by P. J. Tracy
“We did.”
“And?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Easton, but I’m not at liberty to say anything more.”
“I can read between the lines.”
“This is just the beginning of our investigation.” She looked at Melody. “The police are waiting, Ms. Traeger.”
Melody nodded, then searched Sam’s face. He looked tired, stressed, and the scarred side of his face was blanched. Okay, but not, and her heart ached in empathy. She didn’t know who Dawson Lightner was, but Sam obviously thought he had something to do with Yuki’s murder and Nolan hadn’t shared any good news on that front. “I’ll see you later, Sam.”
“Thanks for coming, Mel. Thanks for giving her a ride, Detective. I still don’t know how you ended up driving her here in her own car, but I suppose I’ll find out eventually.” He broke eye contact for a moment and stared out at the street. “Did you speak with the medical examiner?”
She nodded. “He’ll be performing the autopsy tonight. You can see her anytime tomorrow.”
Melody was horrified, and from Sam’s expression she knew it showed on her face. An autopsy. The thought of someone cutting up your dead loved one. Of course, they’d autopsied Ryan, she just hadn’t thought of it. She reached out and touched his arm. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Nolan gave him a nod. “You take care, Mr. Easton.”
Chapter Fifty
“THANK YOU FOR BRINGING ME HERE,” Melody said as Nolan pulled away from the curb.
“No thanks required. You were concerned about your friend—that’s plenty of reason to do a welfare check. That’s a part of every cop’s job, detective or not.”
Melody gazed down at her hands. She’d picked or gnawed away almost all of her pink nail polish during the past twenty-four hours. It was a gaudy color, made more so by the remaining neon fragments stubbornly affixed to her fingernails. She would never ask for Cotton Candy Land again. “You see people’s lives change forever, for the worse, every day, don’t you?”
“That’s part of the job. Helping them is another part of the job. The good part, the best part.”
“Finding the bad guys.”
“Finding justice. We owe it to the living and the dead.”
“Justice doesn’t bring the dead back. But you’re doing the right thing for the right reason. I admire that.”
Nolan looked at her curiously, then returned her attention to the road. “It’s not everything, but it’s something.”
“Do you have any suspects in Ryan’s or Yuki’s murder yet?”
“You know I can’t comment on that.”
“Because we’re persons of interest? Or is that people of interest?”
Nolan remained silent.
“Sam didn’t kill anybody, certainly not his wife. Don’t tell me you think he did.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Traeger, but I can’t discuss active investigations.”
Melody sighed impatiently. “Sam is kind and compassionate and strong even though he’s been through hell and back. And things keep getting worse for him. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Life rarely is, but that doesn’t stop most people from fighting their way through it. It didn’t stop you, and I doubt it will stop Mr. Easton.”
“Do you believe in bad luck? Or good luck?”
“No. Luck is about choices and their consequences.”
Melody gazed down at her shamrock tattoo. “I used to think that, too. But Ryan’s and Yuki’s murders had nothing to do with any choices Sam or I made. It had to do with somebody else’s choices. So I’d say we’re having some bad luck.”
“Fair enough.”
“Somebody asked me today if I liked my job. I said I liked it fine. I do, but it was a choice of necessity. I’m not going to be a bartender forever, it’s just a means to an end.”
“What is your end?”
“I finish college next year, and then I’ll decide. Do you like your job, Detective?”
“I love my job.”
“That’s good. I want to be able to say that one day. What’s going to happen? About the break-in, I mean.”
“The police will investigate, take statements, and you’ll have an active complaint on file.”
“That’s all?”
“It depends on what they find at your apartment. For instance, if there is a threatening note or something to that effect, the police would proceed differently.”
“You mean they’d take it more seriously.” Melody watched Nolan bristle. She always talked too much when she was anxious, didn’t always think about what she was saying, and she’d offended her. But it was true, and the truth hurt sometimes. Most of the time.
“LAPD takes every case seriously,” she finally said crisply, but Melody knew that was just a company line. There was triage in police work just like there was in the emergency room. There had to be; there weren’t enough cops to cover every single person and complaint.
She sagged in her seat, deflated by reality. What was a break-in in LA? Nothing. And if there hadn’t been a burglary, or a threat, it was double-nothing. Just another day in a big city. She would be a name in a forgotten file somewhere and that would be the end—unless her stalker ended up killing her, and then they’d have something to work with.
Chapter Fifty-one
TEDDY WAS SITTING ON THE BACK gate of an ambulance, holding a cold pack to his head. A medical tech was checking his eyes with a tiny flashlight while another one took his blood pressure. There were two squad cars parked on the curb, and beyond, uniforms were having a discussion with Detective Crawford in the courtyard.
Melody jumped out of the car while Nolan joined her brethren in blue. “How are you, Teddy?”
He gave her a pained smile. “I have a thick skull, good thing, too, the son of a bitch hit me hard. No concussion, right, ma’am?” he asked the pretty, pert brunette who’d been plumbing the depths of his bloodshot eyes.
The tech offered a splendid white smile and patted his arm fondly. “No concussion, just a big goose egg. Keep ice on it for a while and take Tylenol for the headache.”
“Tylenol is lame.”
“Pretty much, but it’s better than nothing. You’re good to go, sir.”
Dismissed with a clean bill of health, Teddy got off his perch and pulled Melody aside. “I don’t know what the cops think or what they can do about this crazy shit, but I’ve got a guy who’s going to set you up with some security cameras. It’s all wireless, and everything goes straight to your phone. Fifty bucks and we’ll get this asshole.”
“That’s a great idea. You’re the best, Teddy.”
He tipped his head in the direction of the brunette, checking to see if she’d heard the glowing testimonial, but she’d already jumped into the ambulance cab. “This is some bad medicine, Mellie. What’s going on? Tell me.”
He had no idea how bad. But did he need to know? She finally decided he did, for his own safety. “I’ve been dating this guy…”
“He’s the fuck who gave you the black eye?”
She nodded. “He was killed yesterday.”
“Huh. Maybe he got what he deserved.”
“Teddy!”
He shrugged unapologetically. “Sorry, but I have a real problem with assholes who hit women.”
“Sam’s wife was killed this morning, too.”
Teddy’s lanky body bowed back. “You’re serious?”
“I’m serious.”
“Did they catch anybody yet?”
“No, so stay sharp.”
“Man. This is really messed up. Mellie, stay at Sam’s until I get the security set up. And take your gun with you.”
“I will.”
“Ms. Traeger?” Detective Crawford was approaching on heavy feet, and he didn’t look particularly happy to see her. “Come with me, the police would like your input.”
The comment was meant to be sarcastic, she was sure of it. Maybe a little mean-spirited. He was pissed that he was cooling his heels at a
B and E while two unsolved homicides were getting older by the minute. And his partner had hung him up, indulging someone who might be a killer or at least an accessory to murder. That was her assessment, anyhow.
The street part of her instantly formulated a sharp response, but the reformed Melody kept calm. Antagonizing him wouldn’t do a thing except possibly confirm a bias that she didn’t have control of her emotions and was therefore capable of a crime of passion. “Stalkers are deranged, aren’t they? Mentally imbalanced?”
“That’s a given.”
“And they feel possessive about the object of their obsession. So it’s not a stretch that they would harm anybody close to me, like Ryan and Sam. No telling what a stalker would do.”
Crawford sighed. “A stalker might kill your boyfriend out of jealously, but if that’s the case, he would have killed Sam, not his wife. What’s your point?”
“I’m afraid all of this is connected somehow. I’m afraid of what might happen next.”
His expression softened. “So are we. That’s why we want your input. Come with me.”
She followed him, walking the gauntlet of police to her open front door, and stepped inside for a surreal, guided tour of her own apartment. Had she remembered to put away her bras, or were they still hanging on the shower curtain rod to dry? As if the cops would care—it wouldn’t even be worth a snicker.
No bras, no underwear. Her apartment was pristine and seemingly untouched. The gun was still stashed beneath her mattress. No eerie vibes that anybody had been in here. But they had been, Teddy was proof of that.
“Does anyone else have a key to your apartment?” one of the cops asked.
“No.”
“Your caretaker said he didn’t have keys, but what about your landlord?”
“I suppose she does, but she’s eighty, senile, and I doubt she’s a part of this equation.”
“The front door lock wasn’t compromised, but the kitchen windows were open. Did you leave them open?”
Hell no, not after her special delivery yesterday. “No. I definitely closed and locked them before I left for work.”
“And your front door, are you sure that was locked?”
“I’m positive.”
He gestured to the pile of empty peanut shells on the kitchen floor. “Somebody enjoyed some snacks while they were here.”
“Jim.”
“I thought you said nobody else has a key.”
“Jim is a scrub jay that I feed. He doesn’t need a key, he came in through the window that somebody pried open to get in here.”
“The windows didn’t seem to be damaged, but we’ll check them again.”
What was the point? she wanted to ask, but didn’t. They already knew somebody had gotten in. Whether they’d adroitly picked her front lock or pried open the window, it didn’t matter. No violent crime had taken place here and there was no imminent threat of one, so the investigation was as good as dead.
“Thanks,” she offered insincerely, abandoning the hopeful detective-in-training to walk into the living room where Nolan and Crawford were speaking in hushed tones. Her eyes drifted to her precious Gibson propped in the corner, her touchstone of both joy and misery, and her throat closed tight. The detectives ceased their conversation and looked at her anxiously.
“What’s wrong, Ms. Traeger?” Nolan asked.
It took a few moments to find her breath and her voice, and when she did, it came out in a muted little squeak. “That.” She pointed at the guitar, at the white rose stuck in the fretboard, its stem secured by the strings. “The rose wasn’t here when I left.”
“Does it mean something to you?” Crawford asked.
Melody allowed her mind to drift back in time to her days with Poke, to the fans throwing roses on stage. White and red ones. The ritual was performed every time they played the violent squall of a song called “St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.”
Rose White, Rose Red, someone shot her in the head, Rose White, Rose Red, now she’s bleeding on the bed …
She looked at Nolan. “It means somebody hasn’t forgotten about Roxy Codone.”
Chapter Fifty-two
SAM THOUGHT IT INCREDIBLY MUNIFICENT OF Dr. Frolich to reserve judgment on his drink of choice. She hadn’t even given his tumbler of rye a second glance. Then again, after listening to his summary of the twenty-four hours since his office visit, a late afternoon cocktail was undoubtedly far down on the list of urgent concerns.
He’d told her everything, and hearing the oral account of his recent travails had a curious, twofold effect. It made him feel like he was on the cusp of irreversible personal calamity, yet he felt incredibly resilient because he wasn’t on the floor in fetal position, foaming at the mouth. At least not yet.
It had also been liberating—he was no longer interested in propping up the false pretense of sure-footed stability—he was interested in solving problems.
Dr. Frolich took some time to absorb his doleful monologue before speaking. “I wish you’d called me earlier, Sam.”
“I didn’t exactly have time, things happened so fast. I haven’t even had space to grieve. Maybe that’s why I’m melting down, so I don’t have to face it.”
“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that. On top of PTSD, you’re dealing with multiple stressors. The kinds that no one endures without significant emotional consequence. Infidelity, the murder of a spouse—those two alone are devastating events. It’s no surprise your episodes are accelerating. Finding a way to curtail them is our goal. We can’t affect the external causes, but we can find a way to deal with them, so that’s what we need to focus on and that’s where we’ll start.”
“So let’s do it. By the way, it’s not lost on me that ‘Frolich’ is the German word for happy, so I’m counting on you to make your Teutonic magic work.”
She smiled, but it was a cheerless one that didn’t inspire hope for an easy solution. “Your projection of suicide. That disturbs me a great deal.”
“It disturbs me, too, because I’m not suicidal.”
“But apparently your subconscious is. I trust you to be honest with me, Sam, but if suicide is something you’ve briefly entertained, even for just a millisecond, we need to discuss it.”
“No. It’s not something I would ever consider.” He took a slug of rye and swallowed the lie down with it. “But I don’t trust myself anymore.”
“Tell me what you mean by that.”
He dragged his hands down his face. “Do you know what I did when the detectives left today? I went to check my gun, smell it, count the load, just to make sure I didn’t kill Yuki, even though I knew I didn’t. And the waking nightmares about Rondo—those came from someplace dark and disturbed I didn’t know was inside me. I’m concerned I’m breaking with reality.”
Dr. Frolich stiffened in her chair, and her grandmotherly face was suddenly stern. “Do you recognize the distinction between your dreams and hallucinations versus reality?”
“When I’m awake I do.”
“You’re in crisis, Sam, but if you were breaking with reality, you wouldn’t be able to recognize it. These waking nightmares, as you call them, they’re new?”
“I would say they’re more like a progression.”
“Do they feature anyone beside Ronald Doerr?”
“No.”
“Why do you think your subconscious is isolating him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you particularly close to him?”
“No, nobody was. He wasn’t well-liked and could be a real jackass sometimes.” Sam lowered his head. “Jesus, the guy got vaporized and I’m calling him a jackass.”
“It’s difficult to dislike a dead man. It makes perfect sense that he would become a singular focus for your survivor’s guilt. You regret your feelings for him during his life because he’s dead. But you have to remember those feelings were legitimate and separate from his death. It seems counterintuitive, but loss is easier when you cared for someo
ne. There are no conflicts of the psyche. There is purity in that.”
“So guilt and regret are my biggest enemies right now—is that what you’re saying?”
“It’s what I’ve always been saying.” She studied his face carefully before continuing. “I’m going to ask you some questions, yes or no will do, but feel free to elaborate when answering.”
“Hit me.”
“Do you believe you have repressed memories from the time leading up to the explosion?”
“No. Everything I see or dream is a twisted fabrication. False narrative, like you said. They just keep getting more distorted. And more realistic.”
“Don’t dismiss the possibility. Even so-called normal dreams are distortions.”
“Okay.”
“Do you recognize the distinction between your dreams and hallucinations versus reality?”
“You already asked me that. Yes.”
“I felt it was important to ask twice. Do you feel that you’re a danger to yourself or others?”
“No.”
“The suicide…”
“Another fabrication.”
“But you checked your gun—that wasn’t a fabrication.”
“I never believed I killed Yuki. It was an obsessive-compulsive thing.”
Dr. Happy, not looking particularly happy, folded her hands in her lap. “Let’s discuss our next steps.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t believe it would be useful or wise to change your medications or dosages at this point since you have reported some positive results. Palliative dosages of tranquilizers might be helpful in the short term, but it’s not a long-term solution, and you’ve wisely expressed a fear of addiction.”
“I took one today, after the cops left. Before Rondo showed up again.”
“That’s why you’re so calm.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Right now, I don’t think you should avoid them.”
The presumed subtext being, the least of his worries right now was benzodiazepine addiction. Hell, that would probably be the best-case scenario, something he could definitively fix by going through treatment. Party time, bring on the rapturous fog of mother’s little helper, swallow your cares away. But that pill hadn’t done much for him when he’d really needed it. “Could the tranq have caused the last Rondo vision, or whatever you want to call it?”