To Bring My Shadow

by Matt Phillips

  “Drive around back, Skinny.”

  “What now, motherfucker?” Attitude in his voice.

  “Drive us around back—I want to see something.”

  Slade shook his head in disgust, but he slid the Ford into an adjacent alley and boxed around the strip club. We came out on a parking area full of used-new economy cars. The fucking stripper fleet. I saw a couple girls next to a propped open door. They were in sweatpants and hoodies, all smoking and laughing together. Again, I recognized Celeste.

  Slade pulled the car alongside the girls.

  I reached back and unlatched the back door. It swung open and Celeste rolled her eyes. I motioned for her to come over and she did the walk of shame while the other girls giggled or gave us snotty looks. Celeste scrunched into the back seat and closed the door.

  “What’s wrong, Detective? Never seen a naked chick before?”

  “Not one your age,” I said. “Unless she was dead.”

  Slade made a noise in his throat.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Celeste puffed on her cigarette, unlatched the door, and tossed the cigarette outside. She closed the door again and sighed.

  “It means,” I said, “that you’re on the wrong fucking path.”

  “You know, you should have been a guidance counselor.”

  “Shit,” Slade said. “Man couldn’t counsel a—”

  “Shut it, Skinny.” I shifted in my seat, tried to face Celeste. I was too big in the seat and only got one eye on her. It was enough to see the pouty lips and puffed-up eye sockets. “I want you to quit this shit, Celeste. I’m serious. You want a job, I’ll help you find one.”

  “I don’t want a job. I want my own money.”

  “But this is—”

  “Easy money,” she said. “They can look, but they don’t touch.”

  “Until they do,” I said.

  “Can I go now?”

  Skinny shrugged and I turned back to look out the windshield. One of the strippers sauntered in front of our car, chirped the alarm on a Toyota and climbed inside it. She backed out and zoomed down the alley.

  I sighed and said, “I’m coming back in a week. You better be gone.”

  “Whatever, Detective.” Celeste opened the door.

  Slade looked back at her before she got out. “You seen your boyfriend lately?”

  “Turner’s gone. He left two nights ago.”

  “No shit? Where’d lover boy get off to?”

  “Where the fuck you think?” Celeste said. “Juarez. You know, Mexico?”

  Chapter 31

  A volley of hardwood squeaks and shouts filled the basketball gym in the Mid-City Y. I took a seat on the metal bleachers, watched the game with all the guys waiting for their turn to play. The game was full court, five-on-five, and Rambo—like when we chased him down—ran around like he had four lungs. I was surprised at how good the kid played. He was a natural point guard with court vision and a decent mid-range jumper. I raised my eyebrows at Slade who stood near the closest exit. He shrugged and put his hands out as if to say, We all have our talents. At point game, Rambo yo-yo’d the ball up court and found a big man for a low post score. The team celebrated with ass slaps and high-fives. Rambo jogged over to the bleachers for a swig of his sports drink. When he did, I started clapping.

  He looked up at me and said, “Shit, man.”

  “You look like you played college ball, Rambo,” I said. “That’s impressive.”

  “I played juco ball, upstate.” He wiped sweat off his head with a T-shirt and glared at me.

  “Funny. You might get a chance to play upstate again. Different competition though.”

  “C’mon, man. You know I’m not what you’re looking for.”

  I motioned toward the exit. Rambo noticed Slade and called to a few buddies that he’d be back. He pointed at another guy to fill in for him. Outside, me and Slade stood close to Rambo as he leaned against the Y’s stucco wall. We were in the parking lot and Rambo’s eyes flitted over the nearby cars.

  “What you fuckers want with me, man? You know I’m nothing—not compared to what you want.”

  “You didn’t kill anybody then?” Slade leaned in and sniffed Rambo’s neck. “I smell lies.”

  “Fuck no. I’m the one’s going to get killed. Especially if—”

  “Why you still in town then?”

  Rambo said, “Where am I going to go? Everything I got, it’s here. I haven’t been back to my place. I’m staying with a lady friend out in east county.”

  “I thought,” I said, “that you were dead. Isn’t that what you said?”

  Rambo’s eyes skirted the parking lot again. “Might be still. Unless these fuckers forget. You two aren’t helping me, man. I swear to God.”

  He tried to walk away from us, but I stepped to one side and Slade closed off the other.

  “Unless who forgets?” I said.

  Rambo sighed, started to shake his head. He leaned back against the wall, wiped sweat from his right cheek. “The cartel, man—Juarez.”

  “You work for them?”

  “Look, I sell street drugs. Okay? You want, take my ass in.” He put his wrists together and held them out for us to take. Slade rolled his eyes and I laughed. “Okay then,” Rambo said. “I work for Turner, and that’s it. Fucking kid keeps me supplied and I pay him back. It’s some low-level shit. I fucking lease my car, man.”

  A look of confusion crossed Slade’s face. “Turner is your connect?”

  I scanned the parking lot myself. Bunch of beaters and a few Hondas made to look like they were fast and furious. No silver Mercedes and no black SUVs with mysterious-looking gangsters.

  “Yeah, man. Has been for the last year or so.”

  Slade said, “What about that night, when you dropped Turner and the girl off under the bridge?”

  “It’s like we said: Turner didn’t want to drive because he was high as fuck.”

  “What about the Jacoby murders? You brought those up,” Slade said.

  “Because Turner told me to.”

  I felt my own look of surprise surface on my face. “The fuck you saying?”

  Slade chuckled and said, “Why would he do that?”

  “The fuck if I know,” Rambo said, shrugging. “Only thing I can think is he wanted to impress his girl.” He stared at us with big unknowing eyes. “I ain’t the fucking detective.”

  Celeste’s naked body passed through my mind. And then I saw the expensive house where I dropped her off on the night—no, early morning—of the first Castaneda murder. “You’re saying Turner told you specifically to bring up the Jacoby murder?”

  “Name and fuck-all,” Rambo said. “Gave me a hundred bucks to do it.”

  Slade turned around, walked a few steps with his hands on his head. “Fuck me, man.”

  “And you think he did it to impress the chick?”

  “I don’t know no other reason. What the fuck she know about murder and all these drugs?”

  Slade came back and said, “It is confusing.”

  “Maybe not so much,” I said.

  “Frank?” Slade’s eyes scrunched up and he looked angry.

  I patted Rambo on the chest. I slipped him my card and said, “You stay hiding now. Things might get dirty for a while. And you might think about a career change.”

  Rambo nodded like a junkie. “Already am, man. Already am.”

  “Get gone,” I said.

  Rambo jogged back into the Y.

  I started for the car and Slade followed.

  As we sat in rush hour traffic on the 5 freeway headed north, Slade lost his patience with my silence. “You going to tell me what the fuck, Frank? Let me in on the shit you know—it’s only fair.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, rubbed my chin. After a few minutes I gave Slade my thoughts. “Celeste’s dad is a high-profile lawyer—criminal defense.”

  “And?” Slade pounded his ho
rn as a BMW cut us off. “You ain’t getting nowhere faster, motherfucker. I hate people who drive BMWs. You know what kind of person—”

  “And maybe Turner—or, better, Decassin—wanted Celeste’s father to hear about the Jacoby family. Maybe Turner was supposed to pass along the information to scare Celeste’s dad…But coming from Celeste. Like planted information or something.”

  “That’s some CIA shit.”

  “You think about it and…I don’t know.”

  Slade snapped his fingers. “Wait, who the fuck was the lawyer for Jacoby. He was under investigation, right? So, whose his lawyer? If it’s Celeste’s daddy…”

  “She’d know for sure. And tell daddy what she heard.”

  “There you go,” Slade said.

  “She fucking lied to me.”

  “That’s batting a thousand. You know everybody lies.”

  I leaned back in my seat and shuddered. I saw her naked body again, those small shaking tits and the bored facial expression. I compared that to my vision of her from when I dropped her at home. She seemed small then—a child. “That girl played me, Skinny.”

  “Still doesn’t explain the case of the gangster and his chopped off wang.”

  “Coincidence,” I said, “in a manner of speaking.”

  “What?”

  “You remember both Turner and Celeste said they go under the bridge a lot. To smoke. Fuck. Whatever. Whoever put Castaneda down there knew the body would be found, and maybe by Turner. By Regis Decassin’s son…Or whatever he is.”

  Slade changed lanes and flipped off an older woman in a business suit. “You’re saying it’s pure coincidence they found a body that night?”

  “On the same night Turner was passing a message through Celeste.”

  Slade thought for a long slow mile. “And we know the Castanedas worked for Decassin. I got that from a couple CIs. Well, not direct…But I’m pretty sure.”

  “Turner was passing a message,” I said.

  “And someone else was delivering a message to Decassin.”

  I nodded.

  Slade added, “It was one hell of a message.”

  “So what we’re saying then,” I said looking out my window at the slow unraveling of strip malls and warehouses, “is that two messages were delivered in one night. That’s what’s confusing.” We sat in silence for a few more miles and I thought about that: We had two messages being sent, both of those messages—also confusing—sent by and through the same person—Turner Malcolm. And Turner worked for his stepfather, Decassin. What that meant was Decassin was sending a message to Celeste’s father and somebody was sending Decassin a message through Turner. But who? Who opposed Decassin? I rapped my knuckles on the window. “Who is it sending a message to Decassin, Slade? That’s what we need to know.”

  “So, we’re headed up there to ask the man.”

  I rolled down my window and breathed in some smog. “No. We’re going to ask somebody else. We’re going to trail them and ask the only way we know that’ll get some answers.”

  “You talking about his hot ass wife?”

  “Or the bodyguard,” I said. “Whoever comes first.”

  Chapter 32

  I didn’t expect to get the bodyguard and the wife together, but that’s what happened. Mid-evening, the late model Porsche slid through the gate and zoomed past us. The car accelerated onto the road and zipped out of sight. Slade was sleeping at the wheel—we were parked outside the gate beneath a stand of slow waving pine trees—and I was on watch. I slapped Slade’s arm and said, “Let’s go, Skinny. It’s the wife and the security man.”

  Slade popped awake, started the car, and took off down the road. “Both of them in the same car?”

  “You got it, partner.”

  Slade grunted and we followed the Porsche onto a southbound freeway entrance. The security man got in the fast lane and took it up to ninety. Slade followed about a quarter mile back. We weaved through light, post-rush-hour traffic. “You want me to pull them over? We could do it like that? Scare the two of them, if we want.”

  I didn’t like that. Too many lies these past few days. Wherever these two went wouldn’t be a lie—I’d see it with my own eyes. “No. Let’s see what they’re doing, where they’re going.”

  The Porsche slid over after a few miles and exited at one of the downtown exits. Security man made a right down a one-way street and crept into Little Italy. The neighborhood was teeming with tourists and families out for weekend dinner.

  Slade said, “You think they’re eating out together?”

  “Fuck if I know.”

  Slade pulled to the curb and flipped on his hazard lights.

  The Porsche reached a valet stand and the teenage valet opened the door for Finney Portray. I whistled when she got out in a green slip dress so tight it looked like Spandex. Her hips swung as she moved to the curb followed by the security man. He wore a similar suit to when we first met him, off-gray with a nice tie and the slim bulge of a firearm beneath his armpit.

  “Maybe he’s the escort,” I said.

  But I was wrong. The security man slipped his arm around Finney and they walked into a restaurant called Limo’s Hideaway. As they entered, security man’s slim hand cupped Finney’s plump ass.

  Slade made a sound in his throat. “I hope you got money for the valet’s tip, Frank.” He flipped off the hazard lights and pulled through the intersection. We stopped in front of the valet stand.

  “May I help you gentleman?” The hostess smiled at us and raised her eyebrows.

  Slade said, “We’re meeting some friends. A couple with a reservation for,” Slade looked at his watch, “seven thirty-ish. Should be here already.” He took out his cell and waved it. “Got a text from them.”

  “I don’t have any four-person reservations for—”

  “You know, we’re only dropping in. A glass of bubbly and we’re gone. They said we could—”

  “Oh, you know what? I know where they are…” The hostess led us through the restaurant toward a cocktail area with a small, classy-looking bar and dark booths with leather seats. Limo’s had the look of an old Italian place, though I could tell by the shine and sheen it was new. I figured it for a trendy place seizing on old world fare. I smelled pesto and gnocchi and my stomach growled. We found Finney and the security man in a corner booth. The young hostess bowed to them and presented us. “Your guests…” She turned and walked back to her posting.

  I ignored the surprised look from our new friends and squeezed into the booth next to the security man. I put one big hand on the man’s shoulder rig and said, “Let’s just have a chat.”

  He relaxed and let his face go red. Finney didn’t flinch.

  Slade got in next to her and rubbed his hands together. “Where’s the bread and butter? You order any vino yet?”

  Cool as dry ice, Finney said, “Here comes the wine.”

  A white-shirted waiter opened a bottle of pinot noir and poured two glasses. “Shall I bring two more glasses?”

  Slade said, “I’ll take an old fashioned.”

  “Me too.” When the waiter ran off, I said, “That stuff Italian?”

  Slade laughed. “Pinot noir ain’t Italian, Frank. You’ll have to excuse my partner. He only recently joined the human race. He ran with the gorillas before that.”

  “This place is Italian. Seems to me you need to get some Italian wine if—”

  “It’s new world cuisine,” Finney said and sipped from her glass. “Fusion food.” Her eyes shined in the near dark. “They serve Italian wines, but I don’t like them. Not even Prosecco.”

  “I’m a pro sicko, too. Aren’t we all?”

  Security man said, “The fuck do you two want now?”

  “Don’t believe we got your name?” Slade smiled.

  “Jenson. Mayfair Jenson.”

  “Well, Mayfair,” I tapped the gun beneath his coat, “first off, we want to know what the fuck this
is.” I looked from him to Finney, back again.

  The waiter set our drinks on the table. “May I—”

  “Later,” Slade said and waved him back to the dining room.

  Finney said, “You’ve never seen a case of infidelity, detectives?”

  “Jesus H,” Mayfair said under his breath.

  “Oh, we’ve seen it.” I put my elbows on the table, leaned down to sniff my cocktail. It was sweet and spicy. I bent and sipped without picking up the glass. “When I say ‘what,’ I happen to mean ‘why’? A bit confusing, but even the dumbest among us can speak in riddles.”

  “I say what I mean,” Finney said.

  “I bet you do.” Slade turned to get a better look at her. He scratched his cheek, let his hand slap against the table. “Did your husband kill the Jacoby family?”

  Mayfair tensed, tried to reach across the table.

  I pinned him with my arm and fat left thigh. “Let’s keep things civil. We just have a few questions and you can go back to wining and dining your boss’s wife.”

  “I don’t keep apprised of my husband’s business dealings.”

  “Do you keep apprised of the murders of children?” I stared at her without blinking.

  “No, I do not.”

  Mayfair groaned. “She doesn’t have a goddamned thing to do with—”

  “But I bet you know all about it,” Slade said. He took a long swig from his cocktail and licked his lips. “I bet you watch the man’s every move. That’s how you can come out here and—”

  “I’m a fucking errand boy.”

  “Long way from the Middle East,” I said.

  “Goddamn right about that.”

  “Please,” Finney said, “I hate to hear about those ugly wars.”

  I looked at Mayfair and raised my eyebrows. “She don’t support the troops?”

  He shook his head and shrugged.

  “Only when they stand at attention,” Slade said while looking from Finney to Mayfair.

  “Fuck you,” Finney said.

  “Tell us, Mayfair,” I said, “you think the cuckolded drug czar killed the Jacoby family?” I kept my eyes on Finney while I spoke, hoped it pissed her off.