Deep into the Dark

by P. J. Tracy

  YUKI WAS WELL CONNECTED, AND ONE of her friends was a multiple Oscar-winning costume designer who was always abroad somewhere, either on location or doing research. Sam had only met her a few times, but she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders, at least for costumes and real estate because she owned a lot of it. The Craftsman bungalow in Marina del Rey was a peach, and Yuki was renting it by the month for far below market value.

  By the time he parked across the street, the adrenaline buzz and the panicked, singular sense of purpose had worn off, leaving him feeling depleted and possibly still a little drunk. It was like he’d been sleepwalking and someone had thrown cold water in his face to bring him back to reality. And the reality was, he had no idea what he was going to do now—or what he was even doing here in the first place. To make sure Yuki was safe from his nightmare?

  He turned off the car and looked at the dark bungalow. She was still in bed. Even though the sun wasn’t up yet, there were some people on the sidewalks already, getting in an early jog before work or taking Fifi out for her morning constitutional. All of them noticed the Mustang, and one man tripped over the curb ogling it. He and the car made a good pair: both of them got gawked at wherever they went, just for different reasons.

  While he waited for a light to flick on, he slowly came to the realization that there was no reason for him to be here except that he was becoming unmoored. If he kept fixating on prophesying death, it would keep happening and he would keep getting more paranoid, keep doing unreasonable things, like rushing off at five a.m. to check on Yuki instead of doing the sensible thing, like texting or calling; or even more sensibly, take a bad dream at face value, a simple manifestation of a troubled subconscious, not a cosmic map of the future.

  What are you going to do if Yuki notices your car outside her house?

  Son of a bitch, that was a great question and another problem. If she saw him, there would be the obvious question: what was he doing here? Then he would be faced with a profound dilemma: either confess his burgeoning madness or allow her to believe he was stalking her. There would be no bullshitting his way out of this one, and the only solution that immediately presented itself was to get the hell out of here.

  He started the car, which sounded like a jet engine in the predawn calm, drawing more attention. Before he could put it into gear, a light went on in Yuki’s living room, the door opened, and he froze. There was still a possibility she wouldn’t notice him, it was dark and she was a zombie in the morning before her coffee. He held his breath and waited for her to emerge, get the paper, and either bust him or retreat back inside.

  Instead of Yuki, a muscular, shirtless man wearing pajama bottoms stepped out and retrieved the paper, then went inside without looking up. It was long after he’d closed the door that Sam remembered to breathe.

  * * *

  Mulholland Drive, the road that should have been named after his great-great-grandfather, according to Vivian. It was a suicide route if you were in the right vehicle and the wrong frame of mind. But at the moment, it was Sam’s road to salvation, a road that led back in time. He was still a kid, Grandpa Dean was behind the wheel, and the biggest problem in his life was trying not to puke as the Mustang roared around the serpentine twists and turns and up to the best view in the world.

  But he couldn’t sustain the fantasy, so he pulled over at a scenic overlook and turned off the engine, listening to the soft tick as it cooled. He tried to admire the spectacular view of the sun coming up over Los Angeles, but he didn’t find it remotely inspiring, not this morning.

  There was a perfectly logical explanation for a half-naked man to be getting Yuki’s morning paper that didn’t involve her screwing somebody else. He couldn’t wait to hear what it was. But she wasn’t answering her phone, which left his imagination free to traverse all kinds of sordid scenarios, like her en flagrante at this very moment while the phone buzzed on the nightstand, an uncooperative witness to her infidelity and betrayal.

  Then again, maybe she was just peeved that he hadn’t responded to her texts yesterday, or wasn’t prepared to continue the dialogue about her move to Seattle, and the man on her porch this morning was a gay friend visiting from out of town. It was all just one big misunderstanding.

  After leaving three messages, he sent her a text asking for a callback as soon as possible. What he would say to her when she finally returned his call was unclear, but he decided it would be potentially disastrous if he confronted her over the phone, especially in his current frame of mind.

  So he sat and he waited while the sun rose higher, streaking the sky with ombré shades of tangerine, lavender, and rose. He stepped outside and took a few photos to commemorate this moment in time when his future hung as nebulously as the haze over the city.

  It was still and quiet, as peaceful as Los Angeles ever got; but peace was a rare and fleeting thing here, and proving his point, he heard the low, impressive growl of an engine approaching, then slowing, an engine to rival or even surpass the Mustang’s. He got back in the car, not wanting to be seen or bothered.

  A couple minutes later, a yellow Ferrari pulled up on the other side of the overlook and parked cockeyed, almost parallel to the guard rail. A disheveled couple got out, still wearing evening attire. They’d had a long night, and the party was still in full swing.

  The woman was beautiful, young, laughing, and teetering unsteadily on stiletto heels. Her companion was much older, dressed as conservatively as she was provocatively, a common sight in LA, as common as hemp oil and thousand dollar sushi dinners. They kissed passionately in front of the sunrise, then she pulled off her shoes and started prancing around, swishing her ruffled skirt coquettishly.

  This was exactly the type of human theater that would normally inspire Sam to craft an elaborate backstory, but he wasn’t interested in his fanciful fiction this morning. Besides, he knew this story wouldn’t have a happy ending, and happy endings were a sore topic at the moment.

  After fifteen minutes of flirtation, groping, coke-snorting, and multiple selfies in front of the sunrise, the May–September couple charged away in the yellow Italian stallion, oblivious to Sam’s presence, or more likely, uncaring.

  The city was coming to life now. He could feel it more than see it. Yuki still hadn’t responded, so he fired up Grandpa’s Mustang and headed for home, wishing Pink’s was open so he could get a hotdog.

  Nothing like a tube of processed meat to soothe a ravaged soul.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  GOLDEN WEST STUDIOS WAS ON THE lower level of an ultrahip hotel on Sunset Boulevard. Nolan had never been inside a recording studio, but she couldn’t imagine that all of them were as opulent as Markus Ellenbeck’s, or as rife with clichés.

  He was dressed in tight leather pants and laden with heavy, skull-themed jewelry, at ease in a chair behind the soundboard. Nolan’s overall impression was that of a beneficent nobleman of the rock world, graciously giving audience to his serfs.

  On the other side of the soundproof glass, two young beauties with falls of wavy, auburn hair and sea blue eyes sat on a leather banquette, sipping champagne for breakfast. Irish twins with talent that wouldn’t quit, according to Sir Ellenbeck.

  “I didn’t kill Ryan Gallagher. His well-being directly correlated with my ability to recoup a hundred grand worth of studio time he refused to pay for. I’ll never see a dime from the estate.”

  Not remotely troubled by the death of another human. In fact, he seemed bored. “Then you’ll be able to account for your whereabouts the last twenty-four hours.”

  He gestured fondly to the twins, his rings and bracelets jangling. They waved. “Siobhán and Sinéad will confirm that I’ve been here with them. For the past twenty-four hours.”

  The alibi would be easy enough to corroborate with hotel and studio staff. Ellenbeck wasn’t a guy who could slip away unnoticed—Nolan suspected his ego wouldn’t ever let that happen. She decided to change tack. “You were at Pearl Club two nights ago. And so wa
s Ryan Gallagher.”

  He seemed mildly surprised. “I was, Pearl Club is my home away from home. I left at about ten to pick up the ladies from the airport. We started recording immediately.”

  “Do you know Melody Traeger?”

  He smiled fondly. “She’s a doll.”

  “Did you know she was in a relationship with Mr. Gallagher?”

  “No. The poor thing, what a nightmare that must have been. She’s better off without that prick. She’ll realize that eventually.”

  Cold, Nolan thought. Extremely cold. “Do you have a relationship with her?”

  “I have a bartender–client relationship with her. She’s a doll,” he repeated.

  “Nothing more?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Did you bring her roses yesterday?”

  Ellenbeck laughed with genuine mirth. “I don’t do jewelry or flowers, Detective. They’re too full of symbolism that can be misconstrued. Fine dining, handbags, cashmere, trips—now those are things that can never be mistaken for love. At least not in LA.”

  * * *

  Nolan shoveled pancakes into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten in a month. She felt like she hadn’t slept in a month, too, but Crawford had quite a few years on her, and he wasn’t complaining, so she wouldn’t either. They both looked like hell and their collective table manners were suffering under the stress of hunger and sleep deprivation, but the other denizens of The Original Pantry Café this morning weren’t the types to judge. Not that she cared.

  Crawford wiped egg yolk from his chin and his tie and slurped his coffee so loudly that even the strung-out rock and rollers at the table next to them noticed. “Ellenbeck is arrogant and misogynistic, but is he capable of murder?”

  “His type doesn’t like to lose, and Gallagher had his money and the girl.”

  “I like the crime of passion angle, but Ellenbeck didn’t seem too het up about either one. And he’s got an alibi. We need to keep looking.”

  Nolan sighed. “We’ve talked to every sleazebag in the music promotion industry who ever laid eyes on Gallagher and we got nothing. Nobody liked him, but he was a gnat, annoying but not important enough to kill.”

  “The last phone call he made was to a burner phone, I’m guessing it was to his dealer. Maybe something went sideways. He’s a confirmed deadbeat.”

  “Yeah, but he was only holding a few grams. Not worth killing over.”

  “That depends on who the dealer is.”

  Nolan dragged her fork through the leftover syrup on her plate and licked it. She needed the extra glucose. Fast energy that would turn to carbohydrates and go straight to her hips. “He was an industry bottom-feeder. He could be dirty. Maybe we should head to Vegas.”

  “Vegas PD is solid, and he wasn’t on their radar. His apartment there is clean. Only thing left is to wade through his computers, and that’s going to take some time. But if he is dirty, that’s a cash business, and he’s going to keep his ledgers clean.”

  “If he’s smart, but he doesn’t sound smart to me.”

  Crawford crumpled his napkin and tossed it on the table. “That’s all too complicated and homicides rarely are, you know that. I think he was an everyday arrogant prick and something more mundane caught up with him. Like he slept with the wrong guy’s wife or cheated on the wrong woman, something we haven’t uncovered yet. We need to keep this close to home, where his killer is.”

  Nolan knew he was right, and the fact that Gallagher was an abuser was coloring her objectivity. He was an asshole by all accounts, but he wasn’t some arch villain and there was probably no grand conspiracy here. “Easton and Traeger are really close to home, but I still don’t see it.”

  Crawford leaned back in his chair. “They’re not off the hook yet.”

  “Neither one of them showed up on his building’s lobby surveillance the morning of his murder. Everyone else who did checked out.”

  “Which means the killer didn’t come in through the lobby, he or she used one of the entrances that doesn’t have cameras, which implies knowledge of the building. There are four fire doors and the parking garage door with key card entry for residents only. Once we get the log, we need to question everybody who used that door.”

  “It might not make a difference, someone could have slipped in with a group.”

  Crawford scratched the grizzled whiskers that were sprouting on his jaw faster than a well-watered Chia Pet. “Traeger doesn’t have any witnesses that can place her at her apartment between noon and two. And we haven’t talked to Easton’s wife yet about their lunch together, or confirmed he had a doctor’s appointment, so he’s not clear, either.”

  Nolan sighed and poured more sugar into her coffee. “They really rubbed you the wrong way, tell me why, Al.”

  “It’s not a personal thing, I just see potential motive. Sam Easton and Melody Traeger have some kind of an attachment. Gallagher tossed her around, hurt her. She’s pissed, Sam’s pissed. And they’re not the most stable individuals.”

  Nolan felt her face flush. “Because she was an addict and he’s a wounded warrior?”

  “Look, Mags, don’t take this the wrong way. But Easton is a war hero with an engineering degree who’s working as a bar back, and his wife’s renting a place in Marina del Rey, so things obviously aren’t good for him back on the home front. He’s got some major scars on the outside, so what kind of scars does he have on the inside? If he doesn’t have PTSD, then he’s not human. I see him as unpredictable, and he probably sees himself that way, so I don’t think he’d hold it against me. Traeger has some scars, too. And we’ve still got the stalker and the black Jeep to think about. The Miracle Mile Task Force doesn’t have one in their coverage, but it’s still out there, floating around in the ether. And here’s another thought: Katy Villa was killed by a black Jeep.”

  Nolan rolled her eyes. “Anything else you want to throw into the pot?”

  “No, I think I’m done.”

  “You just reminded me that homicides aren’t complicated. Backed yourself into a corner, didn’t you?”

  “I said they were rarely complicated.”

  Nolan tossed some cash on the table irritably. “Christ, you’re a pain in the ass, Al. If you ever get shot in the head, I’ll be the prime suspect. I’ll even confess.”

  “If that’s the way God wants me to go out, it would be an honor if you pulled the trigger.”

  The rock and rollers next to them were giving them nervous looks now. Nolan leered at them, and they turned away quickly. “Come on, old man, let’s go. The sun is up and so are we. Chop-chop, we’ve got a lot of legwork to do.”

  He gave her a feisty smile. “Where to, boss?”

  “You’ve got such a hard-on for Easton, let’s go talk to the wife and see if your pecker’s flying straight.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  DISAPPOINTMENT WAS AN UNAVOIDABLE ASPECT OF life, but with patience and resolve even the greatest adversity could be parlayed into an inspired result. When facing hardship, you had to redouble your efforts, and success would follow.

  Disappointment: his modest fame wasn’t commanding the appropriate attention or respect. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Notoriety was so common now, especially in Los Angeles, and equally fleeting: just a moronic blip on twenty-four-hour news channels, in the bottomless cesspool of social media, within simple, jaded minds that lacked any semblance of vision or imagination.

  Solution: a larger presence was required to excite his uninspired audience, and he must pursue this relentlessly.

  He glanced down at the newspaper on his lap, an offering left on a bench in Griffith Park by some archaic soul. This sheaf of useless kindling substantiated his hypothesis. On page three, below the fold, was a small article speculating about a monster in Miracle Mile. Yesterday’s headline had already been relegated to journalistic backwater. The placement was a sorry reflection on the state of the world and the attention span of its inhabitants. When a serial killer coul
d no longer compete with the licentious behavior of a spoiled, untalented starlet, it was difficult not to abandon hope.

  The Monster of Miracle Mile had a lot of work to do if he wanted to secure his place in history.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  MELODY WAS AWAKE AND IN THE kitchen when Sam got home. She’d exchanged her Lakers T-shirt and jeans for a sleeveless blue dress that showed off her curves and all the ink on her arms to great effect. She was humming as she stirred something on the stove, swaying her hips in time to the tune. It was a very different woman from the despondent one whose life mission had been to drink herself into oblivion last night.

  The air was aromatic with the smell of dark, rich coffee, something far more elevated than the low-end grocery store dreck he kept around, and there was a plate of pastries on the table. It made his heart hurt, having a woman who wasn’t Yuki in the house humming and cooking breakfast; imagining that she was cooking breakfast for somebody else right now made it hurt worse. But his empty stomach was howling and he was grateful for the distraction from his unresponsive phone and his battered spirit.

  “We didn’t eat anything last night. I hope you don’t mind, I was starving, plus I thought I should pull some weight around here for the free hotel.” She put down her spatula, turned to look at him, and froze. “Oh my God. You’re pissed. I shouldn’t be in your kitchen, taking over like I own the place.”

  “No, this is really nice.”

  She shrank into herself in apology. An abused woman anticipating a backhand. That broke his heart, too. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s fine, Mel. Actually, it’s great. I’m starving, too.”

  “Then why are you pissed?”

  “I’m not pissed at you.”

  “Are you … okay? I mean, that must have been a pretty bad dream last night.”

  “It was, but I’m okay. Honest. Thanks for asking.” He plucked a pastry off the plate, a bear claw. “These look amazing, where did you get them?”