Four in the morning was no time to bother a friend, so she phoned Milo’s desk at West L.A. and left a message. Knowing he’d be likely to wake her when he returned but that was okay. She wanted to let him know Shull was an habitue of the Snake Pit. Liked to go backstage.
She was thirsty, got up, and poured herself terrible police coffee and drank it standing, alone, in the corner of the detective room. Thought about Shull.
Hollywood night-scene regular.
The professor.
Too bad neither bouncer could verify his presence the night of Baby Boy’s murder. Maybe she’d go back over her witness list, do a major recontact with the photo, see if anyone remembered.
Yeah, she’d have to do that. Big-time tedium. The core of detective work.
With Shull under surveillance, it could wait until tomorrow. She was exhausted, needed to shower and stretch out and catch a few hours of dreamless sleep. So why was she loading up on caffeine?
She tossed the muddy swill, returned to her desk, got her coat. Stood there some more. Visualizing how it had probably gone down between Shull and Baby Boy.
Shull pays his cover, orders enough drinks to hold on to a nice, dark seat at the back. He takes in the show, watches, listens.
Applauds.
Clapping for himself, more than Baby Boy.
Baby Boy finishes his first set and leaves. Shull’s watched him before, knows his habit of heading back to the alley for a smoke.
He sits for a moment, sipping, planning, makes sure no one’s watching as he slips out of the club.
Linus Brophy had said the killer was wearing a long, dark coat. Shull wore all black, habitually, when he night-crawled.
A big black coat would be perfect for concealing a big, sharp knife.
Ready for business, Shull makes his way to the alley, conceals himself in the shadows.
Waits.
Baby Boy shows up, lights a smoke. Shull studies him, taking his time.
Savoring the moment.
Finally, he approaches Baby Boy. Unaware of Brophy, but the wino’s presence turns out to be irrelevant.
Baby Boy, unsuspecting. A sweet guy, a warm guy. He’s used to the adoration of fans, and here’s another one. Shull’s demeanor nurtures the subterfuge: big smile, tossing out the heartfelt praise of a true believer.
The professor. Ingratiating himself the way he’d done with lots of artists.
None of them knowing he considers himself the ultimate artist.
A loser in real life, a legend in his own mind. Like Alex had said, psychological cannibalism.
If you can’t beat ’em, eat ’em.
Petra shuddered.
Baby Boy, a trusting man, a naÏve man, smiles back.
Both of them smiling as Shull plunges the knife.
She put on her coat and left.
When she reached home, there was a message from Milo on her machine. “Call me, I’m up.”
She reached him on his cell. “You’re up late.”
“The bad guys don’t sleep, why should I. What’s up?”
She gave him a progress report.
Milo said, “Good work, very good. We’re closing in.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you earned your shut-eye, and I’ll be at the courthouse by nine tomorrow to see if Judge Davison is a little more open-minded.”
“Let me know.”
“You bet. Thanks, kid.”
“You’re welcome. Pop.”
43
The first time Eric Stahl saw the house, he knew it wasn’t an ideal situation.
All that was visible from the street were bleached wooden gates flanked by brick posts. Beyond the posts were six-foot-tall ivy-covered walls. Behind the walls, junipers and cypress towered, and some kind of vine sprawled.
Nice place. Shull had money.
It always came down to money.
Soon after he positioned himself down the hilly block, Stahl entertained a brief fantasy: scale the fence, B and E the house, find Shull doing something evil, and finish the bastard off the way bad guys deserved to be finished off.
Nice movie. Reality was that he sat and watched and waited.
Tonight, for some reason, his talent for inertia was being tested. By 9:30 P.M.—two hours after he’d arrived—the hero fantasy recurred.
He visualized how he’d do Shull. The neck snap, or if Shull resisted, a knife.
Eric Stahl, big hero, providing closure.