by P. J. Tracy
She followed Remy’s gaze and saw Al trundling up the front walk with a cellophane-wrapped basket. He wasn’t wearing a suit either. The blue polo shirt was a little tight around his soft, middle-aged gut, and his khaki slacks were slung low on his waist, a woven belt holding them up. Even though she adored him, she definitely wasn’t thinking about him naked. She’d leave that to his lovely, devoted wife, Corinne. He smiled and waved at her, then fumbled in his pants pocket for his phone.
She knew the look. Dispatch. Another dead body, and they were next on the roster. She slammed the rest of her champagne and bolted a large bite of Burgundian cheese with a name she couldn’t pronounce.
Party over.
Chapter Three
NOLAN STOOD JUST INSIDE THE MOTEL room’s doorway. She always liked to take things in at a distance first; but in this case, she had no choice. The blood splatters radiated so far from the victim on the sagging bed that they created a biohazard crime scene boundary. The walls were splashed with it, and the filthy carpet looked like it had been sprinkled with reddish brown confetti. The aftermath of a butcher, a madman. Jackson Pollock couldn’t have done any better.
She was sickened. Enraged. And very, very sad. The environment where a homicide took place said volumes about the killer and the victim. It also determined how depressed she would be for the next several days. When they took place in lovely settings, she attempted self-succor by rationalizing that as atrocious as any murder was, the victim had at least enjoyed some comfort or pleasure in life.
But this poor woman, a resident of Aqua Travel Lodge—a rancid boil in the most squalid part of central Los Angeles—certainly hadn’t enjoyed much comfort before death. According to Ray Lovell, the vacuous motel clerk with meth teeth who had found her, she’d been a junkie who sometimes turned tricks, sometimes tended bar at the Kitty Corral, a topless dive across the street that catered to the very bottom layer of human sediment. It all cheapened her violent, sorry demise.
The additional insult was the fact that nobody in this piece of shit, room-by-the-hour flophouse knew her name, not even Ray, who was apprised of a few things about her personal habits, probably because they’d had a sex and drugs association. He wouldn’t be shedding any tears tonight.
She desperately wanted to burn the Aqua down, along with everybody in it, because it would certainly be a charitable act for the betterment of humankind. She would never confide to anybody, not even her partner, how she viewed crime scenes or how they sometimes made her feel homicidal, so she endured the anger and depressions in stony, bleak silence.
Al was standing next to her, taking shallow breaths through his mouth to fend against the reek of ripening death. “It’s him. It’s got to be. Same MO, same hunting ground.”
“No question. This is Remy’s game, the task force’s game. If we’d known this an hour ago, we’d still be at my place drinking his champagne.”
“Trust me, the champagne would be gone by now. So this freak mutilates women in public places and keeps walking away without any witnesses. Even if he was wearing a space suit, he’d still be covered in blood just from stripping down, so what’s his magic?”
“No magic, he picks motel rooms so he can wash up. Motels like this, where nobody cares what goes on, and where there’s probably a decade’s worth of blood and hair and body fluid everywhere. It hides the trace.”
“You’re thinking like a smart killer.”
“I’m thinking like a smart detective.”
“Maybe the killer is a smart detective.”
“Not the right time for stupid syllogisms or jokes, Al.”
“It was a partially serious comment. This guy is savvy and slippery.”
“He’s a shadow dweller, all serials are. Nobody notices them, just like nobody notices their victims until they’re dead. If there’s any magic, that’s it.”
“LAPD better figure it out soon. He’s got us by the balls right now, and the press is going to go ballistic. Just wait for the morning paper. They’re going to make us look like a bunch of diddling troglodytes who can’t put their pants on in the morning.”
“Since when do you worry about the press?”
“Never, but Remy is heading up the task force, and he’s a good guy and a great detective who’s going to get smeared unless he has somebody in shackles soon.”
“Remy can take care of himself and his task force.” She turned away and breathed into the collar of her shirt, hoping the enthusiastically touted “spring fresh scent!” of her laundry detergent would mitigate the rank miasma hanging in the room. More likely, she would always associate clean clothes with a ravaged woman and the stench of death. That’s why the coroner warned you never to put mentholated ointment under your nose when you entered the morgue like the cops on TV. If you did, Vicks VapoRub would never soothe a cold or clear your sinuses again; it would just fill them with olfactory memories of decomposition.
Nolan focused on the victim’s jeans: bloody, torn at the knees, frayed at the cuffs, but still buttoned and zipped. “He doesn’t rape them,” she finally said. “Why? Serial killers are almost always psychosexual.”
“It’s all about control, whatever form it takes. He’s getting his rocks off somehow, you can be sure of that.” Crawford shook his head and looked away. “This sick fuck is going to make a mistake. They all do eventually.”
“Let’s hope the Aqua is his last stand.”
He retrieved his phone from his suit coat pocket. “Amen to that. I’m going to let Remy know. I’ll meet you outside.”
While he ducked out to make the call, Nolan took as many steps into the room as she could without contaminating the scene. The nameless woman had been brutalized with a knife, her torso flayed open in a badly botched dissection, just like the previous two victims in the Miracle Mile neighborhood. The only things left of her that resembled anything human were above the neck and below the waist. He never touched their faces, and there wasn’t an obvious sexual angle. All of this had significance to an incomprehensibly warped mind, but it wasn’t her case to solve.
She offered a silent apology to Jane Doe, then turned away and walked down the dark, garbage-strewn hall to the exit. Outside the smudged glass door, the street was crawling with police cruisers, the night awash with strobing red and blue emergency lights. Garlands of crime scene tape fluttered in the warm night breeze. Radios crackled and voices droned. Beyond the street barricades, the news satellite vans were gathering. Like all predators, they had sharp noses for the scent of blood.
Predators, prey, parasites—that was Los Angeles in three words, and more often than not, it was hard to make a distinction between them.
Remy showed up ten minutes later, wearing a navy blue suit that looked far too expensive for the job he was about to embark upon. She’d thrown away a few suits after particularly gruesome crime scenes, knowing she could never wear them again, so what was the point in spending more than the bare minimum? Maybe he didn’t own any cheap suits.
His steady black eyes grazed over both of them and he tipped his head toward the Aqua’s blurry front door. “Show me.”
Chapter Four
ALL THE STOOLS AT PEARL CLUB’S polished zinc bar were occupied, and the dense crowd of posh, hip Angelenos waiting for vacancies was overwhelming the front of the house. They shifted and jostled to a numbing techno soundtrack under dreamy, cinematic lighting, a combination far more trance-inducing than the liquor they were planning to imbibe.
Melody Traeger hustled to keep up with drink orders because the faster she dispensed alcohol, the bigger the tips got. It was bartender logic at its most basic. She’d also developed a more specific consumer behavior model based on customer types to optimize remuneration for her services.
Statistically speaking, struggling actors left generous tips because they were still in the service industry themselves. Movie biz heavyweights also tipped well because they had large studio expense accounts, but the juniors sometimes didn’t tip at all. Music industry
people were unpredictable, which skewed her statistics, but anecdotally they were poor tippers unless they were hitting on her, and about fifty percent of them fell into that category. She’d chosen a psychology major purely for the self-help aspect, but it definitely had other practical applications. When she finally got her degree next year, she would be unstoppable.
Tonight had been a long but lucrative shift, and she was counting the minutes until ten, when she could turn the bar over to the relief crew and get on with the rest of the night. Ryan had come here straight from the airport and was waiting for her at the end of the bar, sipping a beer.
One of her smitten regulars, a venerated session drummer and producer named Markus Ellenbeck, flagged her over. He was an unabashed anachronism, with his dyed black mullet and chunky, clunky rock ’n’ roll jewelry. There was no pretense or posturing about it; he was simply wearing the skin that made him comfortable, uncaring that the skin was outdated by a few decades. You couldn’t fault anybody for authenticity. It was an admirable trait.
He smiled and laid a fifty on the bar. “Can I get another martini, Mel?”
“Sure, same gin?”
“Yeah, and a couple extra olives for dinner.” He leaned forward and winked conspiratorially. “Hey. I think I finally figured out why you look so familiar.”
“I keep telling you why. It’s LA, I’m blond, and I have one of those faces.”
He looked victorious, as if he’d just solved the mystery of the universe. “Poke.”
“Poke what?”
“It was an all-girl punk band.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Not many people have. They weren’t around long, but they were good.” His eyes probed her, looking for signs of deception. “You played guitar. Actually, you shredded guitar. Your stage name was Roxy Codone.”
“You’re hilarious. I’ve never touched a guitar in my life and I hate punk rock.”
He deflated a little, and then his uncertainty turned to full-blown disappointment as he studied her face more carefully. “I guess I’m off base, you’re way too pretty to be Roxy. She was a fucking mess.”
“Keep trying, sweetie. Maybe one day you’ll remember the first time you saw me was here,” she said, and whisked away his empty glass.
She stole a quick glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar as she reached for the expensive gin Markus liked to drink. Between the colorful bottles, she saw a smooth, young face that didn’t betray what she’d been a few years ago, the very least of which had been a guitarist for Poke. In fact, aside from the tattoos, she looked downright fresh and innocent in contrast to the slinking, hyper-coiffed flowers of both sexes that flourished here like an invasive species.
It wouldn’t be difficult for Markus to confirm his suspicion. She wasn’t living in anonymity, just going by her middle name now instead of Antoinette. But he wouldn’t bother. Poke was ancient history, four years gone, and nobody cared what had happened to Roxy Codone. Once you ditched your Twitter account and disappeared from the stage, you were as good as dead.
Ryan knew who she was and what she had been and he liked her anyway. That’s why she thought they might have a future together. He was also handsome in a dark, brooding way, very successful, and worked in the music industry—all very alluring attributes.
She served Markus his martini with extra olives, started working on margaritas for table twenty-seven, and glanced at Ryan. He turned his hands over in a questioning gesture—almost ready?—then went back to his disapproving scrutiny of the crowd, keeping a watchful eye on the men clamoring for her attention or another drink, especially Markus.
His jealousy bothered her sometimes, but it was an imperfection she could live with. Everybody had a green streak. It was human nature, and men could be territorial Neanderthals. She and Ryan fought sometimes, they broke up and made up, but wasn’t that the way it was with every relationship?
She passed him a smile and held up five fingers for five minutes. He shrugged and drained the rest of his beer.
“You know that guy at the end of the bar?” Markus asked.
“Not really your business, is it?”
“I suppose it isn’t, but I like you a lot, Mel. Steer clear of him. He’s a flaming asshole.”
* * *
Ryan filled two wine glasses with an excellent California cabernet and brought them to the living room where Melody was luxuriating in the splendor of his apartment. She loved the vast, open space and the oversized leather sofa with down-filled pillows that were as soft and yielding as marshmallows. She was enthralled by the gleaming chrome and glass and granite, the lacquered cabinet with its dizzying array of high-end electronics. There was a grand piano in a corner by the bank of windows that looked down on cacophonous Sunset Boulevard. She could get used to living in a place like this.
He sat down next to her, put an arm over her shoulder, and clinked her glass in a silent toast. He seemed sullen and preoccupied, which puzzled her.
“How was Vegas?”
“Fine.”
She took a delicate sip and let the expensive wine loll on her tongue before swallowing, just like the wine reps did when they hosted staff tastings at Pearl Club. “That’s it, it was fine?”
“Just business. Boring compared to you.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I’ve been thinking.”
Melody sensed a subtle shift between them and felt a wisp of anticipation stirring through her body. She’d suspected for a while that he might ask her to move in with him, and now might be the time. And how would she react? Not too enthusiastically, she decided. “About what?”
“Pearl Club. I want you to quit.”
She blinked at him, confounded. He might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water over her. “What are you talking about?”
He glowered into his wine, then got up and started pacing. “You heard me. It’s not a good place for you, for us. Shitheads like Markus Ellenbeck drooling over you all night—hitting on you—it’s embarrassing and makes me sick. I don’t want you around him, and I don’t want you at Pearl. I can’t take it anymore.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not. Quit.”
She felt her mouth slip open in astonishment. How could this even be a topic of conversation, let alone a serious one? “I can’t quit. I make great money and I have rent and tuition to pay.”
“I’m sure you can find something else that pays just as well where they don’t make you dress like a…” He eyed her abbreviated tank top and shorts disdainfully. “Like that.”
Melody’s stomach knotted and her heart was pounding so hard that she could feel the throb in her temples. Ryan was being outrageous, ridiculous, and so viciously cold. She felt brittle all over, on the verge of shattering. But she couldn’t find any words. She would be like millions of other people who tossed and turned in their beds tonight, imagining what clever, cutting things they might have said.
“Guys hit on me, big deal,” she finally said, hating how feeble her voice sounded. “Pearl Club isn’t unique in that regard.”
He stopped pacing and sipped his wine thoughtfully. “Maybe you like it.”
“And maybe, since you haven’t offered any alternatives, this conversation is over.” She stood abruptly and grabbed her jacket. “I’m not fighting about this, it’s ludicrous.”
“Come on, Mel, don’t ruin things over a stupid job. We have fun together, and you want to keep having fun, don’t you? I know I do.”
Fury and heartbreak didn’t seem to go together, yet those were the two overwhelming emotions she felt. “That sounds like an ultimatum.”
He shrugged apathetically. “It’s just a choice. I’m surprised you’re finding it such a difficult one to make.”
Stand up for yourself.
“I’m not quitting,” she said with resolve. “Pearl Club helped me pull my life together and it’s paying for my education, which should be more important to you than your fragile ego.”
One day you’re gonna learn to keep your mouth shut, you stupid little bitch.
Chapter Five
SAM WAS SITTING IN THE HOT sand, playing poker with Kev, Shaggy, and Wilson. Old-school, five-card stud because they were all sick of Texas Hold’em. They were drinking Cokes they wished were beers, trash-talking each other, laughing. Planning the next prank that would keep everybody from hanging themselves.
The landscape was desolate, except for a free-standing Pizza Hut guarded by two goats with bells shaped like guns hanging from their skinny necks. More goats materialized, coming down from the distant mountains, followed by military personnel from enlisted to generals. They swirled around them, oblivious to their presence and their poker game.
Except for Captain Greer, who approached them carrying a tower of pizza boxes. “I’m in for the next hand with pepperoni and extra cheese.” He tossed the boxes on top of the kitty, made up of the dog tags of dead service members.
Sam searched the crowd of humans and goats. “Where’s Rondo?”
“Who cares?” Kev said.
“Probably off by himself, unraveling somewhere,” Shaggy snorted. “Dude’s not cut out for this shit.”
Wilson was flicking his fingers against his cards impatiently. “Weak of the herd. Guy like that could get us all killed.”
Sam couldn’t understand why his friends were being such assholes. “He’s still got our backs, cut him some slack.” He looked to Captain Greer, who was busy feeding a slice of pizza to a goat.