Land of Shadows (37 page)

Weather-wise, it was a perfect Sunday. Crisp and fresh smelling, like God had arranged cirrus clouds and a light breeze just for me.

Syeeda and Lena ushered me to the car. “You sure you need to go in?” Lena asked, my chin in her hand. “It's almost noon. What's the point?”

“And what would she do instead?” Syeeda asked. “Lay in bed and write bad poetry while gulping wine from a box.” She pointed at me. “Stay busy and don't go buying Franzia. I did it once. Let's just say that they won't let me back into the Sport Chalet over on Olympic.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”

“And we'll take you out to dinner tonight,” Lena said. “Japanese fusion at Chaya.”

I said, “Yeah. Okay.”

Both made sad faces.

Syeeda took my hands and squeezed. “Lou. Sweetie. Want us to stay with you?”

“No.” I forced a weak smile onto my lips. “I'll be okay. I'll stay busy and I'll think about that cream of cauliflower soup and avenging dead girls and … and Angela Bassett in
Waiting to Exhale
.”

Lena scowled and thrust her head forward. “Get yo' shit, get yo' shit—”

“And get out!” Syeeda shouted, pointing that-a-way.

My friends hugged me, kissed my cheek, and promised that life would straighten out.

With sisters like that, life could possibly happen like that.

I climbed into the Porsche and pulled out my phone.

He answered on the first ring. “Where the hell are you? I've been calling and texting you all night.”

“One word: Greg. Another word: wine. And one more word: lying, cheating mother—”

“Got it.” Colin paused before saying (with great caution), “So, where you off to?”

“Going to grab an unmarked and then visit a possible witness. And then I shall wait with bated breath for tomorrow. Don't forget: Crase is coming in the morning, and with his lawyer. So be prepared for anything. Wait: aren't you off right now?”

“Are
you
working?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I'm working, partner. Anyway, Zucca called. He's been looking for you.”

I turned the Porsche's ignition and revved the engine “You handle Zucca, and I'll call you in about an hour.”

*   *   *

Twenty-five years ago, the busted windowpanes of Crase Liquor Emporium had been filled with signs advertising bottles of Courvoisier and Oscar Mayer salami, three packs for a dollar. Twenty-five years ago, cars had pulled in and out of the bustling parking lot, and customers had purchased six-packs of Bud-Miller-Coors, bags of pork rinds, and single rolls of toilet paper. Kids would flock here before and after school, pockets heavy with silver, teeth ready to crack sunflower seeds and rip into jumbo dill pickles. Twenty-five years ago, travel agencies and Afro American art stores had lined this street. It was already dying in the mid-1980s, but the riots of '92 had ensured its death.

Today, black fingers of char climbed the remaining walls. Thigh-high weeds hid a parking lot chocked with broken beer bottles, crushed crack pipes, and transients. Now, Santa Barbara Plaza was an urban Pompeii, a land of Used to Be … and the last place I had seen my sister alive.

It was almost one o'clock and the sun beat down on me—finally felt like summer as I clicked on my flashlight and stepped inside the ruined building.

My skin tightened. The hair on the back of my neck and arms rose.

Stepping into a crypt.

I shone my flashlight before me.

The counter and cash register used to be right there, the candy stands right there, and the skin magazines right—

An unseen glass jar rolled across the grimy floor.

I swung the light to the left and toward that sound. “Hello?”

Critters scampered beneath the piles of trash. A horsefly brushed across my ear. A family of earwigs scurried around my boots.

Something scratched up on the roof.

I shone a beam of light to a ceiling lost in spiderwebs and mold. A fine rain of grit fell on my face.

My neck burned and the skin beneath my right big toe itched.

Gravel crunched.

Is that a footstep?

My neck stopped burning and started throbbing. A flea or a spider had bit me.

A creature hidden near the rusted candy stands scurried through the trash.

Someone was watching me from the darkness. I could feel it. Man or beast, I didn't know.

I eased my Glock from its holster.

The smell of cigarettes drifted in the air.

Man.

My eyes moved from rusty wire racks to burned plyboards. “Hello?”

No answer.

I could hear myself breathe, could feel the bite's heat spread across my shoulders. I turned back toward the dilapidated soda cases.

Napoleon Crase had grabbed Tori near that pile of empty Schlitz cans. I had been standing nearby, and had run into the rack of pantyhose, seeing nothing, everything a blur as I darted out onto the sidewalk and jammed up the hill in urine-soaked blue jeans.

Tears filled my eyes as I remembered Crase grabbing Tori's arm and Tori crying out and … the other guy, the one standing at the counter, eyes as wide and frightened as mine …

I stepped back and my boots crunched glass. I clenched my toes as though that would quiet my steps. I stood and listened to the scratching, to the faraway roar of cars and buses. I moved forward, gun held out before me. Slowly … forward …

To my right, a blink of light.

Just a reflection of my flashlight in a broken mirror.

Past a deli case, past cobwebs black and heavy …

Forward … slowly …

The smell of animal and human shit wafted in the air.

There was a door ten yards away.

I stopped in my steps.

What's that?

I tilted my head to listen.

Crying?

I held my breath to block the sounds of my pounding heart.

Where?

“Hello?” I cried out. “Police. I'm here to help you!”

The crying stopped.

The insect bite on my neck hurt like hell now, but I didn't touch it—scratching would distract me.

Maybe that sound wasn't crying. Maybe those were kittens or …

Click.

My shoulders jerked and my Glock rose higher.

I knew that
click
. It was the hammer of a revolver being cocked. And it had come from the same direction of the crying, which was …
where?

Bang.
A door slammed, and the floorboards beneath me vibrated. I hurried to the door in front of me and twisted the knob. Threw it open—a descending staircase—and dodged to my right as the stink rushed past me. I crept down the stairs and reached another door. I held my breath and twisted the sticky knob. I counted to three, then threw open the door, gun arm still out.

It was a storage room and there were mounds of trash and the nests of the homeless everywhere. Swipes of old blood or something else stained the walls. Broken pipes and malt liquor bottles, scraps of aluminum foil and a child's Red Flyer wagon …

Dim sunshine shone through a high, rectangular window that looked out to the deserted parking lot. The window frame banged against the wall. Whoever had just been here had piled trash onto trash onto the little red wagon to reach that window. Outside, in the dirt lot, a pair of men's work boots, running now, was vanishing in puffs of dirt.

Gone.

 

57

I sat in the Crown Vic for a long time, in front of Crase's abandoned store.

Something bothered me.

Max Yates.
He was like a popcorn kernel stuck between my two back teeth.

During our talk at the car dealership, he had mentioned being forty-two years old.

But when Colin searched for “Max Yates” on our system, the three hits had been two old white men and a young black dude we had assumed to be Macie's boyfriend. No forty-something-year-old man.

How was that possible, a man Max Yates's age…?

I typed his name into the car's computer.

Same three hits, none of the men being the man I had met.

But he
had
to be somewhere. A driver's license would, at
least
, put him in the DMV's database.

And why had Monique been calling him, as Freeda Duffy claimed?

And was it mere coincidence that he worked at Crase's dealership?

I closed my eyes and pictured Max Yates. That expensive suit. His easy gait. Those eyes. His smile. Teeth like … white Chiclets.

My eyes popped open and my fingers shot across the keyboard again. I bit my lip as I waited for the results.

MAX CRASE: ZERO (O) RESULTS
.

*   *   *

Kesha Thompkins had been Tori's “rich” friend back in the Eighties, the girl who drove a pink Suzuki Samurai and wore Guess? and a different Swatch watch every day. She and Tori had been summertime friends—every June and July, Kesha lived with our neighbor, her grandmother Mrs. Cornelius.

Today, Kesha lived in a Mediterranean-style home in View Park, a neighborhood of modest black wealth. Here, Benzes and Camrys, speedboats and RVs were parked in driveways while couples walked their dogs past manicured front lawns. Across the street from Kesha's house was a postage stamp–sized park where an old Chinese man led a group of seniors in practicing Tai Chi.

I rang the doorbell.

A dog barked. A pair of child's shoes pounded against the hardwood floor. The front door opened.

Kesha was older, but in twenty-five years, she hadn't changed much. Same flawless dark skin; longer hair, but cut in the same blunt shag she'd worn as a teenager; and the same ten-seconds-from-crying, big brown eyes. A seven-year-old boy with those eyes clung to her leg as a Weimaraner bounded through the foyer. She frowned, annoyed to see me on her porch. But once I showed my badge, relief washed over her face. “
Finally,
” she said. “I didn't think y'all were gonna follow up. I know it's just a home robbery to you—”

“I'm … I'm not here about a robbery,” I said. “I'm from the
homicide
division.”

Kesha frowned. “Homicide?” She touched her son's head, then told him, “Sweetie, take Ollie outside. We'll make cookies in a minute.”

The boy gave me a doleful look—a strange tall lady with a gold badge was keeping him from cookie dough. But he was an obedient child and he scampered with Ollie down the hallway and out to the backyard.

I had thought about telling Kesha my maiden name, telling her that a childhood summer friend of hers had been my sister. But then, what good would that do? She would leave out important information just to avoid hurting my feelings or to make her role in Tori's disappearance less than it was. And I didn't want that, so I remained the anonymous detective, innocently working the cold case of a missing and presumed dead girl named Victoria Starr.

Kesha turned back to me. “Homicide? In
this
neighborhood?”

“No.” As I summarized the case, she nodded. “So you remember then?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. I'll never forget that day.”

“I talked to the detective who had worked the case. He said that after Napoleon Crase caught Starr, he let her go.”

“That's right,” Kesha said. “I told that detective what I knew and he didn't seem interested—and I was just a kid anyway, so…” She shrugged. “Anyway, Tori was terrified. I mean, I never seen that girl cry so much and so hard. She really thought my uncle—”

“Your uncle?”

“Nappy,” Kesha said. “He and my mom are siblings. Tori thought she was going to jail, but he was just scaring her. Cuz Starbursts? Ha-ha. People stole worse from him. The cops questioned him that night. Stupid. Like he'd kill a seventeen-year-old girl for stealing candy.”

I tried to nod in agreement but my head refused to complete the gesture. So now, my chin was stuck in the “down” position. “So where did Tori go after he released her?”

“She started to walk home. She lived on Hillcrest, next door to my grandmother.”

“What happened next?”

Kesha shrugged. “For some reason, she came back to the store.”

“And you saw her?”

“Yeah, and I told her that she shouldn't stand next to my uncle's car and…” Kesha gazed past me to the park as she remembered that day. “Tori moved away from the car, but said, ‘He told me to meet him here.'”

“Who told her that? Who was ‘he'?”

Kesha slowly shook her head. “Don't remember.”

I narrowed my eyes, unable to tell if she was lying to me now. “Who was there that afternoon?”

“Me. Golden. Tori. Tori's little sister, Lulu. These guys named Tony and Cyrus—”

“Cyrus?” I blurted.

She nodded. “Cyrus Darson. He went to Dorsey with us.”

My skin tightened—Tori knew my victim's father. “And was Cyrus in the same grade as you and Victoria?”

“Yeah. He was one of those kids who stayed on the fringes—he wanted to be a part of our little group, but … He was weird.”

“And did he know Tori?”

She rolled her eyes. “He was in love with Tori. He worked in Nappy's liquor store and he'd see Tori boosting all the time, but he'd never bust her.” Kesha's eyes fixed on someplace far beyond me. “He had this way of disappearing even if he was standing right there. Spooky. He and my uncle were very close, like father and son. Which bothered my cousin
a lot
.”

“Napoleon Crase has a
son
?”

She nodded. “Vincent.”

“Crase?”

“No. He uses Lorraine's—his mom's—last name, Yates. And he got in trouble a long time ago, so he goes by his middle name now and that's ‘Maxwell.' He was visiting that week when Tori disappeared—during the school year, he usually stayed with Lorraine in Chicago. But then, she'd send him out here whenever he'd get into fights or flunk a class.”