“It’s all about control, whatever form it takes. He’s getting his rocks off somehow, you can be sure of that.” Crawford shook his head and looked away. “This sick fuck is going to make a mistake. They all do eventually.”
“Let’s hope the Aqua is his last stand.”
He retrieved his phone from his suit coat pocket. “Amen to that. I’m going to let Remy know. I’ll meet you outside.”
While he ducked out to make the call, Nolan took as many steps into the room as she could without contaminating the scene. The nameless woman had been brutalized with a knife, her torso flayed open in a badly botched dissection, just like the previous two victims in the Miracle Mile neighborhood. The only things left of her that resembled anything human were above the neck and below the waist. He never touched their faces, and there wasn’t an obvious sexual angle. All of this had significance to an incomprehensibly warped mind, but it wasn’t her case to solve.
She offered a silent apology to Jane Doe, then turned away and walked down the dark, garbage-strewn hall to the exit. Outside the smudged glass door, the street was crawling with police cruisers, the night awash with strobing red and blue emergency lights. Garlands of crime scene tape fluttered in the warm night breeze. Radios crackled and voices droned. Beyond the street barricades, the news satellite vans were gathering. Like all predators, they had sharp noses for the scent of blood.
Predators, prey, parasites—that was Los Angeles in three words, and more often than not, it was hard to make a distinction between them.
Remy showed up ten minutes later, wearing a navy blue suit that looked far too expensive for the job he was about to embark upon. She’d thrown away a few suits after particularly gruesome crime scenes, knowing she could never wear them again, so what was the point in spending more than the bare minimum? Maybe he didn’t own any cheap suits.
His steady black eyes grazed over both of them and he tipped his head toward the Aqua’s blurry front door. “Show me.”
Chapter Four
ALL THE STOOLS AT PEARL CLUB’S polished zinc bar were occupied, and the dense crowd of posh, hip Angelenos waiting for vacancies was overwhelming the front of the house. They shifted and jostled to a numbing techno soundtrack under dreamy, cinematic lighting, a combination far more trance-inducing than the liquor they were planning to imbibe.
Melody Traeger hustled to keep up with drink orders because the faster she dispensed alcohol, the bigger the tips got. It was bartender logic at its most basic. She’d also developed a more specific consumer behavior model based on customer types to optimize remuneration for her services.
Statistically speaking, struggling actors left generous tips because they were still in the service industry themselves. Movie biz heavyweights also tipped well because they had large studio expense accounts, but the juniors sometimes didn’t tip at all. Music industry people were unpredictable, which skewed her statistics, but anecdotally they were poor tippers unless they were hitting on her, and about fifty percent of them fell into that category. She’d chosen a psychology major purely for the self-help aspect, but it definitely had other practical applications. When she finally got her degree next year, she would be unstoppable.
Tonight had been a long but lucrative shift, and she was counting the minutes until ten, when she could turn the bar over to the relief crew and get on with the rest of the night. Ryan had come here straight from the airport and was waiting for her at the end of the bar, sipping a beer.
One of her smitten regulars, a venerated session drummer and producer named Markus Ellenbeck, flagged her over. He was an unabashed anachronism, with his dyed black mullet and chunky, clunky rock ’n’ roll jewelry. There was no pretense or posturing about it; he was simply wearing the skin that made him comfortable, uncaring that the skin was outdated by a few decades. You couldn’t fault anybody for authenticity. It was an admirable trait.
He smiled and laid a fifty on the bar. “Can I get another martini, Mel?”
“Sure, same gin?”
“Yeah, and a couple extra olives for dinner.” He leaned forward and winked conspiratorially. “Hey. I think I finally figured out why you look so familiar.”
“I keep telling you why. It’s LA, I’m blond, and I have one of those faces.”
He looked victorious, as if he’d just solved the mystery of the universe. “Poke.”
“Poke what?”
“It was an all-girl punk band.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Not many people have. They weren’t around long, but they were good.” His eyes probed her, looking for signs of deception. “You played guitar. Actually, you shredded guitar. Your stage name was Roxy Codone.”
“You’re hilarious. I’ve never touched a guitar in my life and I hate punk rock.”
He deflated a little, and then his uncertainty turned to full-blown disappointment as he studied her face more carefully. “I guess I’m off base, you’re way too pretty to be Roxy. She was a fucking mess.”
“Keep trying, sweetie. Maybe one day you’ll remember the first time you saw me was here,” she said, and whisked away his empty glass.
She stole a quick glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar as she reached for the expensive gin Markus liked to drink. Between the colorful bottles, she saw a smooth, young face that didn’t betray what she’d been a few years ago, the very least of which had been a guitarist for Poke. In fact, aside from the tattoos, she looked downright fresh and innocent in contrast to the slinking, hyper-coiffed flowers of both sexes that flourished here like an invasive species.
It wouldn’t be difficult for Markus to confirm his suspicion. She wasn’t living in anonymity, just going by her middle name now instead of Antoinette. But he wouldn’t bother. Poke was ancient history, four years gone, and nobody cared what had happened to Roxy Codone. Once you ditched your Twitter account and disappeared from the stage, you were as good as dead.
Ryan knew who she was and what she had been and he liked her anyway. That’s why she thought they might have a future together. He was also handsome in a dark, brooding way, very successful, and worked in the music industry—all very alluring attributes.
She served Markus his martini with extra olives, started working on margaritas for table twenty-seven, and glanced at Ryan. He turned his hands over in a questioning gesture—almost ready?—then went back to his disapproving scrutiny of the crowd, keeping a watchful eye on the men clamoring for her attention or another drink, especially Markus.
His jealousy bothered her sometimes, but it was an imperfection she could live with. Everybody had a green streak. It was human nature, and men could be territorial Neanderthals. She and Ryan fought sometimes, they broke up and made up, but wasn’t that the way it was with every relationship?
She passed him a smile and held up five fingers for five minutes. He shrugged and drained the rest of his beer.
“You know that guy at the end of the bar?” Markus asked.
“Not really your business, is it?”
“I suppose it isn’t, but I like you a lot, Mel. Steer clear of him. He’s a flaming asshole.”
* * *
Ryan filled two wine glasses with an excellent California cabernet and brought them to the living room where Melody was luxuriating in the splendor of his apartment. She loved the vast, open space and the oversized leather sofa with down-filled pillows that were as soft and yielding as marshmallows. She was enthralled by the gleaming chrome and glass and granite, the lacquered cabinet with its dizzying array of high-end electronics. There was a grand piano in a corner by the bank of windows that looked down on cacophonous Sunset Boulevard. She could get used to living in a place like this.