Over coffee Peter said, “I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re having, Judd, but if I can be of any help…”
Judd shook his head. “Thanks, Peter. This is something I have to take care of myself. I’ll tell you all about it when it’s over.”
“I hope that’s soon,” Peter said lightly. He hesitated. “Judd—are you in any danger?”
“Of course not,” replied Judd.
Unless you counted a homicidal maniac who had committed three murders and was determined to make Judd his fourth victim.
Chapter Fifteen
AFTER LUNCH, Judd returned to his office. He went through the same careful routine, checking to make sure that he exposed himself to minimum vulnerability.
For whatever that was worth.
He began going through the tapes again, listening for anything that might provide some clue. It was like turning on a torrent of verbal graffiti. The gusher of sounds that spewed forth was filled with hatred…perversion…fear…self-pity…megalomania…loneliness…emptiness…pain…
At the end of three hours he had found only one new name to add to his list: Bruce Boyd, the man with whom John Hanson had last lived. He put the Hanson tape on the recorder again.
“…I suppose I fell in love with Bruce the first time I saw him. He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.”
“Was he the passive or dominant partner, John?”
“Dominant. That’s one of the things that attracted me to him. He’s very strong. In fact, later, when we became lovers, we used to quarrel about that.”
“Why?”
“Bruce didn’t realize how strong he really was. He used to walk up behind me and hit me on the back. He meant it as a loving gesture, but one day he almost broke my spine. I wanted to kill him. When he shook hands, he would crush your fingers. He always pretended to be sorry, but Bruce enjoys hurting people. He didn’t need whips. He’s very strong…”
Judd stopped the tape and sat there, thinking. The homosexual pattern did not fit into his concept of the killer, but on the other hand, Boyd had been involved with Hanson and was a sadist and an egotist.
He looked at the two names on his list: Teri Washburn, who had killed a man in Hollywood and had never mentioned it; and Bruce Boyd, John Hanson’s last lover. If it were one of them—which one?
Teri Washburn lived in a penthouse suite on Sutton Place. The entire apartment was decorated in shocking pink: walls, furniture, drapes. There were expensive pieces scattered around the room, and the wall was covered with French impressionists. Judd recognized two Manets, two Degas, a Monet, and a Renoir before Teri walked into the room. He had phoned her to tell her that he wanted to come by. She had gotten ready for him. She was wearing a wispy pink negligee with nothing on underneath it.
“You really came,” she exclaimed happily.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sure. A little drinkie?”
“No, thanks.”
“Then I think I’ll fix myself one to celebrate,” Teri said. She moved toward the coral-shell bar in the corner of the large living room.
Judd watched her thoughtfully.
She returned with her drink and sat next to him on the pink couch. “So your cock finally got you up here, honey,” she said. “I knew you couldn’t hold out on little Teri. I’m nuts about you, Judd. I’d do anything for you. You name it. You make all the crummy pricks I’ve known in my life look like dirt.” She put her drink down and put her hand on his trousers.
Judd took her hands in his. “Teri,” he said. “I need your help.”
Her mind was traveling in its own groove. “I know, baby,” she moaned. “I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked in your life.”
“Teri—listen to me! Someone is trying to murder me!”
Her eyes registered slow surprise. Acting—or real? He remembered a performance he had seen her give on one of the late late shows. Real. She was good, but not that good an actress.
“For Christ sake! Who—who’d want to murder you?”
“It could be someone connected with one of my patients.”
“But—Jesus—why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Teri. Have any of your friends ever talked about killing .. . or murder? Maybe as a party game, for laughs?”