After some time spent watching a rumble between several elementary school soccer foes, he found Remy Beaudreau’s card in his wallet and called him. He answered on the second ring.
“Mr. Easton, how are you doing?”
“Surviving. It’s my default position.”
“And that of the entire human race, but ninety percent don’t realize it. What can I do for you?”
“The first thing you can do is promise me we’re not having this conversation.”
“We’re not having this conversation. The number you called is private.”
Sam closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat of the Mustang. “Ronald Doerr might still be alive. I just found out there may have been a mistake in his military record.”
“How do you know?”
“I can’t tell you that. And please don’t pursue that angle. Give me your word, or we’re done here.”
No hesitation. “You have my word. I want to find my killer, not stir up any military scuttlebutt. You’re protecting a source, I get that and I’ll honor that. So you have more to say?”
“I don’t know if Doerr is the Monster, but it could make sense if he’s still alive.”
Silence, tapping on a keyboard. Finally: “Tell me how it could make sense.”
“He’s mentally ill. He probably gutted an Afghan official with a knife.”
More keyboard tapping. “Do you have any other specifics? Because it’s going to be hard to find somebody who’s dead on the books.”
Sam gritted his teeth. He didn’t know if any of the specifics he had were real or true. But if Rondo was alive and killing women because he thought they were military assassins, Beaudreau needed to know everything, real or not. Throw it into his lap and let him sort it all out. “I’m going out on a limb here, Detective. I’m trusting you.”
“Your trust isn’t misplaced, I promise you that. Right now, I’m getting an anonymous tip. No idea where it came from. I’ll never know.”
“You never got an anonymous tip. If this pans out, you did it on your own. Do you understand?”
“Understood.”
Sam released a breath. “This is all speculation.”
“Most of my job is speculation. Go ahead.”
“Ronald Doerr is likely a paranoid schizophrenic and highly delusional. He thinks the military is trying to kill him. He’s on the run, probably homeless in Los Angeles. You might find him in one of the encampments.”
“If he really is alive, which is still in question?”
“It is.”
“You just gave me some pretty specific speculation.”
“That’s all it is. And if you do find him, tell him you’re going to save him from the Army and he’ll cooperate.”
* * *
Remy hung up from the strange conversation, churning it over in his mind. Sam Easton had just exhibited extreme paranoia, and maybe he had a reason. But whether the information was legitimate or the product of PTSD, he had to act on it and protect him at the same time. Bringing it to the task force without solid justification would raise questions because they would rightly wonder why he was suddenly sending them off to Skid Row to look for a dead man. He needed a reasonable answer that would serve both parties.
He opened up the forensics report and eventually found one. The matching fibers from two of the scenes were extremely worn wool and teeming with every disgusting bacteria known to science, along with louse droppings. A heavily soiled, old garment. He’d glossed over it before because all the murders had occurred in places where that was the typical dress code. But maybe it mattered now.
He called Sweet Genevieve in the lab, who really wasn’t. She was, however, great at her job.
“I’m busy, Remy, what the hell do you want now?” she answered genially.
“I’m sorry to hear you’re busy because I have all this free time on my hands and I was hoping we could grab lunch sometime.”
She either snuffled in amusement or snarled. It was hard to tell which. “What do you want?” she repeated.
“I want you to help me solve the Monster killings.”
“I gave you everything I have.” Her voice was a little less combative now.
“The fibers. They’re dirty and old.”
“They’re disgusting, came from something out of a dumpster, mark my words.”
“So they’re not just dirty like clothes are when you don’t wash them often?”
“No way.”
“So in your highly esteemed, professional opinion, they could have come from the garment of somebody living on the streets?”
“What an ass kiss you are, stop talking like a schmuck. Of course they could have. In my highly esteemed, professional opinion, they did.”
“Thanks, that’s all I need.”
“Are you getting closer?”
“Maybe.”
“Good, because you’ve been a real pain in my ass lately. Call me for lunch when people stop killing other people in this city and I might say yes.”
“People are never going to stop killing other people in this city. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“So I guess lunch is off indefinitely. Your loss. Go catch this fuck.”
Remy smiled at her abrupt disconnection and laid his phone on his desk. Genevieve’s word was good enough.
Chapter Eighty-one
SAM SLEPT TEN HOURS AND DIDN’T have a single nightmare, not even a dream, which was a miracle after his deeply disturbing conversation with Andy last night. With the soundness of his mind still in question, he was reluctant to form an opinion, so he’d relegated it to one of his many cerebral compartments where he stored things not yet ready to be confronted and dealt with.
In the spirit of living one day at a time, he focused on the most pressing concern of the moment, which was the media, reporting on the Hesse tragedy obsessively and around the clock. There was plenty of glamour there, and an irresistible “dark side of Hollywood” angle to give it legs. Mental illness became part of the conversation, and there was increasing speculation about the possibility Rolf had been holding hostages. They didn’t have the whole story, not even close, and they wouldn’t listen to the LAPD spokeswoman tell them she had no further information for much longer.
Sam clicked off the bedroom TV and decided to put a moratorium on all news from any source for a while. He also decided it was time to get out of town.
Melody had left a note on the kitchen table saying she would be back by five with dinner. She’d also left a fresh box of pastries and a new bag of coffee, Tanzania Peaberry. He didn’t know what that was, but it sounded awfully cute and he hoped it tasted good, too.
He ate a bear claw while the Peaberry brewed, opened his computer, and started looking for rentals up the coast. Big Sur was his first choice. Vivian and Jack had taken him up there for the first time the summer before he started kindergarten and many times after that. He’d taken Yuki there a few times, too. It was a place filled with happy memories and magical moments that spanned decades. It was expensive, especially this time of year, but after what he’d been through, the concept of frugality seemed laughable.