FADE IN:
EXT. DESERT—NIGHT
DYLAN WAGNER sits behind the wheel of a Mustang convertible under a sky dense with stars. The vast emptiness of the desert spreads before him. He hears the SOUNDS of crickets, owls, the furtive scratching of rodents. It’s peaceful. Until … A siren WAILS in the distance. He starts the engine. Headlights pierce the darkness.
CLOSE ON
Dylan’s face, illuminated by the dashboard lights. It’s covered in blood.
Sam had never looked at a script before, knew nothing about them. As a reader of books, the format was alien and distracting. Still, this seemed like a pretty good start. He could envision the scene in his mind, and the bloody face was definitely a hook. And who didn’t like a Mustang?
He kept reading.
INT. MOTEL ROOM—NIGHT
Weak, flickering neon from the DESERT DELIGHT INN sign infiltrates a dusty window partially covered by torn curtains. The light pulses on a YOUNG WOMAN splayed across a sagging bed. Her nightgown is bloody and one white arm reaches for something she’ll never grasp, because she’s dead.
The door CREAKS open and the shadow of a man falls across her body.
MALE VOICE O.S.
(agonized, full of remorse)
Bunny. Goddammit, Bunny, I told you not to do it.
Pretty decent noir so far, in the tradition of Papa Hesse. Maybe a little derivative, but still, it painted a picture, and he wanted to know what Bunny had done to get herself killed. He was pretty sure Dylan wasn’t responsible. That would be too obvious, which set the story up for some twists and turns. Maybe Rolf had something going for him after all.
Sam was about to turn the page to find out what happened next when he heard car doors slam outside. Nolan and Crawford were walking up to the house, but their eyes were on the Mustang.
He laid down the script and went to the door. “Afternoon, Detectives. Melody isn’t here, she’s at work.”
Detective Nolan’s expression was grim. Grim was the only thing in her repertoire, at least from what he’d seen. “We’re not here to see Melody.”
“Oh. Here to arrest me, then?”
Nolan shook her head sadly. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Easton. Your wife Yukiko … she’s been murdered.”
Chapter Forty
SAM WAS DROWNING IN A VERY deep, cold pool. Every time he tried to surface, his fingers on the verge of breaking through the sunlit water, it turned to black sludge and dragged him down again. But somehow, he managed to speak and the three idiotic words didn’t sound garbled, like they were coming from underwater. “Are you sure?”
Two somber nods.
“How?”
“She was stabbed and shot in her home, Mr. Easton.”
Sam ran to the bathroom and discharged his Pink’s dog violently. One minute, he was crouched in front of the toilet, the next, he was in his living room, sitting in the very same spot on the sofa he had been last night, looking at the very same people. Nolan’s expression wasn’t just grim anymore, it was concerned and pained. Crawford’s was unreadable, but it felt chilly. His words sounded chilly, too, and Sam imagined cubes of ice floating from his mouth as he spoke.
“It’s an understatement to say this is a terrible time, but we’d like to ask you some questions, Mr. Easton. What you tell us could help us find her killer.”
Sam was numb, pretty much dead himself, but he knew it was important that he be present, at least as present as he possibly could be under the circumstances. He had to hold it together. Had to. For Yuki.
He wiped his brow, but it was cool and dry. No sweat. The sweat was all in his mind, which was partially back in an Afghan desert. Sweat, blood, it felt the same on your skin whether real or imagined. “Yeah. Of course.”
Crawford leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees. “We have several witnesses from our canvass that placed your car at your wife’s residence early this morning. It’s an unmistakable vehicle.” Sam nodded, understanding how incredibly bad that looked, and he certainly couldn’t deny it. “I was there. I have nightmares that seem real, and she was in one this morning. She was in trouble, and I had to make sure she was okay.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Someone was strangling her. And she was okay when I was there. I didn’t kill her. Jesus Christ, I didn’t kill her.”
“Did you see her? Speak with her?”
“No, but a light went on in the house about the time she gets up for work. Around five forty-five.”
“So you don’t really know for certain if she was okay then.”
“I do, and you do, too, if you have her phone. She called me later, around eight. We made plans to meet for dinner tonight.”
Five o’clock at Sushi Roku. Goodbye, Sam.
“We haven’t found her phone. We’re waiting on the subpoena for the records.”
“Was it a robbery, then? A home invasion?” God, he sounded so calm and rational and not remotely on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Way to go, Sam. Dr. Frolich would be so proud.
“We’re looking into everything. We do know she never made it to work.”
“She told me she had the morning off and planned to go in at noon.”
Nolan and Crawford both made notes, building their timeline. They asked dozens of more questions but never mentioned a second victim, and maybe that was by design. A test. To the cops, a dead lover would paint a dream scenario implicating him. There would be no evidence to support it, but his fingerprints were probably still all over the house, he’d been there last week to help her move an armoire. He also didn’t have an alibi for the two hours he’d spent lifting weights and running, something that pricked up Crawford’s ears. It was all just enough to make his life a living hell, more than it already was.
The truth—something he was intent on evading lately—was the only hope they would have of finding Yuki’s killer, and he really didn’t give a shit about anything else. Funny, the detectives would be the only two people he’d told at least one whole truth to in several months.
He looked at the bottle of water he was holding and tried to find a memory of where it had come from. “Do you have any leads?”
“We’re working on that.”
“Was Yuki the only victim?”
Nolan frowned. “Yes. Why are you asking?”
“Then I think I know who killed her.”
Chapter Forty-one
TEDDY WAS SCRUTINIZING THE LEMON TREES he’d finally finished pruning. According to The Plant Whisperer, it would set more and bigger fruit next crop thanks to his efforts, even if he lost some this time. The fig was next, but he still had some additional research to do before he tackled that.
Melody had left for work, but he was keeping a close eye on her place. He’d asked her about the cops and she’d dismissed the query casually, like it was no big deal. But something bad was brewing, he could feel it, as deep as he could feel the surf. He wasn’t going let his guard down. He checked the street again for the black Jeep, then jiggled her doorknob to make sure it was locked. So far, so good.
He stretched his arms over his head and lifted his face to the sun. No wind today. Just as well, he was feeling a little beat up from his session at Zuma Beach yesterday. He settled into his lawn chair, put in earbuds, and cued up some Poke while he lit a sweet, chubby joint.