by P. J. Tracy
“What kind of premonitions?” he asked, undeterred.
“How people will die.”
Rolf’s eyes expanded until they were so laughably disproportionate in his lank face, he looked like an owl. “No … no way.”
“It was just a hallucination. It doesn’t mean anything. Necessarily,” he said, bending the word for maximum impact. “Just a coincidence, if you believe in them. Or a projection, maybe a neurological condition. Crazy, if you believe in that.”
His troubled brow furrowed. “You’re shitting me.”
“I wish I was.”
“So you saw something when you were looking at me?”
“I saw the word ‘overdose’ on your forehead.”
His jaw went slack, then his big eyes jittered down to his arms involuntarily. It was the first time Sam noticed the scars there. Track marks. Or maybe his subconscious had picked them up earlier and that, combined with the Sid Vicious tattoo, is where his hallucination had germinated.
Rolf was finally speechless.
“Finish your film, Rolf Hesse. Do something good. Live to tell about it. I’ll be really fucking pissed off if I see your name in the obituaries, and if you’re there I’ll see it. I read them every morning and I won’t forget your name.”
Rolf started backing away, then it was his turn to bolt, but to the safety of his AMG and his student film and possibly his room or wing in Daddy’s mansion. Unless he really hit rock bottom, he wouldn’t be standing by a dumpster losing his marbles tonight.
Sam watched him roar away in his beautiful piece of automotive glory. Mission accomplished. He’d gotten rid of Rolf. And maybe he’d think twice before he stuck another needle in his arm, although he doubted it.
When his phone rang and he saw his mother’s number on the caller ID, he thought about ignoring it because her parental radar could pick up the faintest shift in tone or timbre in his voice and she would obsess over it. But a dose of Mom right now might be good medicine. She had plenty of idiosyncrasies, but she was the closest thing to normal in his life at the moment. “Hey, Mom.”
“Sam. You sound out of breath, are you all right?”
“I’m just finishing up a run.” Maybe a minor misrepresentation but definitely not a lie.
“Oh. Well, I’m calling to tell you how happy I am you’re coming to dinner Sunday. Four o’clock sharp.”
“Thanks for the invite. Who’s the mystery guest? The neighbor’s Shih Tzu?”
“Pfft, you’re ridiculous, but I’m glad to hear you’re in good spirits.”
If she only knew.
“Are you sure you don’t want to be surprised, dear?”
“I definitely don’t want to be surprised. You remember what happened at my tenth birthday party.”
“You are just full of spit and vinegar today.” Her voice was full of mirth and it made Sam inordinately happy.
“Cough it up, Mom.”
“Sam, you won’t believe it,” she gushed. “Lee Varney came for coffee this morning. He’s in town for some meetings. He’ll be joining us, and possibly Captain Greer, too!”
A lot of military memories came flooding back—actually, it was more like a memory tsunami washing over him—but it was all positive for a change. “Lee and Andy?”
“Their paths crossed on the West Coast and they both want to see you.”
“You just made my night.”
“I thought I might,” she said, purring with satisfaction. “See you Sunday, dear. Call if you need anything.”
When he hung up, he pondered the dumpster. It suddenly felt ridiculous to be communing with a trash receptacle, whereas a few minutes ago it had seemed appropriate. He was always reluctant to acknowledge affirmative feelings, as if that would instantly dispel them, but he welcomed this buoyancy of spirit without reservation. It wouldn’t last long, but he’d enjoy it while he could.
He dry-swallowed two aspirin to preemptively fend off the headache that was making a sinuous creep into his brain, ignored the tranqs, then finally took the plunge and stepped into the boisterous Pearl Club kitchen. It was the only world that seemed to make any sense to him these days.
Chapter Twenty-one
LANGDON, THE NIGHT MANAGER OF PEARL Club, was chewing out a new, largely disliked waiter while the line cooks snickered softly at their stations. Luis, a sous chef and former Marine, gave Sam a salute, then went back to the octopus he was charring on the plancha. Ashley, who ran the front of the house, was at the computer in the adjacent office, checking reservations for the night and documenting shift changes while she sneaked puffs off an e-cig and sipped coffee. White coffee, code for white wine disguised in a coffee cup. Langdon didn’t know about it, but everybody else did.
Sam relaxed. This felt like home, every bit as dysfunctional as his own. He didn’t know if that was good or bad, but it was comfortable. He poked his head into the office and said hi to Ashley.
“Hi, Sam!” She shoved the coffee cup behind the computer monitor. “Busy night on the books, are you ready?”
“I was born ready.”
She tittered. “You’re clocked in, so you’d best get your ass into work before I have to fire you.”
“I could really use a drink of your coffee first.”
She regarded him shrewdly.
“Everybody knows about the white coffee except Langdon. And we’ll all keep it that way.”
Ashley nodded and passed him the cup. “Whatever it takes to get through the night, right?”
“Right. Next time, let’s do whiskey.”
“Not a bad idea. It looks more like coffee, too. But it reeks to high heaven. Maybe vodka.”
“Clear coffee, the next big thing. Our little secret.” The wine felt good on his palate, felt even better once it started to enter his bloodstream. Maybe the day wasn’t a total loss, although his hope for dry dock wasn’t shaping up so well.
Tomorrow. The classic mantra of a drinker uncommitted to sobriety. He wondered if Rolf was confronting a similar existential crisis right now.
When he made his way to the lounge area, Melody was already behind the bar, chatting up a handful of lingering, late-afternoon customers. They were finishing their tapas and drinks before they headed somewhere else and made room for the next shift of happy hour drinkers and diners. She engaged them effortlessly as she prepped her bartender’s mise en place as meticulously as any chef would before service, but there was something off-kilter about her manner tonight. She seemed disjointed, distracted, like she was just going through the motions instead of genuinely enjoying her role.
He assumed it had everything to do with Ryan, but he wouldn’t press the issue. Besides, she wouldn’t have much time to dwell on it because the dinner rush was imminent, the second bar rush after that. Pearl Club was open fourteen hours a day, every day, and there were rarely empty bar stools or tables whatever the time. It was an intense environment, but Sam liked it because he never had time to think about anything except doing his job, and Melody probably liked it for the same reason.
Her deftly concealed black eye was almost impossible to see in the low light, especially if you weren’t looking for it; but if somebody noticed, he knew she’d come up with an elaborate, entertaining cover story.
I was riding out in Temescal Canyon and the horse they gave me tossed his head while I was putting on his bridle and smacked me good in the face. Tripped on my nephew’s toy while I was babysitting and hit the stair railing. Got rear-ended on Melrose by some coked up junior agent from ICM and hit my head on the steering wheel.
She had a quick, creative mind and unlimited possibilities for her future, just like Pearl Club’s motto promised on nicely embossed cocktail napkins: The World Is Your Oyster. Corny and equally incongruous because Pearl Club didn’t serve oysters. They really should; it was weird that they didn’t.
Meanwhile, Ryan was still trolling around somewhere, a boundless loser and predator with angry, clenched fists—just waiting to assert his manhood by whacking his
woman and excising her future prospects—undoubtedly to compensate for an inadequate penis and shriveled balls.
He met Melody’s eyes. She tried for a smile, but it never fully formed on her lips. “Hi, Sam. I was just telling these nice people to visit the La Brea Tar Pits if they have time.”
They were a hip, pretty couple in their thirties, and looked like the clientele that usually inhabited Pearl Club. They fit in here, but Melody had obviously ascertained they were Ausländers. “The La Brea Tar Pits are definitely worth seeing,” he said. “Think of Jurassic Park while you’re there and you’ll have a whole different experience.”
They chuckled, paid their bill with a card, then tossed thirty bucks on the bar before they left.
“They’re from Chicago,” she said, stuffing the thirty in the tip kitty below the rail as she watched the husband or boyfriend steer his tipsy companion to the valet stand out front.
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something’s bothering you, and you called me earlier but didn’t leave a message. What’s going on?”
She looked defeated. “Not such a great actress, huh?” She looked up as a large group of young men in suits walked through the door. “It’s no big deal, I’ll tell you after work. Would you get me two cases of Heineken?”
“You got it, boss.”
Chapter Twenty-two
REMY SIPPED TEPID COFFEE WHILE HE watched Froggy devour the “world-famous” French dip. Philippe’s was almost empty near closing time and was an ideal meeting spot. It was in the vicinity of Froggy’s place of employment, but an unlikely establishment to run into his colleagues. He’d been a useful snitch for LAPD for two years and he seemed to enjoy the role. At least he enjoyed the free food and extra compensation. It was a perfect symbiosis of parasite and host.
Remy pushed the photo of Thom Rangel next to his plate to regain his attention.
“You’re sure you’ve never seen this guy?”
He gave it another cursory examination with his bulging, amphibian eyes. “Hundred percent positive.”
He tossed Stella Clary’s most current driver’s license photo on top of Rangel’s. “But you know this woman.”
“I wouldn’t say I know her, but she’s around sometimes.” Au jus dribbled down into his sparse goatee and he wiped it away daintily with a napkin. Froggy had the remnants of table manners. “She comes downtown when she has cash money, and sometimes even if she doesn’t, if you catch my meaning.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Remy tamped down his disgust. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“About a month ago. She came to me for some Xanny.”
“You didn’t see her yesterday?”
“No, man. Stella’s candy of choice is ice and the amigos mostly handle meth. I’m strictly pills. Commerce down here is pretty segregated, we stick to our grids.”
“So she came to you a month ago looking for tranqs.”
“Yeah, she said she was stressing, like I was a doctor and she needed an excuse.” He swirled his finger into the plastic cup of horseradish sauce, the only thing left on his plate. Froggy’s table manners had left the building.
“Did she say what was bothering her?”
He leaned back in his chair and put a hand on his stomach, looking content as a cat in the sun. “I don’t figure the cost of therapy into my prices, but she was paranoid as hell, either jonesing or tweaked. Same effect.”
“So she told you she was stressing, you exchanged goods, that’s it?”
He was still licking the horseradish off his finger. “Yeah. Well, actually, thinking back on it now, she did ask me if there was word out about a creeper around here, following women.”
Remy’s pulse rate doubled. He’d been positive Rangel had invented that part of his story on the spot. “And is there?”
He laughed. “Ain’t nobody normal down here, but specifically, no. Like I said, she was paranoid.”
“Did she describe him?”
“No, she just asked me about it, took her stuff, and left. What do you want with Stella, anyhow?”
“I want to find her killer.”
He blinked quickly, a frog in a hailstorm. “Oh, man. You think there’s actually something to her creeper?”
“She’s dead, what do you think?” Remy tucked a fifty under his plate. “Put the word out and if you hear of anything, you let me know first thing, got it?”
* * *
On the way home, Remy considered that there were roughly seven miles between Miracle Mile and the downtown drug district. If there really was a creeper and he was the Monster, that was his territory. All of his victims were heavy users, all had been killed in Miracle Mile. He hunted downtown and killed away from his backyard. Animals didn’t soil their dens.
Finally, a new lead, a new focus, something to move on. He called Bill Turner, who was heading up the task force’s overnight shift, and briefed him. While Remy caught a few hours, they would be working it.
After his call with Bill, he made an impulsive, last-minute turn onto Stone Canyon Road and pulled up to the valet stand at the Hotel Bel-Air. He needed a few drinks in a civilized atmosphere to wash the foul taste of the past twenty-four hours out of his mouth. Like Froggy at Philippe’s, he was unlikely to run into any colleagues here.
Chapter Twenty-three
THE FOUR O’CLOCK SHIFT AT PEARL ended at ten, and Sam was grateful. He felt physically and emotionally gutted. The clientele had shifted from serious diners to the party crowd. Most of them were impaired, milling by the entrance while they waited for a table or a spot at the bar, and all of them were obnoxious to varying degrees. It was the same situation as when he’d had the unfortunate encounter with the producer’s wife.
“Let me give you a lift home,” Melody said, twirling her keychain around her finger.
“In your beautiful pea-green boat?”
A genuine smile lifted her face for the first time that night. “‘The Owl and the Pussycat.’ That was my favorite lullaby.”
“It’s a nursery rhyme.”
“And a song. My car’s not pea green.”
“Not fresh pea green, it’s split pea green.”
“Whatever, at least I have a car.”
“I have a car, I just don’t drive it.”
“Why?”
“It’s too valuable.”
“Show me?”
“Sure.”
“Got anything to drink at your house?”
“No. You cleaned me out, remember?”
“We’ll stop on the way. I’ll just stay for a couple, if that’s okay.”
“That’s okay.”
On the drive to Mar Vista, Melody was quiet, jittery, unsettled. She kept her hands tight on the wheel, and her eyes kept flicking from her rearview mirror to her side mirrors. Her posture was stiff, her breathing shallow, like she was fighting off an anxiety attack. Sam knew all the tells because he dealt with them every day. But he wouldn’t push her. She’d talk to him in her own time, or not at all. It was her choice.
She pulled up to a liquor store on Centinela, a few blocks from her apartment. “What can I get you?”
He unclipped his seatbelt. “I’ll come in with you, pick out a vintage bottle of sparkling water.”
Melody bought a case of beer and a bottle of chardonnay. Sam caved and picked up a bottle of small batch rye from Kentucky to go with his sparkling water. He would probably drink half the rye and none of the water. He didn’t have anything to celebrate, but he certainly had reasons to drink.
“Do you mind if we stop by my place for a minute? There’s something I want to show you.”
“Go ahead.”
Sam had been to her apartment once before, briefly. From what little he’d glimpsed from her kitchen, she’d done a fine job furnishing it and making it welcoming. A work in progress, she’d said, but wasn’t everything and everybody? He noticed a big bunch of rosemary in a vase by the kitchen sink and two empty bottles o
f Sierra Nevada. “What do you want to show me?”
She led him into her bedroom, something he hadn’t been expecting, but thankfully she just pointed to a bouquet of roses on her dresser. “Somebody crawled through my window and left these for me while I was at your house. It wasn’t Ryan.”
“Are you sure?”
“He said he didn’t.”
“You talked to him?”
“No, just texted. But now he’s not responding to me.”
“He’s pissed off, that’s why.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“You should be. You should also be worried about who did leave the roses. Did you call the cops?”
“And tell them what?”
“Gee, I don’t know. That you have a violent, angry boyfriend and possibly a stalker?”
She gave him a sharp look. “They can’t do anything.”
“Call them, Mel, I’ll wait with you. And pack a bag. You’re staying with me until this gets sorted out.”
“I can’t…”
“Yes, you can.”
She twisted her fingers together, picked at her pink nail polish nervously. “Tell me about the black Jeep.”
Sam felt something unformulated and dark uncoil inside him. “What about it?”
“Teddy, he lives here. He’s the caretaker—said he’s seen a black Jeep around. Parked in front of the building.”
He shrugged, going for indifference and not sure if he’d pulled it off. “I’ve seen one around my place, too. It was parked outside my house this morning, but cars park on residential streets. There’s nowhere else to park.” And then the black Jeep followed me while I was jogging and ran over a woman I talked to. Add Melody to the list of people he was keeping secrets from. Maybe it would be easier to keep a list of people he was honest with because there was nobody on that list right now, zero, a cinch to remember.
“You thought it might belong to Ryan. Maybe it does, I wouldn’t know if he has another car.”
“Let’s get you out of here, Mel. Pack your bag. We’ll go to my house and then we’ll deal with the cops.”