Chasing Darkness

by Robert Crais

Mrs. Hill frowned as he left.

  I said, “Did Jonna want to punish the man who murdered Yvonne?”

  She waved the cane again.

  “Don’t be silly. She got over all that, got herself a good job, and she’s doing just fine, thank you very much. Jonna’s my good baby. We don’t talk about Yvonne. She knows I won’t have it.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I guess she’s at home.”

  “We just left her place. It looked like she moved out.”

  Mrs. Hill seemed confused.

  “Maybe she thought you were from the credit. She was here just a little while ago, and told me she was going right home.”

  Something in her casual certainty made me wonder if we were talking about the same thing.

  “She went back to Hollywood?”

  “What’s down in Hollywood?”

  “Her apartment.”

  “She doesn’t live in Hollywood. She lives right over here by the reservoir.”

  I could see it in the clarity of her eyes. Sara Hill was telling me the absolute truth as she knew it. Her daughter had successfully lied to everyone.

  Then her eyes grew smaller and blinked.

  “You’re not from the credit, are you? She was so afraid someone would come after her she thought she might have to hide.”

  I gave her a smile I did not feel.

  “I’m not from the credit. Tell me where Jonna lives. I’ll find out why she’s afraid.”

  39

  JONNA HILL had rented a small bungalow not much larger than Angel Tomaso’s garage, less than a half-mile from her mother. Pike stayed with Sara to prevent her from warning her daughter, so I drove to Jonna’s alone. I didn’t know what I expected to find, but she was getting ready to leave.

  The white Neon was parked at the side of the house with its trunk open like a hungry mouth. The woman I knew as Ivy Casik was carrying an armful of clothes toward the car when I pulled into her drive. She didn’t recognize me at first because she stood with the clothes, staring, and then I got out.

  “Hi, Jonna. Remember me?”

  She dropped the clothes and ran toward her door. I closed on her fast, but she reached the door, and for no reason I knew then or now, she turned hard for the street. Maybe she was so scared all she thought was to run and keep running.

  I tackled her in the front yard, and the two of us tumbled into the baked earth and dead grass. She punched and gouged, pumping her knees to get away until I locked her elbow.

  “Stop it, Jonna—stop!”

  “I told the police about you! I’ll call them again!”

  “C’mon. I know you’re Yvonne’s sister. Stop.”

  She finally stopped, sucking air with a whimpering sound that wasn’t quite crying.

  I pulled her to her feet, then brought her inside, where she sat with her face in her hands. Several pictures of Yvonne Bennett were pushpinned to the wall, most showing the two of them as children together, Jonna much smaller because Yvonne was older, Jonna unsmiling even then, Yvonne with an arm protectively around her shoulders. Jonna had already taken down a few, but some were still up.

  “Who helped you?”

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

  “Who helped you kill him?”

  She shook her head.

  “All I knew was Lonnie Jones. I didn’t know who he was until I saw the paper.”

  “So Yvonne Bennett’s sister just happened to rent a room across the street from the man who was accused of murdering her?”

  “Shit happens.”

  “Where’d you get the pictures?”

  “I don’t know anything. I’m going to call the police.”

  Someone had given her the pictures. Someone had told her where to find Lionel Byrd and had put the plan in her head and convinced her she could finally make the man who murdered her sister pay. Someone had used her, and I thought it might be Wilts. If Wilts wanted to set up Byrd to stop the Repko investigation, it had to be Wilts, but I didn’t have proof.

  “Was it Wilts?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did Wilts give you the pictures?”

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

  Her eyes were clear and unafraid, and I knew she wasn’t going to admit to any of it. I called Pike on my cell.

  “She’s here. I have her.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I put away the phone, then looked through Jonna’s things. I was mostly checking for a gun or knife or something she might kill me with, but I found a copy of Lionel Byrd’s original arrest report and court documents relating to the dismissal of the charges against him.

  I held them up to show her.

  “This is what we call evidence.”

  She raised her middle finger.

  “This is what we call the finger. You don’t have shit.”

  Her wallet, keys, sunglasses, and two cell phones were on the kitchenette counter. I didn’t pay attention to the phones at first, but one was familiar. It was a clunky, inexpensive knockoff, exactly the same phone pictured on the spec sheet I found in Marx’s file.

  When I picked up the phone, Jonna shifted uneasily.

  “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me, but I’m going to have you arrested. That’s no bullshit.”

  I touched a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

  “That isn’t my phone. I found it.”

  “Shh.”

  The more I examined the phone, the more certain I became. Jonna’s other phone was a nice little Motorola, but the Kyoto was identical to the disposable phone in Marx’s file. Debra Repko had received six calls from a prepaid number assigned to the same model phone. She had called a similar phone on her PDA.

  Pike turned into the drive behind the Neon and let himself through the door. He nodded when he entered, but said nothing. Jonna’s eyes widened as if he were a cobra. I showed him the phone.

  “Look familiar?”

  “The disposable.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I turned on the phone and watched the display as the phone found a signal. It took me a minute to figure out how to access the call list, then I scrolled through the outgoing calls. Maybe I smiled. All the outgoing calls had been placed to the same number, and it was a number I recognized.

  Pike said, “What?”

  “She’s been calling the same number Debra Repko called. All the incoming calls were from the same number, too.”

  “Wilts?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Jonna pushed up from the chair and tried to run, but Pike wrapped her in his arms. She kicked and whipped her head from side to side, but Pike held her close and covered her mouth. He squeezed just enough to make her stop squirming, then nodded at me.

  I dialed the number, then waited through the rings. I didn’t wait long.

  A voice said, “Jonna? Jonna, where have you been? I’ve been calling—”

  I held my breath, and wondered if he could hear the pulse pounding in my ear.

  “Hello? Can you hear me?”

  He raised his voice.

  “Do we have a bad connection?”

  I turned off the phone, then took a deep breath. I wanted to push it out and blow away all the terrible feelings, but I couldn’t move.

  Pike said, “Was it Wilts?”

  I shook my head.

  “No. Not Wilts. It was Alan Levy.”

  PART FOUR

  RECIPROCITY

  40

  PIKE TIED her wrists with an extension cord. I put her cell phones in a paper grocery bag I found in the kitchen, but we left everything else as we found it. Marx would want the scene as undisturbed as possible for his detectives and criminalists. It was Marx’s play and I should have left it to him, but didn’t.

  When Pike brought Jonna out to his Jeep, I called Bastilla. The only number I had was her cell, but she didn’t answer. She was probably still angry, but she might have been working. Either way, I was gl
ad she didn’t answer. I left a message.

  “Ivy Casik’s real name is Jonna Hill. She is Yvonne Bennett’s half sister. Call Pike. She’ll be with him.”

  I left Pike’s number, then locked Jonna’s house and joined them at the Jeep. I gave him the keys.

  “The police will need these. I left word for Bastilla and gave her your number. They’ll be calling.”

  Pike was going to hold Jonna and her mother at a safe location until we reached Marx.

  Pike said, “You sure you don’t want me along?”

  “I’m good. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  I watched them drive away, then glanced at Jonna’s house. I studied it for a while, then considered the sky. The canopy overhead was empty of clouds or birds. I wanted something to be there, but the sky was a milky blue desert. I slipped into my car, studied the cell number Alan Levy had given to me, but I didn’t want to speak to him over the phone. I called his office instead.

  “Hi, Jacob. Is Alan there?”

  “I’m sorry, no. Did he ever get back to you? I gave him your messages.”

  “Yeah, we spoke, but I need to find him again. He isn’t in court, is he?”

  “Oh, no. He cleared his calendar when all this started about Mr. Byrd. He hasn’t been in for days.”

  “Ah, okay.”

  “I could page him again.”

  “No need. Listen, is he working at home?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Cole. You know Alan. He might be writing a brief or doing research. He’s hard to keep up with when he gets like this.”

  I hung up, then called a real estate agent I know who has access to the property tax rolls. Six minutes later I had Alan Levy’s home address and was heading toward Santa Monica. It was afternoon when I arrived. I shouldn’t have gone, but I did. I should have waited for the police, but I didn’t.

  The address brought me to a large two-story Cape Cod home three blocks from the beach in a lovely residential area. It was a family neighborhood with curbed sidewalks, kids on skateboards, and a hybrid in every drive, but it was also near the beach in Santa Monica, which meant the families were rich. I parked across the street. Two kids roared past on skateboards and a woman who was probably someone’s housekeeper stood on a nearby corner. Gardeners worked at several of the houses, but the Levy residence was still. A gate across the drive hid the garage, so I couldn’t see if Alan’s car was at home or not. This time of the summer his kids would be out of school, but I couldn’t tell if anyone was home. Maybe they were away at camp, but maybe they were splashing and grab-assing in their pool, and Alan was splashing with them. Or maybe he was crouched inside the house, watching the street through a gap in the shades.

  I took my gun from beneath the seat, wedged it under my shirt, then strolled up the sidewalk. My phone vibrated as I reached the curb, but it was Bastilla. I ignored her.

  The front door was large and heavy as a coffin lid. I knocked politely, then rang the bell. No one came, so I climbed over the driveway gate into a spacious backyard featuring a beautiful pool with used-brick decking and a lovely rose garden. No kids were splashing. Levy’s family wasn’t enjoying the breathtaking summer day. A single leaf floated in the pool. The water was so clean it might have been floating on air.

  I walked along the back of the house, rapping on glass sliders and French doors, but nothing and no one moved.

  “Hey, Alan, it’s Elvis Cole. Anyone home?”

  Not even a housekeeper.

  I went to the garage. The garage door was down and the side door was locked. I didn’t want to waste time picking the lock, so I returned to the French doors. I broke a pane, reached inside, and let myself in. I should have been holding my gun, but I put it away. I didn’t want to scare his children. They might be inside, sleeping. Maybe all of them were sleeping.

  “Is anyone here?”

  I stood just inside the door, listening, but the house remained quiet. I called out still louder.

  “Mrs. Levy? I work with Alan. Jacob told me he might be home.”

  My voice echoed as if their home was a cave. No magazines or DVDs littered the coffee table; no toys or video games cluttered the floor. The rooms were large and beautifully furnished, but lifeless in a way that made my scalp prickle.

  “Hello?”

  I crossed through the family room into the living room, then crept through a formal dining room as cold as a mausoleum. The table was lovely, the chairs lining its sides perfectly placed as if they had not been moved in years.

  The dining room led into the kitchen, then the pantry. You have kids, you have food, but there was no cereal, no Pop-Tarts, no snack bars. The shelves were lined with cans of Dinty Moore beef stew. Only the stew. Empty vodka bottles lined the floor. The cans and bottles had been placed in perfect rows with their labels out, each label perfectly aligned. My underarms grew damp as I backed out of the pantry.

  The refrigerator was loaded with take-out containers, soft drinks, and more vodka, but no juice or milk, no peanut butter or eggs. I took out my gun and held it along my leg, but knew I wasn’t going to find anyone. Not Alan or anyone else. Not anyone alive.

  My cell phone hummed again, as loud as a swarm of wasps. I didn’t check. I muffled it with my hand, trying to hear past the swarm into the hidden reaches of the house. My breath grew shallow, and I wanted to crash through the door or dive out the window. I wanted to get out of this terrible house and into the light like a boy running from bees, but I didn’t.

  I trotted the length of the house. I had moved quietly before, but now I moved faster, hitting each door with the gun up and ready. I checked the master bedroom, then Alan’s home office, where the walls bristled with citations and plaques. I jerked open doors, checked closets and bathrooms, then ran up the stairs three at a time. I was terrified by what I expected to find, but pushed harder to find it.

  The children’s bedrooms were on the second floor—everything perfect and neat, but somehow even more frightening than the rest of the house. Posters of fading celebrities and forgotten bands decorated their walls. Computers several generations behind the current models sat on their desks. The toothbrushes in their bathroom hadn’t been used in years.

  I almost fell as I ran down the stairs, racing back to the master bedroom. The master bath told the same story. The men’s products had been recently used, but the women’s products were dry and out-of-date, and no soiled female garments were waiting to be cleaned.

  My heart punched hard in my chest as the silence roared like the ocean. It roared even louder as I ran. I ran back through the house and out the French doors and all the way back to my car. It roared until I realized my cell phone was vibrating again. Bastilla was trying again. This time I answered.

  41

  JONNA HILL sat in a pleasant beige room in the Mission Area Police Station at the top of the San Fernando Valley. She was as far from the eyes and ears downtown as Marx could hide her. It was a comfortable room with patterned wallpaper, where rape and abuse victims were interviewed. The feminine surroundings supposedly made it easier for victims to talk. We were watching her through a two-way mirror. She was alone now, toying with the cap from a water bottle. Jonna knew we were watching. Bastilla and Munson had spent almost two hours questioning her, but the pleasant surroundings hadn’t helped. Jonna admitted nothing and refused to implicate Levy.

  Munson rubbed his eyes, then leaned against the wall, frowning at me.

  “Are you sure it was Levy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe it only sounded like Levy.”

  I said, “It was Levy, Munson. I know Levy’s voice.”

  Our side of the glass didn’t have patterned wallpaper or comforting decor. The observation room was battleship-grey with a work desk butting the glass, metal chairs, and recording equipment. Pike and I stayed with Munson when Bastilla left to pick up the original death album pictures. Marx was in and out, phoning his contacts at Barshop, Barshop. They were doing everything themselves in order to stay und
er the radar.

  Marx returned a few minutes later, holding his cell phone as if it were hot. He glanced at Munson as he entered.

  “She open up?”

  “She’s tough, man. Nothing.”

  Pike said, “She believes him.”

  Munson rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, please, Pike. She’s crazy.”

  I said, “She might be crazy, but she believes Levy helped her punish the man who murdered her sister. She thinks they’re on the same side.”

  Yvonne Bennett’s police record and files were spread across the worktable. The psychiatric evaluation ordered at the time of her first arrest described a pattern of sexual abuse by the men her mother brought home. If those men had felt free to abuse Yvonne, they had probably tried to abuse her younger sister. I wondered if Yvonne had protected Jonna by offering herself to them. I stared at the broken heart on Jonna’s forearm and thought it might be true.

  She was always bad, and her bad ways caught up. Wasn’t no better than a cat in heat from when she was little. I wouldn’t even keep her picture up there if it wasn’t for Jonna. She gets mad when I put it away.

  Munson didn’t buy it.

  “Well, it would be nice if she said something for the record. I still don’t believe it. Wilts is our guy.”

  Marx jiggled the cell phone as if he was nervous, then crossed his arms.

  “Maybe not. On or about the time Frostokovich was murdered, a partner at Barshop was raising money for Wilts’s campaign. That’s one. The hooker party Wilts threw a few years later was also attended by a couple of Barshop partners. The man I spoke with believes Levy attended. That’s two. So it looks like Levy had access to these women through his firm.”

  I said, “Was Levy at the dinner for Wilts when Repko was murdered?”

  “Someone is looking into it. He’s going to call back.”

  Munson threw up his hands. The room was so small he almost hit Pike.

  “So what the hell? Were we wrong about Wilts or is he still a suspect?”

  “We’ll know when she talks.”

  “Jesus. Could Levy be acting as an agent for Wilts?”