“Check all the routes.”
“We will.” Turner had bushy brows, and they came together over his flat nose like a pair of mating caterpillars. “Crawford called me a couple hours ago, asking if we had a black Jeep in our coverage.”
“They pulled Katy Villa?”
“No, he and Maggie are working a homicide with a possible stalking element.”
“We don’t have a black Jeep in our coverage. Using a personal vehicle would be risky, there are cameras everywhere in this city. And we’ve checked all the footage.”
“Yeah. I’m sticking with the bus theory. It’s anonymous. One more thing to throw in the pile, though.”
Chapter Thirty-two
YUKI WAS WELL CONNECTED, AND ONE of her friends was a multiple Oscar-winning costume designer who was always abroad somewhere, either on location or doing research. Sam had only met her a few times, but she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders, at least for costumes and real estate because she owned a lot of it. The Craftsman bungalow in Marina del Rey was a peach, and Yuki was renting it by the month for far below market value.
By the time he parked across the street, the adrenaline buzz and the panicked, singular sense of purpose had worn off, leaving him feeling depleted and possibly still a little drunk. It was like he’d been sleepwalking and someone had thrown cold water in his face to bring him back to reality. And the reality was, he had no idea what he was going to do now—or what he was even doing here in the first place. To make sure Yuki was safe from his nightmare?
He turned off the car and looked at the dark bungalow. She was still in bed. Even though the sun wasn’t up yet, there were some people on the sidewalks already, getting in an early jog before work or taking Fifi out for her morning constitutional. All of them noticed the Mustang, and one man tripped over the curb ogling it. He and the car made a good pair: both of them got gawked at wherever they went, just for different reasons.
While he waited for a light to flick on, he slowly came to the realization that there was no reason for him to be here except that he was becoming unmoored. If he kept fixating on prophesying death, it would keep happening and he would keep getting more paranoid, keep doing unreasonable things, like rushing off at five a.m. to check on Yuki instead of doing the sensible thing, like texting or calling; or even more sensibly, take a bad dream at face value, a simple manifestation of a troubled subconscious, not a cosmic map of the future.
What are you going to do if Yuki notices your car outside her house?
Son of a bitch, that was a great question and another problem. If she saw him, there would be the obvious question: what was he doing here? Then he would be faced with a profound dilemma: either confess his burgeoning madness or allow her to believe he was stalking her. There would be no bullshitting his way out of this one, and the only solution that immediately presented itself was to get the hell out of here.
He started the car, which sounded like a jet engine in the predawn calm, drawing more attention. Before he could put it into gear, a light went on in Yuki’s living room, the door opened, and he froze. There was still a possibility she wouldn’t notice him, it was dark and she was a zombie in the morning before her coffee. He held his breath and waited for her to emerge, get the paper, and either bust him or retreat back inside.
Instead of Yuki, a muscular, shirtless man wearing pajama bottoms stepped out and retrieved the paper, then went inside without looking up. It was long after he’d closed the door that Sam remembered to breathe.
* * *
Mulholland Drive, the road that should have been named after his great-great-grandfather, according to Vivian. It was a suicide route if you were in the right vehicle and the wrong frame of mind. But at the moment, it was Sam’s road to salvation, a road that led back in time. He was still a kid, Grandpa Dean was behind the wheel, and the biggest problem in his life was trying not to puke as the Mustang roared around the serpentine twists and turns and up to the best view in the world.
But he couldn’t sustain the fantasy, so he pulled over at a scenic overlook and turned off the engine, listening to the soft tick as it cooled. He tried to admire the spectacular view of the sun coming up over Los Angeles, but he didn’t find it remotely inspiring, not this morning.
There was a perfectly logical explanation for a half-naked man to be getting Yuki’s morning paper that didn’t involve her screwing somebody else. He couldn’t wait to hear what it was. But she wasn’t answering her phone, which left his imagination free to traverse all kinds of sordid scenarios, like her en flagrante at this very moment while the phone buzzed on the nightstand, an uncooperative witness to her infidelity and betrayal.
Then again, maybe she was just peeved that he hadn’t responded to her texts yesterday, or wasn’t prepared to continue the dialogue about her move to Seattle, and the man on her porch this morning was a gay friend visiting from out of town. It was all just one big misunderstanding.
After leaving three messages, he sent her a text asking for a callback as soon as possible. What he would say to her when she finally returned his call was unclear, but he decided it would be potentially disastrous if he confronted her over the phone, especially in his current frame of mind.
So he sat and he waited while the sun rose higher, streaking the sky with ombré shades of tangerine, lavender, and rose. He stepped outside and took a few photos to commemorate this moment in time when his future hung as nebulously as the haze over the city.
It was still and quiet, as peaceful as Los Angeles ever got; but peace was a rare and fleeting thing here, and proving his point, he heard the low, impressive growl of an engine approaching, then slowing, an engine to rival or even surpass the Mustang’s. He got back in the car, not wanting to be seen or bothered.
A couple minutes later, a yellow Ferrari pulled up on the other side of the overlook and parked cockeyed, almost parallel to the guard rail. A disheveled couple got out, still wearing evening attire. They’d had a long night, and the party was still in full swing.
The woman was beautiful, young, laughing, and teetering unsteadily on stiletto heels. Her companion was much older, dressed as conservatively as she was provocatively, a common sight in LA, as common as hemp oil and thousand dollar sushi dinners. They kissed passionately in front of the sunrise, then she pulled off her shoes and started prancing around, swishing her ruffled skirt coquettishly.
This was exactly the type of human theater that would normally inspire Sam to craft an elaborate backstory, but he wasn’t interested in his fanciful fiction this morning. Besides, he knew this story wouldn’t have a happy ending, and happy endings were a sore topic at the moment.
After fifteen minutes of flirtation, groping, coke-snorting, and multiple selfies in front of the sunrise, the May–September couple charged away in the yellow Italian stallion, oblivious to Sam’s presence, or more likely, uncaring.
The city was coming to life now. He could feel it more than see it. Yuki still hadn’t responded, so he fired up Grandpa’s Mustang and headed for home, wishing Pink’s was open so he could get a hotdog.
Nothing like a tube of processed meat to soothe a ravaged soul.
Chapter Thirty-three
GOLDEN WEST STUDIOS WAS ON THE lower level of an ultrahip hotel on Sunset Boulevard. Nolan had never been inside a recording studio, but she couldn’t imagine that all of them were as opulent as Markus Ellenbeck’s, or as rife with clichés.