Teri shook her head. “No.”
“Do you know anyone named Don Vinton?” He watched her closely.
“Don Vinton? Uhn-uhn. Should I?”
“Teri—how do you feel about murder?” A small shiver went through her body. He was holding her wrists and he could feel her pulse racing. “Does murder excite you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it,” Judd insisted. “Does the thought of it excite you?”
Her pulse was beginning to skip irregularly. “No! Of course not.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the man you killed in Hollywood?”
Without warning she reached out to rake his face with her long fingernails. He grabbed her wrists.
“You rotten sonofabitch! That was twenty years ago. .. . So that’s why you came. Get out of here. Get out! She collapsed in sobbing hysteria.
Judd watched her a moment. Teri was capable of being involved in a thrill murder. Her insecurity, her total lack of self-esteem, would make her easy prey to anyone who wanted to use her. She was like a piece of soft clay lying in the gutter. The person who picked her up could mould her into a beautiful statue—or into a deadly weapon. The question was, Who had picked her up last? Don Vinton?
Judd got to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said.
He walked out of the pink apartment.
Bruce Boyd occupied a house in a converted mews off the park in Greenwich Village. The door was opened by a white-jacketed Filipino butler. Judd gave his name and was invited to wait in the foyer. The butler disappeared. Ten minutes went by, then fifteen. Judd checked his irritation. Perhaps he should have told Detective Angeli he was coming here. If Judd’s theory was right, the next attempt on his life would take place very soon. And his attacker would try to make certain of his success.
The butler reappeared. “Mr. Boyd will see you now,” he said. He led Judd upstairs to a tastefully decorated study, then discreetly withdrew.
Boyd was at a desk, writing. He was a beautiful man with sharp, delicate features, an aquiline nose, and a sensuous, full mouth. He had blond hair curled into ringlets. He got to his feet as Judd entered. He was about six foot three with the chest and shoulders of a football player. Judd thought about his physical identi-kit of the killer. Boyd matched it. Judd wished more than ever that he had left some word with Angeli.
Boyd’s voice was soft and cultured. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Dr. Stevens,” he said pleasantly. “I’m Bruce Boyd.” He held out his hand.
Judd reached out to take it and Boyd hit him in the mouth with a granite fist. The blow was totally unexpected, and the impact of it sent Judd crashing against a standing lamp, knocking it over as his body fell to the floor.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” said Boyd, looking down at him. “You had that coming. You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you? Get up and I’ll fix you a drink.”
Judd shook his head groggily. He started to push himself up from the floor. When he got halfway up, Boyd kicked him in the groin with the tip of his shoe and Judd fell writhing to the floor in agony. “I’ve been waiting for you to call,” Boyd said.
Judd looked up through the blinding waves of pain at the figure that towered over him. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t get the words out.
“Don’t try to talk,” Boyd said sympathetically. “It must hurt. I know why you’re here. You want to ask me about Johnny.”
Judd started to nod and Boyd kicked him in the head. Through a red blur he heard Boyd’s voice coming from some distant place through a cottony filter, fading in and out. “We loved each other until he went to you. You made him feel like a freak. You made him feel our love was dirty. Do you know who made it dirty, Dr. Stevens? You.”
Judd felt something hard smash into his ribs, sending an exquisite river of pain through his veins. He was seeing everything in beautiful colors now, as though his head were filled with shimmering rainbows.