connection with a computer program he prepared for the LAPD.”
“Let me see,” she said.
Larsen could hear pages turning.
“He’s had a cancellation later this morning; could you be here at eleven?”
“Yes, I certainly can,” Larsen said. He thanked her and hung up. He was grasping at straws, but straws were all he had left.
“I’m Chuck Ripley,” the doctor said. He was tall, stout, and balding.
“Jon Larsen, Dr. Ripley,” Larsen said, shaking hands. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Call me Chuck,” Ripley said. “I’ve always got time for the LAPD.”
“It’s Beverly Hills PD,” Larsen said.
“Oh; I heard they loaned you the program.”
“Yes, our threat unit is a long way behind theirs, but your profile has helped us a lot.”
“Good. What can I do for you?”
“I’m investigating a stalker, and in spite of our best efforts, we’ve been unable to ID him, so the profile hasn’t been of any help in this case.”
“Yes, that would pose a problem,” Ripley said drily. “No ID, no profile.”
“Exactly. It occurs to me that the profile represents only a fraction of what you must know about the stalker phenomenon.”
