Full views that exposed her entire body, long and slim and pale, spread-eagled on a white-sheeted bed.
Legs knotted to the footboard, hips thrusting upward as if trying to buck a rider.
Shots of her alone, others with the same two hands.
Pinching, squeezing, kneading, spreading, probing.
Gynecologic close-ups.
And one facial close-up, placed near Locking’s right hand.
The hood removed.
Blond hair pinned tightly and pulled away from the face.
Lovely face, cultured.
The open mouth expressing fear or arousal. Or both. The brown eyes wide, bright, focused and distant at the same time.
Even exposed that way, Hope Devane’s emotions were hard to read.
My eyes shifted back to Locking’s corpse.
Something else on the floor.
A cardboard box. More photos. Hundreds of them.
Neat lettering on the side in black marker.
SELF-CONTROL STUDY, BATCH 4, PRELIM.
When Locking had carried the carton from Seacrest’s house he hadn’t even bothered to close it. Hiding the pictures under a top layer of computer printout.
Big joke on the cops.
And Seacrest had been in on it. He had warned Locking.
The tattooed arm. Co-players.
A buzzing sound made me jump.
A shiny green fly had entered through the open door. It circled the room, alighted on the bar, took off again, inspected an ashtray, sped toward me. I swatted it away and it veered off, studied itself in a Beck’s mirror, flew back. Hovering above Locking’s body, it dove and landed on a patch of abdomen.
Pausing, then climbing up to the lifeless face.
To a bloody spot.
It stayed there. Rubbed its forelegs together.
I went to look for a phone.
CHAPTER
32
“It is not,” Philip Seacrest repeated, “a crime.”
He might have been lecturing to students, but Milo was no sophomore.
A West L.A. interrogation room. A video camera hummed on auto but Milo’s pen kept busy. I was alone in the observation cubicle, with cold coffee and frozen images.
“No, it’s not, Professor.”
“I don’t expect you to understand but I believe people’s personal lives are just that.”
Milo stopped writing.
“When did it begin, Professor?”
“I don’t know.”
“No?”
“It was not my idea . . . never my propensity.”
“Whose propensity was it?”
“Hope’s. Casey’s. I was never sure which of them actually initiated it.”
“When did you get involved?” said Milo, picking up one of the Polaroids on the table and flicking a corner with his index finger.
Seacrest turned away. Moments ago, his gray herringbone jacket had been off and the sleeve of his white shirt had been rolled up, revealing the anchor tattoo. Now he was fully dressed, the jacket buttoned.
He began picking at his untidy beard. His first reaction upon seeing the snapshots had been shock. Then wet-eyed resignation followed by hardened resolve. He hadn’t been arrested, though Milo had offered him an attorney during questioning. Seacrest had turned him down curtly, as if insulted by the suggestion. As the interview ground on, he’d managed to build upon the indignation.
“When did you get involved, Professor?”
“Later.”
“How much later?”
“How could I possibly know that, Mr. Sturgis? As I told you, I have no idea when they began.”
“When did you get involved in absolute terms?”
“A year, year and a half ago.”
“And Locking was your wife’s student for over three years.”
“That sounds right.”
“So it may have been going on for two years before you started.”
“It,” said Seacrest, smiling sourly. “Yes, it might have.”
“So what happened?” said Milo. “The two of them just walked in one day and announced hey, guess what, we’ve gotten into some B-and-D games, care to join?”
Seacrest flushed but he kept his voice even. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Seacrest shook his head and flexed his neck from side to side. The smile hadn’t totally faded.
“Something amusing, Professor?”
“Being brought here is perverse. My wife’s been murdered and you concern yourself with this kind of thing.”
Milo leaned forward suddenly, staring into Seacrest’s eyes. Seacrest startled but composed himself and stared back. “Perverse, trivial, and irrelevant.”
“Humor me, Professor. How did you get involved?”
“I—you’re right about it being a game. That’s exactly what it was. Just a game. I don’t expect you to be tolerant of . . . divergence, but that’s all it was.”