Sam wondered if the Berlin police had contacted Hans Hesse yet—and if he’d even had an inkling of what his son had really been. He’d been complicit in creating him, there was no exoneration for him in that regard. Still, he felt sorry for him and would until the day he decided to exploit a tragedy and make a movie about it. Hopefully, he wouldn’t, although whether it was Hans Hesse himself or someone else, it seemed inevitable.
He saw Nolan duck beneath one of the plastic barriers and walk down the driveway, her expression flat and immutable as her face pulsed under the strobing lights. She engaged in brief conversations with some of the people on the ground, then walked through the gate and slipped into the driver’s seat of the sedan.
“Consuela Ortiz is okay. We found her tied up in the wine cellar.”
Sam let out a breath. “Thank God. I was afraid he killed her.”
Three pairs of eyes followed the wrecker coming down the driveway with the Jeep. “The coroner found black paint chips on Katy Villa’s body. We’re guessing they’re going to match.”
“It will. Rolf was following me. You saw the photo from San Vicente. Katy Villa was an accident, a distracted driving accident,” Sam said bitterly, pinching his eyes shut, trying not to think of the lives lost because of him.
Because of Rolf, not you.
Dr. Frolich’s voice was loud and clear in his head, and she was right. Maybe she’d be able to talk him down from the ledge of survivor’s guilt after all.
When he opened his eyes again, Nolan was watching him.
“Thank you both for taking us through the scene,” she finally said. “I know it was difficult.” Her gray eyes softened and she passed back a box of tissues. “How is your ankle, Ms. Traeger?”
Melody straightened and wiped her eyes. “Better. The cold pack is helping.”
“You should get an x-ray.”
“It’s just a sprain.”
“Maybe so, but you should still have it looked at. I can have somebody take you to the hospital now, or I can drop you off when we’re finished here.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“I mean thank you for saving us.”
“From what you both told me, you saved each other. And what you did for Rolf? In your position, I’m not sure I could have done the same.”
“You would have. He was a human being and he was dying, that’s all he was when I took his hand.”
“It was an act of grace, Ms. Traeger. And same for you, Mr. Easton.”
“Trying to keep Rolf alive definitely wasn’t an act of grace on my part.”
She nodded her understanding.
“What happens now, Detective?”
“I have a couple more things to tie up, then Detective Crawford will stay to finish up here and pass it off to Crime Scene. We go back to the station for more details and statements. Sorry, but it’s going to be a long night.”
Sam leaned back and closed his eyes, stroking Melody’s shoulder as much for his own solace as hers, like a child caressing a stuffed animal after a bad dream. “How did you get here so fast?”
“It was dumb luck. We’ll get to that before the night is over.”
Melody leaned forward confidentially and captured Nolan’s gaze. “You told me you don’t believe in luck, Detective.”
“I’m reconsidering that statement.”
Chapter Seventy-three
CRAWFORD WAS STIRRING SUGAR INTO HIS sludgy, Homicide-brewed coffee, shaking his head. “This is absolutely insane. A fucking screenplay started this. Christ, LA is messed up.”
“An obsession started it, and that can happen anywhere.”
“Whatever. If the kid had made it, he’d really have something to write about while he was doing life in Pelican Bay.”
They’d brought Remy in to brief him on the possible Monster connection during their break and he was still in the room, intermittently tapping a pen on the edge of a table. “That’s exactly what’s going to happen, you know. Movie deals, book deals, offers nobody can refuse. Who’s going to be the first to sell out?”
“It won’t be anybody here,” Nolan said more sharply than she’d intended.
“I know that. What about Easton and Traeger? A bartender and a bar back looking at life-changing money? I’d be tempted.”
Crawford slurped his coffee and winced, either from the scalding temperature or the horror of how bad it was. “More power to them, I say. They went through hell, why not get something besides nightmares out of it?”
Nolan felt the familiar heat of blood rushing to her cheeks. “Easton and Traeger aren’t going to take money for something that almost destroyed them, Al.”
He met her eyes and the creases that had lately been eating up the real estate around his mouth softened and lifted with a small smile. “Yeah, I believe you, Mags. But the fallout is going to be nasty. Once everything comes out, they’re not going to have any peace for a long time, and no way Easton will be able to lay low with his face. How is this going to affect him? He’s already in tough shape.”
“He’ll get through it.” She looked at Remy. “So what do you think about his Rolf Hesse as Monster theory?”
“It’s a good one, I couldn’t make up a better suspect. We’re looking into it hard, but I don’t think it will go anywhere.”
Crawford rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Why not? Hesse was a freak and a heroin addict. He’d been following Traeger for years, Easton for six months; he probably carried around Sam’s address like some people carry rosary beads. It could explain the piece of paper from the Rehbein.”
“But it doesn’t explain why the dead guy’s prints were on it. Ronald Doerr was killed way before Easton was on Rolf Hesse’s radar, so there’s zero connection there, but Doerr and Easton served together in the same unit, and that bugs the shit out of me. I still want to talk to Easton. Are you almost finished with him?”
Nolan nodded, then gathered her computer and a bundle of files. “I’ll send him your way before I cut him loose.”
Crawford pushed himself up, but she dismissed him with a wave. “It’s just wrap-up, Al, I’ll take it from here. Go home and bother Corinne, she might actually miss you by now. She’ll change her mind if you start bitching about your adductor, so try to keep your mouth shut.”
“Mags is going to be fine,” he said after she’d left.
“I have no doubt about that.” Remy’s dark eyes cycled around the room absently, looking beyond the present, or maybe back into the past. He did that sometimes, and Crawford had always found it disconcerting, like he knew something nobody else did.
“She’s tougher than anybody I know. And mean.”
Remy laughed. “You think she has a mean streak?”
“Maybe you should partner with her and find out for yourself.”
“And ruin the pleasure of listening to you two snipe at each other? I don’t think so.” His smile faded. “Still, it’s a big thing, killing. Blood always runs red, and it’s a color you don’t forget.”
“Spoken like a man who’s shed some. Bayou wisdom?”