by P. J. Tracy
He didn’t have a criminal record, and a search of his social media revealed a man who was passionate about his work, sailing, and rock climbing. Unsaid in his various profiles, but just as obvious, was the fact that he was equally passionate about posting flattering shots of himself. Muscles, sweat, and blinding white smiles were the predominant features in all the photos. Another boring narcissist.
Lightner was in LA for a legitimate business trip and had checked into this glorious hotel last night. But he’d eschewed the luxury and boundless amenities for much simpler lodging at Yukiko Easton’s rental cottage a mile away, which struck her. Affairs were almost always conducted in a neutral place, and who could resist a clandestine roll between satiny, million-thread-count sheets, followed by room service in the morning? Familiarity was one explanation. They hadn’t been engaged in a capricious fling. It had been something more serious. There was history here. Maybe history Sam Easton knew about.
She thought about her most recent ex, something she rarely did. They’d spent plenty of mornings in her apartment or his, drinking coffee and reading the paper, and it had been comfortable, intimate, like playing house. On the one-year anniversary of their first date, he’d gotten a room at The Peninsula in Beverly Hills, an astounding act of sentimentality. As a detective, she should have immediately recognized it as suspicious.
Her hatred for her apartment had stemmed from that remarkable twenty hours in another world, another life. Her hatred for the ex had stemmed from his serial philandering, which she’d found out about a week later. The gesture hadn’t been sentimental, it had been an act of contrition. And maybe Remy was the same kind of scoundrel, but she would never let things get far enough to find out. Just a drink with a colleague, no harm done. Right.
Lightner finally looked up, his handsome face diminished by the gray cast of his flesh, but he wasn’t swallowing and licking his lips anymore, which was an encouraging sign that his nausea had passed.
“She told me she was getting a divorce.”
Self-justification. Nolan loathed it as much as her apartment and her ex. It was another narcissistic trait, thinking your morality or lack thereof really mattered to outsiders. It really didn’t, unless, of course, you were talking about murder. “Tell us again about this morning.”
He folded his hands together and gazed down at them as if they were two unfamiliar objects that had suddenly ended up in his lap. “I left her house at eight and came here. I had a conference call, then went to the hotel gym, showered, and ordered room service. I’ve been here ever since, working on a proposal for tomorrow.” He offered his phone. “Yukiko texted me at nine-thirty. She was still alive then.”
Nolan took the phone, held it so Crawford could read, too.
Can’t do tonight. Tomorrow? Romeo had texted back immediately. Meeting in Dana Point. Come with me. I love you. Juliet never responded. She either didn’t reciprocate the sentiment or had been in the process of being killed.
“We haven’t found her phone. Maybe she didn’t send this text,” Crawford said tonelessly.
Lightner’s handsome face got a little ugly. “You think I killed her, took her phone, and then sent myself a text as an alibi?”
“You said it, not me.”
“That’s insane. I’m not your killer. I loved Yukiko. We were talking about her moving in with me when she got to Seattle.”
Nolan didn’t have a particular feeling about his guilt or innocence, but she was going to enjoy picking him apart like a crab. “Tell us about your relationship.”
“I met Yukiko two years ago. Our firms frequently work together. We became friends. When she separated from her husband, we … well, we began seeing each other.”
“When was that?”
“About four months ago.”
Nolan cringed inwardly. Sam had been clueless, that much she now believed, even if Crawford didn’t. “Do you know her husband, Sam Easton?”
“No, I don’t. I know of him, but we’ve never met.”
“She was going to have dinner with him tonight. Did you know about that?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you were jealous.”
“I told you, I didn’t know about it, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have cared. In fact, I would have encouraged it. Closure is important.”
Nolan hated the word closure and she was beginning to hate Lightner. “So it was your opinion the marriage was over?”
He swallowed and licked his lips again. Handsome or not, it reminded Nolan of a reptile. “She told me it was, otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten involved with her.”
“You said you didn’t know Sam Easton, but knew of him. Did Ms. Easton talk about him to you?”
“Yes.”
“And what did she say?”
“She never spoke ill of him, but she confided that he’s struggling. He has severe PTSD, and she felt she had to move on before they destroyed one another. It had become a toxic environment.” His eyes narrowed. “I know you have to question me, but I hope you’re looking at him. I have tremendous respect for his service and sacrifice, but he’s not well.”
“Did Ms. Easton ever express fear of her husband or concern about her well-being?”
“Not to me.” His brows lifted in revelation. “But at dinner last night, something was bothering her. She was quiet, distracted, very unlike herself. She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, but at the time I wondered if she and Sam hadn’t been arguing.”
“Did they argue often?”
“I couldn’t really say, but I know their separation was difficult. For both of them.”
“Where did you have dinner?”
“At the restaurant here.”
Nolan closed her notebook. “But you two didn’t spend the night here.”
His mouth went slack, then he looked away and shifted in his seat. “That was the original plan.”
“What happened to that original plan?”
He began twisting his hands together. “I brought up the subject of her moving in with me. I was excited about starting a future with her. She got upset and left.” His shoulders slumped. “I should have known better than to press her.”
Telling her husband she was leaving town had set her off, Sam Easton had said as much. “Were you angry?”
“No! Disappointed, but not angry.”
“But you ended up at her house.”
“We talked things through over the phone. I promised to take the subject off the table for the time being. She seemed calmer, more like herself, and invited me over.”
Make-up sex. “Is there anyone here at the hotel who can confirm you’ve been here since the gym and room service?”
“I’ve been working in my room for the past four hours.”
“So that’s a no.”
He suddenly withered like an underwatered plant and his eyes filled with tears. “I loved her. I would never kill her. I’m sure Sam loved her, too, but he’s very unstable.”
Lightner was emotionally immature and self-involved, which went hand in hand with jealousy. If I can’t have her, no one else will, Nolan thought. It could apply to both the men in Yukiko Easton’s life.
Chapter Forty-five
MELODY WASN’T SURPRISED WHEN ROLF WALKED into Pearl Club. Actually, it seemed inevitable. He was on a mission to cast Sam in his film, and he wasn’t going to give up without a fight. But if he thought he’d find an ally in her, he was dead wrong.
He looked around, smiled when he spotted her, then headed to the bar. He carried a raggedy, canvas satchel that wouldn’t have been out of place on Skid Row downtown. When he took a seat, she walked over and placed a coaster in front of him. “Hi, Rolf, long time no see. I don’t suppose you’re in here for lunch.”
“Nope, just a drink.”
“Uh-huh. You wouldn’t happen to be following us, would you, trying to wear down Sam?”
He reared back and held his hands up. “Hey, no way, you got me all wrong.”
Melody s
cowled at him. “Sam’s not working today.”
“No problem, I’ll catch up with him another time. I just stopped by to drop off a script with you. Can I have an orange juice?”
“Ice?”
“Not if it’s fresh.”
“Of course it is, we couldn’t charge seven bucks for it otherwise.” Melody filled a glass with juice and passed it over.
“Thanks. So what do you think about being a part of my movie, Melody? You and Sam … it’s picture-perfect in my mind.”
“I told you, I’m not an actress.”
“Everybody starts somewhere.”
“Not interested. There’s plenty of underused talent in this city, why are you so hung up on Sam?”
“Because he’s made for the role. He’s got an undercurrent, an edge, the kind of vibe that brings a character to life. And he’s mysterious. So are you.”
“I’m a bartender. Not much mystery there.”
“You’re more than that. So is Sam. He told me he got his scars in a farm accident.”
It took great effort to stifle her laugh. Farm accident? What a smartass. “He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Rolf took a sip of his juice, rolled it around in his mouth, and nodded approvingly. “So anyhow, I wanted to invite you two over to my place tonight if you’re free—take a look at the storyboards, talk about my trip to the desert this weekend. I’m scouting locations and I want you and Sam to come along.”
“You’re a relentless pitchman.”
“You also think I’m annoying, I can tell.”
“What gave me away?”
“Your eyes. They’re a really bitching green, by the way, they’d really pop on film.” He frowned. “Do you have a black eye?”
“I got bumped with a surfboard. Rough water.”
“I tried surfing once and the same thing happened to me. You did a good job covering it up, I almost didn’t notice.” He folded his hands on the bar in what Melody imagined was an attempt at supplication. “Look, I’m just fighting for something I believe in. You and me and Sam, we can all fight together. We can all share the dream.”
“Is this when the mawkish music cues up and the heroes hug and walk off into the sunset?”
He gave her a sheepish smile. “Pure cheese ball, right? But I mean it. I offered Sam Guild rate, but I can probably do a little better than that for both of you.”
Melody dipped some glasses into the wash sink. Rolf was weird, naïve, and immature, but he wasn’t entirely unpleasant. And like it or not, she felt a connection with him. She knew what it was like to be creative and have a dream, knew what it was like when the dream fell apart. They also shared the journey of recovery from addiction, which said a lot about his strength and character, even if he was a little whack.
Still, she figured him for a spoiled Hollywood brat with delusions of grandeur and a bank account that opened doors in his world. Had anyone ever told him no? Would that two-letter word launch him into a tantrum? Part of her hoped so, it would be good entertainment on a slow day. “Thanks, but there’s some stuff going on. Personal stuff.”
“Yeah? I hope it’s not bad.”
“It’s not a good time for Sam or for me.”
He nodded in understanding. Disappointment. Both. “Okay. Doesn’t hurt to ask, right?”
“For what it’s worth, you made a good case.”
He reached into his bag and laid a bound script on the bar. “This is my screenplay. It’s called Deep into the Dark. I hope you have time to read it someday.”
Melody glanced at the script, then stashed it in her bag beneath the bar. So much for a tantrum. “Thanks. I will.”
“I did some rewrites last night. I’m pretty happy with them. Don’t forget, storyboards tonight. You could even stay if you want. There are ten extra bedrooms—and Pops is out of town, so I have the whole place to myself. We could leave early tomorrow morning for the desert.”
“Ten extra bedrooms?”
“Yeah. And a pool with a waterfall. Give me a call if you change your minds. Sam has my number. And you do, too, my card is in there.” He finished his juice and hopped off his stool. “How long have you worked here?”
“A couple years.”
“Do you like it?”
“I like it fine.”
“Do you play guitar?”
“No.”
“Too bad. The female lead plays guitar, but we could fudge that if you decided to take the role. I can teach you a few chords, and we won’t light those scenes much.” He laid a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. “Keep the change. I’ve gotta run, I’m picking up some lenses. Think about the trip to the desert. I’ve got a suite at Two Bunch Palms for the weekend, and I can always book another one for you and Sam. Hope to see you around.”
Melody looked down at the hundred, wondering what it would be like to leave a ninety-three-dollar tip for a glass of orange juice or book a couple thousand-dollar suites at Two Bunch Palms without a second thought. She would probably never know, not unless she won the lottery. But in spite of Rolf’s privilege, she had the sense that he was a lonely, lost soul, loitering on the outer perimeter of life, hoping to buy his way in.
“Mel?”
She looked up and saw Ashley slipping behind the bar, moving faster than her usual, wine-mellowed pace. She looked anxious. Maybe Langdon had finally figured out the white coffee situation. He was cool; but drinking on the job, along with personal cell phone use, was expressly verboten, grounds for immediate termination.
“Hey, Ash, what’s wrong?”
“Your neighbor Teddy called the main line. He’s been trying to reach you.”
Maybe he’d seen the black Jeep. “What did he say?”
“Somebody broke into your apartment and he got knocked unconscious when he was sussing it out. He said he just came to and he sounds freaked out.”
Melody felt the blood drain from her face, leaving it cold. The roses had been disturbing enough, but it had been easy to imagine Ryan as the perpetrator in spite of his denial. But Ryan wasn’t in a position to mess with her head anymore. Teddy had been hurt, and what would have happened if she’d been home? “Ash, I need to go. Can someone cover for me?”
“I’ll cover. Go, girl. And be careful.”
Chapter Forty-six
MELODY RAN OUT THE BACK DOOR of Pearl Club and almost collided with Detectives Nolan and Crawford. She was panting, on the verge of hyperventilating, and she bent over and tried to catch her breath. It wasn’t helping. She felt a gentle hand on her back.
“Cup your hands and put them over your mouth and nose,” Nolan said calmly. “Try to breathe from your diaphragm slowly. Hold your breath for a few seconds if you can.”
Melody obeyed and eventually felt her breathing slow. Sweat dripped from her face onto her sneakers. She tried to focus on the spreading circles of dampness on the yellow canvas.
“Okay?”
Melody rose slowly. “Thank you.”
“What’s wrong, Ms. Traeger?”
“Someone broke into my apartment and knocked out my neighbor.”
Nolan held out her hand. “Give me your keys.”
“Why?”
“I’m driving you home. I don’t want you having a panic attack on the road. Detective Crawford will follow us there. Get in, please.”
Melody obeyed, leaned back in the seat, and closed her eyes. She’d never been a passenger in her own car and it felt strange; almost as strange as her life suddenly turning into a gigantic maelstrom of shit. “I have a stalker, don’t I? Somebody’s obsessed with me. Or somebody wants to ruin my life. Or kill me.”
“It could have just been a break-in.”
“You don’t believe that and neither do I.”
“You’ve had some time to think. Are you sure nobody comes to mind?”
She sighed heavily and opened her eyes. They were stuck at a light on La Cienega. Markus Ellenbeck was the only person who was aggressively flirtatious with her, but he didn’t make he
r uncomfortable. No way—it couldn’t be him. She’d known him for two years and he was a sweetheart, a solid citizen who was esteemed in music circles as a producer and for his drum work on some of the greatest rock albums of the past thirty years. Famous people didn’t stalk bartenders.
But rabid fans sometimes stalked musicians.
“The only thing I can think of is that I was in a rock band a few years ago. We had a small following, very loyal. But nothing crazy ever happened back then, and I went by a pseudonym, so nobody knew who I really was. I didn’t even know who I was, I was so messed up all the time.”
“What band?”
“Poke.”
Nolan nodded, giving no indication whether the name was familiar or not. “What was your stage name?”
“Roxy Codone,” she said bitterly. “It seemed so funny back then.”
“That’s your past.”
“My future’s not looking so great right now, either.”
“You’re sober and smart. I’d say your future is wide open.”
Melody fixed a brooding gaze at the dashboard. The last thing she’d expected from a homicide cop was optimism.
Nolan took a call, then shoved the phone in her blazer pocket. “Detective Crawford just arrived at your apartment. The police are already there. They’ll get your neighbor’s statement and then they’ll speak with you.”
Melody felt her eyes stinging and she turned toward the side window, furious that the fear was back. “I’m never going to feel safe there again. And that really pisses me off because I love my place.”
“We’ll make sure you feel safe there again.”
Melody looked at Nolan. She was a pretty woman, she realized. Imposing, rigid, but pretty. She couldn’t imagine her smiling, but of course she did. Everybody smiled, didn’t they? “Why were you and Detective Crawford at Pearl? Do you know something about Ryan?”
“We’re still investigating. But no, we don’t have anything new to share with you.”
“So why were you at Pearl?”
“To ask you some questions.”
“Go ahead.”