He was dressed in tight leather pants and laden with heavy, skull-themed jewelry, at ease in a chair behind the soundboard. Nolan’s overall impression was that of a beneficent nobleman of the rock world, graciously giving audience to his serfs.
On the other side of the soundproof glass, two young beauties with falls of wavy, auburn hair and sea blue eyes sat on a leather banquette, sipping champagne for breakfast. Irish twins with talent that wouldn’t quit, according to Sir Ellenbeck.
“I didn’t kill Ryan Gallagher. His well-being directly correlated with my ability to recoup a hundred grand worth of studio time he refused to pay for. I’ll never see a dime from the estate.”
Not remotely troubled by the death of another human. In fact, he seemed bored. “Then you’ll be able to account for your whereabouts the last twenty-four hours.”
He gestured fondly to the twins, his rings and bracelets jangling. They waved. “Siobhán and Sinéad will confirm that I’ve been here with them. For the past twenty-four hours.”
The alibi would be easy enough to corroborate with hotel and studio staff. Ellenbeck wasn’t a guy who could slip away unnoticed—Nolan suspected his ego wouldn’t ever let that happen. She decided to change tack. “You were at Pearl Club two nights ago. And so was Ryan Gallagher.”
He seemed mildly surprised. “I was, Pearl Club is my home away from home. I left at about ten to pick up the ladies from the airport. We started recording immediately.”
“Do you know Melody Traeger?”
He smiled fondly. “She’s a doll.”
“Did you know she was in a relationship with Mr. Gallagher?”
“No. The poor thing, what a nightmare that must have been. She’s better off without that prick. She’ll realize that eventually.”
Cold, Nolan thought. Extremely cold. “Do you have a relationship with her?”
“I have a bartender–client relationship with her. She’s a doll,” he repeated.
“Nothing more?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Did you bring her roses yesterday?”
Ellenbeck laughed with genuine mirth. “I don’t do jewelry or flowers, Detective. They’re too full of symbolism that can be misconstrued. Fine dining, handbags, cashmere, trips—now those are things that can never be mistaken for love. At least not in LA.”
* * *
Nolan shoveled pancakes into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten in a month. She felt like she hadn’t slept in a month, too, but Crawford had quite a few years on her, and he wasn’t complaining, so she wouldn’t either. They both looked like hell and their collective table manners were suffering under the stress of hunger and sleep deprivation, but the other denizens of The Original Pantry Café this morning weren’t the types to judge. Not that she cared.
Crawford wiped egg yolk from his chin and his tie and slurped his coffee so loudly that even the strung-out rock and rollers at the table next to them noticed. “Ellenbeck is arrogant and misogynistic, but is he capable of murder?”
“His type doesn’t like to lose, and Gallagher had his money and the girl.”
“I like the crime of passion angle, but Ellenbeck didn’t seem too het up about either one. And he’s got an alibi. We need to keep looking.”
Nolan sighed. “We’ve talked to every sleazebag in the music promotion industry who ever laid eyes on Gallagher and we got nothing. Nobody liked him, but he was a gnat, annoying but not important enough to kill.”
“The last phone call he made was to a burner phone, I’m guessing it was to his dealer. Maybe something went sideways. He’s a confirmed deadbeat.”
“Yeah, but he was only holding a few grams. Not worth killing over.”
“That depends on who the dealer is.”
Nolan dragged her fork through the leftover syrup on her plate and licked it. She needed the extra glucose. Fast energy that would turn to carbohydrates and go straight to her hips. “He was an industry bottom-feeder. He could be dirty. Maybe we should head to Vegas.”
“Vegas PD is solid, and he wasn’t on their radar. His apartment there is clean. Only thing left is to wade through his computers, and that’s going to take some time. But if he is dirty, that’s a cash business, and he’s going to keep his ledgers clean.”
“If he’s smart, but he doesn’t sound smart to me.”
Crawford crumpled his napkin and tossed it on the table. “That’s all too complicated and homicides rarely are, you know that. I think he was an everyday arrogant prick and something more mundane caught up with him. Like he slept with the wrong guy’s wife or cheated on the wrong woman, something we haven’t uncovered yet. We need to keep this close to home, where his killer is.”
Nolan knew he was right, and the fact that Gallagher was an abuser was coloring her objectivity. He was an asshole by all accounts, but he wasn’t some arch villain and there was probably no grand conspiracy here. “Easton and Traeger are really close to home, but I still don’t see it.”
Crawford leaned back in his chair. “They’re not off the hook yet.”
“Neither one of them showed up on his building’s lobby surveillance the morning of his murder. Everyone else who did checked out.”
“Which means the killer didn’t come in through the lobby, he or she used one of the entrances that doesn’t have cameras, which implies knowledge of the building. There are four fire doors and the parking garage door with key card entry for residents only. Once we get the log, we need to question everybody who used that door.”
“It might not make a difference, someone could have slipped in with a group.”
Crawford scratched the grizzled whiskers that were sprouting on his jaw faster than a well-watered Chia Pet. “Traeger doesn’t have any witnesses that can place her at her apartment between noon and two. And we haven’t talked to Easton’s wife yet about their lunch together, or confirmed he had a doctor’s appointment, so he’s not clear, either.”
Nolan sighed and poured more sugar into her coffee. “They really rubbed you the wrong way, tell me why, Al.”
“It’s not a personal thing, I just see potential motive. Sam Easton and Melody Traeger have some kind of an attachment. Gallagher tossed her around, hurt her. She’s pissed, Sam’s pissed. And they’re not the most stable individuals.”
Nolan felt her face flush. “Because she was an addict and he’s a wounded warrior?”
“Look, Mags, don’t take this the wrong way. But Easton is a war hero with an engineering degree who’s working as a bar back, and his wife’s renting a place in Marina del Rey, so things obviously aren’t good for him back on the home front. He’s got some major scars on the outside, so what kind of scars does he have on the inside? If he doesn’t have PTSD, then he’s not human. I see him as unpredictable, and he probably sees himself that way, so I don’t think he’d hold it against me. Traeger has some scars, too. And we’ve still got the stalker and the black Jeep to think about. The Miracle Mile Task Force doesn’t have one in their coverage, but it’s still out there, floating around in the ether. And here’s another thought: Katy Villa was killed by a black Jeep.”