Deep into the Dark

by P. J. Tracy

  “And he might kill me if I do.”

  “That’s specious logic for staying with an abuser.”

  She looked at him with bleary eyes, made a startling green by her bloodshot whites. A trick of contrasting colors. “Is ‘specious’ my vocabulary word for the day?”

  “It’s an underused word.” Sam knew she was conflicted, running a threat assessment, reframing things in her mind as she tried to make sense of her predicament and make it more palatable to whatever idealism still confused her heart and mind.

  “I didn’t mean that. Ryan isn’t a killer, he just gets jealous sometimes.”

  Ryan, owner of Salamander Productions. He wouldn’t be hard to track down if he needed to. If he really owned the company or even worked there. LA was full of lies and hyperbole because there were plenty of victims who could be deceived or manipulated by them. “Stop making excuses for him. You know better and you can do better. Way better. You’re not a victim anymore, so don’t act like one.”

  She recoiled in her chair. “You’re harsh this morning.”

  “Tough love.”

  “Has a lecture ever changed your mind?”

  “Am I lecturing you?”

  “Yeah. You did last night and you’re doing it again now.”

  “Huh. Well, for the record, every time I got a lecture, I did just the opposite.”

  She folded her arms across her chest in vindication. “Exactly.”

  “So think of it as a pep talk.”

  “Semantics,” she muttered under her breath as the coffee maker crackled a final wheeze, announcing the brew cycle was finished. Sam filled two mugs and dosed them both generously with milk and sugar.

  “Drink some coffee, eat some toast. You’ll feel better.”

  She took an exploratory bite, then another before abandoning the idea of eating. “Ryan’s a coward. He won’t kill me.”

  She was nothing if not persistent in her defense of the scumbag. Ryan had gotten his hooks into her. Were BMWs really that great? “It’s the cowards who kill, you know.”

  “You’re not a coward and you killed.”

  “In battle. Normal life isn’t war. At least it shouldn’t be.”

  Melody toyed with her mug, processed that, scraped a bright pink fingernail along the auto shop logo emblazoned on white ceramic. Sam couldn’t remember how it had come into his possession. It didn’t really matter, but he hated the holes in his memory. Especially hated that some of the things he didn’t want to remember played loud and clear in his mind while the innocuous details of regular life sometimes escaped him.

  “How are things with Yukiko?” she finally asked, initiating an official change of subject.

  Sam sighed and rubbed the left side of his face, the side still intact. “I don’t know how it’ll turn out.”

  “Is that up to you or to her?”

  “I guess it’s up to both of us. Whether she wants to participate is her decision.”

  “She loves you, right?”

  “She does. But I’m not the same guy she fell in love with. There’s a difference. Besides, I’m not really that loveable.”

  “I think you are. And you’re cute, too. Do you know the waitresses all think you’re on-fire hot?”

  “Then they’re all fetishists.”

  “Everybody has scars, yours are just on the outside. But it’s not the scars. You’re kind. Respectful. Or maybe it’s the combination.” She tipped her head and studied him for a moment. “The scars, they make you look dangerous. Are you?”

  “I’m incredibly dangerous.”

  “See? On fire. I’m not hitting on you, by the way, just sharing my perspective.”

  “You’re entitled to an opinion, even if it’s wrong.”

  “Maybe I am wrong. According to you, I’m a terrible judge of character.”

  “You just made my point for me.”

  “You’re also a smart ass.” Melody sipped her coffee delicately, a pinky finger raised. A former junkie with a debutante demeanor, as discomfiting as it was charming.

  The throw slid off her shoulder, fully exposing her inked arms, the phases of her life, her various rebellions and hardships. They were all etched there in vivid color as an invite, a challenge to interpret if you dared get close enough. There was a shamrock on her right bicep that reminded him of his soap. Irish Spring. Magic leprechauns who turned green into white.

  She noticed him scrutinizing it and she flexed her muscle with a sad smile. “I got this for luck.”

  “Is it working?”

  “It’s just a charm, a talisman, whatever. We make our own luck. But it can’t hurt, right?”

  “I get it. I have a lucky cat.”

  She looked around hopefully. “You have a cat?”

  “No, I have a lucky cat. Maneki Neko. The ones you see when you walk into an Asian restaurant or business.”

  She gave him an unexpected smile. “No way. You mean those cat statues that wave at you?”

  “Not all of them wave, but yeah.”

  “Cute. So you have your own talisman.”

  “Yep, one with absolutely no mystical properties I believe in, just like your shamrock. But like you said, it can’t hurt.”

  “Everybody needs a symbol of hope. Mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Go ahead, you know where it is.”

  “I should after last night. I don’t know how many beers I had, but they went through my kidneys before my liver had anything to say about it.”

  “That might be a good thing.”

  Melody retrieved her purse from the living room floor and disappeared into the bathroom while Sam gulped coffee and helped himself to her uneaten, second piece of toast, which had turned into a cold, limp, butter-soaked sponge. He went to the front window and lifted the shade. The black Jeep was gone. He briefly wondered if it had ever been there to begin with.

  Chapter Eight

  MELODY CAME OUT OF THE BATHROOM ten minutes later looking transformed. Crisp, put together, and almost innocent if you didn’t look too deeply into her eyes. Her blond hair was brushed and tied into a neat ponytail. She’d managed to conceal her black eye with some skillful makeup application.

  She was still wearing her work clothes—the tight tank with the Pearl Club logo stretched across her breasts, the shorts that gave an enticing hint of firm buttock—the “tip multiplier,” he called the uniform. A genius piece of marketing that shamelessly capitalized on the weakness of men.

  She caught his eye and plucked the front of her tank top before sitting down and draining her coffee mug. “I read an editorial in the paper a couple days ago. This pisses some people off. They call these uniforms exploitative, a shameful example of flagrant sexism. Legitimate businesses walking a fine line between entertainment and prostitution. As if Pearl Club was a low-rent strip club selling their employees through the back door. As if I need a civic babysitter.”

  “Some people have too much time and sanctimony on their hands. But it is sexist, you have to admit.”

  “Sure it is, but I have a good-paying, honest job in a skimpy costume. Big deal. Nobody’s telling me to get on my back or on my knees. Anybody who says there’s a fine line between this uniform and selling your body for real doesn’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.”

  The tough Melody, the one he knew best, was back. “You’re absolutely right.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re wondering about me.”

  “It’s none of my business. Besides, it doesn’t matter.”

  She traced a finger around a rectangle of light the sun painted on the table. “On the streets, you don’t do it for money, you do it for protection or drugs. That’s a fine line.”

  “Maybe you should write your own editorial.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Can I ask you something that doesn’t have anything to do with Pearl Club or skimpy clothes?”

  “Sure.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  She shrugged.
“Whatever. Shoot.”

  “What’s the difference between being treated like shit by Ryan and being treated like shit on the street?”

  He braced himself for a cyclonic onslaught, but she surprised him by letting her eyes roam thoughtfully around the kitchen for a moment. “Nothing, I guess. Nothing at all. Maybe that’s just what I got used to.”

  “You can get used to anything bad if you deal with it every day.”

  “Like war?”

  “Like war. But it doesn’t have to be like that. It shouldn’t be like that.”

  “Is that what you’re working on figuring out?”

  “I’m trying. Does Ryan have a black Jeep?”

  “No, he drives a Beemer, I told you. Why?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That was a pretty specific question for nothing.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not only dangerous, I’m paranoid.”

  She didn’t smile, but her single dimple on the left side of her mouth made a brief appearance. “At least you’re not an asshole.”

  “Now that’s something I’d like on my headstone.”

  Melody finally laughed, then tossed a twenty on the table. “For the beer. I cleaned out your refrigerator last night.”

  He pushed the money across the table. “I quit drinking.”

  She didn’t pick up the bill. “As of this morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When I was in treatment, they said I could never drink again or I’d relapse.”

  “I guess they were wrong.”

  “They wanted me to believe that addiction is an essential part of my identity, but it’s not. Addiction is complicated, humans are dynamic—and there are no absolutes. But it’s probably a good thing for you to do, quit drinking. With the meds and all.”

  “That’s what the doc says.”

  She fussed with her purse, checked her phone, pushed the money toward him. “For the crash pad then. It’s hard to find lodging this good on short notice.”

  “The toast won you over?”

  “The coffee was better, but that’s not saying much. What time do you start?”

  “Four. The easy shift.”

  “Me, too. See you then.” She got up to leave, made it to the door, then paused, hand on the knob. “What’s the worst thing, Sam?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked over her shoulder, then walked back into the kitchen. “You know. I heard you shouting this morning.”

  A good question, and one nobody had ever asked him outright. What was the worst thing? Waking up screaming after a combat dream or some seriously fucked up version of life on the base? Losing a wife? Traumatic brain injury that came with blinding headaches; memory loss; partial hallucinations when the world went unexpectedly blurry and you saw strange shapes, strange colors? Working as a bar back when you had an engineering degree and a Purple Heart? “I don’t know. I guess that’s the worst thing.”

  “I wanted to help … I just didn’t … I didn’t know if I could. I wasn’t sure what the right thing to do was. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know what the right thing is either, Mel. But thanks.”

  She nodded, then let herself out quietly, leaving Sam to ponder the twenty dollar bill sitting next to the plate of languishing, butter-sponge toast. For some reason, the whole tableau seemed absurd, just sitting there like an ironic piece of pop art. Even more bizarre was his sudden thought that if you were a starving refugee in a war-gutted country, maybe this toast and this money would be your symbol of hope—something you might tattoo on your bicep or put on a national flag if you ever won the toast and the money from the enemy.

  And that pretty much closed the circle on absurd for the day. At least he hoped so.

  Chapter Nine

  NOLAN HATED PARKING GARAGES. EVEN IF they were above ground, they seemed subterranean and stifling, places where trolls of all kinds could lurk unseen. There were so many opportunities for concealment: behind cars, pylons, elevator vestibules, in stairwells. One of the most important skills a cop could possess was identifying potential hiding places because clues and criminals were reluctant to be found.

  It was the same with her car keys, which was why she was late for work this morning; but traffic on the Hollywood Freeway would be the official explanation, one nobody would question. It was her belief that people in LA were unremittingly apathetic about being late to any engagement because no effort was required to come up with an excuse. And if you were socially awkward, it was a great icebreaker at parties.

  I’m so sorry I’m late, the 101 was an absolute nightmare!

  Oh my God, you’re lucky you weren’t on the 405!

  Don’t even get me started on the 210, I can’t believe people actually live on that side of town …

  She stepped out of the car and felt the promise of a beautiful warm day on her skin, forgetting about lost keys and traffic and serial killers. But it was hard to forget her aversion to parking garages when she heard footsteps echoing strangely behind her, glancing off the concrete surfaces, folding into an eerie frequency. Even though this was a police garage, she put her hand on her weapon before turning around.

  “Don’t shoot me, Maggie.” Remy was walking toward her with a weary smile. His unruly black hair was starting to corkscrew, even in the dry LA air, and she wondered what it looked like in the humidity of Louisiana. His dark, inkblot eyes were cupped with purplish pouches. The fine blue suit he’d been wearing last night was a rumpled mess, and he hadn’t bothered to shave.

  “From the looks of you, it might put you out of your misery. Did you catch any sleep?”

  “An hour standing up, maybe.”

  “What’s the news from last night, anything good?”

  He shrugged his ambivalence. “Uncooperative witnesses. A million different fingerprints to sort through and run, maybe one of them will pop this time around. And the field unit actually found fibers in that shithole that match some from the crime scene in April.”

  A fresh flow of darkness began seeping into Nolan’s soul as unbidden images from last night unrolled in a gruesome, mental cinema. “That’s something.”

  “It might be, if we can find the source.”

  “Did you ID her?”

  “Stella Clary. Twenty-seven, from Lodi, no next of kin.”

  Alone in a world of suffering. At least she had a name now. Stella Clary wouldn’t be totally forgotten; she would always exist in the sad, dark place in her heart reserved for victims. “Nobody saw anything?”

  “Are you kidding?” he scoffed. “You were there. Nobody at the Aqua was sober enough to see their own reflection in a roomful of mirrors.”

  “Any clues he was operating somewhere else before LA?”

  “The MO doesn’t match anything in the violent crime databases.”

  “Three victims in three months is a brisk pace for a serial that’s just starting out. And these killings are high risk, in public spaces. It’s like this guy is at the end of his run, can’t control his urges anymore. Or he’s anxious to get noticed.”

  “He’s getting plenty of notice. The press gave him a name this morning, did you see that?”

  “Yes.”

  “At first I was pissed as hell, but maybe it’s not a bad thing. It’ll feed his ego and maybe he’ll get cockier than he already is. Sloppy.”

  “One a month. Do you think he’ll keep to his schedule?”

  Remy sighed. “Serials are creatures of habit. He might not be capable of deviating. But I don’t plan to wait and find out. The task force is on this around the clock now.”

  “What about the feds?”

  “They’re sniffing around, offering their support, but the captain hasn’t officially brought them on board yet. I have no problem with it, but the decision is up to him.”

  “Al and I are here for you if you need some extra eyes.”

  “I appreciate that. I hope you drank the rest of the champagne when you got home.”

  She had, a
nd quickly because it had fuzzed the images of Stella Clary’s butchered body for a little while. Long enough to get to sleep. “I felt obliged.”

  “Good. When you open champagne, you always throw away the cork.” His expression softened. “I didn’t have a chance to ask yesterday.”

  “About what?”

  “How you’re doing. I haven’t seen you around much since the visitation.”

  Her thoughts rewound to that dreadful, surreal day at the funeral home in Reseda. She remembered the countless faces of colleagues and strangers, friends and family, all swirling in and out of her field of vision like images in a carnival funhouse mirror; her mother blotting her eyes with a mangled tissue while her grim and steadfast father greeted mourners in the receiving line; Max’s fiancée weeping as she sat in a large carved chair, looking small and defeated. The furniture had outraged her. It was too dark, too oversized, like ponderous wooden weights specifically designed to further drag down wounded spirits.

  “I’m okay. Thanks for being there, Remy.” She felt his eyes but didn’t meet them.

  His phone chirruped a text alert and he stared at his phone for what seemed like a long time. “We just got a hit on prints from a vodka bottle we found in Clary’s room,” he finally said.

  “Good. Go.”

  He pocketed his phone. “The drink offer is always open, Maggie. No pressure.”

  Not a good idea, getting tangled up with Remy Beaudreau of Homicide Special Section. A horrible idea. “Catch your killer, and we’ll celebrate.”

  Chapter Ten

  MELODY SLID HER GREEN VW BEETLE into her designated slot in the empty communal carport of her apartment building. There were only six units here, and all of her neighbors had day jobs, although she had no idea what those jobs were. She rarely ran into any of them except sometimes on weekends. It was perfect—most days, she could almost imagine it was her place alone.

  She checked her rearview mirror before she got out, a precautionary measure that was hardwired into her as much as breathing was. Nobody there. Not her potentially homicidal boyfriend; not some freak from her past or the Monster of Miracle Mile; not some homeless man taking up temporary residence beneath the lemon trees by the breezeway, which happened on occasion. It was safe, safe for now, but she still clutched her pepper spray as she got out of the car.