Sins As Scarlet

by Nicolas Obregon

  Iwata looked up. ‘You said she was a wonderful person.’

  ‘She was also a junkie and a pickpocket.’

  He looked out of the window. The branches of a lime tree wavered in the breeze.

  ‘Tell me about the last time you saw her.’

  ‘It was about six months ago, maybe more. She came by looking for money and I gave her what I had. She accused me of holding out on her so we argued. More than anything, I think she was angry at me for meeting Michael, for leaving her alone. She kept calling me fake, I lost my temper, I called her a fucking hophead and I didn’t see her after that. I tried calling but got nothing back. I figured I’d lost a friend and hoped that one day we’d reconnect.’

  ‘And when she came asking for money, that was out of the blue?’

  ‘Kind of. It was after she quit Noir.’

  ‘Why did she quit?’

  ‘She met someone.’

  Iwata looked up. ‘You said you couldn’t think of any boyfriends.’

  ‘Not a love interest. More like a talent scout for a VIP. That was the sense I got. After that, she left the club and was throwing money around for a while. She bought me some earrings. I still have them.’

  ‘So how did she end up on Skid Row?’

  ‘Mr VIP dropped her and things changed. She tried to get her old job back at Noir but the manager told her to stick it. She lost her apartment. Things fell apart for her. She came to me for money but, after that, she just sailed off the end of the earth.’

  Iwata sipped his coffee in thought. He was familiar with the lacunae in the lives of the dead he was tasked with understanding – secrets held, decisions made, always hidden from him, always buried. Carbone looked around her kitchen, as though it were the first time she was seeing it. Iwata read loneliness in that face.

  ‘What about this?’ He took out the sex catalogue. ‘Do you know anything about it?’ He tapped Meredith’s photograph on page fourteen.

  Carbone shook her head.

  Iwata flipped ahead to page eighteen. ‘What about Geneviève, did you know her?’

  ‘I knew her, sure. She was more Meredith’s friend, though.’

  ‘Any idea where she is?’

  ‘We were never close.’

  ‘Do you know her full name? Address?’

  ‘It’s Darlington, I think. She lived somewhere near MacArthur Park.’

  Iwata pocketed the catalogue. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  ‘There’s something else.’ Carbone closed her eyes. ‘It won’t help you but I just have to tell somebody. That day … When Meredith came round … She was just so outside of herself. I’d never seen her so angry, so desperate. After we argued, she seemed sad, even. Almost like she knew we wouldn’t see each other again. As she left, she said something. It was throwaway, but I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.

  ‘I was trying to talk to her about getting clean. I know it’s stupid, it’s not like a pep talk is going to drag anyone out of that. But she just looked at me and said: “Joycie, no matter how hard I try, nothing feels good to me. Not anymore …” ’ Carbone bit her lip and looked up at the ceiling, eyes brimming. ‘So, if it’s up there, I just sure hope heaven feels good.’

  Returning home, Iwata logged on to MARPLE and found Geneviève. She was not listed on any missing-persons database. She had been born Jeremy Domínguez in Nuevo Laredo almost twenty-six years ago to the day. There was a cellphone number and several addresses for her around Texas and California, but only one in Los Angeles: Bonnie Brae Street near MacArthur Park.

  He called her home phone but received no answer. The listing for Geneviève’s parents was a Texas number. Iwata dialled and eventually an old man answered.

  ‘Mr Domínguez?’

  He grunted.

  ‘Mr Domínguez, my name is Kosuke Iwata. I’m a professional investigator and I’m calling about Geneviève. Is she at home with you?’

  ‘She?’ There was a harsh hackle of laughter. ‘No, mister. She ain’t here. ’Cos the person you’re talking about? Ain’t ever welcome in ma’ house ever again.’

  ‘Mr Dom—’

  ‘Don’t call here again.’ The line went dead.

  *

  Iwata emerged on to South Alvarado across from the old Westlake Theater. He passed the Japanese beef bowl drive-thru next door, which did not make him think of Japan, and crossed the road, passing the 99¢ Only Store. Here the sidewalk was packed, restless preachers and hustlers in amongst the workers, the mothers, the wasted.

  It was all for sale: calling cards, fake IDs, salvation itself. From under rainbow parasols small women hawked snacks – sugary churros, pork tamales, langoustines out of a repurposed potty. Working girls and boys looked into car windows, Jehovah’s Witnesses smiled. A cop was questioning the crowd about the stone that had been thrown at his car. His partner was scanning the fringes of the park hoping for any bagman dumb enough not to have taken a coffee break.

  Iwata turned on Bonnie Brae and stopped outside a dilapidated apartment block next to an old convalescents’ hospital. He pressed the grubby buzzer and waited. Receiving no answer, he tried the building supervisor.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m looking for Geneviève Darlington.’

  ‘She’s not answering? Hey, it’s a free country.’

  ‘Did she say she was going away?’

  ‘No, but it’s not my business until pay day.’

  ‘It could be pay day today.’

  There was the drag of a cigarette, then a crackling silence. ‘I’d lose my job.’

  ‘We’re talking. Nobody is going to lose –’

  ‘Just get out of here, pal.’

  *

  Back on Descanso Drive, the palm fronds against the sunset moved like flies drowning in honey. Iwata climbed the steps to his apartment slowly, as though the conflicting doubt and certainty in him had a physical weight. Usually he was glad to be on these stairs, glad for the silence of home. But that feeling didn’t come now. Or it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

  Opening the door, Iwata smelled garlic. Orchestra Baobab’s ‘Utru Horas’ was playing. Callie Mendoza wore a blue polka-dot wrap dress tonight, her coiled, dark hair much shorter than usual. Having never seen it before, Iwata couldn’t resist kissing the nape of her neck.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, turning to kiss him. Her voice was warm like strong rum.

  On the stove, swordfish steaks were cooking in vinegar and olive oil, the ingredients for escabeche sauce – yellow onions, bell peppers, carrots and bay leaves – neatly prepared to one side.

  ‘That looks incredible,’ he said.

  Callie smiled. She was the spitting image of a Cuban actress he had once seen in a movie about a family who inherited treasure. It hadn’t ended happily.

  He stole a carrot and crunched into it joyfully.

  ‘You’ll ruin your appetite.’

  ‘Around you, all I am is appetite.’ His orange grin was cheesy.

  Callie shook her head. ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Iwata answered, while flipping through his LPs. He chose an old Detroit Soul compilation. ‘She wants me to meet a nice woman.’

  ‘And how’s that going?’

  Iwata laughed. They hadn’t met each other’s parents. That wasn’t the kind of liaison they shared. Their meetings depended mostly on Callie’s husband’s work schedule.

  As they ate they discussed Anthony Floccari. Iwata didn’t mention Meredith Nichol or the murderer the message boards had labelled John Smith. Callie spoke about her own cases – she too was a private eye, though she worked mainly in the corporate sector.

  Getting up, Callie changed records and served two bowls of lemon sorbet with mint coulis. They ate on the sofa, feet touching.

  ‘Who is this playing?’ Iwata asked.

  ‘It’s your record – you don’t know?’

  ‘Half of these boxes I haven’t opened.’

  ‘The Joe Tatton Trio. “Sunday Shade”.’ />
  ‘I like it.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me, it’s very you.’

  He laughed. ‘And what is “very me”?’

  ‘Cool, baby.’ She kissed his forearm and his skin hardened. ‘Very cool.’

  In the sticky small hours the street glow through the blinds turned the bedroom wall into blotting paper for the shadows. Far away, a man screamed out, in pain, in jest, in madness – nobody was interested except for the neighbourhood dogs. The distant heckle of a helicopter could be heard. Traffic lights clunked loudly as they changed colour.

  Iwata and Callie had been this way for almost a year now but still deep sleep wouldn’t come easily when they were together. To Iwata, these hours felt like the only time he said anything real to anyone. He became aware music was still playing in the other room – Julie London’s ‘Don’t Worry’ ’Bout Me’.

  ‘I’ll go switch it off,’ he said.

  Callie shook her head, her hair susurrant on the pillow. ‘Leave it on.’

  She would always face the window and he would always lie behind her.

  ‘I used to listen to this in college,’ she whispered.

  ‘I can’t imagine what you were like back then.’

  She smiled. ‘I had clearer ideas about things.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, I had rules.’

  ‘Rules?’

  ‘For example, I would only ever sleep with someone if I could happily switch lives with them. You know what I mean? Like trade lives and be okay about it.’

  ‘My schedule is a nightmare, you’d hate it.’

  She leaned her head back towards his mouth. It meant she wanted to be kissed there. Iwata closed his eyes and complied. Some time passed. Maybe just a few moments, or maybe hours; it was hard to judge time with her.

  When he opened his eyes again Callie had her head on his chest. She was tracing his scars with a finger.

  ‘Kosuke?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who could a hurt a man like you?’

  ‘Maybe you could.’

  She lifted her head to look at him. ‘Is that one of those jokes that means something?’

  ‘Jokes should never mean anything. Otherwise they’re not jokes.’

  ‘You think I’m a terrible person, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’

  She put her head back on his chest. ‘Then why do I do this? I’m no different from all those people you follow every day.’

  He stroked her hair. ‘I’m in this too.’

  ‘Hm.’ Her tone told Iwata his answer hadn’t been enough.

  ‘Look, Callie, I think you love him. I really do. But I also think that maybe he just isn’t enough for you. And I’m not sure that’s anybody’s fault.’

  She thought about this for a long time and then bundled her face into his chest hair. ‘You make me happy, that’s all. It washes away the guilt.’

  Iwata did the sign of the cross over her face. ‘Ego te absolvo.’

  ‘You’re a dick.’ She slapped his stomach.

  ‘Cal, listen.’ Their noses were touching now. She could feel the breath of his words on her lips. ‘You are not a bad person. And you don’t hurt me. All you do is make me feel good. That’s all you do.’

  ‘Okay.’ She kissed him on the eyebrow. ‘So.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘Who did hurt you?’

  ‘Just a crazy man, a long time ago.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In jail. He’s never coming out.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Kosuke?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘If I ask you something, will you be honest?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Her gaze flicked from one eye to the other as if undecided where the truth might be found. ‘Do you love me?’

  ‘I … I love this.’

  Callie Mendoza laughed. ‘You really are a dick.’

  ‘Speaking of which …’

  She was shrieking now as he tickled her, his fingers digging into her ribs. The dirty windowpane was iridescent in the pre-dawn, a square puddle of gasoline. Iwata knew that sharing a darkened bedroom with someone that liked you while everybody else was dead to the world was the closest thing to fairy tales life had to offer. It wasn’t the sex, it wasn’t the talking. It was the tan line of a watch, it was the space in between toes, it was sweat on a forehead turned silver by the moon.

  It was the smallness of two existences taking refuge from the world.

  At 3.35 a.m. Iwata’s cellphone rang. It didn’t seem possible that there should be anything beyond warm limbs in darkness, yet the noise wouldn’t stop. He answered with his eyes closed.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m calling from Club Noir, you gave me your card.’

  It was the Mexican bouncer. Iwata was awake. Reality returned. ‘The tattooed woman?’

  ‘Just walked straight past me.’

  10. Same Circles

  The air was thick, sliced by strobes. Red laser and purple light alloyed through the smoke. Chic’s ‘I Want Your Love’ was blaring. Go-go dancers were up on podiums, the dance floor was packed. The blonde was sitting at the end of the bar, drinking alone. Her tattoos were hidden by a plum-coloured romper. Her hair looked recently dyed, her leather boots gleamed. Most people wouldn’t be able to pull off that much make-up.

  As he sat down next to her Iwata realized he had seen her before – coming out of the confessional after Meredith’s funeral. She had been beautiful then, in the morning sun, but in this smoky half-dark, dressed the way she was, Iwata found himself taken aback by his own attraction. Beneath it there was also a vague fear he did not understand. Distantly he recalled Rilke’s words: ‘Every angel terrifies.’ Iwata felt the urge to turn around and leave, but that was impossible now.

  ‘Hello again.’ He spoke over the music.

  She looked up. Dark, hooded eyes, curious, free of apprehension. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘I saw you at Our Lady of Solitude.’

  ‘Ah, you know what, you are familiar.’ Her smile was beautiful, her jaw firm, her voice carried a soft Mexican inflection. ‘You’re a man of faith, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Iwata laughed. ‘How about you, did you get things off your chest?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  It was the moment where they had to decide, either chalk the meeting up to coincidence or introduce themselves. The woman made the choice. She held out her hand, her arm strong, wiry, deeply tanned. Iwata shook it.

  ‘Mara,’ she said.

  ‘Kosuke.’ He nodded at her blonde hair. ‘You dyed it.’

  She touched it lightly, as if calming its nerves. ‘I’m still not sure about it.’

  ‘Suits you.’

  They both looked at themselves in the mirror behind the bar. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Is this your usual kind of place, Kosuke?’

  ‘I don’t have a usual kind of place.’

  ‘Maybe you just haven’t found it yet.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Kosuke is Japanese, huh? What does it mean?’

  ‘Clear. How about Mara?’

  She stuck out a fatalistic bottom lip. ‘Bitterness.’

  ‘Now that doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘Not like my hair?’

  ‘Not even close.’ He smiled and looked around the club. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

  ‘I was. Looks like I’ve been stood up. You?’

  ‘I’m alone.’

  They fell quiet and observed each other daringly until Mara looked away with a half-smile. ‘You know, Kosuke, when a man wants something from a beautiful woman, he usually starts by offering her a drink.’

  ‘Does that usually get the man the thing he wants?’

  ‘Depends on the woman.’

  ‘Not on what he wants?’

  ‘The list is usually pretty short.’

  Iwata laughed and ordered her a margarita. ‘
Well, you’re not wrong. I do want something.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I’m actually looking for someone. You might know her. Geneviève?’

  The drink arrived. Mara sipped it, then twirled the cocktail umbrella between her fingers. ‘Yeah, pretty girl. Is that why you’re looking for her?’

  ‘It’s to do with my work.’ Iwata took out his investigator’s ID and Mara inspected it.

  ‘Is she in trouble?’

  ‘I just want to ask a few questions about a friend of hers. Meredith Nichol. You know her?’

  Mara looked at him, her gold hoop earrings glinting green in the red light. ‘I don’t know any Meredith. And I haven’t seen Geneviève in a while.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘You have to ask?’ Mara looked playfully hurt and crossed her heart with the cocktail stick.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Geneviève?’

  ‘A while is a while.’ She downed her margarita.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Around. I don’t recall.’

  ‘I’d really appreciate it if you could take a stab.’

  ‘I better go.’ She slipped off her barstool. ‘But thanks for the drink.’

  ‘Sure.’ Iwata nodded. ‘Maybe I’ll see you again.’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Smiling, she reached down for her handbag. Iwata caught sight of her tattoo along her collarbone again. This time, he was able to make out letters after the numbers:

  1:18 IS—

  The date of birth of a child or sibling? Anniversary?

  ‘After all,’ she shouted over the music now, a few paces away, ‘seems to me like we move in the same circles!’

  Then she was gone.

  Iwata stopped at the twenty-four-hour truck across the road from the Mexican Consulate, ordered two fish tacos and a kiwi licuado and sat on a bench at the park entrance. As he ate, he listened to a group of men discussing job opportunities. One had decided to leave the city to work as a field hand, another was going to wait in the Home Depot parking lot tomorrow in the hope of odd jobs. They shared around cans of Tecate and discussed football, children, immigration crackdowns.

  As the men talked about their lives Iwata mulled over Meredith’s death.

  The accepted wisdom was that motives for murder rarely extended beyond money, sex or revenge. The first was unlikely, given that the killer had left behind her money. The second was possible, but there had been no rape, no injury to her genitals.