The tech offered a splendid white smile and patted his arm fondly. “No concussion, just a big goose egg. Keep ice on it for a while and take Tylenol for the headache.”
“Tylenol is lame.”
“Pretty much, but it’s better than nothing. You’re good to go, sir.”
Dismissed with a clean bill of health, Teddy got off his perch and pulled Melody aside. “I don’t know what the cops think or what they can do about this crazy shit, but I’ve got a guy who’s going to set you up with some security cameras. It’s all wireless, and everything goes straight to your phone. Fifty bucks and we’ll get this asshole.”
“That’s a great idea. You’re the best, Teddy.”
He tipped his head in the direction of the brunette, checking to see if she’d heard the glowing testimonial, but she’d already jumped into the ambulance cab. “This is some bad medicine, Mellie. What’s going on? Tell me.”
He had no idea how bad. But did he need to know? She finally decided he did, for his own safety. “I’ve been dating this guy…”
“He’s the fuck who gave you the black eye?”
She nodded. “He was killed yesterday.”
“Huh. Maybe he got what he deserved.”
“Teddy!”
He shrugged unapologetically. “Sorry, but I have a real problem with assholes who hit women.”
“Sam’s wife was killed this morning, too.”
Teddy’s lanky body bowed back. “You’re serious?”
“I’m serious.”
“Did they catch anybody yet?”
“No, so stay sharp.”
“Man. This is really messed up. Mellie, stay at Sam’s until I get the security set up. And take your gun with you.”
“I will.”
“Ms. Traeger?” Detective Crawford was approaching on heavy feet, and he didn’t look particularly happy to see her. “Come with me, the police would like your input.”
The comment was meant to be sarcastic, she was sure of it. Maybe a little mean-spirited. He was pissed that he was cooling his heels at a B and E while two unsolved homicides were getting older by the minute. And his partner had hung him up, indulging someone who might be a killer or at least an accessory to murder. That was her assessment, anyhow.
The street part of her instantly formulated a sharp response, but the reformed Melody kept calm. Antagonizing him wouldn’t do a thing except possibly confirm a bias that she didn’t have control of her emotions and was therefore capable of a crime of passion. “Stalkers are deranged, aren’t they? Mentally imbalanced?”
“That’s a given.”
“And they feel possessive about the object of their obsession. So it’s not a stretch that they would harm anybody close to me, like Ryan and Sam. No telling what a stalker would do.”
Crawford sighed. “A stalker might kill your boyfriend out of jealously, but if that’s the case, he would have killed Sam, not his wife. What’s your point?”
“I’m afraid all of this is connected somehow. I’m afraid of what might happen next.”
His expression softened. “So are we. That’s why we want your input. Come with me.”
She followed him, walking the gauntlet of police to her open front door, and stepped inside for a surreal, guided tour of her own apartment. Had she remembered to put away her bras, or were they still hanging on the shower curtain rod to dry? As if the cops would care—it wouldn’t even be worth a snicker.
No bras, no underwear. Her apartment was pristine and seemingly untouched. The gun was still stashed beneath her mattress. No eerie vibes that anybody had been in here. But they had been, Teddy was proof of that.
“Does anyone else have a key to your apartment?” one of the cops asked.
“No.”
“Your caretaker said he didn’t have keys, but what about your landlord?”
“I suppose she does, but she’s eighty, senile, and I doubt she’s a part of this equation.”
“The front door lock wasn’t compromised, but the kitchen windows were open. Did you leave them open?”
Hell no, not after her special delivery yesterday. “No. I definitely closed and locked them before I left for work.”
“And your front door, are you sure that was locked?”
“I’m positive.”
He gestured to the pile of empty peanut shells on the kitchen floor. “Somebody enjoyed some snacks while they were here.”
“Jim.”
“I thought you said nobody else has a key.”
“Jim is a scrub jay that I feed. He doesn’t need a key, he came in through the window that somebody pried open to get in here.”
“The windows didn’t seem to be damaged, but we’ll check them again.”
What was the point? she wanted to ask, but didn’t. They already knew somebody had gotten in. Whether they’d adroitly picked her front lock or pried open the window, it didn’t matter. No violent crime had taken place here and there was no imminent threat of one, so the investigation was as good as dead.
“Thanks,” she offered insincerely, abandoning the hopeful detective-in-training to walk into the living room where Nolan and Crawford were speaking in hushed tones. Her eyes drifted to her precious Gibson propped in the corner, her touchstone of both joy and misery, and her throat closed tight. The detectives ceased their conversation and looked at her anxiously.
“What’s wrong, Ms. Traeger?” Nolan asked.
It took a few moments to find her breath and her voice, and when she did, it came out in a muted little squeak. “That.” She pointed at the guitar, at the white rose stuck in the fretboard, its stem secured by the strings. “The rose wasn’t here when I left.”
“Does it mean something to you?” Crawford asked.
Melody allowed her mind to drift back in time to her days with Poke, to the fans throwing roses on stage. White and red ones. The ritual was performed every time they played the violent squall of a song called “St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.”
Rose White, Rose Red, someone shot her in the head, Rose White, Rose Red, now she’s bleeding on the bed …
She looked at Nolan. “It means somebody hasn’t forgotten about Roxy Codone.”
Chapter Fifty-two
SAM THOUGHT IT INCREDIBLY MUNIFICENT OF Dr. Frolich to reserve judgment on his drink of choice. She hadn’t even given his tumbler of rye a second glance. Then again, after listening to his summary of the twenty-four hours since his office visit, a late afternoon cocktail was undoubtedly far down on the list of urgent concerns.
He’d told her everything, and hearing the oral account of his recent travails had a curious, twofold effect. It made him feel like he was on the cusp of irreversible personal calamity, yet he felt incredibly resilient because he wasn’t on the floor in fetal position, foaming at the mouth. At least not yet.
It had also been liberating—he was no longer interested in propping up the false pretense of sure-footed stability—he was interested in solving problems.
Dr. Frolich took some time to absorb his doleful monologue before speaking. “I wish you’d called me earlier, Sam.”