by P. J. Tracy
“You should let me go, and then we can talk about this.”
“Sorry, but I can’t take that risk. You’re going to have to talk from where you’re sitting. You have strength and skills I don’t. It was just luck you blacked out like you did at The Leaf. Consuela helped me get you into the chair. You weigh a lot, but they say muscle weighs more than fat and you’re in awesome shape. She’s a nice lady. Just so you know, she didn’t want to help me, but to paraphrase the Dead Kennedys from ‘Holiday in Cambodia,’ you’ll do anything with a gun in your back.”
“Where’s Melody?”
“Upstairs sleeping. Passed out probably, so it’s just me and you.”
Sam felt an impossible weariness, even hopelessness, but beneath it his body was coiling and getting ready to strike; and his mind was sharpening even in desperate fatigue and disorientation, a combat phenomenon. He had a single purpose. If he couldn’t snap Rolf in half, he would find a way to get into his head and fuck him up more than he already was. “What are you going to do, Rolf? We can’t stay like this forever.”
“I guess that’s up to you.”
Sam stared at him, employing the time-honored strategy of staying silent and letting the bad guy or the mental patient talk, and Rolf was both. He eventually did, it worked every time. Amazing.
“Let me give you a little backstory so you can make an informed decision. I wrote this script for Melody, but I wasn’t entirely happy with it. So I rewrote it, but I still wasn’t satisfied. It was missing something. The magic. And then you came into her life and everything fell into place. Everything was perfect. Three’s a charm,” he giggled. “There really wouldn’t be much of a film without either of you. You two are special people and I want to tell your story. I need to tell your story. And we can still make it happen, Telegram Sam.”
“At gunpoint?”
“I didn’t want you to leave, I had to explain things.” His eyes moved jerkily around the room. “This is research, and research is important for any film. I can see how it might give you the wrong idea.”
“Very perceptive. Ryan Gallagher. Did you kill him?”
His brows lifted curiously. “You think I could actually kill somebody?”
“No. You’re a coward, you don’t have it in you. I just thought I’d ask.”
He glowered and his expression shifted from conciliatory to something impossibly dark and ugly. “Ryan Gallagher was a scumbag who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Melody. He treated her like dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. You saw what he did to her.”
“So you did kill him.”
Rolf was getting agitated, and furious red was creeping up his neck and spreading to his skeletal face. “No, I exterminated vermin and made the world a better, safer place. Just like you did overseas.”
“Did you kill my wife?”
“She was a cheating whore. Another vermin, who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you. But relationships are complicated, and I knew neither of you could do the right thing, so I did it for you. They were acts of compassion, acts of love. I love you both.”
Oh my God, Rolf was totally insane. The confrontation with pure madness and corrupted reasoning left Sam so stunned, he couldn’t even access any anger or hatred over what he’d done to Yuki, and he was temporarily mute. But the shock eventually wore off, the anger finally came flooding in to replace it, and he thrashed in his chair until he felt the gun pressed against his temple.
“Settle down.”
“I will kill you. Don’t doubt it.”
“When you cool off, you’ll realize it was the right thing.”
Sam was incredulous. “You don’t feel any remorse? Not even a speck?”
“I consider Aldous Huxley one of the great twentieth-century visionaries, and he said that chronic remorse is an undesirable sentiment. I happen to agree with him, so I live my life without it.”
“Maybe yours is a better story,” he spat. “Why don’t you tell that one? Fucked up, sociopathic film student, stalker and murderer. How do you think it would end?”
“I like happy endings.”
“Rolf, you’re a fucking murderer. People like you don’t get happy endings, you end up as somebody’s wife in a supermax prison.”
“I disagree.” He wandered over to the photo of Ryan Gallagher. “This fuck, for instance,” he jabbed the gun into the picture, tearing a hole in it. “That was a happy ending. We can still have a happy ending, too, one where I don’t go to prison and the movie gets made.”
“You’re going to have to kill us for that to happen.”
“In case you didn’t notice, I’m rich, Telegram Sam. Do you know how much I have in my trust fund?”
“No.”
“Around fifty million dollars. I could part with ten or so for now. When Pops dies, I’ll get another couple hundred mil anyhow. It would be no big deal.”
“You want to buy your way out of murder?”
“It’s a fair price for all of us. You would be set up for life, and you deserve it. You got dealt a really shitty hand. Plus, I’d give you a percentage of the film for your contribution. Melody and I will get married eventually, so she doesn’t need any of it. It’s all yours.”
“Keep talking.”
“Nothing to talk about. I just gave you option A—take my offer, we’re good. Option B is I can make the film without you or Melody. It’s not ideal, but you both basically wrote the script already, and that’s the most important part. If you can’t get over your moral qualms, then it’s going to be so tragic.” He raised his hands in front of his face like he’d done at The Leaf, framing an imaginary movie screen. “Sam Easton, a screwed up vet with PTSD, goes nuts, kills his girlfriend, then turns the gun on himself. Stuff like that happens all the time, it’s so cliché, I’d never put it in a movie.”
Sam had seen a lot of things, but he’d never seen such a broken mind before. It made his own seem completely unexceptional. Rolf was a monster, there was no other way to describe it. The Monster of Miracle Mile? Why not? He loved to look at the eviscerated body in his father’s office; it would be a rush to try it in real life. He was probably planning to write his next script about it. “So we either take your money and make the film or you kill us.”
He smiled cordially. “Yeah, pretty much. Seems like an easy decision to me. But Melody definitely needs to be a part of the process.”
“No, Rolf, leave her alone.”
“She can make her own decision, she’s a smart girl. She’s getting straight As in her college courses. Did you know that?”
Chapter Sixty-five
MELODY WAS CRAWLING ALONG THE WALL, heading toward the muffled sound of voices—conversational, not confrontational. She felt like an idiot, and wouldn’t Rolf and Sam be surprised if they walked out into the hall after a friendly nightcap and saw her on all fours with a gun in her hand? Laughs all around, some good-natured jibes. Come on, Mel, you need to relax, let’s get another drink.
She stood up, but her legs wouldn’t move, wouldn’t carry her any further, which was sign enough that she needed to stay concealed for now. It didn’t make sense, but it didn’t have to. Suddenly a door opened and closed down the hall, and instinct took over.
She dropped again and crawled through a broad archway and into a dark room, then inched her way behind a large ottoman. Perspiration born of fear was running down her face, dripping onto the parquet floor, and a crazy voice in her head told her to STOP SWEATING! SOMEBODY WILL HEAR IT!
Muted footsteps were getting louder and she peered around the ottoman. There was a shadow, growing larger as it drew near, and it felt like her heart was climbing up into her throat. The shadow began whistling “Telegram Sam.” A moment later, she saw Rolf sauntering down the hall. He was carrying a rifle. She covered her mouth to stifle a cry.
* * *
Crawford was staring at Ike’s printout incredulously. “What the hell?”
“I don’t know what the hell, Al, but I tried calling
Ortiz multiple times and she doesn’t answer. It’s late. I’m sure her phone is turned off. Look up the address she gave us and let’s go pay her a visit.”
“Okay, but you’re hanging a lot on a vehicle we can’t ID as definitively being relevant to either case.”
“It’s all we have. Put everything together and it stinks. Sam Easton and Melody Traeger told us about one hanging around their places, then a black Jeep shows up near Yukiko Easton’s place the morning she was killed. And then Ryan Gallagher’s cleaning lady, the one who found him dead, gets in it and drives away.”
“Ryan Gallagher’s cleaning lady could have a black Jeep and a client who lives in the neighborhood.”
Nolan gave him an icy look. “Possibly, but we’re going to find out.”
“It’s a place to go, I suppose.” He shrugged, jumped on his computer, and after a few minutes he looked up. “Ortiz lives up in the Hills. Beverly. A really ritzy address, too.”
“She said she had room and board at a client’s house. Property records, who owns the house?” Nolan started pacing small circles while she listened to Crawford tapping his keyboard.
“Hans Hesse.”
“A big fish. I’ll give Beverly Hills PD a courtesy call and let them know we’re on the way.”
* * *
Melody waited behind the ottoman until Rolf’s whistling was almost inaudible, and then she crept out into the hall and jogged toward the door he’d exited. She froze for a moment, terrified of what she might find behind it. It creaked when she finally pushed it open, and she nearly collapsed when she saw Sam tied to a chair.
“Sam!” she whispered, running toward him, dropping to her knees, trying to untie the ropes. “What’s happening?”
“Melody, listen to me. Rolf is in the house looking for you and he has a gun.”
“I know, I saw it, what does he…” Her eyes drifted up to the walls, to the mad collection of photos. “Oh my God,” she choked.
“Look at me. Look at me! Go. Get out of the house, run like hell, and don’t stop. Flag down a car, find a phone, call the cops. Tell them about the gun.”
“I’m not leaving you, Sam…”
“Go. Now. Please, Melody, go now. Don’t let him see you. Don’t let him find you.”
Tears mingled with sweat splashed on Sam’s face as she leaned in, kissed his mouth, then turned and ran.
Much too late, Sam realized he didn’t tell her to close the door behind her.
Chapter Sixty-six
SAM FELT A SHUDDER RATCHET DOWN his spine when he heard Rolf’s voice calling softly over and over, “Melody? Where are you? Sam and I want to talk to you about something.”
Rolf eventually gave up and stalked into the room, looking panicky. “I can’t find her. Where would she go?”
“How the hell would I know? She probably got lost on the way to the bathroom.”
“The bathrooms are en suite.”
“I was just making the point that it’s a huge house. She’s probably walking around, chilling out before bed.”
He started pacing. “I’m going to go and try and find her again, we need her.”
Sam concentrated, willing himself to find focus, to uncover some hidden serene spot in his rioting brain. What would Dr. Frolich tell him to do?
Stay calm. Try to keep him here as long as you can. Buy some time. Save Melody’s life, save your life.
“Give her a few minutes, she’ll turn up. She’s probably looking for us.”
Rolf wasn’t entirely satisfied, but he stayed, hung in the doorway, scanning the hall. Then he stopped dead and turned to him with narrowed eyes that looked yellow in the light from the hall sconce. Goblin eyes. “This door was open when I came back.”
Sam tried to slow his heart. “Yeah, so?”
“I closed it when I left.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I’m sure I did.”
“Hey, I’m tied up here, facing the door with nothing to do but stare at it. I watched you leave. You pulled it shut behind you, but it didn’t catch.”
He looked uncertain, which could be a good or a bad thing. Good that he was off his game a little, doubting himself, bad that it might cause him to launch into a frothing, homicidal psychosis. But Rolf didn’t seem like that kind of out-of-control crazy. He was a worse kind of crazy. “Rolf, why don’t you untie me? I’m not going anywhere, not without Melody.”
“Can’t untie you. I’ll give her a few more minutes. You seem like you mellowed out a little.”
“I’m tired. I’m distraught. I’m drunk, and there’s nothing I can do. Why waste my energy?”
“Is that something they teach you in the military?”
“Yeah.” That was a lie, but Rolf wouldn’t know. “While we wait, let’s chat.”
“I already told you, there’s nothing to talk about, just a decision to be made and we can’t make it without Melody.”
“Not about that, about other things.”
“Like what?”
“I’m curious and more than a little impressed. You’re really smart and organized, you plan things out.”
“Thanks. That means a lot, hearing it from you.”
“So how did you get to Gallagher? The cops seemed pretty clueless when they came to talk to us about it.”
His face lifted. “Easy. He was a coke whore, and I can get any drug you want, anytime. I still have connections. So I took a sublet in the same building, and that along with the drugs gave me the access I needed. Then I referred Consuela to him and duped her key.”
He desperately regretted bring up the subject because it led to Yuki. He didn’t want to know how that had played out. He didn’t need to know, at least not now.
Rolf started pacing again, and Sam had a bad feeling he was running out of time. He’d never deeply contemplated his position on the existence of a higher being, but he was praying hard right now to anything or anybody that would listen. “Tell me about Body Worlds.”
Rolf shook his head. “Later. I’m going to go find Melody.”
Chapter Sixty-seven
MELODY COULDN’T CATCH HER BREATH. SHE felt like a landed fish, gasping for oxygen on shore. But hyperventilation was the least of her worries. Every door she’d tried so far was either locked or went into a room without egress, and she didn’t dare backtrack to the front door. That hallway passed the room Sam was in. And Rolf wouldn’t leave him in there alone for long.
Now she was hopelessly lost in a confusing warren of hallways and stairwells. With each failure to find an exit, her panic grew, taking away not just her air but her ability to think clearly. Her brain was like a scattered puzzle she had no hope of putting back together.
She thought about breaking a window, but that would give her position away. Besides, she could slash herself, maybe badly, and bleed out before she could run to get help. The faster the heart pumped, the faster the blood would come, and hers was already a relentless gong in her chest.
She saw a pair of swinging doors at the end of the hall and crept toward them and pushed carefully, wincing when a hinge squeaked. They opened onto a kitchen, surely not the main one; this was smaller. A catering kitchen? A maid’s kitchen? At the far end of the room, there was a door that led outside. Hallelujah, she could see leaves fluttering outside the panes of glass. Freedom.
She hurried over to it, looking over her shoulder, listening. She was about to twist the lock and open it when she saw a steady, red eye staring at her from an alarm pad. Of course a place like this had an alarm system. And if she opened the door, it would set it off. She could run fast, especially on the smooth concrete drive, but it was at least a quarter mile long and well lit. Rolf would spot her out in the open before she made it to the street. And he’d stop her.
The alternate route was off-road, where trees would offer concealment; but the grove was dark even with the full moon, and the terrain hilly and uneven. Rolf knew the property. She didn’t. Morton’s Fork: two choices leading to equally bad conc
lusions. But there were no other options. She had to take the chance.
She placed her hand on the knob, then froze when she heard Rolf’s voice, coming from her right, close, too close.
“Melody, Sam and I need your opinion on something…”
If she went now, she wouldn’t even have a head start, so she bolted to the left into a smaller hallway, passed a pantry, then a bathroom, and paused to listen. His voice was getting closer.
* * *
Nolan parked in front of a high, ornate gate set into tiled stone posts. An even higher iron fence fronting the property was almost entirely concealed by lush bougainvillea. Like his neighbors with equally secretive street facades, Hans Hesse valued his privacy.
“Think there’s castle with a moat on the other side?” Crawford asked.
“Probably a double-wide trailer.”
He chuckled. “I hope we get to find out.” He unclipped his seatbelt, got out, and pressed the call box button. Waited. Pressed it again and again. Waited some more, then got back in the car.
“Nobody’s answering.”
“I cleverly deduced that. Try the main house again.”
“I called the whole drive here, which took fifteen minutes longer than it should have because of that asshole who rammed into a traffic light on Sunset. Come on, Mags, it’s late, this is going to have to wait until morning.”
She saw headlights in the rear view mirror. A few moments later, a Beverly Hills squad pulled up next to them and the window opened.
“Detectives?”
Nolan assessed the patrol’s face, washed pale from the light of his dashboard. Thirty maybe, with bright, eager eyes. Hopeful for some action, something to break up a boring night shift in paradise, she decided. “Hi, Officer…?”
“Bell. I’ve been trolling the neighborhood, waiting for you. What’s the situation?”
“We have reason to believe a person of interest in at least one homicide is here.”