Land of Shadows (23 page)

I slipped over to stand behind him. “You want me to solve this case, you gotta help me. Right now, though? I'm putting together a puzzle without a picture.”

Cyrus Darson didn't speak and refused to give me the help I needed—even though that meant the Bad Guy going free. Again.

 

33

Cheap phone to his ear, he stands on the veranda with the city sprawled before him. Usually, he is a deliberate man—he eats the same breakfast each morning, takes three different routes to work on alternating days, and chooses the type of woman he beds. Lately, though, he knows he has been acting too impulsively. And life is getting a little messy because of his rashness. He must do something to regain control. Which means he must to do something about her.
Now.

Just an hour ago, he had cruised the streets behind the wheel of his truck—west on Florence, north on La Brea, east on Century, east, south … He had found another Boost Mobile store in the worst part of South Central, one in between a liquor store and a fish market. There were lots of people going in, lots of people coming out; dealers and gangbangers in the parking lot selling and buying dope and whores; poor people everywhere, so many people, like sand at the bottom of the ocean.

He had purchased the disposable phone with cash. Had used the name “Ato Zee.”

The saggy-tittied salesgirl didn't get the joke and didn't care enough to ask for his identification—hell, everyone knew Benjamin Franklin.

And now, with the new phone to his face, he dials his angel's number. The line rings … rings …

He paces and watches a police helicopter circle over a Culver City neighborhood miles away.

“Hello?” Her voice feels like warm buttered rum. Just hearing it makes his heart throb, makes his pulse slur one beat into the next.

“Hello, my queen,” he says. “You amaze me.”

No hyperbole. She has done everything he has asked of her. She believes everything he says. Her commitment runs deep, and now he knows how Hitler felt as Germans did all kinds of shit in his name. Even then, though, some had seen the so-called light and had betrayed their Fuhrer. How had that happened?

And can it happen to him? Could his angel, his right hand, betray him?

Of course she could. Of course she will.

He must do something about her.
Now.

“What do you want this time?” he asks. “You deserve something extra-special.”

“Umm … Surprise me,” she says. “I'm easy to please. You know—”

A shot zigzags from the front of his head to the base of his skull. The pain left by the fiery trail knocks him to his knees, makes him clench the phone so tight it cracks. Hurts so bad he can't even scream. His body shakes and the city dims … dims …

A slight moan trips from his lips and his hands loosen. Tears well in his eyes and now he hears her, still on the phone, calling his name.

Light-headed, he struggles to kneel, dull sharpness still lodged in his shoulders. He lifts the phone to his ear and tells her, “Hold on.” He grabs a filled water bottle and shakes it. He twists off the cap and plucks a long-handled cotton swab from the couch cushions. He dips the fluffy end of the swab into the cloudy liquid, then sticks the wet cotton up his nostrils. In just seconds, his face numbs and the pain lessens and he wishes he could shoot cocaine directly into his brain instead of snorting it and swabbing it.

“You okay?” she asks, her voice shrill. “I'll come over—”

“No,” he says, weakly, “I'm fine.”

“I'll do anything for you,” she whispers.

“Die for me?”

She pauses, then says, “Yes. I love you.”

He smiles—he must do something about his angel before her change, and his, comes.

 

34

Outside the Darson house, Colin sat on the hood of the car, texting on his phone.

“You drive,” I told him, then slipped into the passenger seat. As soon as he turned the ignition, I jabbed the heat button—another cool June day in Los Angeles.

In silence, he pulled away from the curb and out onto Leimert Boulevard.

“Cyrus Darson knows something,” I said. “And I don't know what that is or why he's keeping quiet, but I
do
know that he's protecting Napoleon Crase.”

No response from Colin.

“Any word from Brooks?” I asked.

“Monique had HPV,” he said, as though he'd said, “A car has wheels.”

“Shit,” I said, eyebrows raised. “Did she know?”

He nodded. “She'd gone to the doctor right before graduation. Dr. Brooks is faxing you the lab tests. She didn't have any alcohol, weed, or any other controlled substance in her system, but he did find semen. There hasn't been an immediate DNA hit on that yet. Lieutenant's bumped up all of our DNA requests to Priority.”

I playfully punched him in the arm. “See? That's good stuff. I told you Brooks would have something.”

Colin's knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

I tapped my earring. “You mad at me?”

He jammed his lips together, then pushed out, “Nope.”

“If you got something to say, spill it or squash it. I don't have time or patience for bullshit.”

He considered me with fire-filled blue eyes. “You sent me away.”

“Excuse me?”

“The interview with Monique's parents,” he said. “You sent me on an errand like I was your kid or some shit.”

I ran my fingers through my hair, then tugged a lock to make sure that I was awake and that we were really having this conversation. “Have you ever taken classes in body language?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know—”

“That they were embarrassed. I know—”

“Especially in front of a funny-talking white man wearing cowboy boots.”

“Funny-talkin'? Who are you callin'—?”

“Put on your big girl panties,
Detective
, and get the fuck over it, okay? I'm done talking about it.” I crossed my arms and glared out the passenger-side window. “Get on the 10 West, then exit on Cloverfield.”

Colin accelerated, his jaw tight, and roared up Crenshaw Boulevard as though the street had just called his first cousin a whore.

Since I had no one to talk to, I ran Von Neeley's name through the car's computer.
No priors.
Not even a parking violation. The boy was as clean as the Mormon Tabernacle on Christmas morning.

Colin exited at Cloverfield, and we were soon cruising the clean streets of Santa Monica, an ocean-side town still lost in morning fog. I could barely pick out Yahoo! over there and Universal Music Group over there. A few more blocks down Colorado and we reached the service department of W. I. Simonson Mercedes-Benz.

Colin parked at the curb.

“You can take the lead,” I told him.

He gasped. “Well, gee whiz. I'll get to send
you
out to make copies?”

I shot him a glare that could sour milk.

He blanched, because that's what men do with that glare.

“Keep it up, smart-ass,” I spat. “You think you don't have friends in Southwest now, just keep pissing me off.”

He slumped in the driver's seat and rubbed his mouth. “All I'm sayin'—”

I climbed out of the car before he could explain.
Didn't he hear me?
I was in no mood to kiss boo-boos and hand out juice boxes. There were worse things in life than being sent from a living room. Being murdered, for one.

Von Neeley, the young man from Monique's Facebook albums, stood behind the Enterprise Car Rental desk in the service department's waiting room. Handsome, clean-cut, no earrings or visible tats. Today, he wore blue slacks, a blue necktie, and a white dress shirt. He was so shiny that he probably bled Windex; so clean, he probably peed Lysol. Right now, he had three customers in line—a sixty-year-old cougar who should not have pulled on those clingy yoga pants this morning; a blond chick who rocked her pair; and a twink with frosted hair, a goatee, and Elvis Costello glasses.

“A little crowded,” Colin observed.

“We'll wait,” I said, and wandered to the coffee bar.

Colin followed me and grabbed a complimentary muffin from the basket. Then, we plopped on the leather couch to watch CNN.

And as we sat there with giant muffins and cups of French-roasted coffee, fancy people with fancy cars left their keys with very clean repairmen wielding clipboards and wide smiles. I could have sat there all day.

Ten minutes later, Von had placed each of his customers into a courtesy car, bidding each to have a blessed day.

I fixed a second cup of coffee and watched as Colin moved toward Von. I didn't know what Colin was saying until Von's “Can I help you?” smile faded. That's when I joined them.

Colin introduced me as his partner, and then the three of us wandered out of the building and to the employee parking lot. We stopped near an older-model gray Mercedes that had never seen dirt in its life. “This your car?” Colin asked the kid.

Von nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Mind if I look in?” I smiled to take the edge off the question.

“No, ma'am,” Von said. “Go right ahead.”

I opened the door and was quickly enveloped in New Car Smell wafting from a tin of freshener in the ashtray. Not much to see: CDs, an open pack of Juicy Fruit gum. No blood. No dog hair.

I closed the door and gave Colin a slight headshake.
Clean.

“When did you hear about Monique?” Colin asked.

Von licked his lips. “I guess you guys had just left the house yesterday when Macie called me and … Yeah, yesterday.”

“When was the last time you talked to Monique?” Colin asked.

“We were together on Sunday,” Von answered. “After Mass, I went over to her house. That was around one o'clock.”

“And what did you two talk about?”

Von's eyes watered as he scanned the sky. “I wanted to see her that night to talk about our future. I'm supposed to fly down to Belize tomorrow with our church—we're building houses and an orphanage. Before I left the country, though, I wanted to get some things straight with her.”

“What kind of things?” I asked, scanning his face, hands, and neck for scratches or bruises.
Clean.

“I was gonna ask her to marry me,” Von said. “We'd wait until after she graduated from college to get married, but that's what was supposed to happen.”

“Did you propose?” I asked.

He shook his head, shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets. “It didn't feel right. Her phone kept ringing, and she kept answering.”

Colin and I glanced at each other. We had studied the phone records and so we knew who had been calling—a Blood who yearned to be Gilligan.

Von laughed bitterly. “Yeah, I know about Derek. She used to throw him in my face whenever she wanted something. Pit us against each other like we were dogs. Drove me crazy cuz she was better than that, better than being his girl. But it's hard to compete financially with a dealer, you know? I tried, though.”

“Is that why you bought her that Lexus?” I asked.

He sucked his teeth. “That wasn't me. Homeboy got it for her.”

Colin and I looked at each other again—Derek didn't buy the Lexus, Von didn't buy the Lexus, so who bought the freakin' Lexus?

“Was Monique seeing anyone other than you and Derek?” Colin asked.

Von glared at the sidewalk. “No.”

“Do you know anyone who could've killed her?” Colin asked.

“Derek,” Von muttered.

“Anyone else?” Colin asked.

He shook his head.

“Did you kill her?” I asked, voice soft. “Maybe not intentionally, since you say you loved her, right? Maybe because you were jealous of her relationship with Derek? If I can't have her, no one can, that sort of thing? Maybe you hit her a little too hard or…?”

A teardrop slid down Von's cheek. “No, ma'am. Never. I loved Monie. I wanted to spend my life with Monie. I stayed in California for college just so I could be
near
Monie.”

Von's “I loved Monie” was Splenda compared to Derek's C&H Pure Cane “I loved Monie.”

I bristled, cuz boy, I hated artificial sweeteners. And I hated men like Von Neeley, the “nice” guys who always wanted to pray with you, who always offered you blessings and put-on smiles. Men who always told women how to live, what to wear, who to sleep with, all in the name of God. Whores and thugs in the shadows, many of them, who committed the worst acts of violence against women and children. Men's Central was filled with huckster-holy men who had hooker problems, free-flying fists, and “sex addictions.” I had thrown my fair share of these assholes in jail myself and so I knew one when I saw one. And Von Neeley was definitely a Jerk-in-the-Lord trainee.

“So why should I believe that you loved Monique?” I asked Von now, a little heat in the question. “That you'd never hurt her?”

“Because,” he said, “I'm not that type of guy, ma'am. I'd never—”

“You two ever argue?” I interrupted.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Did your arguments ever get physical?” I asked. “You ever touch her?”

He shook his head so hard, he almost gave himself whiplash. “No, ma'am. Never.”

“Did you ever
threaten
to hurt her?” I asked. “You know: just to scare her?”

“No, ma'am.”

If he called me ma'am one more time …

“I heard that you hated Monique doing the cheerleading thing,” I said.

Von jammed his lips together, then said, “I think it sent the wrong message.”

I nodded. “So did you ever try to convince her to stop?”

“Many times.”

“How did you do that?”

“Just…” He shrugged. “I talked to her. Prayed with her.”