The Essential Murders of Seven Movie Critics

By Frank DeFelitta

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 26, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462831548

Frank DeFelitta

FRANK DE FELITTA is the author of eight novels, including the legendary occult classics “Audrey Rose” and “The Entity”. His other novels include the best-sellers “Oktoberfest”, “Sea Trial”, “Golgotha Falls”, “Funeral March” and the sequel to “Audrey Rose”, “For Love Of Audrey Rose”. Both “Audrey Rose” and “The Entity” were also made into movies, the former starring Anthony Hopkins and the latter starring Barbara Hershey. De Felitta lives with his wife of many years, Dorothy, and enjoys a life of Epicurean delights; fine art (much of which he makes himself), gourmet cuisine, cold gin martinis, pleasant strolls and successful bouts with the New York Times Crossword Puzzle.

Book preview

THE ESSENTIAL MURDERS OF SEVEN MOVIE CRITICS

Frank DeFelitta

Copyright © 2000, 2006 by Frank DeFelitta.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

Also by Frank De Felitta

Oktoberfest Audrey Rose The Entity Sea Trial For Love of Audrey Rose Golgotha Falls Funeral March of the Marionettes

FOR MY WIFE, DOROTHY, NOW AND FOREVER

… Confusion to mathematicians And a swift death to critics.

Old Irish toast

CHAPTER ONE

A cold August rain doused Los Angeles—a freak occurrence. Water swirled in slow eddies across Wilshire Boulevard. Tail lights like red beads glowed against the wet asphalt. Jonathon Hill, senior film critic for the Los Angeles Express, held a film program ineffectually over his head and dashed across Wilshire. Writers, directors, a few producers and their dates were in the wide doorway of the Academy theater behind him, waiting for taxis or valet parking.

Hill missed the curb, stepped into three inches of fast, dirty cold water.

Damn. damn!

Stomping onto the sidewalk, ducking the drenching spray of a taxi, Hill reached Kate Mantellini, a bar and restaurant on Doheny. He crumpled the program. He couldn’t find a wastebas-ket so he jammed the program into his wet coat pocket. He shook the rain out of his hair and found a booth near the fireplace.

He felt the pleasant warmth of flames. Unmarried, tall, well-built, with carefully waved white hair, Hill dressed with conservative elegance. His charcoal gray suit was Italian, cut trim, and, in his middle forties, his face tanned by salons conveyed success. The flames looked oddly colored. Maybe it was the dark of the lounge, green and red lights embedded in the walls. Who knew? Maybe they put those coloring pellets in the flames. The kind kids like. Green, red, blue.

Can I get you a drink, Mr. Hill?

Hill looked up and smiled. The waitress was about twenty-eight with small breasts and a kittenish, eager face. She wore a T-shirt advertising Kate Mantellini across the front. Silver earrings reflected the red, green highlights of the fireplace.

Thanks, Anita. The highest proof Scotch you’ve got. On the rocks.

Bad movie?

Stinker.

Well, I’ll see if I can’t cheer you up.

I’m sure you know what to do.

She laughed. He watched her take the order to the bar. The female, feline sensuality had delectable rhythms. He felt himself warming. He pictured Anita, urgent face contorted, left hand pressing him down, further in … further …

Good evening, Mr. Hill.

A young black man, an actor by his studied ease, paused to greet him. Hill had no idea who the hell he was.

Why, hello, Hill said, grinning. So very good to see you.

Did you like the movie?

Were you in it?

The black actor laughed, embarrassed.

No, Mr. Hill. I helped write it.

Great experience, wasn’t it?

Yes. It was, he said. Then added pointedly. We worked very hard on it.

I’m sure you did.

Look forward to your review.

The black actor who was not an actor but a writer, walked away with his white date.

Like hell you do, Hill said to himself.

He looked around the dark lounge. So many people knew him and he didn’t know them. He saw a familiar face. Nobody he needed to say hello to. Maybe, he reflected, he should have gone to the parties. One for the pathetic writer, one for the pathetic director, another for the pathetic cast. But he couldn’t stomach it tonight. Hill took the crumpled, sodden program from his pocket and pressed it flat.

The Road to Rocky Flats. A lawyer drives to New Mexico, shacks up in a fake town, Rocky Flats, meets disgusting people, screws the obligatory cunt, gets beaten up, beats up, goes home. Not a black face in the cast. So who was this black co-writer? And what did the lawyer do after he proved his manhood, go back to New Jersey and sue department stores? Self-indulgent crap, Hill thought. Styles come and go. Narcissism never dies.

Here you are, Mr. Hill.

Anita set the scotch on the black marble table.

In the nick of time, Anita.

"Well, there’s plenty more.

You have such lovely hands, Anita, he said.

The get cold on iced drinks.

Do they?

Freezing.

I’m intrigued.

She laughed. Mild flirtation. And yet—he wasn’t sure he could get up from the table, having an erection. Better sit in the dark. Christ, he needed a bucket of scotch.

Hill turned uncomfortably in the booth. Across from him, at a small table, was a young woman about twenty. She looked young to be in a cocktail lounge. In the darkness Hill couldn’t see her figure very well. She looked supple, small breasts. He’d love to bend her over backward, he thought. She was young and trying to look older. Great. She had short black hair, white earrings, and very long legs.

Hello, he said, smiling.

She seemed startled.

Hello.

Hell of a rain storm, he said. The Hollywood hills are going to end up on Santa Monica Boulevard.

She smiled. As though it was funny, which it wasn’t. She seemed intelligent. Looked like a college student.

You want to avoid a bad film? he asked, handing her the wet program.

She took it. Long, slender fingers. Pale.

Was this showing at the Academy theater? she asked.

Velvet voice.

Yes. I’m Jonathon Hill. I’m a— Movie critic, she said.

Hill felt pleasure flood through him. He studied her over the scotch as he drank.

The name is not unfamiliar to you? he asked. I know all about you. Hill laughed uncomfortably. You work for the IRS?

She laughed. Perfect white, small teeth, nibbling teeth. I’m studying journalism at UCLA, she said. With a minor in cinema. We’re supposed to write a paper on a prominent film critic. His style, background, that sort of thing.

She raised her rum and Coke to her mouth. She was trying to act sophisticated. It tickled the hell out of him. When she put the glass down there was cold moisture on her lips. This is amazing, she said, blushing. What is?

The coincidence, she confessed. You see, I chose you. You chose me? he asked incredulously. She nodded. Why?

You’re the best. He laughed.

Well, I’m pretty well known, he conceded. He gestured to Anita, pointing at his empty glass and hers. Oh no, please, she said. The rum— Nonsense. My treat.

She was awfully pretty. Like a spot of pure sunlight going on inside this shit-filled world.

What’s your name? he asked. Emmy. Emmy Tyler.

Well, Emmy Tyler, he said, raising his glass.

Anita stepped back, slightly concerned. Hill inwardly told her to go to hell. Emmy drank. Tentative. Not used to liquor.

I ruin my eyes, corrupt my nerves, on bad films, he said, folding the program into an origami bird. Get paid peanuts. And you want to write about this?

Your style is very forceful.

I’ve been told that, he said dryly, on more than one occasion.

She blushed and pretended she didn’t get the double entendre.

But do you have to? she asked. I mean—be so—forceful—?

Hill’s face betrayed a sudden anxiety. Maybe he was thinking of rivals, cockfights at the upper levels of filmdom. Maybe it was something else. His eyes became serious.

Come over here, Emmy. Let me explain.

She hesitated, then modestly picked up her rum and Coke and sidled into the bench opposite him. The flames from the nearby fire made little half shadows on her white skin. Highlights on her black hair. She smelled of cold rain, warm skin.

Critics write for the blood sport, he said. Ego attacking ego. Not film analysis, for Christ’s sake. It so happens, at least for now, I’m the toughest ego on the block.

Wow. That isn’t what they told us in journalism class.

Hill chuckled. She was bright, too, in a strange way. He was intrigued. She was studying him.

Well, maybe I put it a bit harshly, he conceded, flapping the wings of his origami bird for her amusement. He softened momentarily. There is something at stake. Something very important. Film art. But the review style keeps readers, and it has to sting. My style looks cruel. But it’s not. It’s accurate. You wouldn’t want a timid surgeon, would you?

Hill smiled at her.

Bad films are an insult to the industry, Emmy, he said. People need guidance. They’re victimized by hype campaigns. They lose critical faculties.

Still, the people who made this film—

Hill smoothed out the program.

The Road to Rocky Flats? Yeah? Well, they should have kept on going. Films are never going to improve until audiences are trained to demand better.

She was awfully young. She had become artificial, pretending to be sophisticated, and now, charmingly, she just relaxed, became herself.

So what do you want to do? he asked, his voice taking on a subtle resonance. Interview me?

Well, she said, brightening, the way students did when they fell on home territory again. I have already done research on you.

On me?

In the Academy library. UCS. UCLA. The Hollywood Critics by James Broughton.

He was a class act phony. Hill snapped. He was very thick with Ramsey Snyder. I don’t need to explain what I mean, Emmy. I’d advise you to be very careful about anything James Broughton writes.

It was complimentary.

It was snide. Between the lines it was snide.

I guess I’m no good between the lines.

But between the sheets you’d get an A plus, Hill thought.

Well, why not? he said. A paper on Jonathon Hill. Film schools study ditzier things. I’m flattered. You interest me.

Impulsively she smiled again. She had a sensational figure in that short wool skirt and ribbed turtle-necked sweater. She leaned toward him excitedly. Eagerness, Hill mused, could be channeled. Which is what he had already started doing. Though she didn’t realize it.

What other research did you do on me? he asked.

I looked in Who’s Who, she said tentatively, seeing if he approved.

Not much there. The whole thing is phony anyway. They print what you tell them to print. Pack of lies.

She ignored his cynicism.

I found out you went to Yale, she said.

Hill’s eyes winced. She was afraid she had hit the wrong nerve.

Did I say the wrong thing? she asked.

Well, it wasn’t the happiest of times.

You studied to be a lawyer.

Pity. It had a great drama school.

But you became a lawyer.

Maybe that’s why I hated The Road to Rocky Flats, he laughed ruefully. Failed lawyer. Lawyer who sets out to find himself. Who cares about lawyers? They’re bottom feeders.

Emmy Tyler seemed oblivious to his bitterness. It refreshed Hill.

At thirty you married Vanessa Dilworth, she said.

Oh, God. You really raked up the muck, didn’t you?

But she was eager to show him what she knew. She was getting carried away.

She was quite prominent in New Jersey, Emmy said.

Yes. I was a society man. A kept man. I performed and got paid. If you catch my full meaning, Emmy.

I’m not sure.

Stud service. I kept her happy. In return I lived very well.

She blushed.

After she died, you became a sort of—

Beach bum, Hill said. I lived on the beach in Florida. God knows what I lived on. To tell you the truth, Emmy, I don’t remember much about that period except getting drunk.

Hill warmed to her, trusted her.

I didn’t know what to do, Hill admitted. I knew I didn’t want to be a lawyer. Never did, never had the adversarial syndrome. I always loved films—good films—Fellini, Antonioni—and I’d met some people at NYU—good minds—on the edge of the film world—

He laughed.

I had this fantasy, Hill said. I was going to spearhead an artistic revival of the motion pictures. Like the French New Wave.

And direct films yourself? Like Truffaut?

Hill paused. He grinned.

You’re bright, Emmy. Are all college students as bright as you? Okay. You’re right. I wanted to be a director. Everybody does. But things changed my mind.

What things? she asked.

He leaned forward mock-conspiratorially.

I found my true vocation. I’m a critic. Who would have guessed it?

She laughed with him. For a while they looked at each other.

You wrote a novel, she said, steering back to the interview.

Hill groaned.

How did you find out about that? he asked.

I read it.

I don’t believe you. Nobody read it. The Wild Seed.

Hill shook his head in disbelief.

Jesus. There were only 300 copies. Vanity press.

Ego Press, she said.

Hill smiled, remembering.

Ego Press. Yes. I’d forgotten. Ego Press of Long Island. Turns out there are lots of writers on Long Island using Ego Press. I never met the publisher. Just sent in my manuscript and a check.

It wasn’t a bad novel.

It wasn’t a good one, he said.

She thought carefully, choosing her words slowly.

It was a bit overwrought. Self-conscious. Most first novels are. But it had its moments.

Not many.

A few. Enough to show a literary sensibility.

God—You mean that? he asked. Why didn’t I meet you ten years ago? I could have used some encouragement. Thanks. Thanks, Emmy Tyler. Maybe today turned out well after all.

You had a lot to get off your chest, she said.

Tons. I wrote it in Greece, you know. I rented a house on a hill overlooking a small town. One taverna. Fishermen, whitewashed church. I wanted to expunge all those things that had buried me in law school. That suffocating marriage. I don’t know. Maybe it should have stayed buried. I judge myself by the same standards I judge everybody else, and they’re high standards. That’s why I’m a critic.

His confessions had done their work. Emmy seemed relaxed. She settled back a bit. Her arms had a soft languor.

Are you busy tonight? he asked.

No. Why?

I don’t mind being interviewed, what I look for in films, but it’s cold in here. I’m drenched.

What are you proposing?

I don’t live too far from here. Come by and ask all the questions you want.

She was flustered.

That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hill, she said. Do you have the time?

Sure. I’d enjoy your company. Did you drive?

I came by taxi.

Wait here, he said. I’ll bring my car around.

He smiled, brushed against her slightly as he left. Emmy picked up the film program and rifled through it.

Bad film, he said as he left, pointing at the program. Zap.

Zap?

That’s what I do to bad films. I zap them.

He laughed, left the lounge, and dashed across Wilshire. The rain had let up but the streets were still furious with dirty gray water. Cars pushed slowly through lakes, headlights bright. He got to his Mercedes in a supermarket lot and drove back to Kate Mantellini. Emmy was standing in the doorway, a white jacket draped over her shoulders.

Emmy. Over here.

She got in self-consciously. He turned on the sound system, rich and full. The Mercedes drove up the rivulets cascading down Doheny.

You’re not from California, either, Hill guessed.

Pennsylvania.

Pennsylvania? Don’t know anything about Pennsylvania.

New Hope, she said. It’s on the Delaware. Sort of an artsy place. Wonderful playhouse, though. Off Broadway has its trial performances there.

No kidding. Your folks in the theater?

They ran a bookstore.

You graduated high school there?

Emmy nodded brightly.

I got a scholarship to UCLA, she said proudly.

Great.

Los Angeles is so fabulous! she blurted.

Well, I’m sure you’ll like it even more, the more you know about it.

Hill’s Mercedes wound upward into the hills. He headed into the gated underground parking lot of a high rise. He led her to the elevator. It was chill, dank. Black puddles glittered under the electric lights. He thought of draping his coat over her shoulders but she seemed skittish. The elevator door opened.

The elevator rose straight to his penthouse suite and opened. Emmy stood transfixed. A delicate salmon pink gave a cast to the walls, very soft lights, luxurious white couches, and a floor to ceiling window ran the length of the suite. All of Los Angeles, white against the blue-gray twilight, stretched below, lights blinking like jewels. Dark blue clouds raced past the hills to the south.

It’s beautiful, she whispered.

Being a critic doesn’t pay this well, Hill said, removing her white jacket. Having an inheritance does.

The elevator doors closed behind her. Hill walked in and lighted the fireplace. Over a small vitrine of keepsakes was a laminated award from the Society of American Films Critics. Beside it was an award from the Directors Guild. Photographs of himself at the Cannes film festival were mounted behind a rubber ET, with best wishes from Steven Spielberg. A bookshelf of expensive art books, specially designed to hold the very tall volumes stood against the wall by an antique player piano, inscribed From the Crew of Ragtime, covered with signatures. A letter from Orson Welles was mounted over a small desk.

His own five volumes of collected reviews, a history of European set design in Hollywood, and, more scholarly, a volume of essays on Renaissance perspective and the invention of cinema, were in a nook by the kitchen archway.

Is this where you bring all your women? she asked.

Well, quite a few of them.

You bring them up here and—

I zap them.

She laughed pleasantly.

Zap, she repeated.

Can I fix you some spanoscopetes? he asked.

What are they?

Greek and delicious. Sit down.

Hill went into the kitchen, pulled out a tray, and put it into the microwave. Emmy looked at the fireplace. It was three-sided. The fire faced not only the living room but a screening room where Hill kept shelves of films on tape and film books. Through the flames she saw a broad, white-carpeted bedroom.

Can I fix you a drink? he said.

I think I’d better not—

Oh, come on. Live a little. It’s very mild.

All right.

Hill came back with a cork screw, and worked it down into a long-necked green bottle, watching her.

So, he said. The inner man. At your disposal. What do you want to know?

Everything.

That can be arranged, he said, handing her a glass.

One more drink and I’ll be comatose.

Sure. Who cares about a college paper anyway?

She went to the window to marvel at the city-scape. Airplanes flew by, three of them, winking at different distances, very slowly. Hill came up behind her. He put a hand against her back.

It really is the most fabulous view, she said nervously.

He touched her shoulder. She didn’t move back. He kept his hand on her shoulder. She sipped the wine.

More? he asked.

Okay.

He poured more wine into her glass.

A pleasant fragrance of spinach, cheese, and pastry came into the living room. The fabrics, the white furniture, the rainy sky enfolded them in a luxurious drowsiness.

Hill turned her to him. How many young women like her had he brought to this suite? They blurred in his memory. What was her name? Emily? Elaine? Emmy.

What is the inner Emmy Tyler like? he asked. What does she want?

She’s not sure, sometimes.

Do you want to meet famous people? Get into films? You’ve got the looks. Believe me.

No. Not that. Basically, after my degree, I hope to—

Suddenly he kissed her on the mouth. He did it quickly, letting go slowly. She moved her head back very, very slightly. She was very surprised. But he had detected pressure coming back from her mouth.

She blushed again, looking down into her wine glass. She drank the rest of the wine. He refilled the glass.

I know, she said softly, what you want.

The panorama of Los Angeles, now clearing with equal suddenness, was revealed again as dark clouds raced ferociously past the window. A blue glow permeated the suite.

You’re not shy, he said. Not as shy as you look.

She laughed.

I met you, didn’t I? she said.

Yes. You did. You did do that. And here we are.

He held up the wine bottle. She hesitated, then held out her glass. Hill watched her transform. A lovely sleepiness he cherished in women. He kissed the wine off her lips. She neither resisted nor responded this time. She only looked away bashfully when he was through.

Zap, Hill joked.

Right, she said unevenly. Zap.

She seemed bewildered and eager. The youngest ones were like that. You could do anything to them once you got them past the threshold. Emmy Tyler had crossed the threshold.

Hill walked her into the bedroom. The firelight threw fluctuating amber and mild shadows over the cream colored walls. He took her sweater off. She stood uncertainly, her right arm slowly covering her bra. He moved her hand away.

You’re beautiful, Emmy, he whispered. You’re one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen.

He kissed her throat very slowly. She smelled of youth, woman. He put his lips on her breasts. She slowly leaned and unhooked her bra. He slid the bra off. It fell onto the white carpet. Her breasts were small, smooth, the nipples very, very slightly flushed.

Maybe the most beautiful, he said.

She laughed self-consciously.

You’re making me feel awfully naked.

Her right hand had started moving in front of her breasts. He moved her hand away and made her feel him.

Oh— she gasped.

Amazing, isn’t it? he said.

She hesitated. He unbuttoned his fly.

I’m not sure—what to do— she said.

Take off you skirt.

She undressed to her panties.

Could I—I know this sounds stupid— she stammered. Could I have some more wine?

You’re nervous?

I guess. Please.

I’m not scaring you, am I? he asked.

Yes. God, yes.

He kissed her breasts again. Her heart was beating hard and fast. He kissed her lips, hair, and softly, her eyes.

Of course, darling, he said. Shall I get it? The bottle’s in the living room.

I’ll get it.

She walked gently, like a gazelle, to the living room. Outside a rainbow had formed, faded but spread, faintly visible over the red-brown hills.

She came back in, holding two wine glasses, one for him, one for her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, the sheet and blanket covering his desire.

Cheers, he said impatiently.

Cheers.

They both drank quickly.

Now come here, he said.

He caressed her shoulders, her belly. He felt the last glass of wine working. He turned her over, and got behind her buttocks.

Emmy, he said deliriously. I’m dying.

I know.

What?

She turned to face him. She looked like a kitten. Something vaguely frightened him.

No, no, he said. Turn back.

I don’t want to.

Consenting adults. I’ve got no diseases.

Maybe you do.

Huh?

Hill was getting warm; he took several deep breaths.

I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Emmy, he said.

I already got at it.

Are you making sense? Because it doesn’t sound like sense to me. Not one bit.

It will.

He took several more deep breaths. His lungs weren’t working right. He panicked.

Who are you? he asked.

I’m a sweet young thing. You picked me up.

He decided to fuck her and get rid of her. He grabbed her by the hips but she rolled languorously, and he fell, past the pubic hair, the velvet pubic hair.

I—I don’t feel—well— Hill said. Awful, in fact.

Emmy’s body seemed to split and then come back together. Hill couldn’t get his chest to pull the air inside. His body seemed to belong to somebody else. Emmy was drifting away. His blood turned to a different task. Surviving.

Emmy, he said. Call a physician.

She didn’t move.

Goddam you! Call a doctor!

Hill groped for the telephone. He collapsed, got tangled in the sheets, ended up on the floor. He looked up. Emmy was holding the telephone.

You don’t want to screw me? she asked.

What did you put in the wine?

It sure softened you. Look. Like taffy.

Somebody help me!

Hill began blanking out. She spread her legs provocatively.

Look what you’ll miss.

HELP!

Nobody can hear you.

Emmy—

I’m not Emmy Tyler.

Who the hell are you?

Does it matter who the fuck I am? she snapped angrily.

Oh God, get me a doctor.

Hill crab-crawled to her ankles. His hands caressed her insteps. Emmy’s face was a chameleon’s, changing, all the women he had ever screwed. She laughed. It echoed in Hill’s ringing ears.

HELP ME! he demanded.

No, that would be a bad ending.

Then there were only yellow sparks, black walls without end, closing in.

HELP! he gasped, DON’T LET ME DIE!

An obscene lassitude fell over him. Flesh against flesh, Hill lost the war for oxygen. He tumbled into nausea, pure nausea, fell and the falling had no end.

Was it good for you, darling? she asked.

Emmy waited until he stopped twitching. She relaxed. She looked around at the suite, then once again down at Hill, whose body was drawing up into itself. She sat on the edge of the bed for a while. She leaned over Hill’s corpse.

Zap!

CHAPTER TWO

Lieutenant Jack Venables ambled into Hill’s suite. Policemen brushed the bedroom furniture for fingerprints. A police photographer took quick flash photographs.

Jesus! Venables said.

He held a handkerchief over his face.

It’s pretty bad, all right, sir, Detective second-class Paul Madori sympathized.

Paul Madori, square-shouldered, dapper, with thick black hair carefully brushed back, stood at the panoramic windows, waiting for orders. Venables walked to the bedroom, around the three-sided fireplace. Al Handman the medical investigator, probed the soft—and runny—tissues with rubber gloved fingers.

Two ambulance orderlies rolled in a collapsible gurney. There was no urgency. They waited while Venables watched Handman.

You think he’s dead? Venables asked dryly.

Handman looked up with a pained expression. Bits of soft tissue clung to his gloved fingers.

Jack, his handball days are over.

Handman took out steel probes from a black zippered bag. Venables sauntered back into the living room. He admired the condo. Liked the location, the fantastic view, the streets and roofs of Los Angeles that spread to green hills etched sharply against a milky blue sky. He had been in lots of condos, a few mansions. This, he thought, was one of the very nicest, except for the smell of the corpse.

That guy must have been dead a week or more, Venables said.

Apparently the cleaning staff smelled something, Madori said.

And nobody noticed he wasn’t coming to work? Venables asked. Where did he work, anyway?

Madori leaned against the window and folded his arms.

Film critic, Madori said. Los Angeles Express.

His editor didn’t miss him, gone two weeks?

Madori shrugged.

Probably Hill worked at home. His computer’s over there. Looking at his correspondence and mementoes, by the way, he was pretty well in with the film crowd.

Venables examined Hill’s degree in law, framed above his desk. There was a book jacket, framed against velvet, about Bertolucci. It was otherwise a very spacious room. Space itself was the decorative feature. On the desk were figurines: miniatures of old cinema cameras. On closer inspection they turned out to be awards from the London Film Festival.

Well, I never heard of him, Venables said. Would you please bring his answering machine tape to headquarters. And E-Mail, Did he have E-Mail?

I don’t know, sir.

Barbara’s always talking about electronic mail. Damned if I understand it. Bring his computer to headquarters. See what he’d been working on. Who he’d been in contact with.

Madori stood, put his notebook away, and went to Hill’s desk. He unplugged the computer and put it and the parts very carefully in a plastic bag, keyboard, plugs, power strip—everything. Then he did the same with the digital answering machine.

Venables turned back to the murder scene. Al Handman wasn’t yet through with the corpse. A policeman came to Venables.

No fingerprints, sir, besides the one set we assume was Hill’s.

Look around the kitchen? Venables said. Check the refrigerator. Amazing how many intruders stop to eat.

Yes, sir.

Other policeman vacuumed the white carpet, especially around Hill’s corpse. Venables winced. He just knew the machine was going to suck in bodily parts. It was amazing how liquid the body goes after rigor mortis relaxes. The fluids flow.

Hill had fallen in an odd position. First the rigor mortis froze him and then in decay, Hill had softened, turning into a rubbery swastika. Hill’s once handsome face was drawn back hideously in a leer, like a cuttlefish, little teeth protruding through rotted lips. The nose was strangely bulbous.

Death was not the end of things, Venables knew. It was the beginning of a different process.

Almost done, Al? he called.

Patience, Jack.

Venables smoothed back his hair. In the