“If she really has one.”
Crawford chewed noisily, pulverizing his beef stick. “Somebody broke into her apartment and left roses. That’s eerie.”
“I’m betting it was Gallagher. He was jerking her around, trying to scare her, you know that brand of controlling asshole. Hell, he may have been the guy in the black Jeep. He doesn’t own one, but maybe he was borrowing one, renting one. Or hired a PI to follow her. Something to look at, anyhow.”
Crawford tucked his empty wrapper in his pocket instead of throwing it on the floor. Corinne had trained him well, bless her heart. “We need to keep the third-party option on the table. Stalker sees her come out of Gallagher’s building last night with a black eye. He’s furious. He brings her roses to let her know not all men are dogs, then kills the piece of shit who hurt her. And Traeger works in Miracle Mile and tends bar, just like Stella Clary did. That worries me a little bit.”
“If you’re thinking the Monster, you’re way off base. His victims are vulnerables, and Traeger’s not one anymore. He’s opportunistic, not obsessive. And he doesn’t deliver roses.”
“He could have a different kind of fixation on her. I think it’s worth bringing to the task force. Maybe they have a black Jeep in their book.”
“Go ahead, I’ll keep tearing apart Gallagher’s life. I’m thinking there might be a whole roster of people who wanted him dead.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
OF ALL THE THINGS THAT SHOULD have been occupying Sam’s mind, he was thinking of Rolf. Couldn’t stop thinking about Rolf. Where was he now? At home planning his trip to the desert? Shooting up? On a slab in the morgue? He supposed it wasn’t that strange—Rolf factored heavily into his owns concerns, as did Katy. His new hallucinatory symptoms were all the proof he needed that something else was wrong with his brain. If it was neurological, meds and talk therapy weren’t going to cut it anymore, and as insurmountable as recovery had seemed before, his prospects had just gotten worse.
Neither of them had said anything since the detectives had left, but Melody finally spoke as she poured the rest of the chardonnay into her glass. “My aunt had a fifty-seven Thunderbird. A red convertible. Your car reminded me of her, that’s why I got a little weepy in the garage.”
“Where is she now?”
“I hope in heaven. She was killed in a car crash when I was thirteen. Aunt Netta and the T-Bird were both dead at the scene.”
“I’m sorry, Mel.”
“I am, too.”
“You were close?”
“She raised me from the time I was a toddler, after my mom split.”
Sam tried to imagine Vivian walking out on him as a child. It was inconceivable. “You never knew your mom.”
“I don’t even remember her.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“Probably dead. I was eight the last time Netta heard from her. She was in Europe somewhere, singing in clubs. Alexandra Traeger was a musician, not a mother. Her sister Netta was both.”
“Music. That’s where your name came from.”
“My middle name. Antoinette is my real first name, after Netta.”
“She sang ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’ to you at bedtime.”
She took a gulp of wine and nodded.
“So the guitar isn’t just a pawn shop find?”
“It is. Another talisman, I guess.”
And a symbolic link to family, Sam thought. “What happened after Netta died?”
A barrier suddenly went up, he could feel it, a palpable presence in the room. Do not trespass.
“We’re suspects,” she said dully.
“They were asking the questions they had to ask. What’s with the death threat?”
“I texted Ryan and told him if he ever broke into my apartment again, I’d kill him. It was stupid.”
“I would have done the same thing.” He reached out and touched her hand. “I know I didn’t kill him, and I know you didn’t, so we don’t have anything to worry about. Are you okay?”
“I’m freaked out and getting drunk seems like a great idea. Pour me a glass of that rye, Sam.”
Sam did, and poured himself another, too. The last one, he promised himself. He watched Melody wince as she took a sip, but she didn’t make eye contact. She had a lot to process.
“You had lunch with Yuki today?” she finally asked.
“She was waiting on the porch when I got home from my run.”
“That must have been a nice surprise.”
“It was, until she told me she was moving to Seattle for a job.”
Melody stared down into her rye. “That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. But maybe I should have seen it coming.”
She reached over and clinked his glass with hers. “Here’s to better days ahead, when things aren’t so fucked up.”
“If that’s all we have to toast to, then maybe I should get the razor blades.”
“Can you think of a better toast?”
“We’re not dead and we’re not in jail.”
“I’ll drink to that, too.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, both of them salving their private wounds with fermented grain, but it wasn’t making Sam feel any better, in fact it was making him feel worse. He felt a deep, paralyzing exhaustion settle into his bones at the same time the prodromes of another headache announced plans for a full-on assault of his brain. “I need to go to bed. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” She pushed away her glass, an impressive act of restraint for a woman who’d vowed to get drunk. “We both need to sleep.”
Sam got up and closed the shades once he was sure there wasn’t a black Jeep outside, then checked the windows, doors, and the alarm. “All locked up. Do you need an extra blanket? Pillows?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Night, Mel.”
“Good night, Sam. See you in the morning.”
After Sam had gone to bed, Melody remained at the kitchen table, listening to the wall clock tick away the night. It was the only audible sound. Roughly fifty thousand of Los Angeles County’s ten million residents called the quiet Mar Vista neighborhood home, and apparently, they were all sleeping. It was a good bet that none of them had been visited by homicide detectives tonight, and Sam wouldn’t have garnered that distinction either if she hadn’t been here.
Silence didn’t offer her mind distraction, so thoughts began to bounce around inside her head. Ryan was dead. Murdered. She knew how, but she didn’t know why. She’d known a lot of bad people in her life, but none of them had been killed and they were more deserving, in her opinion. There was no question that Ryan had been flawed, and she had no idea what company he kept when he wasn’t with her, but getting shot to death seemed like a steep price to pay for having an imperfect character.
But she hadn’t known him. Not at all. One straightforward question from the cops had made that abundantly clear. He could have been a mobster for all she knew. The sum total of her knowledge of Ryan Gallagher was that he took her to dinners in restaurants she could never afford, and if she saw something in a shop window she liked, he’d buy it for her. He’d never invited her to Las Vegas, but he had taken her on one weekend getaway to Palm Springs where there was wine and fruit and cheese waiting for them in the room. But it had all been in exchange for sex, she understood that now. Money never changed hands, it was more insidious than that, and so she’d gotten lost in a fantasy.