“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 GrooveRat—as it did—Shull would be spared public embarrassment. Right after Baby Boy’s murder, Kevin called Petra, trying to get gory details. Either Shull put him up to it—aiming for psychic souvenirs—or Kevin suspected something about his teacher and was checking it out. Either way, he’d be in trouble.”
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.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “A boy can dream.”
The next morning Milo phoned, and said, “Boring night. Shull just drove around. Up in the hills, then out to the beach all the way into Ventura County. He turned off on Las Posas, got on the 101 north, went another ten miles, returned, stopped at an all-night coffee shop in Tarzana—he likes cheapie-eats places, probably thinks of himself as slumming. Then he drove home alone, went to bed.”