with it.'
'What did you expect him to tell you, honey?'
There was a half inch of brandy left in the snifter. I rolled the stem between my fingers and watched the liquid shift like a tiny golden sea at storm.
'Think I've been insensitive?' I asked.
'Not insensitive. Selectively unaware. Didn't you once tell me that people do that all the time, that we use our minds as filters, to keep things sane?'
I nodded.
'You have to admit, Alex, it's unusual for a straight guy and a gay guy to be as close as you two. I'm sure there are
whole segments of Milo that he keeps to himself. Just as you do. Both of you have had to do some heavy denying to keep the relationship going, haven't you?'
'Like what?'
'Like do you ever actually think about what he and Rick do in bed?'
I was silent, knowing she was right. Milo and I talked about everything but sex. Up, down, over, and around the topic, but never squarely on it. It was denial of the first order.
'The funny thing,' I said, 'is that this afternoon, when I was reviewing my notes on Jamey and asking myself if I could have done anything differently, I fantasised about introducing him to Milo. The kid is gay - or thought he was then - and I wondered if having him meet an adult homosexual who'd made a good adjustment would have been helpful.' I frowned. 'Pretty damned naive.'
My throat was tight, and the last of the brandy went down hot and rough.
'Anyway,' I said bitterly, 'the two of them got together without any help from me.'
We cleared our heads with a walk along the beach, got back in the Seville, and drove home in silence. Robin rested her head on my shoulder; the burden was comforting. It was just past midnight when I pulled north onto Beverly Glen, ten after when I unlocked the front door.
An envelope fluttered in the draught and settled on the parquet. I picked it up and examined it. It had been hand-delivered by a Beverly Hills messenger service at 11:00 P.M. Inside was an urgent request to phone the law offices of Horace Souza as soon as possible next morning ('Re: J. Cadmus') and a number with a mid-Wilshire exchange.
Finally there was someone who wanted to talk to me.
RISING EARLY, I had the paper in my hands a minute after it landed. There was a teaser at the bottom of the front page - 'POSSIBLE BREAK IN LAVENDER SLASHER CASE' - but it contained no new information other than that LAPD, the Beverly Hills Police, and the sheriff's department were expected to announce new developments at a joint press conference later in the day. The rest was rehash - stale facts, interviews with the victims' still-aching families, a dispassionate chronology of the serial murders that had begun a year before and continued with bimonthly regularity.
The Slasher's victims were boy hookers, ranging in age from fifteen to nineteen. Most were runaways from Middle America. All six had been garroted with lavender silk and mutilated after death. The killings had been carried out at an unknown place, the bodies then dumped at various locations around the city. There was a westerly pattern to the dumping, with the first corpse discovered in a back-alley trash bin off Santa Monica Boulevard, in the heart of
Boystown, the sixth near a hiking path in Will Rogers State Park. Four bodies had been found in West Hollywood - the sheriff's bailiwick - the last two in West L.A. Division. Geographically Beverly Hills was sandwiched between the two turfs like a sweetmeat, but it had been passed over.
I put the paper down and called Horace Souza's office. It must have been a private line because he picked up the phone himself.
'Doctor, thank you for returning my call so promptly.'
'What can I do for you, Mr. Souza?'
'A former patient of yours, James Cadmus, is a client of mine. I'm representing him in a criminal case and would greatly appreciate talking to you about it.'
'What's he charged with?'
'I'd prefer to discuss the matter in person, Doctor."
'All right. I can be at your office in an hour.
'What did you expect him to tell you, honey?'
There was a half inch of brandy left in the snifter. I rolled the stem between my fingers and watched the liquid shift like a tiny golden sea at storm.
'Think I've been insensitive?' I asked.
'Not insensitive. Selectively unaware. Didn't you once tell me that people do that all the time, that we use our minds as filters, to keep things sane?'
I nodded.
'You have to admit, Alex, it's unusual for a straight guy and a gay guy to be as close as you two. I'm sure there are
whole segments of Milo that he keeps to himself. Just as you do. Both of you have had to do some heavy denying to keep the relationship going, haven't you?'
'Like what?'
'Like do you ever actually think about what he and Rick do in bed?'
I was silent, knowing she was right. Milo and I talked about everything but sex. Up, down, over, and around the topic, but never squarely on it. It was denial of the first order.
'The funny thing,' I said, 'is that this afternoon, when I was reviewing my notes on Jamey and asking myself if I could have done anything differently, I fantasised about introducing him to Milo. The kid is gay - or thought he was then - and I wondered if having him meet an adult homosexual who'd made a good adjustment would have been helpful.' I frowned. 'Pretty damned naive.'
My throat was tight, and the last of the brandy went down hot and rough.
'Anyway,' I said bitterly, 'the two of them got together without any help from me.'
We cleared our heads with a walk along the beach, got back in the Seville, and drove home in silence. Robin rested her head on my shoulder; the burden was comforting. It was just past midnight when I pulled north onto Beverly Glen, ten after when I unlocked the front door.
An envelope fluttered in the draught and settled on the parquet. I picked it up and examined it. It had been hand-delivered by a Beverly Hills messenger service at 11:00 P.M. Inside was an urgent request to phone the law offices of Horace Souza as soon as possible next morning ('Re: J. Cadmus') and a number with a mid-Wilshire exchange.
Finally there was someone who wanted to talk to me.
RISING EARLY, I had the paper in my hands a minute after it landed. There was a teaser at the bottom of the front page - 'POSSIBLE BREAK IN LAVENDER SLASHER CASE' - but it contained no new information other than that LAPD, the Beverly Hills Police, and the sheriff's department were expected to announce new developments at a joint press conference later in the day. The rest was rehash - stale facts, interviews with the victims' still-aching families, a dispassionate chronology of the serial murders that had begun a year before and continued with bimonthly regularity.
The Slasher's victims were boy hookers, ranging in age from fifteen to nineteen. Most were runaways from Middle America. All six had been garroted with lavender silk and mutilated after death. The killings had been carried out at an unknown place, the bodies then dumped at various locations around the city. There was a westerly pattern to the dumping, with the first corpse discovered in a back-alley trash bin off Santa Monica Boulevard, in the heart of
Boystown, the sixth near a hiking path in Will Rogers State Park. Four bodies had been found in West Hollywood - the sheriff's bailiwick - the last two in West L.A. Division. Geographically Beverly Hills was sandwiched between the two turfs like a sweetmeat, but it had been passed over.
I put the paper down and called Horace Souza's office. It must have been a private line because he picked up the phone himself.
'Doctor, thank you for returning my call so promptly.'
'What can I do for you, Mr. Souza?'
'A former patient of yours, James Cadmus, is a client of mine. I'm representing him in a criminal case and would greatly appreciate talking to you about it.'
'What's he charged with?'
'I'd prefer to discuss the matter in person, Doctor."
'All right. I can be at your office in an hour.
Similar Books
