Crawford was halfway to the car by the time Nolan stepped off the porch. Sam knew she was intentionally lagging behind, so it didn’t surprise him when she turned around, postponing his happy moment.
“I know who you are, Mr. Easton.”
“Right. You did your research on the way over when Melody gave you my address. Military service, no criminal record, a speeding ticket last March, and owner of three registered guns—including a Colt Anaconda—which you didn’t mention. Must not be the right caliber. You probably don’t see a lot of homicides committed with a gun that size, too loud.”
“I’m speaking about your military service. I’m an Army brat. My family sent a lot of prayers your way when you got back.”
Sam braced his hand on the doorjamb so he didn’t tip over. He hadn’t expected that from Margaret Nolan. An official pronunciation of his arrest for the murder of Ryan Gallagher would have made more sense to him. “Oh. Thank you. Did you serve?”
“No, but my brother Max did. He was killed in Nangarhar a few months ago.”
“I’m very sorry.” It was odd to learn that you had a shared experience with a potentially hostile person in your life. It certainly made them seem less antagonistic. And when it came right down to it, they’d both seen a lot of death. Homicide cops weren’t immune to PTSD, but their struggles didn’t get the same coverage.
“I’m glad you made it back, Mr. Easton.”
“Some days I don’t know if I am,” he said, instantly regretting his strange outburst of candor.
If she’d found his statement remarkable, she expertly kept her emotions shielded behind eyes the color of tombstone granite that didn’t seem to fit with her strawberry blond hair. “I believe you. But I’d like to think we’re all here for a reason. Have a good night.”
He watched her walk away, a woman from a warrior clan after all, wounded in a different way than he was but wounded all the same. He’d made a connection with her, just like he’d made connections with Katy and Rolf, and yet the red letters hadn’t appeared on her forehead. He knew it was pointless to wonder why.
Chapter Twenty-six
SOMETIMES NOLAN PRETENDED SHE HAD A parallel existence that wasn’t entrenched in death. In her fantasy, she was never lectured about making the ultimate sacrifice for her country or her multigenerational history of fallen servicemen and women that dated back to the Civil War. There, she was never a disappointment for not embracing the family calling, even though she was putting her life on the line in service to others, too, just in a different way. But in reality they just didn’t see it quite that way. Insufferable, ignorant military snobbery, that’s what Max had always said. He’d been her only familial advocate.
It really pissed her off that they didn’t consider her vocation worthy of even an honorable mention in the scrolls of the hallowed halls of dead relatives—that would only happen if she became a dead relative herself—still, she’d probably only be a footnote, acknowledged but never fully respected.
Max featured prominently in her alternate reality, too, where he was enjoying the most amazing life. He hadn’t made the ultimate sacrifice for his country; he was a small business owner in Tarzana or maybe Thousand Oaks, married to his high school sweetheart, with his first child on the way. And she wasn’t a homicide cop, she was …
What?
That’s where the fantasy always ground to a halt. No matter how many twists and turns her musings took, she always had a detective’s shield. Death followed her, even in her imagination. She knew it followed Sam Easton, too. He’d put things in perspective for her tonight and made her bitterness seem petty. And in a strange way, he’d made Max seem more present. Or maybe it wasn’t so strange.
Her nose twitched as the car filled with the pungent scent of teriyaki. Crawford had unwrapped a beef stick and was gnawing on it with the zeal of a starving Serengeti predator. The smell was nauseating, but it also reminded her she hadn’t eaten anything since a bruised, overripe banana for lunch.
“You want one, Mags?”
“Hell, no, I want a slab of prime rib from Lawry’s, but that’s not going to happen.”
“If you’re buying, I’ll make it happen. That’s not sexual harassment, by the way.”
“Damn, I was so hopeful.”
Crawford let out a snuffle of amusement. Or maybe it was his allergies, they’d been acting up. “How do you know Sam Easton?”
“Know of him. He’s a decorated war hero. I thought I recognized the name but I didn’t put it together until we got there.”
“I’m assuming that has something to do with his face.”
“Roadside bomb. He was the only one who survived.”
“He must be going through some bad shit, poor bastard.”
“At least he made it home. It could have been worse.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Mags.”
She thought about Max’s visitation again—Remy had been one of many from the department who’d come to pay their respects, but Al and Corinne had been the first ones there and the last to leave. He was a good colleague, a better friend, and they were both family to her. She’d blurted out the truth, but the delivery had been harsh.
And what did she really know about what was worse anyhow? She’d never been in combat, had never been maimed and almost killed, so for her it was automatic to assume life was always better. But was it?
Sam Easton had his doubts. He’d just said as much, which sent her brain racing through the grim statistics of the suicide rate of veterans. What if Max had come back with Sam’s experience, in his condition? Would he be the same laughing, loving brother who’d always stood by her side no matter what, or would he be wondering if he was glad to be back, too?
“I didn’t mean it like that, Al. No apology necessary.”
He changed topics and drew her out of the past. “The Ellenbeck angle just got more interesting. Money, a beautiful woman, and mutual hatred. With that trio, things can go south in a hurry. Gallagher was punched in the nose before he got shot, that’s personal.”
“But why kill somebody you’re trying to get money out of? It doesn’t make sense.”
“People lose control. What’s your take on Traeger and Easton?”
“Gut? Neither of them are good for it.”
Crawford uttered a noncommittal grunt. “Melody Traeger looked pretty surprised when Easton brought up lunch with his estranged wife. She’s not around, his coworker is sleeping at his house, so if something’s going on between the two of them, that could be motive.”
Nolan merged onto the Hollywood Freeway, which was relatively empty at this hour of the night. Clear pavement in LA was so magical it was eerie, like you’d suddenly been transported to a postapocalyptic world. “I didn’t see it, and their alibis seem pretty tight. When we check them out, I’m guessing they’ll hold. We need to keep the focus on the vic. He was a scumbag with sketchy business associates, a lawsuit climbing up his ass, and coke in his office and bathroom. It’s a matter of which one of those things caught up with him.”
“Maybe Traeger’s stalker caught up with him.”