by P. J. Tracy
Nolan flipped a page in her notebook. “Did Mr. Ellenbeck ever make any threats against Mr. Gallagher?”
“No, of course not. Markus isn’t like that.”
“How do you know? Do you have a relationship with him?”
Melody looked horrified. “No.”
Nolan glanced at Crawford and there was some silent, implicit exchange between them. “Ms. Traeger, you were in contact with Mr. Gallagher this morning before he was killed.”
“He’d been texting me. I texted him back.”
“You threatened him. Listen, I can understand how angry you must have been, but a death threat is very serious. And it doesn’t look good.”
“You don’t think … I didn’t kill him!”
“There was no forced entry and no signs of struggle in the apartment, so it’s likely he knew his assailant. We also believe they had a key. You own a small caliber gun, the same kind that killed Mr. Gallagher; and as we mentioned, he was shot. You also have a rap sheet. None of those things look good, either.”
Melody sat up stiffly, and her posture, her expression, both seethed indignation. “Yes, I have a gun, I’m a woman living alone in Los Angeles. And I also have a rap sheet. Misdemeanor drug charges, not murder, and there’s a lot of daylight between the two.”
Sam wasn’t privy to the death threat piece of the puzzle, or the gun or rap sheet, and he felt disassociated, like a spectator watching some fabulous disaster unfold. Markus Ellenbeck was a suspect, but Melody was, too. And by extension, he was as well. An angry, abused woman with a record and a firearm making death threats, and her unstable protector, one who’d killed in war—and once you killed, it got easier. They’d gotten together and decided to exact the ultimate revenge for a black eye. Case solved, grab some beers, call it a day.
“Do you have a key or keycard to Mr. Gallagher’s building or his apartment?” Crawford asked.
“No, I don’t. I didn’t kill Ryan. Check my gun, it hasn’t been fired since the last time I went to the range four months ago. And Sam and my neighbor Teddy will alibi me for this morning.”
Sam nodded. “Melody was here until about ten, then she went home.”
“Your neighbor Teddy said he spoke with you this morning, but then went surfing for a few hours. Can anyone else alibi you during that time?”
“No, but I didn’t leave the apartment.”
“You mentioned roses and a break-in in your threatening text,” Nolan consulted her notebook. “Ms. Traeger, let’s walk through things from the beginning, starting with last night.”
Sam watched the two detectives as unobtrusively as possible while Melody told her story. They had good poker faces, but you could see almost imperceptible shifts in their expressions as they listened. Suspicion, empathy, ambivalence, possibly even disappointment—she wasn’t making an outright confession and holding out her wrists for the bracelets.
When Melody got to the part of the story about the black Jeep, Nolan and Crawford both reacted with subdued alarm, as they should have because it was spooky. Sam wondered if either of them were thinking about the black Jeep that had run over Katy Villa. Probably not, there was nothing to connect the two incidents, at least not in their minds, and they were arguably the sanest people in the room at the moment.
Nolan closed the cover of her notebook. “But you’ve never seen this black Jeep yourself?”
“No. Just Teddy and Sam have noticed it.”
She looked at Sam. “You didn’t happen to get a plate number?”
“No. But it’s a Rubicon, the same model Teddy mentioned.”
“There are a lot of those in Los Angeles. If you see it again, try to get the plate. Ms. Traeger, is it possible Markus Ellenbeck was jealous of your relationship with Mr. Gallagher?”
“He didn’t know we were in a relationship.”
“Can you think of anyone else who might have been?”
“No one knew about it.”
“Somebody entered your apartment through a window and left you roses, and your neighbor has seen a black Jeep outside your building on multiple occasions. And there was one here this morning when you were. Think hard about acquaintances, coworkers, past associates, any customers at Pearl Club who may have made you uncomfortable.”
“You think I’m being stalked,” she said flatly. “Stupid question, sorry.”
“There’s nothing we can do without a direct threat, so be careful. You too, Mr. Easton. If this really is a problem, you’re on their radar as well.”
Sam nodded and the detectives shifted their focus to him. It was his turn.
“Did you know Ryan Gallagher?”
“I didn’t even know he existed until Melody showed up here last night with a black eye.”
“Markus Ellenbeck?”
“I know who he is, everybody at Pearl Club does, he’s famous. But I’m a bar back, I don’t spend time at the front of the house.”
“Can you tell us about your morning after Ms. Traeger left?”
“I went jogging, then ate lunch here with my wife. After that, I had a doctor’s appointment, then went to work at Pearl Club.”
“Busy day,” Crawford commented.
Definitely too busy to kill, but Sam decided to keep the remark to himself. “Very.”
“We’d like to speak with your wife. Is she here?”
“No, we’re separated.”
“Who is your doctor?”
“Dr. Lynette Frolich.”
“Where does she work?”
“She has a private practice on Wilshire Boulevard, and she’ll confirm I was at my appointment. For the record, I didn’t kill Ryan Gallagher and neither did Melody.”
Nolan cocked a brow at him, then stood. “Thank you both for your time. We’ll be in touch.”
And that was it. The hot seat for both of them, then a bland dismissal meant to assuage any fear in case they needed to circle back and initiate a surprise offensive in the absence of better suspects.
Sam walked them to the door, anticipating the very precious moment when he could close the door behind them and try to forget he’d gotten out of bed this morning. It was amazing how cops could make you feel like a criminal even if you’d done nothing wrong. Or maybe that feeling was a product of the guilt Dr. Frolich was always talking about. It was depressing how his world view had become so very egocentric lately, and unhealthy by any accounting.
Crawford was halfway to the car by the time Nolan stepped off the porch. Sam knew she was intentionally lagging behind, so it didn’t surprise him when she turned around, postponing his happy moment.
“I know who you are, Mr. Easton.”
“Right. You did your research on the way over when Melody gave you my address. Military service, no criminal record, a speeding ticket last March, and owner of three registered guns—including a Colt Anaconda—which you didn’t mention. Must not be the right caliber. You probably don’t see a lot of homicides committed with a gun that size, too loud.”
“I’m speaking about your military service. I’m an Army brat. My family sent a lot of prayers your way when you got back.”
Sam braced his hand on the doorjamb so he didn’t tip over. He hadn’t expected that from Margaret Nolan. An official pronunciation of his arrest for the murder of Ryan Gallagher would have made more sense to him. “Oh. Thank you. Did you serve?”
“No, but my brother Max did. He was killed in Nangarhar a few months ago.”
“I’m very sorry.” It was odd to learn that you had a shared experience with a potentially hostile person in your life. It certainly made them seem less antagonistic. And when it came right down to it, they’d both seen a lot of death. Homicide cops weren’t immune to PTSD, but their struggles didn’t get the same coverage.
“I’m glad you made it back, Mr. Easton.”
“Some days I don’t know if I am,” he said, instantly regretting his strange outburst of candor.
If she’d found his statement remarkable, she expertly kept her emotio
ns shielded behind eyes the color of tombstone granite that didn’t seem to fit with her strawberry blond hair. “I believe you. But I’d like to think we’re all here for a reason. Have a good night.”
He watched her walk away, a woman from a warrior clan after all, wounded in a different way than he was but wounded all the same. He’d made a connection with her, just like he’d made connections with Katy and Rolf, and yet the red letters hadn’t appeared on her forehead. He knew it was pointless to wonder why.
Chapter Twenty-six
SOMETIMES NOLAN PRETENDED SHE HAD A parallel existence that wasn’t entrenched in death. In her fantasy, she was never lectured about making the ultimate sacrifice for her country or her multigenerational history of fallen servicemen and women that dated back to the Civil War. There, she was never a disappointment for not embracing the family calling, even though she was putting her life on the line in service to others, too, just in a different way. But in reality they just didn’t see it quite that way. Insufferable, ignorant military snobbery, that’s what Max had always said. He’d been her only familial advocate.
It really pissed her off that they didn’t consider her vocation worthy of even an honorable mention in the scrolls of the hallowed halls of dead relatives—that would only happen if she became a dead relative herself—still, she’d probably only be a footnote, acknowledged but never fully respected.
Max featured prominently in her alternate reality, too, where he was enjoying the most amazing life. He hadn’t made the ultimate sacrifice for his country; he was a small business owner in Tarzana or maybe Thousand Oaks, married to his high school sweetheart, with his first child on the way. And she wasn’t a homicide cop, she was …
What?
That’s where the fantasy always ground to a halt. No matter how many twists and turns her musings took, she always had a detective’s shield. Death followed her, even in her imagination. She knew it followed Sam Easton, too. He’d put things in perspective for her tonight and made her bitterness seem petty. And in a strange way, he’d made Max seem more present. Or maybe it wasn’t so strange.
Her nose twitched as the car filled with the pungent scent of teriyaki. Crawford had unwrapped a beef stick and was gnawing on it with the zeal of a starving Serengeti predator. The smell was nauseating, but it also reminded her she hadn’t eaten anything since a bruised, overripe banana for lunch.
“You want one, Mags?”
“Hell, no, I want a slab of prime rib from Lawry’s, but that’s not going to happen.”
“If you’re buying, I’ll make it happen. That’s not sexual harassment, by the way.”
“Damn, I was so hopeful.”
Crawford let out a snuffle of amusement. Or maybe it was his allergies, they’d been acting up. “How do you know Sam Easton?”
“Know of him. He’s a decorated war hero. I thought I recognized the name but I didn’t put it together until we got there.”
“I’m assuming that has something to do with his face.”
“Roadside bomb. He was the only one who survived.”
“He must be going through some bad shit, poor bastard.”
“At least he made it home. It could have been worse.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Mags.”
She thought about Max’s visitation again—Remy had been one of many from the department who’d come to pay their respects, but Al and Corinne had been the first ones there and the last to leave. He was a good colleague, a better friend, and they were both family to her. She’d blurted out the truth, but the delivery had been harsh.
And what did she really know about what was worse anyhow? She’d never been in combat, had never been maimed and almost killed, so for her it was automatic to assume life was always better. But was it?
Sam Easton had his doubts. He’d just said as much, which sent her brain racing through the grim statistics of the suicide rate of veterans. What if Max had come back with Sam’s experience, in his condition? Would he be the same laughing, loving brother who’d always stood by her side no matter what, or would he be wondering if he was glad to be back, too?
“I didn’t mean it like that, Al. No apology necessary.”
He changed topics and drew her out of the past. “The Ellenbeck angle just got more interesting. Money, a beautiful woman, and mutual hatred. With that trio, things can go south in a hurry. Gallagher was punched in the nose before he got shot, that’s personal.”
“But why kill somebody you’re trying to get money out of? It doesn’t make sense.”
“People lose control. What’s your take on Traeger and Easton?”
“Gut? Neither of them are good for it.”
Crawford uttered a noncommittal grunt. “Melody Traeger looked pretty surprised when Easton brought up lunch with his estranged wife. She’s not around, his coworker is sleeping at his house, so if something’s going on between the two of them, that could be motive.”
Nolan merged onto the Hollywood Freeway, which was relatively empty at this hour of the night. Clear pavement in LA was so magical it was eerie, like you’d suddenly been transported to a postapocalyptic world. “I didn’t see it, and their alibis seem pretty tight. When we check them out, I’m guessing they’ll hold. We need to keep the focus on the vic. He was a scumbag with sketchy business associates, a lawsuit climbing up his ass, and coke in his office and bathroom. It’s a matter of which one of those things caught up with him.”
“Maybe Traeger’s stalker caught up with him.”
“If she really has one.”
Crawford chewed noisily, pulverizing his beef stick. “Somebody broke into her apartment and left roses. That’s eerie.”
“I’m betting it was Gallagher. He was jerking her around, trying to scare her, you know that brand of controlling asshole. Hell, he may have been the guy in the black Jeep. He doesn’t own one, but maybe he was borrowing one, renting one. Or hired a PI to follow her. Something to look at, anyhow.”
Crawford tucked his empty wrapper in his pocket instead of throwing it on the floor. Corinne had trained him well, bless her heart. “We need to keep the third-party option on the table. Stalker sees her come out of Gallagher’s building last night with a black eye. He’s furious. He brings her roses to let her know not all men are dogs, then kills the piece of shit who hurt her. And Traeger works in Miracle Mile and tends bar, just like Stella Clary did. That worries me a little bit.”
“If you’re thinking the Monster, you’re way off base. His victims are vulnerables, and Traeger’s not one anymore. He’s opportunistic, not obsessive. And he doesn’t deliver roses.”
“He could have a different kind of fixation on her. I think it’s worth bringing to the task force. Maybe they have a black Jeep in their book.”
“Go ahead, I’ll keep tearing apart Gallagher’s life. I’m thinking there might be a whole roster of people who wanted him dead.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
OF ALL THE THINGS THAT SHOULD have been occupying Sam’s mind, he was thinking of Rolf. Couldn’t stop thinking about Rolf. Where was he now? At home planning his trip to the desert? Shooting up? On a slab in the morgue? He supposed it wasn’t that strange—Rolf factored heavily into his owns concerns, as did Katy. His new hallucinatory symptoms were all the proof he needed that something else was wrong with his brain. If it was neurological, meds and talk therapy weren’t going to cut it anymore, and as insurmountable as recovery had seemed before, his prospects had just gotten worse.
Neither of them had said anything since the detectives had left, but Melody finally spoke as she poured the rest of the chardonnay into her glass. “My aunt had a fifty-seven Thunderbird. A red convertible. Your car reminded me of her, that’s why I got a little weepy in the garage.”
“Where is she now?”
“I hope in heaven. She was killed in a car crash when I was thirteen. Aunt Netta and the T-Bird were both dead at the scene.”
“I’m sorry, Mel.”
“I am, too.”
“You were close?”
“She raised me from the time I was a toddler, after my mom split.”
Sam tried to imagine Vivian walking out on him as a child. It was inconceivable. “You never knew your mom.”
“I don’t even remember her.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“Probably dead. I was eight the last time Netta heard from her. She was in Europe somewhere, singing in clubs. Alexandra Traeger was a musician, not a mother. Her sister Netta was both.”
“Music. That’s where your name came from.”
“My middle name. Antoinette is my real first name, after Netta.”
“She sang ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’ to you at bedtime.”
She took a gulp of wine and nodded.
“So the guitar isn’t just a pawn shop find?”
“It is. Another talisman, I guess.”
And a symbolic link to family, Sam thought. “What happened after Netta died?”
A barrier suddenly went up, he could feel it, a palpable presence in the room. Do not trespass.
“We’re suspects,” she said dully.
“They were asking the questions they had to ask. What’s with the death threat?”
“I texted Ryan and told him if he ever broke into my apartment again, I’d kill him. It was stupid.”
“I would have done the same thing.” He reached out and touched her hand. “I know I didn’t kill him, and I know you didn’t, so we don’t have anything to worry about. Are you okay?”
“I’m freaked out and getting drunk seems like a great idea. Pour me a glass of that rye, Sam.”
Sam did, and poured himself another, too. The last one, he promised himself. He watched Melody wince as she took a sip, but she didn’t make eye contact. She had a lot to process.
“You had lunch with Yuki today?” she finally asked.
“She was waiting on the porch when I got home from my run.”
“That must have been a nice surprise.”
“It was, until she told me she was moving to Seattle for a job.”
Melody stared down into her rye. “That sucks.”