Chasing Darkness

by Robert Crais

  The back and side windows were off her bedroom, and here she hadn’t been as careful when pulling the drapes. The first window was completely covered, but the drapes covering the second window hung apart with a gap as wide as my hand. The room inside was dim, but revealed a double bed and a doorway to the hall leading out to the living room. The room was bare except for the bed, with no other furniture, nothing on the walls, and no bodies in evidence. Ivy might have been hiding under the bed, but probably wasn’t.

  The bathroom was next, with one of those high windows so neighbors can’t see you doing your business. I gripped the ledge and chinned myself. Being high the way it was, drapes weren’t necessary, so nothing covered the window. Ivy wasn’t crouching in the bathroom, either. I let myself down, went on to the living room, then returned to the bathroom. I chinned again, and squinted inside. The bathroom was old like the rest of the building, with a postwar tub and cracked tiles seamed by darkened grout. The floor was a dingy vinyl that had probably been yellowing since the sixties. Something about the bathroom bothered me, and it took a moment to realize what.

  I let myself down and returned to the courtyard.

  Pike said, “Clear?”

  “She told me she rented the room on Anson because they found mold in her bathroom, but this bathroom hasn’t been touched in years.”

  We went back to Langer’s apartment. He opened the door wide. Still with the glass in his hand.

  “Oh. Back so soon?”

  “Did you have a mold problem in Ivy’s apartment?”

  He squinted as if we were trying to trick him.

  “Mold?”

  “Did you remodel her bathroom to get rid of mold?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Ivy told me mold was found in her apartment a couple of months ago. She had to move out for a few weeks while it was remodeled.”

  “We’ve never had mold. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Did she move out?”

  “Well, she was gone for a while, but she didn’t move out. She was working.”

  “I thought she worked at home.”

  He wiggled the glass again, only now the ice was melted. The wiggle was silent.

  “No, she works with the films. A makeup artist, I think, or doing their hair. That’s why she’s gone so much. The location work.”

  Pike grunted.

  “Websites, huh.”

  I looked back at her closed apartment door. The little courtyard grew stifling hot and the gardenias smelled like ant poison.

  “Mr. Langer, how long has Ivy lived here?”

  He looked from me to Pike, then back to me, and now his bald head wrinkled. He was getting nervous.

  “About four months now. Why do you want to know that?”

  Pike said, “We’d like to see her apartment, please.”

  Langer’s eyes flickered to Pike, and he shifted from foot to foot.

  “Just let you in? That wouldn’t be right. I don’t think I can let you in.”

  He wiggled the silent glass nervously.

  I said, “The police and I were here to question Ivy about a man involved in a multiple homicide—”

  “A murder?”

  “That’s why all these people have been coming around, only now it looks like Ivy’s been lying about some things. We can’t wait for her to come back.”

  I glanced back at her apartment.

  “She might already be back. She might be in there right now.”

  He glanced at her apartment, too, and Pike stepped very close to him.

  “Let us in, Mr. Langer.”

  Langer hurried away for his key.

  37

  THE DAY I questioned Ivy Casik about Lionel Byrd, her apartment had seemed efficiently minimalist and neat, but now it felt empty, as if it were not a place where someone had ever lived. The couch, chair, and cheap dinette set were lifeless and anonymous like rental castoffs. The kitchen drawers held only three forks, three spoons, and a can opener. The double bed was as absent of life as an abandoned car, and the closet was empty. If there had been a hard-line phone, she had taken it.

  Langer let us in, then clenched his hands as we searched.

  Pike said, “She’s gone. Nothing here to come back to.”

  Ivy Casik had lied to me and the kid at the store and Langer and Bastilla. She had lied well and thoroughly, and I wondered if she had also lied about her name.

  I asked Langer if she paid the rent by check, hoping he might have one for the banking information, but he shook his head.

  “Cash. First, last, and the security deposit. She paid six months in advance.”

  “What about a rental agreement?”

  Pike and I were still looking through her apartment when Langer returned with the agreement. He was so nervous now, his jowls were shaking.

  “It has her cell phone number, but I called and it wasn’t her. I got somebody named Rami.”

  Pike said, “She gave you a false number. Like everything else.”

  Langer held out the rental agreement, as if we would understand just by seeing the number.

  The contract was a form document you could buy in any stationery store, obligating the tenant to pay a certain amount every month and to be responsible for any damages. Spaces were provided for background information, prior residences, and references.

  “Is this your handwriting, or hers?”

  “Hers. It’s so much easier if you let them fill it in themselves. We sat at the table, talking.”

  Her handwriting was slanted to the right and had been made with a blue ballpoint pen. An address in Silver Lake was the only former residence listed, and was probably false. Spaces for her driver’s license and Social Security numbers were filled in, but they, like the cell phone number, were probably false. I copied the numbers anyway. I planned to call Bastilla, and then Mr. Langer would have more people knocking on doors and filling his courtyard with noise.

  The spaces for banking and credit information were blank.

  “You didn’t require any of this?”

  “She was paying with cash. She seemed so nice.”

  The dog waddled in through the open door and wandered between us. Pike petted the little round head. The dog licked his hand.

  Everything was written in blue ink, except for the make and model of her car. The information about her car was written in a cramped hand using black ink.

  “Did you write this?”

  “Uh-huh, that’s me. People never remember their license. I saw her getting into her car one day, so I went out later and copied it.”

  Her car was a white Ford Neon with a California plate, and was likely the only true information we had unless she had stolen the car. I remembered seeing the Neon on the day we met.

  “Are the police coming back?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?”

  “You were lied to like everyone else.”

  We thanked him for the help, then went to our cars to phone Bastilla. She didn’t seem particularly impressed.

  “We talk to you about this a half hour ago, and you’re back on the case?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t sit it out, Bastilla. Are you interested in this or not?”

  “So she’s a liar, Cole. People lie all the time.”

  “She’s the only person we’ve found with a confirmed relationship to Byrd, and she’s been lying to everyone, which means maybe she lied about Byrd, too. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Yes, it bothers me, but right now it doesn’t mean much one way or another. This guy you spoke with, the manager, is he still on the premises?”

  “Yeah. In his apartment.”

  “Okay. Tell him to stay put. I’ll see what the DMV has on her before we roll out.”

  I closed my phone, then looked at Pike.

  “They’re coming out to see Langer.”

  “Cool. Let’s kick back and wait.”


  I laughed, then opened the phone again and called a friend at the DMV. I read off the Neon’s plate, asked for the registration information, and had it in less than a minute. The Neon was registered to a Sara K. Hill with an address in a small community called Sylmar at the top of the San Fernando Valley.

  “Does the vehicle show stolen?”

  “Nope. No wants, warrants, or unpaid citations. Registration is in order and up-to-date.”

  I put down the phone and told Pike.

  He said, “Maybe that’s her real name.”

  Sara K. Hill was listed with Sylmar Information. I copied her number, then dialed. A woman answered on the sixth ring, her voice sounding older and coarse.

  I said, “May I speak with Ivy, please.”

  “You have the wrong number.”

  She hung up.

  I called her again, and this time she answered after only two rings.

  “Me, again. Is this Sara Hill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find Ivy Casik.”

  “Well, good luck to you. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  She sounded more irritated than anything else.

  “I think maybe you might. She’s driving your car.”

  Sara Hill’s voice grew careful.

  “Are you from the credit card?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not from the credit card.”

  Her voice was still careful.

  “Who did you want?”

  “A tall girl, straight hair, in her mid-twenties—”

  Sara Hill cut me off.

  “I don’t know anyone like that! Don’t call here again!”

  The line went dead again, but this time we didn’t call back. Pike went to his Jeep, I climbed into my car, and we drove north through the Cahuenga Pass toward Sylmar.

  38

  SYLMAR WAS a small rural community at the foot of the Newhall Pass, where the San Fernando Valley died against the mountains. The main streets were lined with outdated strip malls and fast-food outlets, but remnants of truck farms and plant nurseries were scattered across a landscape gone largely undeveloped thanks to the ugly convergence of freeways, railroad tracks, and power stations. It was the kind of area where signs offered FEED and TACK.

  Pike followed me to a small house in a ragged neighborhood between the Golden State Freeway and the railroad. The yards were large the way they tend to be in rural areas, and burned dead by the heat. More than one house sported rusted-out cars and chain-link fences so old they sagged from the weight of the air. Even in that shabby neighborhood, Sara Hill’s house looked tired and sad.

  The white Neon was not in her drive, so we cruised the area to see if it was parked nearby or hidden in someone’s yard. When we returned to the house, we parked on either side of the street, then Pike trotted down the drive to cover the rear. I found three letters and some throwaway flyers in the mailbox. The letters were addressed to Sara Hill. We had the right place.

  I brought the mail to the door, rang the bell once, then knocked. A few seconds later, Mrs. Sara K. Hill called from behind the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “I phoned about Ivy Casik.”

  “Go away. I don’t know anything about the credit, and I ain’t got nothin’ to say about it.”

  “I have your mail.”

  Her voice rose.

  “Put it down. Stealin’ mail is a federal crime. I’ll call the police.”

  “I’m the police. Open the door and I’ll show you my badge.”

  Lying is often the best policy.

  Sara Hill threw open the door. She was a large woman with angry eyes and swollen joints, and she filled the frame with her bulk. She wore a thin housedress frayed at the hem, and rested her weight on a cane. I tried to see past her, but couldn’t.

  “You’re not from the credit?”

  “I don’t know anything about the credit. See?”

  I held up my license. It didn’t look anything like a badge, but she probably didn’t understand what she was seeing.

  “You gimme that mail. I don’t like the look of you one bit. You look like your voice.”

  I held up the mail but didn’t give it to her.

  “The Neon.”

  “You’re not from the credit?”

  “No, I am not from the credit. I’m trying to find the woman who is driving your car. She may have knowledge of a crime and she might be in danger.”

  The angry eyes softened into something fearful, as if she was used to bad news and figured she was about to get more.

  “She didn’t have an accident, did she? I don’t think I could take that right now.”

  “Do you know a young woman named Ivy Casik?”

  “I don’t know any Ivy Casik. My daughter is Jonna Hill. She has the car, but I guess she could’ve loaned it out. What happened?”

  I tried to see past her again, and held up my hand to indicate Ivy’s height.

  “This tall. A big girl, athletic, with straight hair. A heart tattooed here on her arm.”

  Her eyes fluttered with even more fear, then she pivoted on the cane and grabbed the wall for support as she headed into the house. She pointed the cane at something deep in the room I could not see, so I followed her.

  The small living room was as ragged as the yard, with threadbare furniture that smelled of sour flesh and pickles. An ancient console television sat under the window, but it probably hadn’t worked in years. She was using it as a table. A small Hitachi portable was on the console, along with a couple of pictures. She jabbed the cane toward one of the pictures.

  “That’s Jonna right there. Don’t you dare tell me something bad.”

  The picture was yet another high school graduation portrait, the kind every school in America takes during senior year so they can sell different sizes to you and your family. Jonna was Ivy, of course, only younger, with naturally dark hair. I had seen a lot of these graduation pictures in the past week, but Jonna Hill’s picture was not the last. A picture of Yvonne Bennett was beside it.

  I stared at Yvonne for a while, then looked at Sara Hill. The only part of her I saw in her daughters were the eyes. Seeds of anger were deep in their eyes.

  Joe Pike stepped out of the kitchen, as quiet as air moving through air.

  “She’s not here.”

  Mrs. Hill staggered sideways in surprise, catching herself on her cane.

  “Jesus Lord, what is this? Who are you?”

  I gave her a gentle smile.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Hill. He’s the police, too. We just wanted to make sure everyone was safe.”

  I glanced at Pike.

  “See if she left anything.”

  Mrs. Hill waved the cane after him as he disappeared.

  “Where’s he going? What’s he going to do?”

  “Look around. It’s a cop thing. We always look around.”

  She jabbed at the picture again.

  “You better not be from the credit and lied to get in here. Jonna warned me the credit might send a man looking for her.”

  I kept my voice gentle, just like the smile.

  “Did Jonna tell you she was hiding from a collection agency?”

  “She got behind, is all. You know how these kids do with the plastic. She said they were getting mean about it and if anyone came I should say I don’t know where she is and haven’t heard from her.”

  Then she studied me as if realizing what she was saying.

  “That isn’t you, is it? If you’re lying I’ll get on the phone right now. I’ll call the police.”

  “We’re not from the credit.”

  “Then why do you want Jonna? She isn’t in trouble, is she?”

  “Yes, I think she is.”

  Sara clumped to the couch and eased herself down.

  “Lord, please don’t tell me that. She told me she had the credit problems, but now something like this.”

  I picked up the picture of Yvonne. Yvonne would have been
five or six years older than Jonna, and though I could see a resemblance, they didn’t look much alike. Even in high school, the woman I knew as Ivy Casik looked humorless and dark. Even then, Yvonne’s mouth had already curled into a knowing grin absent of innocence.

  “Is this Jonna’s sister?”

  “I don’t talk about that one. That’s the bad one. She was always bad, and her bad ways caught up. I wouldn’t even keep it up there if it wasn’t for Jonna. She gets mad when I put it away.”

  “Her name was Yvonne.”

  Sara Hill was surprised.

  “You knew her?”

  “I worked on the case.”

  “She was a tramp. Wasn’t no better than a cat in heat from when she was little.”

  My right eye ticked and I fought to control it. I put the picture back in its place.

  “They had different fathers to go with the different last names?”

  “The good one and the bad one, just like the girls, and the good one wasn’t worth too damn much, either. He left like they all left, off to take up with tramps. Vonnie drove half of’m away, acting the tramp.”

  Pike reappeared. He shook his head, telling me he hadn’t found anything. I sat beside Mrs. Hill.

  “We need to find Jonna. She’s got worse trouble than bad credit.”

  “Don’t tell me she’s turned into a whore. Jonna was always the good one, not like Yvonne. Just please don’t tell me that.”

  “Remember Lionel Byrd?”

  “I never heard of him.”

  “Lionel Byrd was charged with Yvonne’s murder. You didn’t know that?”

  She twitched her cane as if she didn’t give a damn either way.

  “I washed my hands of all that. She was always bad, and her bad ways caught up to her. We parted company long before she was punished.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to say.

  “You washed your hands.”

  “When the police called I told’m I wanted nothing to do with it. It liked to kill Jonna, though. My God, she carried on, going on and on about how this man got away with it, but I just wouldn’t hear of it, all that sordid mess, and I said this must stop, Jonna, Yvonne isn’t worth it. Yvonne has always been like this and she got what she deserved.”

  Pike said, “I’ll wait outside.”