by P. J. Tracy
“Yeah, it does. But maybe I should have seen it coming.”
She reached over and clinked his glass with hers. “Here’s to better days ahead, when things aren’t so fucked up.”
“If that’s all we have to toast to, then maybe I should get the razor blades.”
“Can you think of a better toast?”
“We’re not dead and we’re not in jail.”
“I’ll drink to that, too.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, both of them salving their private wounds with fermented grain, but it wasn’t making Sam feel any better, in fact it was making him feel worse. He felt a deep, paralyzing exhaustion settle into his bones at the same time the prodromes of another headache announced plans for a full-on assault of his brain. “I need to go to bed. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” She pushed away her glass, an impressive act of restraint for a woman who’d vowed to get drunk. “We both need to sleep.”
Sam got up and closed the shades once he was sure there wasn’t a black Jeep outside, then checked the windows, doors, and the alarm. “All locked up. Do you need an extra blanket? Pillows?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Night, Mel.”
“Good night, Sam. See you in the morning.”
After Sam had gone to bed, Melody remained at the kitchen table, listening to the wall clock tick away the night. It was the only audible sound. Roughly fifty thousand of Los Angeles County’s ten million residents called the quiet Mar Vista neighborhood home, and apparently, they were all sleeping. It was a good bet that none of them had been visited by homicide detectives tonight, and Sam wouldn’t have garnered that distinction either if she hadn’t been here.
Silence didn’t offer her mind distraction, so thoughts began to bounce around inside her head. Ryan was dead. Murdered. She knew how, but she didn’t know why. She’d known a lot of bad people in her life, but none of them had been killed and they were more deserving, in her opinion. There was no question that Ryan had been flawed, and she had no idea what company he kept when he wasn’t with her, but getting shot to death seemed like a steep price to pay for having an imperfect character.
But she hadn’t known him. Not at all. One straightforward question from the cops had made that abundantly clear. He could have been a mobster for all she knew. The sum total of her knowledge of Ryan Gallagher was that he took her to dinners in restaurants she could never afford, and if she saw something in a shop window she liked, he’d buy it for her. He’d never invited her to Las Vegas, but he had taken her on one weekend getaway to Palm Springs where there was wine and fruit and cheese waiting for them in the room. But it had all been in exchange for sex, she understood that now. Money never changed hands, it was more insidious than that, and so she’d gotten lost in a fantasy.
But Ryan was out of the picture now, replaced by a stalker. It seemed impossible.
Think hard about acquaintances, coworkers, past associates, any customers at the Pearl Club who may have made you uncomfortable.
Melody was thinking hard, but nothing sparked. The people she’d associated with during the drug years were either dead by now or just trying to stay alive. Addicts were too concerned about the next fix to do anything but drug seek.
She considered Poke fans, but that was a nonstarter. She’d burned out like a supernova, as if she’d never existed, instantly replaced by the next new thing. Besides, a Poke fan would throw roses at her like they used to when Roxy Codone was on stage, not sneak them into her apartment. And Markus? The thought of him as a stalker was laughable. If he wanted her, he’d ask.
Her coworkers were the only family she had, and there had been no sketchy figures lurking in the shadows at Pearl Club. They all kept an eye out for that; it was a bullet point in the employee manual.
Maybe Ryan had lied about the roses, another cruel manipulation. It was entirely believable, and although a disturbing thought, it was a more comforting one than the possibility of a stalker.
Melody looked at her glass of rye, half-full or half-empty, depending on your perspective, and downed the rest in one burning gulp. Booze wasn’t instructive, but it let you forget, and that’s what she wanted to do.
She found her way to the sofa, curled up beneath the throw she was becoming fond of, and closed her eyes. Aunt Netta was in the room, strumming the guitar softly, putting melody to “The Owl and the Pussycat.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
SAM WAS LYING ON HIS BUNK in the barracks. Rondo was sitting next to him, dangling his dog tags like a hypnotist’s bauble.
“You gotta help me, Sam my man.”
“What’s wrong?”
“They’re after us.”
“The Taliban?”
“They’re not the only ones.”
“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“You know.” He smiled and blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. He wiped it away and looked down at his hand in surprise. “Shit. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
Sam tried to sit up, but there was an invisible weight pressing down on him, suffocating him. “I can’t…”
“What? You can’t talk? You can’t get up? Join the club.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing you could do. You were good to me, Sam, I’m glad you made it.” Rondo’s flesh started suppurating, dropping glistening chunks of gore down the front of his camo and onto Sam’s chest. “Too late for me.”
Sam jolted upright, choking, still suffocating. He clawed at his throat, gasping, until finally a rush of air entered his lungs, feeding his oxygen-starved brain. His heart was a heavy metal double-bass drum, and Sam genuinely feared it was finally going to blow this time.
He reached to the nightstand for his water bottle, but his hand was shaking so badly, he couldn’t grasp it.
“About time you woke up, Sam my man.”
He bolted out of bed and grabbed his gun. “Jesus Christ!”
Rondo emerged from the shadows, whole again, but his camo was bloody. “Bad dreams, huh?”
His Anaconda bobbled in front of him and his teeth started chattering. “Y-you’re not real. Go away.”
“Some greeting for an old pal. Ty, Shaggy, and Wilson send their regards, by the way. You should put that thing away before you hurt somebody.” He started to laugh, a high-pitched trill.
“Leave me alone!”
“That gun’s not going to do you a whole lot of good. I’m dead, remember?”
There was a frantic knock on the door. “Sam! Sam, wake up!”
Rondo shrugged. “I guess it’s time for me to skedaddle. See you around.” And then he dissolved into translucency and disappeared.
“Sam!” Melody pushed open the door and a slice of light landed on him, igniting his brain. “Oh my god, you’re drenched.”
He placed the gun on the nightstand, sagged onto the bed, and pressed his hands against his temples. The mother of all migraines was moving in for the kill. “It’s okay, Mel. I’m awake now.”
“Jesus, Sam,” her voice was trembling. “Are you alright?”
Her face was paper white, her eyes huge and wet and fixed on the gun. She looked ready to take flight. He didn’t blame her. “I will be.”
“I thought there was a break-in. You were yelling at somebody.”
“A ghost.”
“Can I do something? Get you something? Rye?”
“I’m sorry I scared you. Go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
No. “Yeah. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The door closed and Sam sat in the dark, his blood still hot with fresh inoculations of adrenaline; he wasn’t confident Rondo was finished with him yet. Was it a psychotic break when dreams encroached into reality? Had he just crossed the Rubicon of insanity? Or was it the River Styx? Old Charon, a pole in one hand, a straitjacket in the other. Don’t pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side.
Chapter Twenty-nine
REMY ROLLED OVER AND GROPED BLINDLY for his bleating phone. When had it seemed like a good idea to choose a ringtone that sounded like a distressed sheep? While he’d been sleeping, the vodka fairy had stuffed his mouth with cotton, his head with broken glass. The last martini had been a mistake.
“Remy Beaudreau.” The vodka fairy had put gravel in his throat, too.
“Hey man, it’s Froggy. I might have something for you.”
It was three-thirty in the morning, but drug dealing was a twenty-four seven vocation. Criminals were devoted to their craft and had a strong work ethic. He clicked on the lamp and found a notebook and pen. “Go.”
“This is worth something.”
“We’ll see.”
“Come on…”
“I like you, Froggy. Let’s keep it that way.”
Grumble, snuffle, snuffle, grumble. “I just asked some of the working ladies down here about the creeper. They gotta keep their eyes open, right? Figured it would be a good place to start. You wouldn’t believe the shit they see, I mean just last night…”
“Froggy, I’m not paying you by the word.”
“Okay, okay. You know that abandoned building on Broadway?”
“Which one?”
“The one where pincushions are OD’ing all the time. The shooting gallery.”
“The Rehbein Building, what about it?”
“The ladies tell me they heard about some trouble there. Some skel hanging around. Someone who don’t belong.”
“Did any of these ladies get a close look at him?”
“Nah, this is just word of mouth from a gal named Wanda. She took a paying customer in there and this dude shows up and starts flashing a knife around.”
Remy slid to the edge of the bed and tried to pull on jeans with one hand. “Can you get me to Wanda?”
“Nobody’s seen her around for a while. This was a couple weeks ago. That’s all I got. So what’s it worth?”
“Maybe a French dip.”
“Don’t shit me, man, this is good stuff. You want me to check it out, make it worth taxpayer dollars?”
“Absolutely not. Stay away from the Rehbein Building and keep your mouth shut. I’m on my way.”
Remy hung up and finished dressing. The Monster was meticulous and stealthy, and his survival depended on invisibility; the creeper’s actions had been impulsive, too sloppy for an accomplished killer. It didn’t dovetail. He gave it a ten-percent chance that they were one and the same, but it was a thread that had to be followed to its terminus, because sometimes, killers went off script.
* * *
Froggy looked across the street at the graffiti-tagged Rehbein Building. Who knew it had a name? He stepped off the curb and walked toward it casually, like he was just out for a stroll. Things were slowing down on the street, so why not take a look? Maybe do the criminal justice system a favor while he was at it and get a nice payday. The pincushions wouldn’t mind, shooting galleries were the most peaceful places he knew because everybody was usually unconscious.
He jimmied a loose board off a broken window, slithered through, and dropped down into the lower level. It was dark, but he recognized the potent reek of drugs, vomit, shit, decay. The aromatherapy of his life, nothing shocking or new to him.
He turned on his flashlight app, but his phone was almost dead and the light was weak, giving him a view of his feet and not much else. Froggy hated the dark and the things it could conceal, but he didn’t sense any human presence. It figured—the pincushions would choose the upper floors, away from street level, like sick pigeons roosting in the rafters.
He shuffled slowly, kicking away dead rats, spent syringes, piles of garbage and moldering detritus. Then his phone gave up the ghost, and he was submerged in total darkness. Time to get the hell out of here.
As he backtracked, feeling his way along the wall, his nose picked up a particularly foul smell, which sent him scrambling in the opposite direction. When his foot came in contact with a large, unyielding lump, he froze, and that’s when the pain came, blinding and searing, right between his shoulders.
Froggy dropped on top of something squishy and putrid and closed his eyes, absolutely certain he was dead and had gone straight to hell. A moment later, he realized he was still alive and wished he wasn’t.
Chapter Thirty
AFTER A DOUBLE-DOSE OF MELATONIN, SLEEP came fast and hard for Sam. Dreamless for a while, but at some point death crept in as it always did. But it was a different kind of dream—this time he was an observer, not a participant.
He saw Melody stepping into a black Jeep Rubicon and getting beaten, saw Yuki being strangled by a faceless man, saw Rolf nodding off in heroin rapture and turning stiff and pale. Magda from Dead to Rights III made an appearance, too, sitting in her Jaguar in the rain with bloody stab wounds in her chest, and so did Dr. Frolich, standing on Wilshire Boulevard, waving a Colt Anaconda.
There was also an anonymous phantom hovering offscreen, an invisible puppeteer silently manipulating the dream cast of helpless marionettes. The specter materialized for a moment. She had gray eyes, eyes the color of tombstone granite that didn’t seem to match her strawberry blond hair. What did you see? What do you remember? she asked, then disappeared.
He didn’t wake up in full-blown panic, but his body was reacting the way it did after a combat dream, heart hammering against the wall of his chest, sweat drenching his body, muscles taut as piano wire, ready to strike or flee. Most of the details of this night terror were already dissipating, thankfully almost forgotten, but the image of hands squeezing Yuki’s throat was still vivid. He cringed, imagining the choking sounds that would accompany the horrific scene because his dreams sometimes had dialogue, but they never had sound effects. Did anybody’s?
Were the hands choking Yuki yours?
He shook his head, trying to scatter the appalling contemplation. Where had it even come from? She’d wounded him, and sure, he was angry, but even his subconscious couldn’t be so damaged as to be capable of conjuring such an unimaginable vision. Could it?
No, it had just been another bad dream, a warped amalgamation of fear and anxiety his waking mind couldn’t process, and little wonder, considering the way the day had rolled out. But the image was stubborn, insistent, and he would never get back to sleep until he knew she was okay, as irrational as it seemed.
Sam dressed in the dark and crept toward the kitchen. Melody was curled into fetal position on the sofa, her breathing deep and even. He wrote her a note, letting her know he’d be back soon. The digital display on the microwave read 5:17.
He grabbed the keys to the Mustang and let himself into the garage, careful to pull the door closed quietly behind him. By the time he made the drive to Marina del Rey, Yuki would be getting up for work.
Chapter Thirty-one
REMY SQUINTED AGAINST THE BLINDING WORK lights as he watched the crime scene techs collect trace around Froggy and the badly decomposed mound that had been human once. Not Wanda—this person had been dead far longer than two weeks. It was impossible to know if this was an old overdose or the work of the Monster; only an autopsy would tell. He hacked and cut with a heavy, serrated knife, and the bones wouldn’t lie.
Froggy had been stabbed multiple times, but it wasn’t signature work. A necessity, not pleasure. It was possible this was the site of the Monster’s first kill, before he’d established a hunting pattern and perfected his technique, and he’d been defending his handiwork against Froggy. The only problem with that scenario was that serials usually didn’t dwell where they killed.
But there were exceptions to that rule, and maybe the Monster was one of them. If he was, they’d chased him away and he was never going to come back.
One of the techs looked up at him. “How far do you want us to take this, Detective?”
“Wall to wall, bag and print everything.” The tech didn’t roll his eyes or sigh or swear, he just went back to work. Remy didn’t kn
ow if he would have the capacity for such restraint, it was a big space.
Bill Turner walked the cleared path and came up beside him, the smell of coffee and cigarettes slightly mitigating the other, more offensive smells in the room. “You think we’ve got something?”
“I’m leaning in that direction. How’s the canvass going?”
“We chased all the cockroaches back into their hidey-holes, so we’re clearing buildings and hitting every fleabag from here to Miracle Mile. If this is the Monster, he wasn’t prepared for Froggy, and he made a damn mess of him, so he’s either covered in blood or naked somewhere.”
“That’s what gets me. Every kill the Monster makes, he’s covered in blood, no way around it, so where is he getting rid of his clothes? We’ve been dumpster-diving for the past three months.”
Bill pushed a square of Nicorette gum from a foil pack and began chewing noisily. “He’s got a stash place we haven’t found, maybe someplace he burns them. Shit, he could be doing collages with them and selling them on Venice Beach.”
“Miracle Mile to here. He has range. What’s his transportation?”
“If he cleans up in the motels like we figure, he could stuff his clothes in a bag and take a bus.”
“Check all the routes.”
“We will.” Turner had bushy brows, and they came together over his flat nose like a pair of mating caterpillars. “Crawford called me a couple hours ago, asking if we had a black Jeep in our coverage.”
“They pulled Katy Villa?”
“No, he and Maggie are working a homicide with a possible stalking element.”
“We don’t have a black Jeep in our coverage. Using a personal vehicle would be risky, there are cameras everywhere in this city. And we’ve checked all the footage.”
“Yeah. I’m sticking with the bus theory. It’s anonymous. One more thing to throw in the pile, though.”
Chapter Thirty-two