by P. J. Tracy
As the taxi crested the hill, a monstrous Mediterranean Revival came into view, complete with multilevel stone terraces and loggias overlooking flowering gardens and a citrus grove. The air was fragranced with jasmine, rosemary, fennel, and orange blossoms. The whole tableau transported Sam back to his honeymoon in Tuscany. It was a perfect, beautiful memory, now excruciating to recall.
Melody brought him back to the present, whispering, “Wow, I guess Dead to Rights did okay.”
“Looks like it did a little better than that.”
The taxi dropped them in a circular courtyard with an Italianate fountain surrounded by rose shrubs. Moments later, the towering, carved front doors of the house burst open, disgorging an elated Rolf. He was wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt and ripped black jeans, dispelling some of the magical La Dolce Vita vibe.
“Welcome to Pops’s shack—so stoked you’re here!” He bounced down the stone steps, gave Sam’s hand an enthusiastic pump and Melody’s a more delicate one. “What changed your minds?”
Flight from the law. Potential murder charges. Poor judgment stemming from prescription pills and mental incompetency. “Dead end jobs, a sense of adventure, those sorts of things.”
Melody gave him a subtle elbow to the ribs. “We decided we want to be a part of your film. We think it will be an amazing opportunity.”
Her suave, kiss-ass statement stimulated Sam’s vomit reflex, but it seemed to hit Rolf’s egotistical sweet spot dead center.
“Hell, yeah! We’re going to make an awesome team. Let me take your bags, Melody.” He cocked his head at the guitar case. “I thought you said you didn’t play.”
“I’m not that good. Actually, I’m terrible, so I’m a little shy about telling people.”
He gave her a full-beam smile. “Hey, you don’t have to be Eric Clapton to make it work. This is fantastic, now we won’t have to cheat your scenes. Not that I would have minded, but it’s going to be way more authentic now.” He turned to Sam with an earnest expression. “The female lead plays guitar.”
“Oh.” Rolf’s grammar indicated that in his mind, the film was now a fait accompli. Sam would stand by the Salton Sea watching floating toupees and diapers while Melody serenaded him with her guitar. Time to write the Oscar acceptance speech.
Rolf glanced at the departing taxi as it disappeared down the hill. “You cabbed it, huh? I was hoping you’d come in the Shelby.”
“It’s getting detailed.” Sam was sometimes amazed by how effortlessly he could lie. His recent dalliances with honesty evidently hadn’t diminished his nimble skills of prevarication.
“Right on, that beauty deserves all the TLC you can give her. Come in, I ordered a bunch of sushi, and I’ve got a couple bottles of champagne on ice. We have to celebrate.”
They followed the manic, junior lord of the manse into a vast, echoing entry foyer that was appointed with artwork and furniture that Sam assumed were appropriate to the architectural style and historically significant. Hallways shot off in different directions like spokes of a massive wheel, and two curving staircases with ornate iron railings vaulted up on either side. “Do you ever get lost in here?”
Rolf laughed. “I used to, when I was a kid, but half the time it was on purpose. So, all the guest rooms are upstairs, you can take your pick. Pops has his suite on the lower level, but he’s in Berlin. He pretty much lives there unless he’s working on something here. I hang in the guest cottage, so you have the main house to yourself. Except for the maid. She has an apartment downstairs, and you can call her if you need anything.”
A Beverly Hills mansion and staff at his disposal, seemingly unlimited funds, no parental supervision: a recipe for disaster. Privilege could be a double-edged sword. Sam had to give him credit for pulling his life together. Overall, he was feeling a lot more charitable toward Rolf, who was not only turning out to be a first-rate host but was saving their hides in a real pinch, even though he didn’t know it. As profoundly distasteful as it was, indulging his film aspirations at least temporarily seemed like the very least he could do in return. “Thanks, this is really generous.”
Rolf lifted a bony shoulder. “Hey, it’s my pleasure to have you guys here. We’re going to have a lot of fun.”
“This is a spectacular place,” Melody said, her eyes wide as she absorbed the grandeur that surrounded her. She’d never had exposure to anything resembling opulence in her life, and Sam could tell that she was dwelling in a lush fantasy right now. Hell, he was, too, and he’d grown up around money. But not conspicuous consumption like this, and it was mesmerizing.
“Thanks, it’s pretty cool living here. Come on upstairs.”
They followed him as he trundled Melody’s bag and guitar up the left staircase to a broad hallway lined with movie posters and behind-the-scenes shots from the Dead to Rights films, a vanity gallery and subtle reminder to house guests that their host was Hans Hesse, just in case they’d forgotten.
“Take a look around and get settled, then come down and we’ll eat and drink and take a look at the storyboards. If you haven’t had a chance to read the script, they’ll give you an idea of the feel and where it’s going.”
“I did read the first couple pages.”
“Yeah? So what did you think, first impression?”
Sam grudgingly offered his praise in the interest of expediency. “I thought they were good, Rolf, really hooky. I want to know what Dylan’s story is and why Bunny got killed.”
Rolf smiled, showing all his nice teeth. “At the bottom of every page, you have to give the reader a reason to turn it.” His smile faltered. “Why didn’t you keep reading?”
“I would have, but I had a personal thing come up.”
He seemed satisfied by the answer. “I’ll go crack open the champagne.”
Chapter Fifty-six
SAM TOOK THE FIRST GUEST ROOM because there was no point in perusing his choices. He knew they’d all be good. This one had a brocade settee facing a fireplace, a generously stocked wet bar, and a California king-sized bed with a canopy. French doors opened onto a broad stone balcony that had a view of the city from one angle, the ocean from another. The bathroom featured a steam shower and a stone soaking tub that could accommodate at least six people comfortably.
Everything he’d seen since arriving was so over the top, he wondered if the nice little starter home in Mar Vista he was so proud of was forevermore going to seem like a moldering cardboard box under the First Street Bridge.
The unbearable pain in his heart wasn’t gone, and flashes of his life with Yuki and the hallucination of his own suicide still dominated his thoughts, but the tranquilizers smoothed the rough edges of them. He was going to keep a steady load on board for the time being. He was glad Dr. Frolich had given him carte blanche to keep himself sedated—without it, he was reasonably certain he’d be in the hospital, and not voluntarily, as she’d suggested.
He took the Colt out of his bag and regarded it with the detachment of a do-it-yourselfer, taking inventory of his tool chest to make sure he had the right equipment for the next job. But this wasn’t a screwdriver or a wrench; it was an instrument of death you hoped you’d never have occasion to use on anybody, including yourself. It was a precaution—a nicely engineered piece of steel precaution, with minimal moving parts, weighing a little over three pounds.
No, it wasn’t something you ever wanted to use. Was it?
He stashed it in the empty drawer of a bedside table, then turned at the soft tapping on the door. “Come in, Mel.”
She’d worked on her makeup and it completely obscured her black eye. “This is crazy, isn’t it? What would it be like to live in a place like this?”
“Lonely, if Rolf is any indication.”
“You’ve been nice to him so far.”
“I’ve always been nice to him. And now he’s doing us a favor, so I’m being even nicer. At least I’m trying.”
“I feel sorry for him.”
“That’s exactly what I thou
ght when we came up the driveway. Poor Rolf, what a miserable existence.”
Melody made a sour face. “I meant he’s going to be really crushed when he finds out we’re not interested in being in his movie. We’re using him.”
“I’m not sure that warrants a crisis of conscience. We’re a means to an end for him, too.”
“At least he’s not deceiving us.”
“You could be in his film if you wanted to be. I think you’d be a great actress. What’s the harm in trying? Hell, maybe it would pay off, just don’t guilt-trip yourself into it.”
“He wants you. I’m secondary.”
“We all want a lot of things we don’t get. And we all get a lot of things we don’t want. That’s life and the quicker you learn that, the better off you are. We might be doing Rolf a favor.”
Melody sighed and sank onto the bed. “So what’s our plan?”
The question of the day. Sam felt like she’d asked him that a million times, and he was always vamping, looking for answers. It was disconcerting because there was never any improvisation in the Army, with the exception of the battlefield. And maybe that was exactly where he was right now. Get your mind right, soldier.
“We’ll go downstairs, drink champagne with our host, take a look at the storyboards. We can chitchat about his cinematic visions or whatever, then I’ll get a migraine and go to bed.”
“I mean our plan. What are we going to do tomorrow?”
The battlefield. Decisive, split-second decisions. “I’m going to the cops in the morning and leaving you out of it. You told me you were going to your friend Rolf’s house because you were afraid to stay at your apartment.”
“They’ll want to corroborate, and Rolf will tell him you were with me.”
“No, he won’t because I’ll tell him the truth, then tell him to keep his mouth shut. He’ll love it and probably put it in the script.”
“What are you going to tell the cops?”
“I went somewhere to grieve in private.”
“Where?”
“I’ll think of something when I need to. I’m going to take a steam shower, then let’s go down and get drunk on champagne, I’ll bet it’s the good stuff.”
“But you just took a Xanax in the cab.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I mixed drugs and alcohol. The way things are going, it probably won’t be the last.”
“Are you okay, Sam?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Things will get better. You just can’t see it now. Knock on my door when you’re out of the shower.”
After she’d left, he went to the bedside table, got the Colt, and brought it into the bathroom with him. He didn’t know why and didn’t care. The universe didn’t seem to be interested in logic right now, so why should he be?
* * *
Vivian Easton refilled her wine glass at the kitchen counter and tried Sam again. “Honey, get back to me as soon as you can, please. The police called and they’re looking for you and they told me Yuki was killed, what’s happening?” Hysteria was creeping into her voice, so she paused and took a generous sip of chardonnay. “I love you and I’m here for you. Please call me back.”
She hung up and looked down at her hands, trembling like they wanted to take flight. Panic was putting down roots in the pit of her stomach and scattering her thoughts. Why hadn’t Sam called to tell her about Yuki? Nobody should face something so awful alone, and in spite of his brave stoicism she knew how emotionally fragile he was. The separation had devastated him, cut him to the quick. How was he managing the terrible shock of her murder? And perhaps the most frightening question—why were the police looking for him?
If they thought Sam had anything to do with Yuki’s death, they were wrong, the notion was preposterous. Sam had loved her, been devoted to her. She’d never liked the woman, so cold, abrasive, and imperious; and when Yuki had deserted Sam in his greatest time of need, a genuine hatred for her and her disloyalty had flourished. But her son had never seen it like that, had never blamed her, only himself. She’d demonstrated herself to be a craven bitch, but she hadn’t deserved what she’d gotten.
Another sip of wine, then another and another until the glass was empty. She gazed out the patio doors. Light from a full moon wobbled on the surface of the pool, reminding her of Jack and the hours he’d spent out there, backstroking up and down, with the biggest smile on his face as he lost himself in the soft, warm embrace of the water. He said they were healing waters, a place to remember, a place to forget, a place to just be. He had always been the strong one, deep down, where it counted. She and Sam needed him now.
“Where are you, Sam?” she whispered, redialing his number again and listening to his outgoing message just to hear his voice. She felt the unfamiliar sensation of hot tears on her cheeks while the rest of her body suddenly turned cold as a winter grave.
Maybe Sam couldn’t handle Yuki’s death on top of everything else.
Panicked, she tried the phone one more time to call the one person she knew would answer. “Lee, I think Sam is in trouble.”
Chapter Fifty-seven
WHEN NOLAN GOT BACK TO THE office carrying two fresh coffees, she found Crawford hunched in front of his computer, wearing a scowl that reminded her of a scary Halloween mask. “What a face, Al.”
“Just talked to the mother. She doesn’t know where he is. She didn’t even know the wife was dead. Traeger and Easton have both been off the grid for four hours, that’s deviant behavior in this day and age. I told you he was guilty, and Traeger’s in deep shit for aiding and abetting.”
Nolan could have correctly pointed out that even in this era of digital obsession, four hours without using your phone or credit cards wasn’t proof of guilt. But there was nothing to be gained from arguing. Crawford had made up his mind about Sam Easton, and she was still convinced he wasn’t a killer. Dialectics about prima facie evidence weren’t going to accomplish anything.
“The poor bastard could be sitting in a church grieving for his wife. We’ve got a car on his house, his phone and cards are flagged, and the BOLO is live. There’s nothing else we can do on that end, so stop fixating on it, it’s just pissing away time. We’ve got this morning’s Caltrans traffic footage from Yukiko Easton’s neighborhood to look at, lab results, and half a dozen more follow-up interviews.”
“You really don’t think he’s guilty, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Same goes for you.” Her eyes picked out Remy as he entered the homicide pen with two other task force detectives. He looked even worse than he had in the parking ramp; but his smile was nice when he noticed her, and as humiliating as it was, her heart quickened when he changed course to head toward her desk.
He gave Crawford a brotherly pat on the shoulder and sank into the metal folding chair situated directly across from her. “So you two caught a double, what’s the short version and where does the black Jeep fit in?”
“Abusive boyfriend and unfaithful wife are dead and the chummy significant others disappeared before we could bring them in for questioning,” Crawford opined. “Supposedly, there was a black Jeep hanging around both their places.”
“Turner took another look, we got nothing for you, sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“Runners always get caught, don’t look so depressed, Al.” Remy cocked a quizzical brow at her. “You two aren’t on the same page?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’ve got a deadpan gaze, Maggie, but your cheeks are pink, like you’re pissed about something. I’m guessing you think Al’s got it all wrong.”
Nolan cursed her fair coloring and felt her cheeks flame hotter. Apparently, her body wasn’t quite finished betraying her. Thank God Remy had read it wrong. “I’m not pissed, and what Al said is exactly right. We just disagree about the culpability of the significant others. That’s a longer story.”
“Cases wouldn’t get solved without a little lively discourse.”<
br />
“Forget about us. What’s the news on the bodies at the Rehbein Building?”
“There wasn’t enough soft tissue left on the decomposed corpse, so the coroner can’t say definitively that it was the work of the Monster, but the victim was female and the damage to her bones is consistent with the knife he uses. Same with Froggy’s injuries.”
“Do you think it’s him?”
“Nothing about it synchs with the Monster’s three confirmed kills. It makes more sense that it was the crazy hanging around the Rehbein, flashing a knife at prostitutes.”
“What does your gut say?”
“It’s him, even if it doesn’t make sense.”
“What next?”
“We got hits on a few prints from the trace there. No surprise and not earth-shattering—that place is a landing zone for felons—but we’re chasing down the leads. Stupid to hope, but I keep thinking one of these days we’ll track some prints to a guy who has a bloody KA-BAR sitting on his coffee table.”
“That’s what he uses?” Crawford asked.
“That’s what the coroner says. Big, heavy knife, serrated. You both saw the damage.”
“A military combat knife?” Crawford suggested pointedly.
Nolan shot him a cross look. “Or a hunting knife. Common as dirt, I have one myself, picked it up at a military surplus place downtown.”
Remy pushed himself reluctantly out of his chair. “So do I, got it as a kid. Good for skinning things down on the bayou.”
Nolan narrowed her eyes at him. “You grew up in the French Quarter.”
“That doesn’t preclude trips to the swamp on occasion.”
She kept her expression stony and played along. “I suppose it doesn’t, that was prejudicial of me to say. So what sorts of things did you skin down there in the swamp?”