by P. J. Tracy
Sam left her to pack and sank into the living room sofa, so stiff and redolent with new furniture smell, he wondered if it had ever been sat on before. There were no dings in the wooden legs, no wear and tear on the fabric, no hollows from TV-watching butts denting the cushions. Actually, there were no signs of a real life in the room at all. It had all the bells and whistles of a home but was totally impersonal, like a display at a furniture store.
It made sense. She was just starting out from scratch, building a new life, a new space, and she didn’t have family heirlooms or tchotchkes to display because she’d never had a real family. And living on the streets didn’t afford the opportunity to gather meaningful possessions of your own.
A work in progress, the apartment and the woman.
He noticed an electric guitar on a stand, tucked in a dark corner. An authentic part of Melody or a flea market prop meant to make the space seem less anonymous? There was no amp, so he leaned toward the latter explanation.
He tensed when he saw a shadow pass by the front window, reached for a sidearm that wasn’t there. Paranoia, like guilt, was highly communicable and hard to shake, and he was suddenly being smothered by both of them. He had to move, had to leave. “Almost ready?”
“Yep.” She emerged from the bedroom with a small roll-aboard, wearing an oversized Los Angeles Lakers T-shirt, jeans, and a troubled expression. Her makeup had faded, and the black eye was clearly visible now.
“Do you play guitar?”
Her eyes darted to the corner. “No, I just thought it looked cool.”
“It does.”
“I found it at a pawn shop. I like to wonder about its history and what kind of music it played. It has a story, but I’ll never know what it is, which is why I like it.”
“You can make up a new story whenever you want.”
She smiled wistfully. “Exactly. Let’s get the hell out of here, Sam.”
They both jumped at the knock on the door.
“Who is it?” Sam shouted, all the anxiety transferring to his voice, making it sound confrontational and probably scary, at least if you were on the other side of the door.
“Mellie?”
Melody hurried to the door and opened it with a backward glance of reassurance. “It’s Teddy. Come in, Teddy, meet my friend Sam.”
He stepped inside, gaped at her black eye, then gave Sam a wary once-over. “What the hell, are you okay, girl?”
“I’m fine. Sam didn’t do this. He’s helping me. I’m going to stay with him until … I’m going to stay with him for a day or two.”
Teddy relaxed and nodded at Sam. “Nice to meet you, man.”
“You, too.” Teddy was dread-locked, wore a surf poncho, floral board shorts, and flip-flops. He was clearly baked out of his mind and moved like an overcooked noodle. Sam felt like he’d just stepped onto the set of a surfing flick.
“Mellie, the cops were here earlier looking for you.”
She blanched. “For me?”
“I told them I didn’t know where you were.” He reached into the pocket of his poncho and pulled out a card. “They left this, said to call them right away. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
He cocked his head at Sam. “You’re worried.”
Oh, hell, yes, he was worried, worried about a lot of things. “Mel said you’ve seen a black Jeep around.”
“Yeah, it was here this morning, but I haven’t seen it since.”
“Do you know what model? What kind of Jeep?”
“Rubicon. So you think it’s bad news?”
“It could be. Keep an eye out. Do you have a pen and paper, Mel?”
She gave him a bewildered expression.
“We’ll give Teddy our numbers. Please call us if you see it again.”
“You got it, man.” Teddy stared at Sam’s face through bleary eyes, as if he’d just noticed the scars. “You want me to confront the dude?”
An outlandish image of skinny, stoned Teddy bludgeoning somebody with a flip-flop flashed through his mind. “No, it’s probably nothing. But try to get a plate number.”
Chapter Twenty-four
MELODY PULLED INTO SAM’S DRIVEWAY AND turned off the ignition. She draped her arms over the steering wheel and gazed out the windshield but made no move to get out. “Teddy’s a character, isn’t he?”
“Actually, he’s more of a caricature, like he’s laying it on a little too thick. I think he’s got more going on up top than he plays.”
She nodded. “I think so, too. I was in his apartment once and there’s nothing in there but surfboards and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Science stuff, marine biology.”
“He’s the caretaker. Does he have keys to all the apartments?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t leave the roses, Sam, if that’s what you’re thinking. Somebody climbed through my window. If you had a key, why would you go to the trouble?”
“To deflect attention from the obvious. And it just seems like he’s trying too hard to be the insouciant stoner surfer.”
“This is California, he is one for real. And he’s not creepy or weird. I know creepy and weird.”
Sam wasn’t convinced, and besides, he knew she was avoiding the real issue. “You have to call the cops, Mel. If you don’t, they’ll think you’re avoiding them.”
“Why should I talk to them? I didn’t do anything.”
Her voice was petulant, indignant, like a rebellious teenager’s. Sam summoned all the patience in his soul, which wasn’t very much at the moment. “You know why. When cops want to talk to you, you cooperate. If you don’t, they’ll find you anyhow, and if they have to waste time hunting you down, they’ll be pissed off. You’re not the least bit curious?”
“No,” she said unconvincingly.
“And anyway, you need to tell them about Ryan and the break-in.”
“I wasn’t robbed and someone left roses. They’ll think I’m crazy.”
She had no idea about crazy. She was concerned about appearing that way to strangers; Sam was worried he genuinely was. He looked out the passenger window at his house, something familiar, something that had positive associations, even though bad things had happened there, too. Today, in particular. The windows were dark, but he’d left the front porch light on. Yuki had been sitting directly under it this morning, and if she’d been here now, in the same place, the light would be dancing in her black hair, limning it with blue.
“You’re connected to Ryan. Maybe he beat somebody else up. Maybe he killed somebody.”
“Come on, Sam, be real.”
“What? You don’t think he’s capable?”
Melody scowled, the young skin of her brow barely puckering. “I know I have to call them. I’m sorry I’m being a brat, I just needed to vent. It’s been a shitty day that just keeps getting shittier.”
No kidding. “Don’t be sorry.”
“Will you take me for a ride in your car first?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.” She got out and walked to the garage, stood there with her arms crossed. Her posture said she’d stand out there and wait forever. Christ, he wanted this day to be over, wanted to feel the burn of rye in his stomach, the cocoon of his bed, smell the scent of Yuki’s expensive shampoo on his pillow. But maybe he needed a ride in his car. It was the best part of his life right now.
She let out a startled gasp when the garage door opened. Sam always felt the same way whenever he saw it. The sheen of the sleek Nightmist Blue body, voluptuous in all the right places like a beautiful woman, sharp and feral and masculine in other ways; the glitter of chrome under the fluorescent overheads; the power he knew lay beneath the hood, it all took his breath away every time. And then there were the memories. All excellent ones.
“It’s beautiful, Sam. What is it?”
“A Shelby Mustang. A sixty-seven.”
“I guess that’s supposed to mean something.”
&nb
sp; “If you’re a car person.”
“It looks more like a panther ready to pounce than a horse. I’ve never seen a car like this.” She pointed to the lettering on the white racing stripe that ran along the lower part of the chassis. “What does GT 500 mean?”
“It means it’s really fast.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was my grandfather’s. He loved this more than his wife and kids combined. At least that’s what my dad told me, but that could have just been sour grapes. They never got along.”
“Your grandfather gave it to you?”
“To my dad. Mom gave it to me when he died.”
Melody frowned. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“Me, too. He was a good man with a bad heart.”
“Your mom?”
“Alive and kicking and obsessed with golf.”
“I feel bad that I never asked you about your family,” she said glumly. “Some friend I am, all I do is talk about my problems.”
Sam thought about her asking him this morning what the worst part of PTSD was. She was the only one who ever had, besides Dr. Frolich, and she was getting paid to ask questions. “You’re a great friend.”
She looked away, embarrassed, then started to circle the car with wondering eyes. “Did your grandpa give you rides in it when you were a kid?”
Time rolled back slowly, and Sam remembered his first ride—Grandpa Dean at the wheel, his broad, craggy face lit up with the biggest smile he’d ever seen. The cold, reticent man he’d known for the first ten years of his life had magically been transformed on that day, the scars of a war Sam had yet to learn about erased by a machine.
Do you like to go fast, Sammy?
Yeah! Yeah!
Then hang onto your knickers, young man.
“He did. Grandpa would tear up Mulholland Drive until I was ready to puke. Then he’d take me to Pink’s for a hotdog, the sadistic old bastard.” He felt his lips inch upward into a pure and joyful smile that reflected Grandpa Dean’s from so many years back.
“Did you?”
“Are you kidding, puke in his baby? He would have strangled me and thrown me off a cliff. Puking wasn’t acceptable, and I passed the test every time.”
“You liked him.”
“Yeah, I did. Loved him, too. He was career military, hard on everybody, but I have a lot of good memories of the times I spent with him.”
Melody’s face softened and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She turned and wiped them away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. There’s just a lot of history here. No wonder you don’t drive it, it’s like a precious jewel.”
“Cars need to be driven or they die. You can’t keep a racehorse locked up in a stall its whole life.”
“Let’s not take it out tonight.”
“Why?”
“When you take me for a ride, I want us both to be happy. This is a happy car.”
“The car could make us happy. At least for a little while.”
She turned back to him, a little mascara smeared beneath her eyes. “Maybe, but all the baggage we’re carrying won’t fit in that little trunk.”
“You might be right about that.”
“I think I should call the cops now.”
“I think you’re right about that, too.”
Chapter Twenty-five
SAM HADN’T BEEN EXPECTING THE COPS to pay a visit at midnight, but then he’d looked at the card Teddy had given Melody. Detective Margaret Nolan, Robbery-Homicide, a division that never slept. That’s when he knew the night wasn’t going to end well. Against his better judgment, while they waited, he poured himself a shot of rye, poured Melody a glass of chardonnay. Eventually the knock came.
Margaret Nolan looked young for a detective, and she was tall, almost as tall as he was. He didn’t doubt that she was strong beneath the boxy suit she wore, and her gray eyes and strawberry blond hair, pulled back in a mercilessly tight bun, suggested northern European lineage. So did the sharp angles of her face, attractive but severe. A woman from an old, storied warrior clan was his first, fanciful thought, and that would be a good pedigree to have in her situation. RHD was still an old boy’s club, and if you didn’t have the right equipment between your legs you had to have the guts to stand your ground.
Her partner was an older gent with a softening gut, wispy hair going gray around the ears, and probing, hound dog eyes. An old timer, probably all of forty-five. The picture filled out: she’d been paired with a division veteran, one who could help her navigate complicated waters, knew people, knew the politics, knew all the dance moves on a crowded, rancorous floor. He introduced himself as Detective Crawford and hung back, letting his protégé take lead.
Of course, this was all a fabrication. Sam crafted stories around everyone he met or even saw if they seemed interesting enough. Trying to read people was a habit, sometimes a hobby when he was bored. Situational awareness, they called it in the military.
After the introductions had been made, he invited them to sit. He really wanted to offer them a cocktail because they both looked like they could use one, but he didn’t think they’d appreciate the drollness. Besides, there was nothing humorous about the situation. They declined the more appropriate offer of coffee and took seats in two club chairs. Just like the braided rug in the kitchen, Yuki hadn’t been interested in taking them.
Since they’d arrived, Detective Crawford had feigned mild boredom, his eyes busy taking in details of the house, but he was paying close attention. Detective Nolan’s interest was less subtle and had been split between his scarred face and Melody’s black eye; but once they were all settled, she focused solely on Melody, which was appropriate. This was about her. “How did you get the black eye, Ms. Traeger?”
“Not from Sam, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Detective Nolan waited patiently and let the silence grate on Melody as expertly as Dr. Frolich employed the technique. Sam briefly wondered if shrinks or cops had come up with it first.
“A guy I was dating,” she finally said. “Sam is helping me, that’s why I’m here. Why are you here?”
“Ryan Gallagher. Is he the one who gave you the black eye?”
Melody’s eyes widened.
“I’ll take that as a yes. So you and Ryan are a couple?”
“No, like I said, we dated. It was casual, but it’s over now.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last night.”
“Is that when he hit you?”
She lowered her eyes and nodded.
“Where did this happen?”
“At his apartment.”
“On Alta Loma?”
“Yes.”
“What happened after he assaulted you?”
“I don’t know if I would call it assault.”
“That’s exactly what I’d call it, Ms. Traeger,” Crawford finally spoke. “Tell us what happened next.”
“I came here. Sam is my friend and coworker and I was afraid. Why are you asking me questions about Ryan?”
Crawford delivered the news dispassionately. “I’m sorry, Ms. Traeger, but he was murdered in his apartment sometime this morning. We’re wondering if you know who may have done it.”
Melody’s mouth moved, but it took a while for her to find words. Sam knew exactly how she felt. He’d had some very uncharitable thoughts about Ryan Gallagher over the past twenty-four hours, but even a cowardly piece of human rot like him didn’t deserve this. A good beating to even the scales, maybe, but a life was a life.
Maybe he did deserve it. Did your victims of war deserve it?
The claws of a fresh headache started an exploratory rake of Sam’s brain, and he crossed his arms and tucked his hands in his armpits so nobody would see his clenched fists. It wasn’t a good time to have some kind of an episode, especially since they were getting more unpredictable lately. He didn’t ever want to see portents of doom wriggling across any fore
heads ever again; and he most definitely didn’t want to melt down in front of the detectives, stumble into his bedroom, and come out waving his Colt.
“He was murdered?” Melody finally asked in a tremulous voice.
“Yes. He was shot.”
Melody covered her mouth, a strange but instinctive gesture for most people who received unexpected and shocking news. “Are you sure? Jesus, of course you’re sure, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Oh my God.” She curled into a protective ball on the sofa.
“Did he ever mention any problems he might have been having with friends, colleagues? Enemies?”
She shook her head and looked down at her hands, lifeless in her lap. “We didn’t talk about things like that. It wasn’t that kind of relationship.”
Sam cringed inwardly. She’d just admitted the guy she’d pinned some hope on thought of her as a booty call and punching bag, nothing more. Fantasy shattered. He was less sorry Ryan was dead than he had been a few minutes ago.
“So you didn’t know he was being sued?”
Melody jerked up her head abruptly. “I had no idea. Who was suing him?”
“Golden West Studios, for unpaid recording time. A hundred grand worth.”
Sam watched her mouth form a perfect ‘O’. “Markus Ellenbeck’s company?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“He comes into Pearl Club all the time. God, no wonder,” she mumbled.
Nolan leaned forward in her chair. “No wonder what?”
“Ryan and Markus hated each other. I thought it was just jealousy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Markus is a huge flirt.” She gestured to her black eye. “That’s what this was about. They were both at Pearl last night, and Markus told me to steer clear of Ryan because he was a ‘flaming asshole.’ I wasn’t sure why until now.”
“Was there a confrontation?”
“No. They were at opposite ends of the bar and ignored each other.”
Sam processed this new information. Melody was very selective about the things she shared. He hadn’t known about Ryan until last night, and now another drama he’d been ignorant of was unfolding in front of him.