Chasing Darkness

by Robert Crais

  “Hey, Alan, you still want to talk to Ivy Casik?”

  “Fantastic. You found her?”

  “Am I not the World’s Greatest Detective?”

  Mr. Just-Kidding-Around-Because-Nothing-Is-Out-of-the-Ordinary. Levy chuckled, showing me nothing was out of the ordinary with him, either.

  “Ah, well, did you speak with her?”

  “Uh-uh. I figured I would wait for you. I didn’t want to spook her.”

  I gave him the address without waiting to be asked. It was an abandoned meth lab in a residential area. The SWAT guys selected it because the location offered cover for the surveillance teams and other advantages. The light traffic would make Levy easy to identify as he approached the location, and if he lost his resolve and departed without stopping, he would be easy to follow. If he left, we would let him. We didn’t want him to know we were on to him until he had incriminated himself. I finished setting the stage.

  “It’s a little house at the bottom of Runyon Canyon. A dump, man. She appears to be alone.”

  He sounded hesitant for the first time.

  “Okay, well, this is great work, Elvis, like always. You don’t have to wait. I can’t get over there until later.”

  I did my best to sound disappointed.

  “Alan, your call, but I really busted my ass to find her. She didn’t unpack her car. I don’t know how long she will be here.”

  “Uh-huh, well, I have an appointment with some people at Leverage. They probably have more to offer about what Marx is up to than this girl.”

  “I can’t watch her all day, Alan. I have things to do.”

  “It’s all right, Elvis. Really. I have the address, but I have to see these people at Leverage first. Don’t stay. If I get by to see her, I’ll call you about it later.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  As soon as I turned off the phone, Marx pushed open the door.

  “That bastard’s going straight for the girl. Let’s roll.”

  45

  JONNA HILL stated during her taped interview that she did not shoot Lionel Byrd and was not present at the time of his death. This might or might not have been a lie. According to Jonna, Alan Levy provided the seven Polaroid pictures, the necessary information about Byrd, and cash to rent both the apartment near the Hollywood Bowl and the room across from Byrd on Anson Lane. He contacted her not long after the murder of Debra Repko, claiming to be racked by guilt for his role in freeing a man he subsequently learned was responsible for multiple homicides. Jonna found him easy to believe. He was so smart, she said. So convincing. She was a willing and enthusiastic participant. Levy taught her to mask her fingerprints with plastic-model glue and bind back her hair, and also provided the camera, film, and the My Happy Memories album. Her part was simple. Over the course of a three-week period, she befriended Lionel Byrd while posing as a writer, which had also been Levy’s suggestion. She had Byrd handle the components of the death album to leave his fingerprints, then, on the night of his death, drugged his whiskey with the oxycodone, which Levy also provided. She stated for the record she was not witness to whatever happened after she left that night. This, too, might have been a lie, but it also might have been the truth.

  We double-timed it out to the parking lot. Marx coordinated the roll through a SWAT plus-one as we trotted toward a surveillance van the size of a taco truck. The plus-one was a hard-looking guy with a blond crew cut. He glanced at Pike between orders.

  “Aren’t you Joe Pike?”

  Pike nodded.

  “You coming with us?”

  Pike nodded again.

  “Cool. I admire your work.”

  But when we reached the van, Munson stopped Pike.

  “This is as far as you go.”

  I said, “He’s part of this, too.”

  Marx considered Pike, then shook his head.

  “We don’t need more civilians. Sorry, Pike, but this is it.”

  The plus-one seemed disappointed.

  “Bummer.”

  I shrugged at Joe.

  “Don’t sweat it, man. I’ll see you on the other side.”

  Pike stared at me for a moment, then the corner of his mouth twitched.

  “I’ll see you.”

  Pike trotted away toward his Jeep as Marx waved me into the van.

  “We gotta get you wired up. Get in there.”

  The van was walled with racks of surveillance equipment, recording devices, tools, and an ice chest so old the plastic was mildewed. Jonna and Bastilla were already inside. The space grew crowded as everyone piled aboard, and Kilane didn’t like it.

  “Jesus Christ, just sell tickets, why don’t you?”

  Jonna blinked at me.

  “Are we going to ride together?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Good. I’d like that.”

  Marx wedged his way up front with the driver, and we pulled out as soon as the door was closed.

  Kilane fitted a wire microphone under Jonna’s shirt as Bastilla asked her questions, like did Levy ever check her for mikes or feel up her boobs or search her. Jonna told her no, he never had, and seemed uninterested in what Kilane was doing.

  I said, “You scared?”

  Bastilla glanced over, irritated.

  “Say something encouraging.”

  Jonna ignored her, and made a little shrug.

  “I’m always scared.”

  “You hide it well.”

  “I know. I just look this way.”

  “Lift your arm, Jonna.”

  Jonna lifted her arm, but her attention was on me.

  “I was thinking about what you said, how you never saw it coming. How does that make you feel?”

  I realized why she had stared at me in the interview room and now wanted me in the van with her. She knew how I felt because she probably felt the same way.

  “It made me feel like he owned me.”

  “Yvonne was a prostitute.”

  I nodded, not knowing what else to do.

  “Do you have sibs?”

  “No. I’m an only.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad.”

  Jonna fell silent after that as Kilane finished his work and lowered the shirt. He turned to a bank of equipment and pulled on a headset.

  “How’s that feel?”

  “Okay.”

  The tech raised a thumb. The mike was transmitting well. He pulled off the headset, then went to work strapping a similar mike to my chest.

  Jonna looked around at the cramped quarters.

  “Can I see how it feels when I move?”

  “Sure.”

  Jonna twisted from side to side, then crabbed to the back of the van. Kilane, the plus-one, and I scrunched out of her way. She twisted some more, then stood as best she could with the low ceiling.

  “Feels okay.”

  She waddled forward, but lost her balance and stumbled into the equipment rack. She made an oofing sound, tangled herself in a box of tools and wire, but managed to stay upright.

  “I’m okay. Can you see it poking my shirt?”

  Kilane laughed.

  “Kid, your own mama couldn’t see that mike.”

  Marx put away his phone, then climbed out of the passenger seat to join us. He glanced at me, but studied Jonna.

  “We’re ten minutes out. You remember what we talked about?”

  “Sure.”

  “All you have to do is be visible. If Levy sees you and believes you’re alone, he’ll be more likely to stop. Once he’s out of the car, you go into the house. Cole will carry the ball.”

  “I know.”

  Marx waved toward the equipment.

  “We’ll be able to hear everything you say. If you try to warn him, our deal goes out the window.”

  “I’m not going to warn him.”

  “So you know. We have your statement on tape now. We might not be able to convict Levy with it, but we’ll sure as hell go after you. Get back in the house. An officer will be inside to take c
are of you.”

  “If I wanted to warn him I wouldn’t have agreed to do this. Relax.”

  The plus-one laughed, but Marx ignored him.

  “Something else I want you to know. Your safety is my number one concern. You won’t be able to see them, but we’ll have three sniper teams watching every move Levy makes. We will be watching him. If he shows a weapon or makes a threatening move toward you, we will put him down. We won’t give him a chance to hurt you.”

  “Everyone will be watching him.”

  “You can count on it.”

  “I am.”

  I patted her leg. The woman had committed murder with a cold-blooded obsession that had bought her a ticket to the psych ward, but I patted her leg. When I realized what I was doing, I stopped.

  They let us out of the van in a Rite Aid parking lot in Hollywood not far from La Brea. Two men in civilian clothes who were probably D-team tactical operators were waiting in a green Chevy TrailBlazer.

  Marx said, “That’s your ride. We’ll see you on the other side.”

  The TrailBlazer barreled up La Brea, then onto the residential streets twisting up into Runyon Canyon. Jonna did not seem nervous. She made a soft, breathy whistle, singing to herself. Da-da-daa, da-da-daa. Staring at nothing and singing until we reached the house.

  46

  THE SWAT planners had made a good choice. The house was an old canyon cabin isolated by a curve in the road. It had probably been built in the twenties as a hunting lodge and later expanded, but it hadn’t been maintained in years. Jonna’s white Neon was parked beside it. The man who brought it was inside the house, where Jonna would wait until Levy was spotted. When the surveillance elements identified Levy, they would radio the man in the house. Then it was up to Jonna. All she had to do was let Levy see her so he would know she was present. Once Jonna was safely back inside the house, the rest would be up to me.

  They dropped us by the Neon, then quickly drove away.

  I said, “Don’t look around for the surveillance teams. You won’t see them, but someone might see you looking for them.”

  “What happens if he doesn’t come?”

  “We’ll be bored. You’d better get in the house. If he sees me out here with you, we’re screwed.”

  I waited until she was inside, then moved into a gnarled clump of scrub oak on the opposite side of her car. If Levy stopped anywhere at the front of the house, I would be able to approach him without being seen. I wanted to surprise him.

  I settled in to wait. Levy would come or not. Might be ten minutes, or never. The occasional car passed without slowing. Local residents. Construction workers. First-time hikers trying to find the park who took the wrong turn. None of them was Levy. I listened to thrushes and mockingbirds. None of them was Levy, either.

  The trees whispered behind me, followed by a voice that wasn’t much louder.

  Pike said, “Good spot.”

  He settled onto the earth beside me.

  I said, “Marx is really pissed right now. I’m wired.”

  “You think I’m trusting someone else to cover your back?”

  We fell silent. Marx would be cursing. He would be livid, but the blond plus-one would be trying not to laugh.

  Jonna Hill stepped out of the house eight minutes later and went to the Neon. That was my signal and also the bait. A brown Dodge sedan crept around the curve, slowing to look. Levy was hunched over the wheel. He slowed even more when he saw Jonna, and stopped in the middle of the street. His head swiveled, searching the area.

  Jonna stepped away from the Neon. She wasn’t supposed to go into the house until he got out of his car, and didn’t. Her lips moved as she studied the Dodge. She was singing again. Da-da-daa, da-da-daa.

  The three sniper teams would be on him with telescopic sights, ready to rock if a gun appeared. If any of them saw a gun, that shooter would touch off a .30-caliber round traveling at 2600 feet per second. We didn’t want him dead. We wanted him alive, but that’s the way it would be if he made the wrong move.

  The Dodge swung in a lazy arc and parked directly between Jonna and me. Levy got out, no more than a car length from her and two lengths from me. His coat and pants were wrinkled, as if he had been sleeping in them.

  Pike sighed a whisper.

  “Perfect.”

  Jonna did not return to the house. She should have immediately gone inside, but she didn’t.

  She said, “How did you find me?”

  Levy responded as if this was the most natural moment in the world.

  “You had me worried. Why didn’t you answer?”

  I slipped from the trees, and he didn’t hear me until I was directly behind him.

  I said, “Worried about what, Alan?”

  He stumbled sideways so dramatically I thought he would fall, then spun in a panicked circle. I held up my hands, showing my palms and taking a step back.

  “Don’t have a stroke. Everything’s cool. How’d it go at Leverage?”

  When he realized he was still alive, he pulled himself together. He glanced past me to see if anyone else was coming, then at Jonna, then up and down the street. Frightened.

  “The meeting got canceled.”

  “Good. We have a lot to talk about. Jonna, why don’t you go inside, give us a chance to talk?”

  Jonna said, “No.”

  Levy glanced at Jonna with bug eyes. Jonna had moved closer. She was staring at him, and I didn’t like the way she was staring. Marx wouldn’t like it, either. The snipers would have a more difficult time with Jonna outside.

  Levy said, “I can talk to her alone. You didn’t have to wait.”

  I edged toward Jonna, trying to put myself between her and Levy, but Levy backed away. He hooked his thumbs on his belt under his jacket. I didn’t see a gun, but the shooters would be on high alert.

  “Yeah, I did, Alan. My new best friend here, Jonna, and I have already talked. I know what happened.”

  Levy glanced at her again and continued backing away.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you do. Killing Lionel Byrd.”

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

  “Alan, please. I caught you in one lie when you drove up. You told me you never met this girl, but you asked her why she hadn’t answered, you told her she had you worried.”

  “I didn’t say anything like that. You must have misheard.”

  Jonna said, “Yes, you did.”

  I took a step after him, trying to keep up the pressure. I wanted Levy focused on me, not her, and I was still trying to get between them.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen—you can pay me to keep your filthy little secrets, or we’ll go to the police. I’m thinking two million dollars, one for her, one for me. Sound good?”

  Levy glanced up and down the street again as if he sensed the police were watching and knew he was being recorded.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t understand why you’re trying to do this, but I’m leaving—”

  He suddenly veered toward the Dodge, and then Jonna said something that stopped both of us.

  “I taped you, Alan.”

  Fear played over his face as his eyes bulged.

  “The day you gave me the pictures of the dead girls, I had a tape recorder under my shirt. I gave it to him. I let him listen.”

  Jonna pointed at me. She had never mentioned a recording, had not given a recording to me, and the police had not found such a recording in her possessions. I wondered if she knew she was lying. I wondered if she believed it.

  “Go in the house, Jonna. Alan and I will work it out.”

  She didn’t go into the house. She moved toward him.

  “Two million dollars isn’t enough.”

  Levy wet his lips. He looked from me to Jonna, then back to me, and his hands went back to his belt.

  He said, “How much do you want?”

  We had him with those words. Alan Levy had demonstrated
knowledge and awareness of the pictures by negotiating with us. We had him, and Marx would now be issuing commands to effect the arrest, but then Jonna said something else.

  “There isn’t enough.”

  Jonna took a knee as if bending to tie her shoe, then came up like a sprinter out of the blocks with what we would later confirm was a rat-tail file she had palmed when she stumbled into the tool rack in the surveillance van. She went for his neck, hitting him so hard she knocked him backwards into the Dodge and onto the ground.

  Everyone had been so concerned Levy might kill Jonna, it never occurred to us she would kill him.

  The shooter teams crashed from their hides, but they were far away and unable to shoot with the three of us clumped together. Pike burst out of the trees. I grabbed Jonna from behind, but she had wrapped herself around Levy, stabbing him in the neck and the face and the head. I caught her arm to pry her away, but that’s when I heard the popping, and then Joe Pike shouting.

  “Gun!”

  Levy had a small black pistol pressed deep into her belly and made a high, keening sound as he shot her. He pulled the trigger as fast as he could.

  Jonna suddenly stepped back. I pushed her aside, then moved for the gun, but Levy had already dropped it. He was holding the bloody rag of his neck with both hands when Pike slammed into him.

  Jonna stumbled backwards, sat down, then burped a red mist. I tore off my shirt and pressed it onto her belly as the SWAT guys swarmed over us.

  “Hang on, Jonna. Hang on. Keep breathing.”

  I don’t think she saw me. Her mouth was set in the determined line, but something in her eyes had changed. The seeds of anger were softer. I’m not sure, but I like to think so. I hope so.

  Jonna Hill died as the paramedics arrived.

  THE ROSE GARDEN

  47

  THE SANTA Monica sky was incandescent with shoreline haze, filling Alan Levy’s backyard with light so bright the swimming pool sparkled. City Councilman Nobel Wilts and Chief Marx were standing beside me at the edge of the rose garden. Thirty-two varieties of roses had been carefully removed and heaped in a pile on the far side of the yard. They would not be replanted. When the city finished its work, the roses would be discarded.