“The first theory is that he’s sending the diary entries to
himself.
That he’s Casanova
and
the Gentleman Caller. He could be
both
killers, Alex. They each specialize in ‘perfect’ crimes. There are other similarities, too. Maybe he’s a split personality.
FBI West, as you call it, would like Dr. McTiernan to fly out to Los Angeles right away. They’d like to talk to her.”
I didn’t like the first West Coast theory too much myself, but I couldn’t completely discount it. “What’s the other theory
from the wild, wild West?” I asked Kyle.
“The other theory,” he said, “is that there are two men. But that they aren’t just communicating, they’re
competing.
This could be a scary competition, Alex. This could all be a scary game they’ve invented.”
The Gentleman Caller
H
E HAD been a Southern gentleman.
A gentleman scholar.
Now he was the very finest gentleman in Los Angeles. Always a gentleman, though. A hearts-and-flowers kind of guy.
An orangish-red sun had begun its long, slow shimmy and slide toward the Pacific Ocean. Dr. William Rudolph thought it looked
visually stunning as he strolled at a leisurely pace along Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles.
The Gentleman Caller was “shopping” that afternoon, absorbing all the sights and sounds, the hectic flash-and-cash of his
surroundings.
The street scene reminded him of something one of the hard-boiled detective writers, maybe Raymond Chandler, had written:
“California, the department store.”
The description still worked pretty damn well.
Most of the attractive women he observed were in their early and mid-twenties. They had just come from the stultifying workaday
world of the ad agencies, money managers, and law firms in the entertainment district around Century Boulevard. Several of
them wore high heels, platforms, clinging spandex miniskirts, here and there a form-fitting Rollo suit.
He listened to the casually sexy rustle of crushed silk, the martial
click-click
of designer shoes, the sultry
scuff
of cowboy boots that cost more than Wyatt Earp had earned in a lifetime.
He was getting hot and a little frenzied.
Nicely
frenzied. Life in California was good. It
was
the department store of his dreams.
This was the best part: the foreplay before he made his final selection. The Los Angeles police were still stumped and baffled
by him. Maybe one day they would figure it all out, but probably not. He was simply too good at this. He
was
Jekyll and Hyde for this age.
As he strolled between La Brea and Fairfax, he breathed in the scents of musk and heavy floral perfumes, of chamomile- and
lemon-scented hair. The leather handbags and skirts also had a distinct scent.
It was all a big tease, but he
adored
it. It was so ironic that these lovely California foxes were teasing and provoking
him
of all people.
He was the small, adorable, fluffy-haired boy loose in the candy store, wasn’t he? Now which forbidden sweets should he choose
this afternoon?
That little twit in red heels, no stockings? That poor man’s Juliette Binoche? The provocateuse in the French-vanilla-and-black
harlequin-print suit?
Several of the women actually gave Dr. Will Rudolph approving glances as they wandered in and out of their favorite shops.
Exit I, Leathers and Treasures, La Luz de Jesus.
He was strikingly handsome, even by strict Hollywood standards. He resembled the singer Bono from the Irish rock group U2.
Actually, he looked the way Bono would if he had chosen to become a successful doctor in Dublin or Cork, or right here in
Los Angeles.
And that was one of the Gentleman’s most private secrets:
The women almost always chose him.
Will Rudolph wandered into Nativity, which was one of the currently hot A-rated shops on Melrose. Nativity was
the
place to buy a designer bustier, a mink-lined leather jacket, an “antique” Hamilton wristwatch.
As he watched the supple young bodies in the busy store, he was thinking of Hollywood’s A parties, its A restaurants, even
its A stores. The city was completely hung up on its own pecking order.
He understood status perfectly! Yes, he did.
Dr. Will Rudolph was the most powerful man in Los Angeles.
He reveled in the secure feeling it gave him, the reassuring front-page news stories that told him he truly existed, that
he wasn’t a twisted figment of his own imagination. The Gentleman was in control of an entire city, and an influential city
at that.
He strolled near an irresistible blond woman all deckedout in twentysomething finery.
She was idly looking at Incan jewelry, seemingly bored with the whole deal: her
life.
She was by far the most striking woman inside Nativity, but that wasn’t what attracted him to her.
She was absolutely
untouchable.
She sent off a clear signal, even in a pricey store filled mostly with other attractive twentysomething females.
I’m untouchable. Don’t even think about it. You’re unworthy, no matter who you are.
He felt thunder roar through his chest. He wanted to scream out inside the loud, crowded boutique:
I can have you. I can!
You have no idea—but I’m the Gentleman Caller.
The blond woman had a full and arrogant mouth. She understood that no lipstick or eyeshadow was necessary for her. She was
slender and narrow-waisted. Elegant in her own southern California way. She wore a faded cotton vest, wrap skirt, and color-blocked
moccasins. Her tan was even and perfect, healthy-looking.
She finally glanced his way.
A glancing blow,
Dr. Will Rudolph thought.
Lord, what eyes. He wanted them all to himself. He wanted to roll them through his fingers, carry them around for a good-luck
charm.
What
she
saw was a tall and slender, interesting-looking man in his early thirties. He had broad shoulders, and a build like an athlete,
or even a dancer. His sun-lightened brown curls were tied back in a ponytail. He had Irish-boy blue eyes. Will Rudolph also
wore a slightly wrinkled white medical jacket over his very traditional Oxford blue shirt and hospital-approved striped rep’s
tie. He had on expensive Doctor Martens boots—indestructible footwear. He seemed
so sure
of himself.
She spoke first.
She chose him, didn’t she?
Her blue eyes were calm and deep, untroubled, very sexy in their confidence. She played with one of her gold-plated earrings.
“Was it something I didn’t say?”
He started to laugh, genuinely delighted that she had an adult sense of humor about the dating charade.
This was going to be a fun night,
he thought. He knew it.
“I’m sorry. I usually don’t stare. At least I never get caught blatantly doing it,” he said. He couldn’t stop laughing for
a moment. He had an easy laugh, a pleasant laugh. It was a modern tool of the trade, especially in Hollywood, New York, Paris:
his favorite haunts.
“At least you’re honest about it,” she said. She was laughing now, too, and a gold-link necklace jangled against her chest.
He ached to reach out and rip it off, to run his tongue over her breasts.
She was doomed now, if that was his desire, his wish, his slightest whim. Should he go on? Perhaps look a little further?
The blood in his head was roaring, swirling with tremendous force. He had to decide. He looked into the untroubled blue eyes
of the blond woman again, and saw the answer.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, tying to sound calm, “but, I think I’ve found what I like very much in here.”
“Yes, I think I may have found what I need, too,” she said after a pause. Then
she
laughed. “Where are you from? You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Originally from North Carolina.” He held the bell-jangling door open for her, and they left the antique-clothing store together.
“I’ve worked on losing my accent.”
“You’ve succeeded,” she said.
She was wonderfully impressed with herself, not the least bit self-conscious. She had an aura of self-confidence and competency—which
he would absolutely shatter. Oh, God, he wanted this one so badly.
“
H
ERE WE go, action fans. He’s leaving Nativity with the blond girl. They’re out on Melrose Avenue.”
We were using binoculars to watch the incredible encounter through Nativity’s decorative front window. The FBI also had directional
microphones on Dr. Will Rudolph, as well as on the blond woman in the trendy shop.
It was an FBI-only stakeout. They hadn’t even clued in the LAPD. Nada. It was pretty typical Bureau tactics, only I was on
their side this time, compliments of Kyle Craig. The FBI had wanted to talk to Kate in Los Angeles. Kyle arranged for me to
come after I
beat on him
about the deal we’d made, and how this could be the most important break we’d had on the
Casanova
investigation.
It was just past five-thirty; noisy, chaotic rush hour on a California-gorgeous, sunny day. Temperature in the mid-seventies.
Heartbeats rising toward at least a thousand inside our car.
We were finally closing in on one of the monsters, at least we hoped so. Dr. Will Rudolph struck me as a modern-day vampire.
He had spent the afternoon casually roaming among the stylish shops: Ecru, Grau, Mark Fox. Even the girls idling in front
of Johnny Rockets fifties-style burger stand were potential targets of his. He was definitely a hunter today. He was girl-watching.
Was he the Gentleman Caller, though?
I was working closely with two senior FBI agents in an anonymous-looking minivan parked on a side street off Melrose Avenue.
Our radio was hooked to the state-of-the-art directional mikes that were in two of the other five cars trailing the man believed
to be the Gentleman. It was almost showtime.
“I think I may have found what I need, too” we heard the blond woman say. She reminded me of the beautiful students Casanova
had abducted in the South.
Could he be one and the same monster? A coast-to-coast killer? Maybe a split personality?
FBI experts here on the West Coast believed they had the answer. In their view, the same creep did the so-called “perfect
crimes” on both coasts. A victim had never been kidnapped or killed on the same day. Unfortunately, there were at least a
dozen theories about the Gentleman Caller and Casanova that I was aware of. I still wasn’t convinced by any of them.
“How long have you been in Hollywood?” we heard the young woman ask Rudolph. Her voice sounded alluring and sexy. She was
obviously flirting with him.
“Long enough to meet you.” He was soft-spoken and courteous so far. His right hand rested lightly under her left elbow. The
Gentleman?
He didn’t look like a killer, but he
did
resemble the Casanova that Kate McTiernan had described. He was a hunk physically, clearly attractive to women, and he was
a doctor. His eyes were
blue—
the color Kate had seen behind Casanova’s mask.
“Cockfucker looks like he could have any girl he wanted,” one of the FBI agents turned to me and said.
“Not to do what he wants to do to them,” I said.
“You got a point there.”
The agent, John Asaro, was Mexican-American. He was balding, but with a compensating bushy mustache. He was probably in his
late forties. The other agent was Raymond Cosgrove. Both of them were good men, high-level Bureau professionals. Kyle Craig
was taking care of me so far.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Rudolph and the blond woman. She was pointing toward a shiny black Mercedes convertible with its
tan top down. More expensive shops stood out in the background: I.a. Eyeworks, Gallay Melrose. Another garish store sign,
eight-foot-high cowboy boots, framed her windblown hair.
We listened as they talked on the crowded street. The directional mikes picked up everything. No one in the surveillance car
was making a sound.
“That’s my car over there, sport. The red-haired lady in the passenger seat—she’s my sweetie. Did you really think you could
pick me up just like
that?
” The blond woman snapped her fingers and the colorful bracelets on her arm rattled in Rudolph’s face. “Kiss off, Dr. Kildare.”
John Asaro groaned out loud. “Christ, she shot him down!
She
set
him
up. Isn’t that beautiful! Only in LA.”
Raymond Cosgrove pounded the dash with the thick heel of his hand. “Son of a bitch! She’s walking away. Go back to him, sweetheart!
Tell him you were only kidding!”
We’d had him, or were very close to it. It made me physically sick to think that he was getting away. We had to
catch him
at something, or an arrest wouldn’t hold up.
The blond woman crossed Melrose and slid into the sleek black Mercedes. Her friend had short red hair, and her silver bangle
earrings caught the late-day sunlight. The woman leaned in and gave her sweetie a kiss.
As Dr. Will Rudolph watched them, he didn’t appear at all upset. He stood on the sidewalk with his hands stuffed into the
pockets of his white jacket, looking cool and relaxed. Neutral. As if nothing had happened. Were we seeing the Gentleman Caller’s
mask?
The two lovers in the convertible waved as the Mercedes roared past, and he gave them a smile, a shrug of the shoulders, a
cool nod of his head.
We could hear him hiss through the directional mikes. “Ciao, ladies. I’d like to cut you both into pieces and feed you to
the gulls at Venice Beach. And I
do
have your license plate number, you silly twats.”
W
E TRAILED Dr. Will Rudolph to his luxury penthouse apartment at the Beverly Comstock. The FBI knew where he lived. They hadn’t
shared that information with the LAPD, either. The tension and disappointment were heavy inside our car. The FBI was playing
a dangerous game of freeze-out with the Los Angeles police.