by P. J. Tracy
“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.
His phone chimed and he answered. “Good morning, doc.”
“Good morning, Sam. I’m calling personally to confirm your appointment for tomorrow.”
“Afraid I wouldn’t show up?”
“No. Honestly, I just wanted to know how you’re getting along.”
“I’m alive, and it feels great. I’m meeting with the funeral director today to make arrangements for Yuki, that doesn’t feel great. Mainly, I’m walking around in a haze. Things haven’t caught up with me yet.”
“I’m sure they haven’t.”
“After the funeral, I’m going to rent a place in Big Sur for a week or two to get away.”
“That’s a wonderful idea. I’d like to continue our regular sessions by Skype while you’re there.”
“I’d like that, too.”
“Good. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Sam was looking forward to it, too. He liked her and respected her; if he’d met her personally instead of professionally, they might even be friends. Somewhere down the road, he hoped they could have some cocktails together and reminisce about the time he’d almost lost his mind.
He wasn’t sure if he should tell her about the Deep into the Dark connection or the fact that she’d been a secondary subject of Rolf’s surveillance. It was disturbing, and wasn’t really germane, but she might take a professional interest. Just because her specialty was trauma didn’t mean she wouldn’t end up writing a scholarly piece on stalkers at some point, especially since she’d been involved with one, even if indirectly.
He filled his coffee mug and found that Tanzanian Peaberry was a revelation, then began nibbling a croissant while he continued to scroll through rental listings. He’d narrowed it down to three possibilities when his phone rang again: Remy Beaudreau.
“Good morning, Detective.”
“Mr. Easton. Thank you for your call last night. I know you were taking a risk. I honored your request for privacy and kept you out of things entirely.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Now, I’m asking the same of you. I think you said last night, ‘We’re not having this conversation’?”
“I did.”
“Right now, we’re not having this conversation.”
“Understood.”
He sighed. “We found Ronald Doerr recently deceased near the encampment under the First Street Bridge early this morning.”
Sam closed his eyes, trying to keep his world on its fragile axis. Rondo had been real. He’d survived somehow, had been in Los Angeles, and right here in his house. Jesus. “How?”
“Knife wound to the gut. It’s possible that it was self-inflicted, but we’re wai
ting to hear what the coroner has to say.”
A man on fire. Rondo, a tormented soul, living a life of horror from Afghanistan to here—and dying in squalor and madness, homeless and alone, under a fucking bridge in a heartless city that let the beautiful park that was the West Side VA rent out storage and laundry facilities. Rondo had finally ended the agony himself.
If I thought he was still alive, I’d hunt him down and kill him myself.
Oh, no, don’t even go there. The days of fucked-up, paranoid fantasy were over, and he was never going back, even if he had to live on tranquilizers and rye whiskey for the rest of his life.
“Mr. Easton?”
“Yeah, sorry. It’s just a shock. Do you think he was the Monster?”
“No question, but we’re just starting to pull that together on our end. We’re keeping things under wraps until we can build our case, so you’re the only person outside the department who knows. Please keep it that way.”
“You have my word.”
“Things may get difficult for you and your source once this breaks. The media may or may not put together your connection to Doerr; but once they find out that you were involved with the Hesse incident—and they will once it becomes public record—they’ll start poking into every aspect of your life. It will die down eventually, but I just wanted to give you a warning so you can be prepared.”
“I figured as much. I’d planned to get out of town for a while anyhow.”
“It’s a good idea. You have my gratitude, Mr. Easton, and know you have a friend in the LAPD if you ever need anything.”
Sam hung up and stared down at the oily swirls of cream on the surface of his coffee as if they held some absolute truth. Things were going to get ugly for the Army and for Colonel Doerr and his family. Or maybe this would all go away, too, explained away as a clerical error in the vast red tape of the military machine. But what would never go away was the knowledge that their son had been a serial killer. That was about as FUBAR as things could get.
EPILOGUE
THE BAR WAS RIOTOUS AND FILLED with cops and detectives celebrating the victorious Miracle Mile task force. Remy was in the center of a clamoring group of law enforcement revelers who were sloshing beers all over themselves and the floor as they toasted boisterously. Nolan thought he looked uncomfortable as the subject of all the attention, but he was smiling.
“I’ve never seen so many drunk cops in one place before,” Al said, sipping the foam off his beer. “If something major happens tonight, Los Angeles is screwed.”
“Catching a serial is a big deal.”
“Damn right it is. I’m anxious to have a chat with Remy and find out how he did it. I mean, he had some fibers and a set of prints from a dead guy supposedly two years in the ground and ended up finding him freshly dead in a homeless encampment. That’s some diligent, enlightened detecting.”
“It is.”
Al lifted a brow at her. “Maybe he had some help.”
Nolan had wondered the very same thing, but all that mattered was that the Monster wouldn’t kill again. “It’s all leg work in the end, and catching a break.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Crawford’s gaze drifted to the pool table where there was a fierce game of 8-ball in progress between Gang and Narcotics and Robbery Special Section. “I was wrong about Sam Easton. Makes me wonder what else I’m wrong about.”
“You were wrong about him, but not about me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did have a soft spot for him. Because of Max. You were being a cop, I was being a cop and a sister.”
“And you ended up being right. Mags, everything we do is colored by experience. I wanted Easton, you didn’t—we had our own reasons and everything worked out because of it. You can fight it, but you can’t ever entirely vanquish it. You shouldn’t. That’s instinct.”
“Thanks, Al.”
“It’s the way it is. And instinct can take you to the right places sometimes, that I can tell you.” He gestured with his beer. “My instinct says Remy’s on his way over, he’s been staring at you all night. I think I’ll go use the can.”
Remy was on his way over, there was no instinct about it, and the crowd parted deferentially as he passed through the bawdy temple that was his realm for the night. Al gave him a fist bump as he passed, then turned back and winked at her, which predictably made her cheeks bloom. She was going to kill him.
Remy was at her table now, looking down at her with a smile that hadn’t dimmed all night. “Mind if I take a seat and get out of the fray for a little while?”
“Please do. Congratulations, Remy.” She tapped his martini glass with her beer mug.
“I’m glad it’s over.”
“The whole city is. Are you going to take some time off?”
“I am. One thing about Homicide, you have guaranteed job security. There’s always going to be a case waiting for you when you get back to the office.”
“Depressing, but true.”
“What are you doing to keep yourself occupied during your leave?”
“Trying to get the bird of paradise in my front yard to bloom.”
“A noble endeavor.”
She looked over his shoulder and saw his tipsy disciples moving as a single, beer-sloshing organism toward the table. “Looks like they’re not finished with you.”
His eyes sparked with humor. “They’re relentless. Never squander an opportunity to act like a pack of frat boys and sorority sisters. Since we’re both on vacation, it would be a great time to grab that celebratory drink you promised me.”
“We’re having one right now.”
He leaned forward and pinned her to her seat with those wild onyx eyes. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Maggie. You’re one of the sharpest detectives the LAPD has, don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out yet.”
* * *
Sam stood on the small lawn of the cliffside rental cottage in Big Sur, watching Melody watch the ocean. She was perched on a rock, staring down at the slender, tawny beach and the tumbling surf. He wondered if Teddy had ever been up here with his board and his weed.
She’d started playing guitar again and had brought her acoustic, but she said the sounds of the ocean were so much better than the twang of strings, so it sat neglected next to her. Melody was stronger than he’d ever imagined, and it wasn’t just street toughness. A brush with death could tear you down, but it could also tap an inner strength, and she was in the process of an astonishing transformation.
He hadn’t had any hallucinations or blackouts in two weeks, not since the night in the majestic house of horror in Beverly Hills. He still occasionally had combat dreams, but they were diluted, more like watercolors than vivid oils. Ty, Shaggy, Wilson, and Rondo were never a part of them now, and he hoped they’d finally been laid to rest.
Dr. Frolich conjectured that the lessening intensity was twofold: some of the blank spaces had been filled in, and he’d been able to absolve himself of some of his survivor’s guilt by saving others. He and Melody were still here, and Rondo would never kill again. Nolan believed he was here for a reason. Maybe she was right.
More often than war, he dreamed of Yuki, but not her violent end or the slow, painful disintegration of their marriage. He was only visited by beautiful scenes: her black hair shining in the sun as she plucked persimmons from her tree; on Venice Beach with her oversized sunglasses; in Tuscany, walking along a sloping gravel road beside a vineyard and sampling a sour wine grape that made her mouth pucker.
He always woke up crying from these dreams, with an unbearable void in his core, but he cherished the time he spent with her in sleep. Maybe she did have the capacity to forgive him in an afterlife, and these dreams were her way of telling him that. Or more likely, he was finally learning to forgive himself.
He still had Rolf’s script, even though he’d planned to douse it with gasoline and incinerate it. One day he might need to read it in order to put that unfinished busi
ness away for good, so he kept it stored in a box on the top shelf of a closet he never used. He didn’t know if Melody still had hers. He’d ask her about it one day.
“How was your run?” Melody asked without turning around.
“Hilly.” He walked over and sat next to her.
“You went on the trails?”
“Where else would I run?”
“There are cougars out there. There are warnings tacked up all over the place.”
“I didn’t see any cougars.”
“Nobody ever does until it’s too late.”
“I’m completely unpalatable, I still have shrapnel inside me, and those cats have a sharp sense of smell. So what do you think of Big Sur?”
“I love it, I want to live here. Think there are any bartending jobs?”
“I’m sure you could find one.”
She put her chin in her hands. “I’d probably get bored up here.”
“Maybe you’re not done with Los Angeles quite yet.”
“You might be right. What’s next for you, Sam?”
“Dinner. I’m starving.”
“That’s a very short-sighted goal.”
“There is great wisdom in knowing that sometimes, those are the best kind to have.”
She rolled her eyes, then opened her guitar case and pulled out a small, white bag. “For you, I saw it when I was shopping today. It’s not the Hope Diamond or anything, so don’t have any big expectations.”
Sam reached into the bag and withdrew a key ring with a green enameled shamrock dangling from it. Irish Spring and a tattoo all in one magnificent little parcel of kitsch.
She gave him her charming, crooked Melody smile for the first time in a while. “For luck. Who knows? Maybe talismans work after all. Like you said, we’re not dead and we’re not in jail. Life doesn’t get much better than that.”
