He glowered and his expression shifted from conciliatory to something impossibly dark and ugly. “Ryan Gallagher was a scumbag who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Melody. He treated her like dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. You saw what he did to her.”
“So you did kill him.”
Rolf was getting agitated, and furious red was creeping up his neck and spreading to his skeletal face. “No, I exterminated vermin and made the world a better, safer place. Just like you did overseas.”
“Did you kill my wife?”
“She was a cheating whore. Another vermin, who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you. But relationships are complicated, and I knew neither of you could do the right thing, so I did it for you. They were acts of compassion, acts of love. I love you both.”
Oh my God, Rolf was totally insane. The confrontation with pure madness and corrupted reasoning left Sam so stunned, he couldn’t even access any anger or hatred over what he’d done to Yuki, and he was temporarily mute. But the shock eventually wore off, the anger finally came flooding in to replace it, and he thrashed in his chair until he felt the gun pressed against his temple.
“Settle down.”
“I will kill you. Don’t doubt it.”
“When you cool off, you’ll realize it was the right thing.”
Sam was incredulous. “You don’t feel any remorse? Not even a speck?”
“I consider Aldous Huxley one of the great twentieth-century visionaries, and he said that chronic remorse is an undesirable sentiment. I happen to agree with him, so I live my life without it.”
“Maybe yours is a better story,” he spat. “Why don’t you tell that one? Fucked up, sociopathic film student, stalker and murderer. How do you think it would end?”
“I like happy endings.”
“Rolf, you’re a fucking murderer. People like you don’t get happy endings, you end up as somebody’s wife in a supermax prison.”
“I disagree.” He wandered over to the photo of Ryan Gallagher. “This fuck, for instance,” he jabbed the gun into the picture, tearing a hole in it. “That was a happy ending. We can still have a happy ending, too, one where I don’t go to prison and the movie gets made.”
“You’re going to have to kill us for that to happen.”
“In case you didn’t notice, I’m rich, Telegram Sam. Do you know how much I have in my trust fund?”
“No.”
“Around fifty million dollars. I could part with ten or so for now. When Pops dies, I’ll get another couple hundred mil anyhow. It would be no big deal.”
“You want to buy your way out of murder?”
“It’s a fair price for all of us. You would be set up for life, and you deserve it. You got dealt a really shitty hand. Plus, I’d give you a percentage of the film for your contribution. Melody and I will get married eventually, so she doesn’t need any of it. It’s all yours.”
“Keep talking.”
“Nothing to talk about. I just gave you option A—take my offer, we’re good. Option B is I can make the film without you or Melody. It’s not ideal, but you both basically wrote the script already, and that’s the most important part. If you can’t get over your moral qualms, then it’s going to be so tragic.” He raised his hands in front of his face like he’d done at The Leaf, framing an imaginary movie screen. “Sam Easton, a screwed up vet with PTSD, goes nuts, kills his girlfriend, then turns the gun on himself. Stuff like that happens all the time, it’s so cliché, I’d never put it in a movie.”
Sam had seen a lot of things, but he’d never seen such a broken mind before. It made his own seem completely unexceptional. Rolf was a monster, there was no other way to describe it. The Monster of Miracle Mile? Why not? He loved to look at the eviscerated body in his father’s office; it would be a rush to try it in real life. He was probably planning to write his next script about it. “So we either take your money and make the film or you kill us.”
He smiled cordially. “Yeah, pretty much. Seems like an easy decision to me. But Melody definitely needs to be a part of the process.”
“No, Rolf, leave her alone.”
“She can make her own decision, she’s a smart girl. She’s getting straight As in her college courses. Did you know that?”
Chapter Sixty-five
MELODY WAS CRAWLING ALONG THE WALL, heading toward the muffled sound of voices—conversational, not confrontational. She felt like an idiot, and wouldn’t Rolf and Sam be surprised if they walked out into the hall after a friendly nightcap and saw her on all fours with a gun in her hand? Laughs all around, some good-natured jibes. Come on, Mel, you need to relax, let’s get another drink.
She stood up, but her legs wouldn’t move, wouldn’t carry her any further, which was sign enough that she needed to stay concealed for now. It didn’t make sense, but it didn’t have to. Suddenly a door opened and closed down the hall, and instinct took over.
She dropped again and crawled through a broad archway and into a dark room, then inched her way behind a large ottoman. Perspiration born of fear was running down her face, dripping onto the parquet floor, and a crazy voice in her head told her to STOP SWEATING! SOMEBODY WILL HEAR IT!
Muted footsteps were getting louder and she peered around the ottoman. There was a shadow, growing larger as it drew near, and it felt like her heart was climbing up into her throat. The shadow began whistling “Telegram Sam.” A moment later, she saw Rolf sauntering down the hall. He was carrying a rifle. She covered her mouth to stifle a cry.
* * *
Crawford was staring at Ike’s printout incredulously. “What the hell?”
“I don’t know what the hell, Al, but I tried calling Ortiz multiple times and she doesn’t answer. It’s late. I’m sure her phone is turned off. Look up the address she gave us and let’s go pay her a visit.”
“Okay, but you’re hanging a lot on a vehicle we can’t ID as definitively being relevant to either case.”
“It’s all we have. Put everything together and it stinks. Sam Easton and Melody Traeger told us about one hanging around their places, then a black Jeep shows up near Yukiko Easton’s place the morning she was killed. And then Ryan Gallagher’s cleaning lady, the one who found him dead, gets in it and drives away.”
“Ryan Gallagher’s cleaning lady could have a black Jeep and a client who lives in the neighborhood.”
Nolan gave him an icy look. “Possibly, but we’re going to find out.”
“It’s a place to go, I suppose.” He shrugged, jumped on his computer, and after a few minutes he looked up. “Ortiz lives up in the Hills. Beverly. A really ritzy address, too.”
“She said she had room and board at a client’s house. Property records, who owns the house?” Nolan started pacing small circles while she listened to Crawford tapping his keyboard.
“Hans Hesse.”
“A big fish. I’ll give Beverly Hills PD a courtesy call and let them know we’re on the way.”
* * *