“Mellie, the cops were here earlier looking for you.”
She blanched. “For me?”
“I told them I didn’t know where you were.” He reached into the pocket of his poncho and pulled out a card. “They left this, said to call them right away. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
He cocked his head at Sam. “You’re worried.”
Oh, hell, yes, he was worried, worried about a lot of things. “Mel said you’ve seen a black Jeep around.”
“Yeah, it was here this morning, but I haven’t seen it since.”
“Do you know what model? What kind of Jeep?”
“Rubicon. So you think it’s bad news?”
“It could be. Keep an eye out. Do you have a pen and paper, Mel?”
She gave him a bewildered expression.
“We’ll give Teddy our numbers. Please call us if you see it again.”
“You got it, man.” Teddy stared at Sam’s face through bleary eyes, as if he’d just noticed the scars. “You want me to confront the dude?”
An outlandish image of skinny, stoned Teddy bludgeoning somebody with a flip-flop flashed through his mind. “No, it’s probably nothing. But try to get a plate number.”
Chapter Twenty-four
MELODY PULLED INTO SAM’S DRIVEWAY AND turned off the ignition. She draped her arms over the steering wheel and gazed out the windshield but made no move to get out. “Teddy’s a character, isn’t he?”
“Actually, he’s more of a caricature, like he’s laying it on a little too thick. I think he’s got more going on up top than he plays.”
She nodded. “I think so, too. I was in his apartment once and there’s nothing in there but surfboards and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Science stuff, marine biology.”
“He’s the caretaker. Does he have keys to all the apartments?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t leave the roses, Sam, if that’s what you’re thinking. Somebody climbed through my window. If you had a key, why would you go to the trouble?”
“To deflect attention from the obvious. And it just seems like he’s trying too hard to be the insouciant stoner surfer.”
“This is California, he is one for real. And he’s not creepy or weird. I know creepy and weird.”
Sam wasn’t convinced, and besides, he knew she was avoiding the real issue. “You have to call the cops, Mel. If you don’t, they’ll think you’re avoiding them.”
“Why should I talk to them? I didn’t do anything.”
Her voice was petulant, indignant, like a rebellious teenager’s. Sam summoned all the patience in his soul, which wasn’t very much at the moment. “You know why. When cops want to talk to you, you cooperate. If you don’t, they’ll find you anyhow, and if they have to waste time hunting you down, they’ll be pissed off. You’re not the least bit curious?”
“No,” she said unconvincingly.
“And anyway, you need to tell them about Ryan and the break-in.”
“I wasn’t robbed and someone left roses. They’ll think I’m crazy.”
She had no idea about crazy. She was concerned about appearing that way to strangers; Sam was worried he genuinely was. He looked out the passenger window at his house, something familiar, something that had positive associations, even though bad things had happened there, too. Today, in particular. The windows were dark, but he’d left the front porch light on. Yuki had been sitting directly under it this morning, and if she’d been here now, in the same place, the light would be dancing in her black hair, limning it with blue.
“You’re connected to Ryan. Maybe he beat somebody else up. Maybe he killed somebody.”
“Come on, Sam, be real.”
“What? You don’t think he’s capable?”
Melody scowled, the young skin of her brow barely puckering. “I know I have to call them. I’m sorry I’m being a brat, I just needed to vent. It’s been a shitty day that just keeps getting shittier.”
No kidding. “Don’t be sorry.”
“Will you take me for a ride in your car first?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.” She got out and walked to the garage, stood there with her arms crossed. Her posture said she’d stand out there and wait forever. Christ, he wanted this day to be over, wanted to feel the burn of rye in his stomach, the cocoon of his bed, smell the scent of Yuki’s expensive shampoo on his pillow. But maybe he needed a ride in his car. It was the best part of his life right now.
She let out a startled gasp when the garage door opened. Sam always felt the same way whenever he saw it. The sheen of the sleek Nightmist Blue body, voluptuous in all the right places like a beautiful woman, sharp and feral and masculine in other ways; the glitter of chrome under the fluorescent overheads; the power he knew lay beneath the hood, it all took his breath away every time. And then there were the memories. All excellent ones.
“It’s beautiful, Sam. What is it?”
“A Shelby Mustang. A sixty-seven.”
“I guess that’s supposed to mean something.”
“If you’re a car person.”
“It looks more like a panther ready to pounce than a horse. I’ve never seen a car like this.” She pointed to the lettering on the white racing stripe that ran along the lower part of the chassis. “What does GT 500 mean?”
“It means it’s really fast.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was my grandfather’s. He loved this more than his wife and kids combined. At least that’s what my dad told me, but that could have just been sour grapes. They never got along.”
“Your grandfather gave it to you?”
“To my dad. Mom gave it to me when he died.”
Melody frowned. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“Me, too. He was a good man with a bad heart.”
“Your mom?”
“Alive and kicking and obsessed with golf.”
“I feel bad that I never asked you about your family,” she said glumly. “Some friend I am, all I do is talk about my problems.”
Sam thought about her asking him this morning what the worst part of PTSD was. She was the only one who ever had, besides Dr. Frolich, and she was getting paid to ask questions. “You’re a great friend.”
She looked away, embarrassed, then started to circle the car with wondering eyes. “Did your grandpa give you rides in it when you were a kid?”
Time rolled back slowly, and Sam remembered his first ride—Grandpa Dean at the wheel, his broad, craggy face lit up with the biggest smile he’d ever seen. The cold, reticent man he’d known for the first ten years of his life had magically been transformed on that day, the scars of a war Sam had yet to learn about erased by a machine.
Do you like to go fast, Sammy?
Yeah! Yeah!
Then hang onto your knickers, young man.
“He did. Grandpa would tear up Mulholland Drive until I was ready to puke. Then he’d take me to Pink’s for a hotdog, the sadistic old bastard.” He felt his lips inch upward into a pure and joyful smile that reflected Grandpa Dean’s from so many years back.