Dead Eyes Page 6

  “Jon, isn’t there anything you can do?” Chris asked.

  “I’ve waited this long because I needed some criminal act to get you onto the active list.”

  “Active list?”

  “I handle about four hundred stalker cases a year—that’s the number of calls we get. Most of them are disgruntled boyfriends, that sort of thing; I only seriously investigate about twenty to twenty-five cases—there’s no manpower for more. My chief doesn’t allow me to get involved until there’s at least the threat of a criminal act. Now, I can’t actually prove that Admirer is responsible for Melanie’s accident, so I’m going to stretch a point and use that incident to get you on the active list. What I’ll do is park a patrol car outside your house for twenty-four hours. This man seems to keep very close tabs on you, so he’s bound to see it, and that may be enough to scare him off.”

  “Not a chance,” Chris said. “When I said I would call the police he was contemptuous; he said the police couldn’t touch him. In fact, he said they were oafs and wouldn’t dare mess with someone of his ‘caliber.’”

  “I see,” Larsen said. “In that case you’re probably right; the patrol car wouldn’t help. What we need to do is leapfrog him, get ahead of his thought process.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I think he’d expect something like the patrol car, to start with. Maybe what we need to do is give him something he doesn’t expect.”

  “Such as?”

  “Instead of scaring him off, let’s try to catch him.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  Melanie came into the study where Chris was sitting disconsolately, listening to CNN.

  “Chris, did you call a plumber?”

  Chris started. “No. Why?”

  “Because a plumber’s truck just pulled into the driveway.”

  “Christ, you don’t think it’s Admirer, do you?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Keep the chain on when you answer the door.”

  “Right.” Melanie left the room. A moment later she was back, introducing two men to Chris. “These gentlemen are the fuzz,” she said. “Come to do something to your phone.”

  “I’m not a cop,” one man said. “I’m from the phone company, but the cops made me come in their van.”

  The other man spoke up. “I’m the cop; Detective Larsen thought you might like a new line in the house, in addition to the old one, a number that your stalker doesn’t have.”

  “What a good idea,” Chris said.

  “We’re also going to install a phone company service called Caller ID.”

  “I’ve read about it; it gives the name and number of anyone calling?”

  “Right. The name and number appear on a little screen.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t see the screen,” she said. “I’m having some trouble with my eyes.”

  “That’s okay. The number will appear simultaneously on another screen down at the department.”

  “So you’ll know when he calls?”

  “Not unless you call on the new line and tell us, but there’ll be a recorder on the line, so at least we’ll be able to tape his voice. Sorry we can’t have somebody listening all the time, but we just don’t have the manpower.”

  The two men did the work in less than an hour, and the cop told Chris her new number. “I’m going to give the number to Larsen, but he has asked that, for the time being, you not give it to anyone else, not even your secretary or your housemate.”

  “All right,” Chris said. She repeated the number aloud a few times to imprint it on her brain.

  “If he calls, keep him talking as long as you can, and we might be able to track him down and grab him.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said.

  When the cop and the telephone man had left, and Melanie was back in her office working, Chris turned off the television and sat, thinking how stuck she was. She couldn’t call a friend for lunch, or go out without Danny, not if she wanted to maintain the illusion that she could see. She couldn’t go out to Malibu and check on the house or take a walk on the beach; she couldn’t read a book or a new script. She had never realized how alone blindness could make a person. Feeling sorry for herself, she dozed.

  The phone startled her wide-awake. She turned toward the instrument—the two instruments, now that she had a second line—and felt for the one on the left, her old number.

  “Hello?”

  “So,” the voice whispered, “how is your day going?”

  “Why would you care?” she asked.

  “Oh, I care. I care more deeply than anyone has ever cared for you. In fact, you’re about to receive a little token of my caring.”

  The doorbell rang. Chris remained where she was, knowing that Melanie would answer it.

  “That was the doorbell,” she said into the telephone. “Is that something from you?”

  “Wait and see,” the voice whispered.

  Suddenly, she was frightened. “Melanie!” she called out, “watch yourself!”

  “You don’t have to shout, I’m right here,” Melanie said.

  “Who was at the door?”

  “A deliveryman with the biggest box of chocolates you’ve ever seen; must be ten pounds!”

  “I can’t eat chocolate,” Chris lied into the phone. “It makes my skin break out, and I gain weight.”

  “Go ahead and gain weight,” the voice said. “You won’t need to be slim for the screen anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” Chris asked, alarmed.

  “I mean that I’ll take care of you from now on; you won’t have to work.”

  “I really am having a hard time understanding you,” Chris said. “Why would you force all this attention on someone who hasn’t the slightest interest in you? Why on earth do you think I’d give up working so that someone I am growing to despise could support me?”

  “You don’t really feel that way,” the voice whispered smoothly. “At least, you won’t for long. I’ll grow on you.”

  The line went dead. Chris put down the phone and reached for the new line. She felt for the keypad and dialed Larsen’s direct line. “It’s Chris,” she said when he answered.

  “It was a pay phone on Wilshire Boulevard,” Larsen said. “A unit is on the way; they just might snag him.”

  “He sent a huge box of chocolates.”

  Larsen chuckled. “At this rate, with the flowers and limousines, you’ll break the guy. That ought to give you some satisfaction.”

  Chris laughed in spite of herself.

  “Nice to hear you laugh,” Larsen said.

  “God,” she said, “I can’t remember the last time.”

  “Hang on, I’ll see if Dispatch has any news.” He put her on hold.

  Chris waited, realizing that talking to this faceless policeman was becoming the high point of each day.

  “I’m back,” Larsen said. “The car found an empty booth. They figure they missed him by less than half a minute.”

  “Oh,” she said, disappointed, but not surprised.

  “Don’t worry; we’ll have other chances. Next time he calls maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “He’s had all the luck so far,” she said glumly.

  “Our turn will come,” Larsen said. “Do you mind if I drop by a little later this afternoon? There’s something I’d like to give you.”

  “I’ll be here all day,” she said. “See you later.” She hung up and sighed. Who would have thought she would look forward so much to a visit from a policeman?

  The phone rang.

  She felt for the instrument on the left and picked it up. “Hello?” She was greeted with a dial tone.

  The phone rang again.

  It was the new line; Jon must be calling back. She picked it up. “Don’t tell me you’re breaking our date,” she laughed.

  “We don’t have a date yet,” the voice whispered, “but we will. You’ve been a bad girl.” He hung up.

  Chris continued to hold th
e receiver, stunned. She had had the new line for only a few hours, and Admirer already knew the number.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Melanie showed Larsen to Chris’s study. “Chris,” she said, “if Detective Larsen is going to be here for a while, do you mind if I go home early? Danny will be home soon.”

  Chris turned to Larsen. “Jon, can you wait until Danny comes?”

  “My pleasure,” Larsen replied.

  “Sure, Melanie, go on home,” Chris said.

  “See you tomorrow.” Melanie called from the front door.

  When they were alone, Chris found her chair and sat down. “Bad news,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  She told him about the call from Admirer on the new line.

  “I don’t believe it,” Larsen said, astonished. “Who did you give the number to?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Chris, come on, there must have been somebody.”

  “I swear, I gave it to absolutely no one.”

  Larsen sank into a chair and seemed to think for a moment. “Either he works for the phone company, or he’s got a contact there; it’s the only possible way he could have gotten the number.”

  “Swell,” she said.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Depressed. I’m glad you could come over.” It was worse than depressed, she admitted to herself; it was very nearly desperate.

  “It’s a beautiful day outside. Does this house have a back garden?”

  “Yes, quite a nice one; would you like to see it?”

  “I’d love to; here, take my arm.”

  “I’ll lead you,” she said. “I know the way.”

  He followed her through the kitchen and out the back door. They emerged onto a terrace overlooking planted gardens, a pool, and a tennis court.

  “Like it?” she asked.

  “It’s beautiful, but I didn’t get you out here to look at the garden.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He led her to a chair. “I want you to sit down and wait here for a few minutes. I’m going back inside.”

  “Wait a minute; what’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain when I get back. Just relax and enjoy the sun.” He turned and walked very quietly back into the house.

  Chris sat in the sun, immobile, helpless, entirely dependent on this policeman, Melanie, and Danny. It was infuriating.

  In the kitchen Larsen removed his shoes and padded into Chris’s study. He went to the telephone on the desk and, while holding down the flasher button, removed the receiver from its cradle and unscrewed the mouthpiece. He looked inside, screwed the cap back on, then conducted a thorough inspection of the study, the living room, the kitchen, and Chris’s bedroom before he returned to the rear terrace.

  “What have you been doing?” she asked. “It’s been at least half an hour.”

  “I’m not quite finished,” he said. “Do you know where the central telephone box for your house is?”

  “In the basement, I think.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “There’s an outside entrance around the corner of the house to your left,” she said. She dug into a pocket and handed him her keys. “It’s the silvery one.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Larsen walked around the house and found the door, down a short flight of steps. He opened it, found the light switch, and walked into a large cellar room. There was a musty smell, and everything was covered in dust. The telephone box was on the opposite wall; he walked across the concrete floor and opened the box. He inspected the insides carefully and, at first, found nothing amiss. There was a flashlight on a shelf next to the box, and he switched it on and inspected the wiring again. The batteries were weak, but there was enough light to reveal a small wire running from a terminal, through a drilled hole, out of the box, and up to a brick ledge.

  Larsen felt along the ledge, following the wire until it ran down the wall and behind some empty cardboard boxes. He moved the boxes and used the flashlight to follow the wire to its end. It was connected to a small plastic box, and a telescopic antenna about three feet in length was attached to that. He held the flashlight close to the plastic case but could not see any trace of fingerprints. Admirer was a very neat fellow. Larsen carefully replaced the boxes, then found a broom and scattered dust behind him as he walked to the door.

  Back on the rear terrace he pulled a chair up next to Chris’s and sat down.

  “Now, tell me what the hell you’ve been doing,” she said.

  “I’ve been thoroughly searching your house.”

  “Rummaging in my underwear drawer?”

  “Not that thoroughly,” he said. “I’m afraid your Admirer has bugged your house.”

  “What?”

  “He has placed electronic bugs in all your telephones—the kind that pick up any conversation whether the telephone is in use or not. Then he wired a small transmitter to your central telephone box. He probably did this when you were in the hospital; was there anyone here during the evenings?”

  “No. Melanie leaves in the late afternoon, and Danny wasn’t staying here then.”

  “It’s not a very big transmitter, but it may have a range of a mile or two. He either lives nearby, or he has some sort of base in the neighborhood; he probably has attached a tape recorder to his receiver when he can’t tend it, then he listens to the recordings later.”

  Chris was stunned. “You mean he’s been listening to everything that goes on in my home?”

  “I’m afraid so. That’s how he got the new telephone number; when the phone company man told you what it was, he heard it, too.”

  “The rotten little son of a bitch. I hope you ripped out his handiwork.”

  “No, I left it in place.”

  “Why? I don’t want him listening to my life.”

  “If I take it out, he’ll find another way. Admirer is a very clever fellow. At least this way we can control what he hears, and we’ll be able to use his system against him.”

  “I see,” Chris said. “At least, I think I see.”

  Danny stuck his head out the back door. “Jesus,” he said, “you scared me to death. I couldn’t find Chris anywhere.”

  “Come on out, Danny, and join us,” Larsen said.

  Danny dragged up a chair and sat down. “So,” he said, “what’s happening?”

  Larsen told him.

  “This guy is really determined,” Danny said when Larsen had finished.

  “Not only that, he’s mad,” Chris said.

  “What?” Larsen asked.

  “On the phone, he said I had been a bad girl; it was as if he were going to punish me.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said Danny.

  “It may not mean anything,” Larsen said. “Did he actually say he was going to punish you?”

  “No.”

  “There’s no threat, then.”

  The three of them sat there for a minute or two without speaking.

  “Okay,” Larsen said finally, “here’s what we do. We walk back into the house and chat for a few minutes, and I’ll take my leave. Then, Danny, you and Chris sit down in the study—we know he can listen well in that room—and you tell Chris that you’ve got to go out tonight.”

  “I can’t leave her alone,” Danny said.

  “Don’t worry,” Larsen said, “she won’t be alone. You leave at, say, seven. It’ll be dark then, and I’ll enter the house through the back door. Be sure to leave it open.”

  “Then what?” Chris asked.

  “The last time you were alone in the house Admirer paid you a visit, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, he might not be able to pass up another opportunity—especially if he wants to punish you.”

  “I see,” Chris said unenthusiastically.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Larsen said. “I have something for you; let’s go back into the house.”

  They went back into the
study, and Larsen picked up a box he had left there. He took a wristwatch out of the box and handed it to Chris. “My sister sent you this,” he said.

  “That was kind of her, but I can’t use a watch,” she said.

  “You can use this one.” He guided her fingers. “Press this button, and the crystal opens; then you can feel the hour and minute hand. Try it.”

  Chris felt the face of the watch. “It works! It’s five-thirty!”

  “She also sent you some recorded books—novels, mostly. Do you have a cassette player?”

  “Yes,” she said, “right there on the desk.”

  “Good,” Larsen said. “Why don’t you listen to one tonight?”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Chris sat in her study and listened to Danny’s car pulling out of the driveway. She had always enjoyed solitude, had treasured an evening with nothing to do but read a novel, but not tonight. She had been unable to get used to the idea that whatever she said, someone outside the house could hear her, follow her movements, destroy her privacy. She felt locked in the black box of her blindness, and someone was watching her through a peephole. And listening.

  Now she walked a fine line between fear and anger, and tonight she did what she could to get closer to her anger and farther from her fear. The windows were open and she could hear the loud chirp of crickets that started with dusk. Automatically she reached for the lamp switch above her head, then stopped herself. Jon had told her not to turn on any lights; it wouldn’t be the natural thing for a blind person, he had said. It made her uncomfortable, knowing that she sat in the dark, even though the light would have made little difference to her.

  She sat, listening to the little noises an old house makes, breathing more rapidly than she usually did. She hated waiting for something to happen. Finally, she groped for the box of tapes that Jon had left and chose one at random. Her fingers felt the bumps of the Braille label, which she could not read; she got up, found the tape machine, inserted the cassette, and sat down again. She instantly recognized the voice of Hal Holbrook; she had worked with him once, in a production of King Lear in New York.