He assumed it had everything to do with Ryan, but he wouldn’t press the issue. Besides, she wouldn’t have much time to dwell on it because the dinner rush was imminent, the second bar rush after that. Pearl Club was open fourteen hours a day, every day, and there were rarely empty bar stools or tables whatever the time. It was an intense environment, but Sam liked it because he never had time to think about anything except doing his job, and Melody probably liked it for the same reason.
Her deftly concealed black eye was almost impossible to see in the low light, especially if you weren’t looking for it; but if somebody noticed, he knew she’d come up with an elaborate, entertaining cover story.
I was riding out in Temescal Canyon and the horse they gave me tossed his head while I was putting on his bridle and smacked me good in the face. Tripped on my nephew’s toy while I was babysitting and hit the stair railing. Got rear-ended on Melrose by some coked up junior agent from ICM and hit my head on the steering wheel.
She had a quick, creative mind and unlimited possibilities for her future, just like Pearl Club’s motto promised on nicely embossed cocktail napkins: The World Is Your Oyster. Corny and equally incongruous because Pearl Club didn’t serve oysters. They really should; it was weird that they didn’t.
Meanwhile, Ryan was still trolling around somewhere, a boundless loser and predator with angry, clenched fists—just waiting to assert his manhood by whacking his woman and excising her future prospects—undoubtedly to compensate for an inadequate penis and shriveled balls.
He met Melody’s eyes. She tried for a smile, but it never fully formed on her lips. “Hi, Sam. I was just telling these nice people to visit the La Brea Tar Pits if they have time.”
They were a hip, pretty couple in their thirties, and looked like the clientele that usually inhabited Pearl Club. They fit in here, but Melody had obviously ascertained they were Ausländers. “The La Brea Tar Pits are definitely worth seeing,” he said. “Think of Jurassic Park while you’re there and you’ll have a whole different experience.”
They chuckled, paid their bill with a card, then tossed thirty bucks on the bar before they left.
“They’re from Chicago,” she said, stuffing the thirty in the tip kitty below the rail as she watched the husband or boyfriend steer his tipsy companion to the valet stand out front.
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something’s bothering you, and you called me earlier but didn’t leave a message. What’s going on?”
She looked defeated. “Not such a great actress, huh?” She looked up as a large group of young men in suits walked through the door. “It’s no big deal, I’ll tell you after work. Would you get me two cases of Heineken?”
“You got it, boss.”
Chapter Twenty-two
REMY SIPPED TEPID COFFEE WHILE HE watched Froggy devour the “world-famous” French dip. Philippe’s was almost empty near closing time and was an ideal meeting spot. It was in the vicinity of Froggy’s place of employment, but an unlikely establishment to run into his colleagues. He’d been a useful snitch for LAPD for two years and he seemed to enjoy the role. At least he enjoyed the free food and extra compensation. It was a perfect symbiosis of parasite and host.
Remy pushed the photo of Thom Rangel next to his plate to regain his attention.
“You’re sure you’ve never seen this guy?”
He gave it another cursory examination with his bulging, amphibian eyes. “Hundred percent positive.”
He tossed Stella Clary’s most current driver’s license photo on top of Rangel’s. “But you know this woman.”
“I wouldn’t say I know her, but she’s around sometimes.” Au jus dribbled down into his sparse goatee and he wiped it away daintily with a napkin. Froggy had the remnants of table manners. “She comes downtown when she has cash money, and sometimes even if she doesn’t, if you catch my meaning.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Remy tamped down his disgust. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“About a month ago. She came to me for some Xanny.”
“You didn’t see her yesterday?”
“No, man. Stella’s candy of choice is ice and the amigos mostly handle meth. I’m strictly pills. Commerce down here is pretty segregated, we stick to our grids.”
“So she came to you a month ago looking for tranqs.”
“Yeah, she said she was stressing, like I was a doctor and she needed an excuse.” He swirled his finger into the plastic cup of horseradish sauce, the only thing left on his plate. Froggy’s table manners had left the building.
“Did she say what was bothering her?”
He leaned back in his chair and put a hand on his stomach, looking content as a cat in the sun. “I don’t figure the cost of therapy into my prices, but she was paranoid as hell, either jonesing or tweaked. Same effect.”
“So she told you she was stressing, you exchanged goods, that’s it?”
He was still licking the horseradish off his finger. “Yeah. Well, actually, thinking back on it now, she did ask me if there was word out about a creeper around here, following women.”
Remy’s pulse rate doubled. He’d been positive Rangel had invented that part of his story on the spot. “And is there?”
He laughed. “Ain’t nobody normal down here, but specifically, no. Like I said, she was paranoid.”
“Did she describe him?”
“No, she just asked me about it, took her stuff, and left. What do you want with Stella, anyhow?”
“I want to find her killer.”
He blinked quickly, a frog in a hailstorm. “Oh, man. You think there’s actually something to her creeper?”
“She’s dead, what do you think?” Remy tucked a fifty under his plate. “Put the word out and if you hear of anything, you let me know first thing, got it?”
* * *
On the way home, Remy considered that there were roughly seven miles between Miracle Mile and the downtown drug district. If there really was a creeper and he was the Monster, that was his territory. All of his victims were heavy users, all had been killed in Miracle Mile. He hunted downtown and killed away from his backyard. Animals didn’t soil their dens.
Finally, a new lead, a new focus, something to move on. He called Bill Turner, who was heading up the task force’s overnight shift, and briefed him. While Remy caught a few hours, they would be working it.
After his call with Bill, he made an impulsive, last-minute turn onto Stone Canyon Road and pulled up to the valet stand at the Hotel Bel-Air. He needed a few drinks in a civilized atmosphere to wash the foul taste of the past twenty-four hours out of his mouth. Like Froggy at Philippe’s, he was unlikely to run into any colleagues here.
Chapter Twenty-three
THE FOUR O’CLOCK SHIFT AT PEARL ended at ten, and Sam was grateful. He felt physically and emotionally gutted. The clientele had shifted from serious diners to the party crowd. Most of them were impaired, milling by the entrance while they waited for a table or a spot at the bar, and all of them were obnoxious to varying degrees. It was the same situation as when he’d had the unfortunate encounter with the producer’s wife.