Land of Shadows (17 page)

“What's your relationship with him?”

“Don't have one. I don't even pay him.”

“Who pays him?”

Hank stuck his hands beneath his damp armpits. “Can't say. Don't like the guy all that much. Not too reliable. But Nappy personally hired him, so he comes and goes when he wants. Crase does that sort of thing all the time. His
girlfriend
”—he made air quotes with his fingers— “Brenna Benevides? She's on the payroll as a secretary, but I doubt she knows how to spell or type or do anything
secretarial
. But I hear she provides
other services
.” More air quotes, more italics.

“So if I ran Brenna's name through the system?”

He laughed without humor. “I'll just say that she's in there. And she has access to the trailer key—Nappy's copy.”

“And do you know where Crase was that night?”

“No.”

I watched him—he blinked quickly and licked his thin lips. Either he was lying or dehydrated and moments away from passing out.

“You ever meet the victim, Monique Darson?”

Hank swiped his face. “No.” He pulled out the pack of Camels from his back pocket.

I plucked the pack from his hand and slid them down the table. “Can't smoke in here. The scratches on your hand and neck—how did you get them?”

He studied his right hand, then touched his neck. “I'm in construction. I get scratched all the time.”

I openly stared at the scratch on his hand to make him nervous.

“Listen,” he said, “I didn't have anything to do with Cyrus's kid getting killed. I was with Joanna all night, and we were … You know, hanging out and talking, but I swear to you … I'll take a lie detector test.” He puffed his cheeks and blew out air. “I need a smoke real bad.”

“Hank,” I said softly, “did you and Joanna kill Monique Darson? Maybe you thought she was a prowler, or a hooker…?”

“No, Detective.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I'm telling you the truth.”

“I have a witness who says that they saw you at the trailer Tuesday night.”

“They're lying,” he said, shaking his head.

“They said that they saw you that night and you had a jug of Clorox.”

“What?” he shouted. “That's a lie.”

“If it wasn't you they saw with the jug of Clorox, who was it then? Was it Joanna?”

“Look,” he said, “I don't know—”

I slapped the tabletop. “I stepped in that piece of shit trailer of yours, Hank, and I smelled dead girl, and if you tell me one more time that you have no idea—”

“I have no—” He stopped and clamped his lips together. “I got there on Wednesday morning at seven like everybody else and … and … I don't know, I swear on my mother's grave. I smelled it but I figured … I don't know, that it was a squirrel or a—”

“A
squirrel
?” I screeched. “Are you
kidding
me?” I leaned across the table and snarled, “So help me, I will close that construction site down today if you don't answer my questions, you goddamned dingleberry.”

“I thought the cleaning ladies, you know, tried to get rid of…” His hands clapped both sides of his moist face, Macaulay-Culkin-
Home-Alone
style.

I sat back in my seat and squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Before I left to come spend some special time with you,
Hank
, I talked to Beverly Leman. The cleaning lady comes on Monday and Thursday nights. And guess what that means? There
was
no cleaning lady. So,
Hank
, who the hell splashed bleach everywhere?”

Eyes wide, he manically shook his head. “I … I … don't…”

“Didn't you say you're the only one with a key?”

“I just told you: Mr. Crase has a key.”

“Right. Him and his hooker secretary.”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah. Exactly.”

I kept glaring at him—to tease and scare out a “tell,” a gesture that suggested deception. “When was the last time Mr. Crase or Brenna visited the site?”

“A week ago,” he said.

“Is Brenna always with him when he visits or does he switch up sometimes and bring other young things around?”

“Always Brenna.”

“And how long did he stay the last time he visited?”

Hank shrugged. “Just a few minutes. To sign checks, see the progress being made…”

“And when was the last time Cyrus Darson came to work?”

“Last Wednesday. I haven't seen him since.”

I took a deep breath, then said, “One more time: do you know who may have killed Monique Darson?”

“No, Detective.”

“Would you be willing to give us a DNA sample to compare against any DNA found on the victim?”

He nodded. “Yes. Please. What do I need to do?”

I left the interview room and hurried to the alcove where Joey and Colin were watching the interview on closed-circuit monitors.

Joey grinned at me. “
Dingleberry
? What the hell is that?”

“A piece of poop that sticks to ass hair,” I said, wincing. “Who wants to take DNA?”

Joey raised his hand. “I'll do it.”

“Want me to set up the poly?” Colin asked. “He can do it right after Derek Hester.”

“And when is that?” I asked.

“Around three this afternoon.”

“Cool. What do you guys think so far?”

Colin stood from the chair and stretched. “I think he's scared of you.”

I laughed. “Scared of
me
? I'm sweet as apple pie.”

“Yeah,” Colin said. “Apple pie laced with arsenic and rusty razor blades.”

 

23

While a cigar-chomping polygraph examiner gave Hank La Garza a lie detector test, I sat at my desk staring at the DMV picture of Angie Darson.
Three traffic tickets over the last seventeen years.
Clean. I then typed
CYRUS DARSON
into the computer and hit
ENTER
.

Misdemeanor trespass—probation.

Misdemeanor false imprisonment—six months in county jail.

Misdemeanor violating a restraining order—one year.

All three charges were almost thirty years old. Had Cyrus been a stalker before he had married Angie? Had a girlfriend dumped him but he had refused to go away, returning to her home, peeking in the windows, trapping her in a bedroom, begging her for another chance, coming back around after a judge had ordered him to stay away?

The officer who had administered the polygraph trudged over to my desk. “La Garza passed,” he announced. With the cigar still in his mouth, he slipped a stick of gum between his teeth.

I groaned and slumped in my chair. “You sure?”

“Yup.”

“And you asked if he was covering up for Napoleon Crase?”

“Couched in a different way, yeah, I did. And he said no. And there were no indications of deceit in his answers.”

I rubbed my eyes and released a long, loud sigh—Derek Hester had also passed his test. “Well, eliminating suspects … okay, well … damn…”

Exhaustion was setting in—my inability to complete sentences was the first indicator that my brain was packing its bags for a trip to Leisure World.

I escorted Hank La Garza back to the lobby and thanked him for coming in.

When I returned, Colin and Joey were standing at the coffeepot, talking about the best rifle to take down elk. They saw the frown on my face and laughed.

“Oh, yeah,” Joey said, with a playful sneer. “Lou's a tree hugger. She don't eat nothin' that casts a shadow.”

I reached my desk—someone had left an In-N-Out burger and a large soda next to my computer keyboard. I took a big bite from the burger, then said, “Shooting helpless animals is wrong.”

“She says with her mouth full of cow,” Colin said, sitting back in his seat.

I shook my head. “This guy wasn't killed because I wanted to show how big my dick is. He's dead cuz he's delicious.” I finished the double-double in five bites, then pushed the vase of roses farther away from the keyboard and closer to the edge of the desk. Their proximity made no difference—there were pictures of Greg and me tacked all over my cubicle walls, and I wore those rings on my finger, and had a “Sorry, baby” Porsche parked in the garage.

Luke, back from the construction trailer, stood at the board—he was now chronicling Monique's final twenty-four hours alive. “So while you were watching Sleepy D and Hank La Garza tell the truth,” he said to me, “Monique's phone records came back, and—”

“Time for an update?” Lieutenant Rodriguez had wandered to our area and was slurping from a Cup Noodles.

I propped a leg on my desk. “Sure.”

He jabbed his fork into the cup, then pointed to me. “After this, you need to clock out.” He nodded at Colin. “You, too.” Then he sat atop my desk and stuck another forkful of noodles into his mouth. “Let's hear it.”

Colin started. “It's still too early for DNA results. There's the hankie, the blood found in the trailer, the fingernail, Hank La Garza's cigarette and DNA swab, the rape kit, Derek Hester's DNA that he gave before the lie detector test—”

“Which he passed,” I added. “And so did La Garza.”

“Any fingerprints on the girl's phone?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.

“Only one print,” Colin said, “and it belonged to Monique. Zucca did find a few strands of hair, root attached, in the wood of that desk. And he'll get us the 3D scans as soon as possible.”

I turned to Pepe. “Anything come over the tip line?”

Pepe took a big bite from his second burger, then said, “One woman claims that her dog can sniff out murderers. All we need to do is find the murderer and she'll bring in the pooch. This other guy—a medium—”

“Can men be mediums?” Joey asked.

“—claims that Monique is talking to him and that for $250, he can connect us with her spirit.”

“Total rip-off,” Luke said. “I know somebody who'll do it for $175 and a Whopper meal.”

“So, no credible tips?” I asked Pepe.

“Not a one. And no serial murders with the same MO. Just a bunch of one-offs, like the one in San Diego.”

“So the family,” I said. “They're working-class people who spoil their daughters, who love their daughters. Dad is a neighborhood activist who led the charge against the rebuild but landed a job out of it—he's now an electrician at the site where Monique was found. Nappy Crase personally hired him.”

Lieutenant Rodriguez slurped his noodles. “Coincidence?”

I sipped my Diet Coke. “His alibi is a little shaky, but Colin checked it out.”

“Pann's for waffles at eight,” Colin said, “then the Flying Fox from ten to midnight. Can't confirm anything after that.”

“You thinkin'
he
did it?” Luke asked.

“We've seen worse, unfortunately,” I said, then took another sip of soda.

“Like the monster who thought he was the Messiah,” Lieutenant Rodriguez recalled. “Had babies with all five of his daughters. Then killed every one of them.”

I nodded. “Also: Cyrus Darson has a record.” I listed the charges.

“Sounds like he can't take no for an answer,” Pepe said.

“Something he and Crase have in common,” Luke added.

“Which is why…” I took a deep breath. “Which is why I'm putting Crase down as a person of interest on our big white board.”

Lieutenant Rodriguez crossed his arms and dropped his chin to his chest. “Because?”

“Because Monique Darson was found on his property. Because he enjoys being with young women and then committing acts of violence against them. Because, most importantly, he has one of only two keys to that trailer. And the man with the
other
key just passed his poly.” My body trembled as I said all of this. My shoulders hunched as I awaited the beat-down from my boss.

Lieutenant Rodriguez lifted his large head, then nodded.

That single gesture caused Luke to write
NAP CRASE
on the POI section of the board.

“So the phone stuff,” Luke said as he handed Colin and me a thin stack of papers. “This is Monique's most recent bill, and the calls and texts she sent and received up until her death.”

On every sheet there were highlighted rows of yellow, orange, blue, green, and pink.

“Yellow,” he said, “are the most highlighted, and those are calls to and from Macie.” He returned to the board and pointed to the seven o'clock time slot. “Macie texted Monique at 7:03
P.M.
, and then Monique's last call to Macie was Tuesday at 7:05
P.M.
and lasted five minutes.”

“A lot of pink calls, too,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said, looking over my shoulder.

“That's her mom's line,” Luke noted. “And as you can see, on Tuesday Angie Darson called Monique several times. The last call was 11:18
P.M.
”

Calls from Derek were in orange, and there were seven calls over the last week, the final one on Tuesday afternoon lasting for ten minutes.

“Interesting,” I said. “She was planning to break up with him on Tuesday.”

Blue highlights were Von Neeley's. Just two calls had been made last week—an hour-long conversation on Tuesday of the previous week and an eight-minute call early the following morning, probably before her graduation ceremony.

On every day, there had been a call highlighted in green.

“Who does this green number belong to?” I asked.

Luke grimaced. “Don't know. It's one of those throwaways you can buy without a contract. I tried calling, but it's disconnected.”

I called that green-inked number, hoping that the line had suddenly become undisconnected. No luck. “Wanna put that on your to-do list?”