Nolan rolled her eyes. “Anything else you want to throw into the pot?”
“No, I think I’m done.”
“You just reminded me that homicides aren’t complicated. Backed yourself into a corner, didn’t you?”
“I said they were rarely complicated.”
Nolan tossed some cash on the table irritably. “Christ, you’re a pain in the ass, Al. If you ever get shot in the head, I’ll be the prime suspect. I’ll even confess.”
“If that’s the way God wants me to go out, it would be an honor if you pulled the trigger.”
The rock and rollers next to them were giving them nervous looks now. Nolan leered at them, and they turned away quickly. “Come on, old man, let’s go. The sun is up and so are we. Chop-chop, we’ve got a lot of legwork to do.”
He gave her a feisty smile. “Where to, boss?”
“You’ve got such a hard-on for Easton, let’s go talk to the wife and see if your pecker’s flying straight.”
Chapter Thirty-four
DISAPPOINTMENT WAS AN UNAVOIDABLE ASPECT OF life, but with patience and resolve even the greatest adversity could be parlayed into an inspired result. When facing hardship, you had to redouble your efforts, and success would follow.
Disappointment: his modest fame wasn’t commanding the appropriate attention or respect. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Notoriety was so common now, especially in Los Angeles, and equally fleeting: just a moronic blip on twenty-four-hour news channels, in the bottomless cesspool of social media, within simple, jaded minds that lacked any semblance of vision or imagination.
Solution: a larger presence was required to excite his uninspired audience, and he must pursue this relentlessly.
He glanced down at the newspaper on his lap, an offering left on a bench in Griffith Park by some archaic soul. This sheaf of useless kindling substantiated his hypothesis. On page three, below the fold, was a small article speculating about a monster in Miracle Mile. Yesterday’s headline had already been relegated to journalistic backwater. The placement was a sorry reflection on the state of the world and the attention span of its inhabitants. When a serial killer could no longer compete with the licentious behavior of a spoiled, untalented starlet, it was difficult not to abandon hope.
The Monster of Miracle Mile had a lot of work to do if he wanted to secure his place in history.
Chapter Thirty-five
MELODY WAS AWAKE AND IN THE kitchen when Sam got home. She’d exchanged her Lakers T-shirt and jeans for a sleeveless blue dress that showed off her curves and all the ink on her arms to great effect. She was humming as she stirred something on the stove, swaying her hips in time to the tune. It was a very different woman from the despondent one whose life mission had been to drink herself into oblivion last night.
The air was aromatic with the smell of dark, rich coffee, something far more elevated than the low-end grocery store dreck he kept around, and there was a plate of pastries on the table. It made his heart hurt, having a woman who wasn’t Yuki in the house humming and cooking breakfast; imagining that she was cooking breakfast for somebody else right now made it hurt worse. But his empty stomach was howling and he was grateful for the distraction from his unresponsive phone and his battered spirit.
“We didn’t eat anything last night. I hope you don’t mind, I was starving, plus I thought I should pull some weight around here for the free hotel.” She put down her spatula, turned to look at him, and froze. “Oh my God. You’re pissed. I shouldn’t be in your kitchen, taking over like I own the place.”
“No, this is really nice.”
She shrank into herself in apology. An abused woman anticipating a backhand. That broke his heart, too. “Are you sure?”
“It’s fine, Mel. Actually, it’s great. I’m starving, too.”
“Then why are you pissed?”
“I’m not pissed at you.”
“Are you … okay? I mean, that must have been a pretty bad dream last night.”
“It was, but I’m okay. Honest. Thanks for asking.” He plucked a pastry off the plate, a bear claw. “These look amazing, where did you get them?”
She relaxed a little, but there was still some trepidation in her posture and movements. “The bakery on the corner. They even roast their own beans, so I got some real coffee.”
“My coffee isn’t real?”
Apparently, the question didn’t dignify a response. “Do you want some eggs? Nothing fancy, just scrambled.”
Sam thought of the leftover salads Yuki had left. “You didn’t put kale in them, did you?”
“God, no, why would I do that? No one likes kale, there are only people who don’t hate it.”
“Then I’d love some eggs. What were you humming?”
“‘The Owl and the Pussycat.’”
“You’re weirdly cheerful this morning.”
She flushed and looked down guiltily. “I know it’s weird, and totally inappropriate. I did a lot of thinking last night, I couldn’t stop, and what I came up with at three a.m. is that I’m sad for Ryan. I’m sorry he’s dead. But I’m not afraid of his jealousy or his temper anymore. I forgot what that felt like.”
There was no need for further justification. Ryan was dead and she wasn’t afraid. It seemed like such a simple thing, to live without fear. He envied her the place she was at now but was happy she’d made it there and hoped it lasted. “I get it,” he said, picking up the morning paper from the table and paging to the obituaries. He was profoundly relieved that Rolf wasn’t among the lucky octogenarians who’d died peacefully, surrounded by family. Nope, he definitely wasn’t psychic, just barking mad.
“There’s an article on Ryan in there. It’s small, buried. They quoted Detective Nolan.”
“What did she say?”
“You don’t want to read it?”
“Not really.”
“She said they’re pursuing multiple leads and all the usual bullshit they always march out to the press. At least we weren’t named.” She tried to laugh, but it came out as a weak grunt.
“Anything about the Katy Villa hit-and-run?”
“I didn’t see anything, but I didn’t read the whole paper. Why?”
“She was killed by a black Jeep.”
Melody blinked at him. “How do you know that?”
“I saw it on a news feed yesterday.”
“You didn’t mention it to the detectives last night.”
Sam tossed the paper on a chair. “Didn’t need to. Everybody in law enforcement knows about it, she was the mayor’s daughter. If there’s a connection, they’ll find it, but I doubt there is.”
“Still, that’s kind of freaky, isn’t it?”
Sam made some quick mental calculations. Dr. Frolich was the only one who knew about his episode with Katy on San Vicente, but she didn’t know about the black Jeep he’d been seeing. Melody knew about the black Jeep but not about his connection to Katy Villa. In the spirit of keeping everyone partially in the dark, he brushed off her question cavalierly, hoping his secrets weren’t somehow obstructing justice. “I’m not sure. Part of me thinks so, but like I told you, I’m paranoid. And dangerous.”