‘What about the rich man?’
‘I’m not sure there ever was any man, Yoko. And if there was, they probably caught him. Who knows? Who cares?’ He seemed to get an optimistic second wind. ‘Come on, let’s discuss something nicer over a nightcap. I happen to know a little –’
Yoko thanked him and rushed out of the restaurant. She was so taken with the story, ridiculous though it was, that she took a taxi home, not trusting herself to navigate the multiple changeovers on the subway.
Back in her shoebox apartment she found several final demands from her creditors in the mailbox. They agitated her even more. She spent all night worrying about her debt and thinking about the ghost of the murdered girl.
Normally, Yoko would sleep like a log. But she woke in the middle of the night when she heard a loud thud. Sitting up, she saw it was just a book that had fallen from the shelf. It was normal for things to fall over in her little apartment overlooking the railway. Or perhaps it had just been a baby earthquake.
In the morning Yoko picked up the book and put it back on the shelf. She did not notice it was an atlas.
13. Los Angeles Dreams
At the end of Sunset Boulevard, Iwata turned right on the Pacific Coast Highway – scorched cliffs, shimmering blues, chocolate-box houses hugging the shoreline. He could see Santa Monica in the rear-view mirror. Tanned roller skaters would be gliding along Ocean Avenue, dogs exploring trimmed lawns beneath tall palm trees.
In the distance, where the sky met the sea, there was only a silvery morning haze. Sheaves of cirrus clouds scattered across the blue. To the south, the horizontal circus of Santa Monica Pier. Beyond it, Muscle Beach, Venice, eventually Torrance. Cleo had owned her record shop – Vinyl Notice Records – on a Venice backstreet; it was where they had first met.
Iwata rarely allowed himself these memories, painful revisitations slowly losing clarity. Entire months with her had started to become mere sentiments, distilled into moods. Days of sex had been crystallized into a single sigh. Bitter arguments compressed into a few cutting phrases, like calcium in hard water.
Yet though these memories faded, there were also constants. There would always be those Santa Monica sunsets – vivid blues and oranges – and there would always be Cleo set against them, turning to look at him, her skin washed rosé, her hair molten.
Santa Monica. This had been the home Cleo had made for herself. It had been here where she had carved out a life. And when the time came to leave it for Japan, he’d always sensed she’d left some part of herself behind.
Of course, they had talked everything through. As a couple. As man and wife. As parents to be. But he had been so determined. That resolution was absolutely clear to him back then, though now he couldn’t for the life of him remember why. Perhaps some small part of him had wanted to prove that he could make it in Japan. That he could disprove his mother’s warnings.
Don’t go back there. There’s nothing for you.
Iwata had become determined to leave America, to start a new life. He had showed photographs to Cleo. Told her about little traditions, dialects and cuisines. Left articles on the table for her.
When had been the moment she had agreed? At the red light, Iwata closed his eyes to remember.
Where you go, I go. That was it. That was what she had said.
‘Where you go, I go.’ He repeated it out loud, a line from a script delivered without passion. But Santa Monica was behind him. The lights turned green. Iwata drove.
A few miles east of Malibu he took a right up towards Tuna Canyon. There, on a dusty road of switchbacks and sagebrush, he saw the turn-off. It was little more than a dirt road curving up a tall hillock and he would have missed it were it not for his directions.
Iwata stopped a few hundred yards short of the end of the track and got out, the Bronco wheezing. When the dust cleared he saw an old red barn up ahead, the only remnant of the ranch that must once have stood here. He walked the rest of the way until he was standing outside it. There was a racing-red vintage Jaguar parked outside. Behind the barn there was only a squat forest of chaparral running downhill, all the way to the Pacific Ocean.
The door opened and a large man emerged. He had a leather flat cap, facial hair, tattoos, a Hawaiian shirt. Despite a bulky frame, he was hatchet-faced, his expression stranded somewhere between irritation and curiosity.
‘Afternoon,’ Iwata said.
The man appraised him for a moment before speaking. ‘Road accident?’ His voice was soft, almost amicable.
‘No.’
‘You’re lost.’
‘I hope not.’ Iwata took out his investigator’s licence. ‘My name is Iwata, I’m a professional investigator. You’re Benedict Novacek?’
A nod.
‘Then maybe we can talk inside.’
‘Here’s fine. Talk about what?’
‘This.’ Iwata held up the sex catalogue.
Novacek’s deep-set eyes took it in. The ocean couldn’t be heard from up here, but it smelled like last night’s lovemaking. ‘No, I think I’m good.’
‘Mr Novacek, it would be better for you to talk to me. A few things require clarification.’
‘Is that so?’
Iwata could see past him into the barn. It had been completely refurbished, though sparsely furnished – a white couch and some stools by the breakfast bar to give it the appearance of a normal room. But no TV, no books, no personal touches. None of that interested Iwata. He could see the window with the ocean vista – the spot where Meredith and Geneviève had stood.
Novacek stalked his eyes. ‘Do you like the view?’
‘There’s no denying it.’
The two men looked at each other. After a few swampy seconds, they offered one another thin smiles. ‘Probably best if you left now, Mr Iwata. I’m busy. You understand.’
‘Mm. I understand.’ Iwata took one last look at the ocean view, then walked back to the Bronco. Benedict Novacek watched him all the way.
Murky grey night had ensconced the city. Los Angeles dreams could flower in this half-dark, ambitions and desires still attainable, yet to be burned away by tomorrow’s disbelieving sun. This was a town of red-carpet applause and shell casings tinkling on concrete. Parched hills aflame with pink checkermallows, interrupted only by occasional mansions custom built for leeches in suits. Normal little lives ran into subplots like raindrops into raindrops on dirty glass.
Iwata thought about what Frank Lloyd Wright had once said: ‘Tip the world over and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.’ He figured that had to be true. For Meredith Nichol and Geneviève Darlington it had been, anyhow. Same for me, he supposed.
The 110 Freeway was lit by rusted floodlights, racemes of chemical amber intersecting the smoggy darkness. Iwata didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t need to. He was following. He had been following ever since Benedict Novacek had set off from his studio up in Tuna Canyon forty minutes ago.
As Iwata drove he thought about Benedict Novacek. Could he be Meredith’s murderer? Could he be John Smith? Could he be the man who had attacked him the night before? He was more of a match physically, but the voice was wrong.
Iwata had no answers and the clock was ticking – a killer was out there. Geneviève was missing. Mara Zambrano was nowhere to be found.
Shaking his head at all the unknowns, he took the 4th Street Exit for Downtown and stayed two cars behind Novacek’s old Jaguar. Sleek black skyscrapers mushroomed up around him, dwarfing the Bronco. Iwata glanced up through the sunroof and saw the countless windows of Bunker Hill, a commercial hive of electric honeycombs in the night.
Novacek turned on Hope Street, then right on Grand all the way to the Happy Gopher. He got out of his car and tossed the valet his keys.
Iwata overshot and parked a few blocks away in the darkness. Nocturnal figures stood like black flamingos on a murky river here. In the shadowy doorway of an abandoned hotel a homeless woman was talking to Los Angeles itself: ‘I know how it is. Yo
u ain’t foolin’ me. That’s all you got – lies. But I see you, clear as day. Clear clear clear. Yes, sir.’
Iwata hurried back to the Gopher. It was busy tonight, the clientele mixed like a cheap drink – bankers who had ventured down from Bunker Hill and girlfriends celebrating a thirtieth. The dancers were on break and the majority of the Gopher’s patrons – lone, horny men – nursed drinks like they’d been left at a party by the only person they knew. The little line for the staircase at the back told Iwata the private rooms upstairs were doing good business.
Benedict Novacek was alone at the bar, hunched forward, peering into a Rum Swizzle. Iwata took the stool next to him and ordered an alcohol-free beer. ‘Small world.’
‘You’re following me.’ Novacek took an irritated sip.
Iwata put the sex catalogue on the bar top. ‘Just came to do a little light reading.’
‘There’s a nice library nearby.’
‘I know the one. Don’t think it’ll open till the morning, though.’
‘Why don’t you go elsewhere? Have fun. Make some money. A man with your persistence could do well in this town.’
Iwata puffed up his chest for the quote. ‘ “Ah, Misha, he is haunted by a great, unsolved doubt. He is one of those who don’t want millions, but an answer to their questions.” ’
‘You know’ – Novacek smiled, calm as a frozen lake – ‘you’re starting to get on my nerves.’
‘You’ve got bigger problems, Benny. Five of your girls. Five.’
‘Five. Of my girls. Right. Whatever that means.’
‘One murdered, the other four missing. All of them visited your little studio. That’s very unfortunate, wouldn’t you say?’
Novacek laughed. ‘Bartender! A Black Dahlia for my crazy new friend here.’
‘I don’t drink. Meredith Nichol. Geneviève Darlington. Why them?’
‘You’re trying to suggest I had something to do with a disappearance or a death.’
‘Murder, Benny. Not a death. And “something to do with” is a broad brush, right?’
‘You’re talking front ways and back ways.’
‘Then let me make it easy for you to understand. I have friends in the LAPD. I’d be happy to throw your name to them. I’m sure they’d be interested to work out exactly what kind of “something to do with” applies to a guy like you when it comes to murder.’
‘I didn’t kill anyone. And my work is all above board.’
‘But if you tell a pig there’s a truffle up the way, he’s likely to root around. Don’t you think?’
Novacek pushed an old cocktail umbrella to and fro on the bar top with his little finger as the Black Dahlia arrived. He kept his eyes on the cocktail and spoke quietly. ‘Listen, I don’t know what happened to your girls. I just took pictures. Posed them. Made recordings. That’s what I do. That’s all I do.’
‘So talk to me.’
Novacek necked half the cocktail then looked around. ‘How do I know you’ll keep your word? How do I know the police won’t turn up anyhow?’
‘You don’t. But it’s a sure thing if you don’t talk to me.’ Iwata held up the catalogue. ‘Meredith and Geneviève. Why them?’
‘I dunno, man.’ Novacek stared hatefully into the cloudy red liquid before gulping it down. ‘I met them in a club, we got talking. They had the right look, I guess.’
‘What’s the right look?’
‘Just right.’
‘Right for who?’
‘Me.’
‘Not your clients?’
Novacek flinched, a gesture he tried to elongate into another sip of a drink he no longer had. ‘Right is right.’
‘Who are your clients?’
‘We’re not talking about that.’
‘Who killed Meredith?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’
‘Where’s Mara Zambrano?’
‘I don’t know anyone by that –’
‘What about Geneviève? What about Ashley Nelligan? Patricia Hewer? Shari Goyer?’
‘I don’t fucking know!’
The barman caught the eye of security, his eyebrows telling him to be ready. Novacek cleared his throat and softened. ‘Look. I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about them. I just take their pictures, that’s all.’
Iwata leaned in, close enough to smell the vodka on his breath. ‘If you didn’t kill them, then you know who did.’
A spindly blonde in a black dress approached. Relief washed over Novacek when she draped her thin arms around him. ‘Ben-nyyy.’ Her Russian accent dripped. ‘I didn’t know you vaunted to bring friend.’
‘No friend, khozyayka.’ He kissed her wrist. ‘This gentleman was just leaving.’
With a wry smile, Iwata left. Outside, he approached the valet.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Jorge.’
‘Yeah, you’ve got a phone call.’
The valet hurried away. As soon as the doorman’s back was turned Iwata opened the metal cabinet, plucked out the Jaguar keys and hurried over to the parking lot. Unlocking Novacek’s car, he rushed back to the cabinet and returned the keys.
Sometime after 2 a.m. Iwata heard whistling: John Lennon’s ‘Jealous Guy’. The car door opened and Novacek dropped into the driver’s seat. Before he could start the engine a belt had looped around his neck. Iwata snapped back hard. Immediately Novacek bucked and hacked against the leather, but Iwata’s grip was resolute.
After a few seconds Iwata eased off the pressure and leaned forward to whisper. ‘Now listen to me, Benny. I don’t want to hurt you, but I need you to be honest.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘There’s someone out there killing women. I’m going to find him. Do you understand me?’
‘Nuh—’
Iwata pulled back hard again. After five seconds, he relented. Novacek choked, his spittle flecking the windscreen. ‘You crazy bastard!’
‘Benny, you’re going to talk to me. Now, either you’re the one killing these women or it’s one of your clients.’
‘Fuck you –’
Iwata punched him under the ear, then ripped the belt back again hard, the headrest creaking, the leather groaning.
When he let Novacek up for air, he was half sobbing. ‘Plea— … please …’
‘Speak. Where is Geneviève? Where is Mara?’
‘I don’t know. Pluh—’
‘Then your clients. Give me a name.’
‘I gahnt—’
Iwata pulled back again. In the mirror he could see blood coming out of Novacek’s nose. His face was luminous pink. He counted to six, then loosened the belt a fraction. Another coughing fit which Iwata didn’t have time for.
‘Give me a name.’
‘They’ll kill me.’
‘Who will?’
‘I can’t.’
Iwata let go of the belt, took the gun out of his pocket and put it against Novacek’s temple. ‘No more pronouns, Benny. I won’t ask again.’
‘He’s a Mexican!’ Novacek yelped.
‘Go on.’
‘Oh fuck. Okay. H-his name’s Rivera. They call him Bebé.’
‘Bebé Rivera?’
Weeping, Novacek yielded, whiffling the breath back into his lungs. ‘He likes the trans girls … that’s his thing. But he’s in a different league. Buys a lot of my work. Pays like nobody else … If there’s a girl he really likes, he’ll want to meet them.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know where, that’s the point. I just know his private jet comes in for them when he’s throwing a party.’
‘And you send the girl down there for your cut.’
Novacek nodded.
‘Where does he take them in his jet?’
‘I don’t know –’
Iwata jabbed the muzzle of the pistol into his ear.
‘Ciudad Cabral! That’s all I fucking know!’
‘Ciudad Cabral …’
The doorman appeared in the parking lot a
nd leaned against the wall. As he lit his cigarette, he squinted at them. Already, Iwata was out of the car. Novacek scrambled the locks down and opened one window a crack. ‘I hope you go down there, you chink fuck! Go and see what happens to you!’
Iwata put his hands in his pockets and hurried away. Turning a corner, he stopped in an alleyway to vomit.
14. Flesh and Blood
Iwata was sitting on his mother’s porch in the dark, looking at the street he’d half-grown up on. The lawns were perfect, the flowerbeds were mollycoddled, the driveways were clean. It was as if the people of Beech Avenue were forever preparing themselves for some regal procession that would never pass through.
Iwata wanted to go inside and look at the photos of Cleo, of Nina – he kept all his own in boxes – but he didn’t want to risk waking his mother. Instead, he sat back in the porch chair and stroked his chin bitterly.
Benedict Novacek was many things. A shitty little man who exploited people and peddled flesh. But Iwata had looked into the eyes of killers before. He had seen power junkies, he had seen manipulators, he had seen animals that had learned to talk and walk on two legs. Novacek was none of them. He was just a weakling.
Bebé Rivera was an unknown quantity. But if the missing girls were all in Mexico, how had Meredith come to be murdered on some train tracks near Skid Row? And if she had been to Mexico, then she had certainly come back alive. Joyce Carbone had said as much. Mr VIP dropped her and things changed.
‘Kosuke?’ Nozomi Iwata stood at the door in her dressing gown. ‘My god, what happened to you?’
‘The other kid started it.’
‘Come inside and leave the jokes out there.’
Iwata followed his mother indoors. She put the TV on so they wouldn’t be alone, then busied herself in the kitchen. A minute later she came out with two cups of brown rice tea and handed one to her son.
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