by P. J. Tracy
Sam’s vision was normal. No colors, no words. And miraculously, no headache. Up ahead, he saw a cluster of flashing police lights. He hadn’t heard any sirens, which meant he’d blacked out. For how long, he didn’t know. He never knew.
What did you see? What do you remember?
“Nothing,” he said, startling the nervous jogger and propelling him forward against the traffic light.
He wouldn’t make it to the ocean today. He’d be lucky to make it home.
Chapter Twelve
REMY STEPPED INTO THE GLOOM OF the Kitty Corral and was hit by the sour smells of spilled beer and unhygienic humans. A substandard sound system was blasting a thirty-year-old EMF song, a staple of strip clubs still. Behind smeared Plexiglas, a wasted, topless woman wobbled on spike heels, trying unsuccessfully to keep time to the music. It was painful to imagine that she’d been a child once, with an unwritten future. The author of her life was a sadist.
Four ragged denizens were scattered around the bar and in unison swiveled their heads laconically to look at him. It wasn’t noon yet, but they were all drunk or high or both and didn’t seem to care that there was obviously a cop in their midst. They didn’t seem to care about anything—not themselves, not the drinks in front of them, not the woman trying to dance. He recognized all the men from last night, when he’d come in to canvass. Maybe they’d never left.
The man behind the bar hadn’t been here last night. Impossibly, he looked even more dissolute and slovenly than his mug shot. He was missing a front tooth and his bloated face looked like a greasy, overinflated balloon. He squinted, then scowled as Remy approached.
“You’re a cop.”
“And you’re Thom Rangel.” He showed his shield. “Detective Remy Beaudreau.”
He let out a rattling cough and spit on the floor. “You want something to drink, Detective?”
“I want to know about Stella Clary. She worked here.”
His rheumy eyes narrowed. “On and off. I haven’t seen her for a while.”
“Yeah? Well, I just talked to Ray Lovell and he says different. He had amnesia last night, but I just jogged his memory.”
“I don’t know no Ray Lovell.”
“Sure you do. He works across the street. At the Aqua.”
“I heard there were tons of cops there last night. Is that what this is about?”
Rangel was really bad at playing dumb, which was incredibly ironic. He was a natural. “You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Stella Clary is dead. Murdered.” No reaction. “But you already knew that, your buddies here probably couldn’t wait to tell you.” He looked around the bar—all the customers were studying their drinks.
“Ray Lovell says you were at the Aqua with her yesterday, and I’ve got your prints on a vodka bottle we found in her room.”
His eyes were suddenly busy, scoping the room, presumably for potential avenues of escape. “No surprise, we partied sometimes.”
“Yesterday?” When he didn’t answer, Remy leaned across the bar. “Don’t fuck with me, Thom.”
“We may have had a drink or two.”
“And then you killed her?”
“No! Hell, no! I liked her.”
“I took a look at your rap sheet. You’re a violent guy. You like to get rough with women. You used a knife on the last one.”
“Bitch attacked me with it first. It was self-defense.”
“The jury had a different opinion.”
“Look, I served my time and I’m off probation, so stop harassing me.”
“I haven’t even started. Do you know Holly Churak?”
“No.”
“Olivia Riemers?”
“Never heard of either of them.”
“Not even from the paper?”
“I don’t read the paper.”
“They’re dead, too. They hung around this neighborhood.”
“Whatever.”
“I’ll be showing your mug shot around.”
“Go for it, I’m not a killer.”
Remy considered the waste of human flesh in front of him. Serial killer? It was possible. Ted Bundy had created an unrealistic perception that they were charming and intelligent, but statistically they were average or below and typically socially isolated. They were all incapable of remorse, all pathological liars, and Rangel wasn’t remorseful or forthcoming. He nodded at the bulge at his waist, a gift from God that made things even easier. “Felons aren’t allowed to possess firearms, you know that.”
Rangel’s face flushed red and he started to back away. “This is a dangerous place. We get trouble in here sometimes.”
“Raise your hands and step out from behind the bar. And don’t even think about running.”
The bar flies watched Rangel get cuffed with bovine indolence. Remy wondered how long it would take them to figure out the drinks were on the house.
* * *
“Look, man. Detective. I told you, I partied with Stella for a little bit yesterday, then went home around two and slept it off. Ask my landlady, she saw me come in.”
“From where I’m standing, you’re the last person who saw her alive.”
“That’s bullshit! She partied with a lot of people. I stopped at two o’clock, but she didn’t.”
“Give me some names.”
“Don’t know any names. We just drank together sometimes, that’s it. It was always just me and her, that’s the way we both liked it. I’m clean except for the booze. She never did drugs around me.”
“Considerate.”
His expression became oddly pensive, extraordinary for somebody with the intellect of an annelid. “Before I left, she said she was going downtown to score.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, where the drugs are. That should narrow it down. Can I get some more coffee?”
“We’re tossing your apartment right now, Thom. Does that worry you?”
He shook his head. “You won’t find nothing. I didn’t kill her. If I had to bet, it was the guy she thought was following her.”
Chapter Thirteen
RYAN GALLAGHER TOSSED HIS PHONE ON the sofa in disgust. Roses. Somebody had sent her roses. Probably that son of a bitch Markus Ellenbeck. He was a liar and a cheat and an arrogant asshole, way past his sell-by date, but he still thought he was hot property just because he’d drummed for some important bands on some important albums twenty years ago. Big fucking deal. He probably still had slut groupies throwing themselves at him, but Melody had never been impressed, which made her an irresistible target for conquest. Goddammit.
Or maybe she’d just been playing hard to get. She had a coy, conniving side to her. All women did. She still hadn’t responded to his last text, which made him wonder if the roses hadn’t hit the mark and she was with him right now. Thanking him.
He clenched his fists and ground his teeth, trying to banish the hot burn in his throbbing brain, the vision of Markus Ellenbeck’s smug face as he humped Melody.
He leapt off the sofa and stalked to the guest bathroom, rummaging through the drawer for his blow. He felt a fresh surge of anger when he saw that the vial was half-empty. No wonder he had such a searing headache, Melody’s bitchiness had set him off on a binge last night, and there was only one cure for that.
He dug into the bottle with the tiny spoon attached to the cap and got two good nosefuls, and the headache went away instantly. But what was left wouldn’t get him through the day, let alone the night. Time to reorder.
He sat down on the toilet and made the call. “Hey man, can you make a delivery today?”
“What do you need?”
“An eight ball.”
“Give me an hour.”
“Fine. Thanks.”
He hung up and closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the numbness in his nostrils and the euphoria of the high-quality dust working through his system. He felt better now, calmer. An eight ball would last a while, get him through this bullshit.
Now he had to figure out what to do about Melody. She was a pretty good girl, although she’d been high maintenance lately. He wasn’t quite ready to cut her loose, but maybe he should reconsider. Her mention of a break-in puzzled him. What did that have to do with anything? And the death threat had been truly bizarre, beyond the pale, and that really infuriated him. She wasn’t making sense and she was starting to get defiant, two warning signs she was creeping into psycho bitch territory. Maybe more trouble than she was worth.
It occurred to him that she might be making everything up to piss him off because of last night. Admittedly, he probably shouldn’t have hit her, at least not so hard, but the rage had flared so suddenly and white-hot that he hadn’t been able to contain it. That’s how much he liked her, crazy or not.
He dug out another spoonful and snorted it with gusto, enjoying the burn, the pain with the gain. He’d get his supply replenished, then he’d go see Melody and get some answers.
Chapter Fourteen
AS THE UBER DRIVER PULLED UP to his house, Sam saw Yuki’s blue Honda parked in the driveway. She was sitting on the front step like a little kid, her yellow sundress pulled down to cover her knees. A breeze ruffled her straight black hair, shorter than it was when he’d seen her last week, just grazing her shoulders now.
Her sunglasses were too big for her small face, but she loved them anyhow. He’d bought them for her on Venice Beach, cheap knockoffs of some designer. He had a pair just like them somewhere, but it hurt too much to wear them because they reminded him of the last good day they’d had together—the day before he’d left for Afghanistan for the second and last time.
He hastily pushed a cash tip into the driver’s hand and muttered a thanks as he jumped out. “What a great surprise. You should have let yourself in, Yuki. It’s still your house, too.”
“I would have in another five minutes. You didn’t answer my calls. I was starting to get worried.”
“I was jogging,” he stated the obvious, plucking at his sweat-drenched shirt. “Cardinal rule of exercise—turn off the phone.”
“Couldn’t make the return trip?”
“One-way ticket today. I almost made it to Ocean Avenue, but I started getting a headache and thought I’d better take it easy.” The headache was a little white lie, but he had no intention of telling her about the thrilling appearance of a new symptom. That was something to be sorted out with his shrink and possibly his neurologist first.
Her mouth turned down in an inverted crescent of distress. “It must have been bad for you to take a cab home.”
“It wasn’t so bad that I had to take a cab, just bad enough to take an Uber.”
She rolled her eyes fondly, then stood up, revealing a Whole Foods bag that had been sitting on the step behind her as if she’d been guarding it. “I brought some lunch. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m thrilled. Thanks.” It was awkward, walking up to greet her in front of their house as if she was an out-of-town guest who had arrived too early. Did you kiss your estranged wife or just peck her on the cheek? A hug, perhaps? No, that was out of the question. He was too disgusting to hug. He settled for a chaste kiss on the mouth.
“I’m happy to see you, Sam. You look good. Sweaty, but good.”
“Thanks. And you look terrific. Let me take a quick shower before we eat, otherwise I won’t be a very pleasant dining companion.”
She lifted her chin, assessing him. “I would be grateful.”
The house seemed to regain a natural rhythm when they walked in together. It was like she’d never left. Sam knew it was all a fantasy, but he was fine with fantasy for now. She took over the kitchen effortlessly, getting plates, silverware, napkins, while he excused himself.
Five minutes later, he reentered the kitchen, smelling much better and dressed in jeans and a poor, defenseless button-down he’d found suffocating in a dry cleaning bag at the back of the closet. It was something he’d wear on a date, and this was sort of a date. Wasn’t it?
The table was set, and plastic containers from Whole Foods were neatly arranged on the table, each with their own spoon. If Yuki had still been living here, the salads would have been dumped into Japanese pottery bowls and sprinkled with different garnishes, like tiny ribbons of scallion and carrot or toasted sesame seeds. The old Yuki would die before she’d serve any meal out of plastic deli containers or without a personal touch. Her uncharacteristic lack of care didn’t bode well for the encounter; but she had brought lunch, so maybe he was overthinking things.
She nodded her approval at his transformation and sat down but didn’t comment on the dinette table, out of kindness he assumed. She also didn’t comment on the two dirty coffee mugs on the counter, if she’d even noticed them at all.
“I ran into your mother today. Grocery shopping.”
Always your mother, never Vivian. It annoyed him, it always had, but the two had never been great friends. “You were in Pasadena?”
“I had an early client meeting there. I’m in between appointments now, so I thought it would be nice to catch up over lunch.”
“It’s very nice. How is Vivian?”
“Worried about her golf handicap, worried about you.”
“In that order?”
Yuki scoffed. “She said you don’t call her enough.”
“Whenever I call her, she’s on the golf course. And I’m sick of hearing about her handicap.”
“It’s twenty.”
“Did she tell you about the neighbor’s Shih Tzu? That’s her latest fallback obsession when she exhausts the topic of golf.”
She gave him a weary smile, letting him know she wasn’t in the lightest of moods. It also telegraphed a dolorous shift to things more weighty than outdoor recreation and overly coiffed pets. “How are you, Sam?”
There was genuine concern in her tone and on her face. The question was a bit generic, but that made answering easier. “Better. I think the new meds are helping.”
“You should tell your mother that.”
“I do every time I talk to her, which apparently isn’t often, but she doesn’t believe anything I tell her.”
“Should I believe you?”
Sam eyed a container of kale salad and felt his stomach churn. It was too green, too filled with things humans weren’t meant to eat in his opinion. “You should, but that doesn’t mean you will.”
“Talk to me.”
Yuki was direct, impatient, and often abrupt. She never bothered with finessing a conversational segue because in her opinion it was time wasted that could be applied to more productive discussion, like problem-solving or decision-making. Her rigidly practical world view was decidedly masculine, one people often mistook for rudeness or self-absorption, but she was neither of those things.
She blamed her Japanese mother for that particular trait, but Sam had never seen it echoed in his mother-in-law, who was the very embodiment of charm, a skilled mistress of the silver tongue. Maybe she had a different personality when she was speaking Japanese, but he didn’t think so. Yuki’s abrasiveness read pure LA to him, nothing to do with her mother’s homeland.
“I went three nights without a dream.”
She gave him a nod of encouragement. “That’s good, Sam.”
“I think so. We’ll see what Dr. Frolich says about it today.” He helped himself to a potato salad without too much green, just pale mezzalunas of celery. “What about you?”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
“But the separation’s been good for me.”
Just what he didn’t want to hear.
“Has it been good for you?” Yuki, always looking for quick, clear, incontrovertible answers to her questions, even if there weren’t any.
“If it’s good for you, it’s good for me.”
Her tiny shoulders slumped. “That’s a nonanswer.”
“I mean it. You needed space. You needed a break. And I can work on things without feeling guilty. Bad. For w
hat I’m putting you through.” He spoke the words without much thought, but once they’d come out of his mouth, he realized there was truth to them.
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “That’s so stupid, Sam. I’m here for you. I didn’t leave because I wanted you to be alone to work on things.”
“I understand why you left, Yuki.” He reached out and covered her hand in his. “I think it’s good for you to have time off. And I love you. I always will.”
She sniffled and looked up. “I love you, too. You seem better. Dr. Frolich is working out?”
“So far.”
“You were so dead set against seeing a psychiatrist in the beginning. What changed?”
“I was sick of being sick.” That was the truth, but he really didn’t know if he was getting better or worse. That was another thing he wouldn’t tell her, another torment to add to his list. Secrets, lies, put on a brave face and maybe it will stick. Counterproductive maybe, but desperation had a way of constructing brilliant artifices. The only problem was they were built in quicksand and there was no way to know if they’d collapse, or when.
A single tear slid down her cheek, tracing a crooked, wet path on her skin. “I feel so guilty. I feel like I betrayed you, deserted you when you needed me most.”
Sam had never known her to ask for amnesty, which was essentially what she was doing, so he didn’t know how to respond. And if he was painfully honest with himself, he wasn’t feeling the generosity of spirit to lie and tell her what she wanted to hear.
When she finally realized he wasn’t going to assuage her guilt, she continued. “But it got to the point where I felt like staying would do more harm than good, that I couldn’t be any help to you without some time away. To rest, regroup, get strong again. Does that make sense?”
“You don’t have to justify yourself,” he finally said. “And stop feeling guilty. It’s a worthless emotion.”