The Darker Side

by Cody McFadyen

  God never spoke, but He was there, and it was enough. She knew He heard her last thought, her final revelation.

  Yeah, it does. It does make a difference. In fact, it makes THE difference. Our Father, who art in heaven, God oh my God, I love you so.

  She would have died smiling if she hadn’t been in so much pain.

  11

  IT’S A LITTLE PAST NOON AND I AM ON THE PHONE WITH AD Jones.

  “Similar crime?” he asks. “Here?”

  He doesn’t groan, but I know he wants to because I feel the same way.

  A killer who hops municipalities is a whole new monster. A man dedicated to his craft, a traveler, spreading the wreckage of his acts across multiple jurisdictions. It creates problems. Locals who don’t want us playing in their sandbox. The potential for incompetence on the part of forensics or pathology increases by virtue of increasing the per capita of law-enforcement involvement. Not to mention the simple truth that some victims will fall through the cracks. VICAP, the Violent Crime Apprehension Program, which provides a national database of cross-referenced violent acts, is a voluntary program. Unless a local homicide cop decides to enter the crime into VICAP, it’s not there to search for and find in the database.

  “It’s a headache,” I agree.

  “What do you want to do?”

  I think about it. The truth is, I’m tired, my team is tired, and there’s no way we’ll be able to keep up our current pace for very long.

  But…

  The time he’s most likely to err is in the commission of the crime itself. The longer he has to cool down, the more opportunity he has to cover his tracks, and worse, to refine his technique. The first murder, in most cases, is the sloppiest.

  But this isn’t his first now, is it? Maybe not even his tenth or his hundredth.

  I sigh. “We’ll continue blitzing it for now, sir. I’ll fly back and check out the Sonnenfeld murder. The rest of my team will stay here.”

  “What’s the division of labor?”

  “Callie and James are processing Lisa’s apartment personally. Alan is coordinating with the locals on the Ambrose scene.”

  “Is he really needed there?”

  I consider this. “Probably not. I was going to have him do the passenger interviews, but the locals could do that. I’m sure Virginia forensics will pass muster and, besides, I think Ambrose was a throw-away.”

  “Big assumption.”

  “If Lisa wasn’t random—and I feel strongly that she wasn’t—then Ambrose was a means to an end, not the reason why.” I sigh. “He was incidental. He’s not going to give me any real insight.”

  “Then take Alan with you. Have him turn over the Ambrose scene and the passenger interviews to the locals.” A pause. “I want you to have a partner with you when possible, Smoky. This guy seems to be pretty intent on getting law enforcement involved. That means he’s going to be watching.”

  I’d already thought of this, but having AD Jones say it out loud sends a small icy shiver down my spine. On at least three occasions now the men I hunt have taken a personal interest in me and my team, and while we’re all still alive, we’ve never walked away from those encounters unscathed.

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “Keep me briefed.”

  He hangs up without saying good-bye. I dial Alan.

  “Let me guess,” he says without preamble. “We’re going back to LA.”

  “How telepathic of you.”

  “Nah. If you hadn’t asked me to come I would have insisted.”

  “I’ll come pick you up,” I say. “’Bye.”

  I’ve been standing outside of Lisa’s apartment to make these calls. I poke my head in.

  “Callie!”

  She walks out of Lisa’s bedroom, digital camera held in gloved hands.

  “What is it, honey-love?”

  I explain about Rosemary Sonnenfeld. She raises an eyebrow.

  “Busy boy.”

  “Yes. Alan and I are going to fly home and check that out. I need you and James to continue here. Collect everything you can find. When you’re done, call for the plane and bring it all back with you.”

  “Do we get to sleep after?”

  “If not, I’ll buy the donuts.”

  Callie is addicted to miniature chocolate donuts. Loves them, really. It’s a passionate affair.

  “A fair trade,” she says. “I accept.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Oh, and, Smoky? Say hi to my man if you see him. Tell him I expect sex when I return. Lots of it.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear it.”

  She tosses her hair and smiles. “I just want to give him adequate time to prepare for the coming storm.”

  ALAN AND I ARE SITTING in the car waiting for the jet to arrive. He glances at his watch.

  “We should get there by about six o’clock. I already talked to the Simi Valley cops and let them know we’re coming. Some guy by the name of Atkins is the primary on the case.”

  “Where are they at with it?”

  “All the forensic work is done, including the autopsy. They don’t have any leads.”

  “Have they released the apartment yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Damn.”

  I won’t get the same opportunity I had with Lisa Reid.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s meet with Atkins, find out everything we can about Rosemary Sonnenfeld, who she was and how she died. See if it takes us anywhere.”

  “Think it will?”

  I glance at my friend and shrug.

  “It will take us somewhere. Hopefully that’s somewhere helpful.”

  He stares off and nods. I wonder if he hears it like I do, the humming in the stillness. Three newly dead, and more in the oven. My stomach is sour with worry and dismay, and I feel like cicadas are buzzing through my veins.

  “ARE YOU COMING HOME TONIGHT?”

  We’re mid-flight and I’m on the plane’s phone with Bonnie.

  “I hope so, sweetheart. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too, but I’m okay. If you need to work, I won’t mind.”

  “Thanks, babe. But I’m really going to try.”

  A pause.

  “Smoky?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know you’re busy, but I want you to make some time to talk with me about something soon.”

  My antennae go up. I can’t remember Bonnie ever making a request like this. All kinds of things run through my head, good, bad, and banal. Mostly bad. I keep my voice calm.

  “What’s up, sweetheart?”

  Another long pause, also uncharacteristic.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking. You know I love Elaina. And I really did need to be homeschooled while I got better, but…”

  “But?” I coax her.

  She sighs, and it makes my heart hitch a bit. It’s the sound of a little girl carrying a big weight. “Well, I think it’s time for me to go to a normal school. You know, with other kids and stuff.”

  Now it’s my turn to pause.

  “Hm,” I manage.

  “I’m not asking you to decide right now, Momma-Smoky. I just wanted you to know. That I want to talk about it.”

  I clear my throat and force myself to sound reassuring and understanding.

  “Sure, honey. Of course.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” She sounds relieved.

  Too relieved. What’s she so worried about? Me? If so, not good.

  I continue with the whole reassuring and understanding thing, in spite of my inner turmoil. Some things you never forget how to do as a parent. Calm and smiling while it storms inside, no problem, like riding a bike.

  “I’ll talk to you later, babe. Too much.”

  “Way too much,” she replies.

  We spend a lot of time together, but we also spend a lot of time apart by virtue of what I do. We’ve developed an emotional shorthand that works wonders for us. “Too much” is one of our phrases
, the answer to the unspoken question, “how much do I love you?” It was super sappy and absolutely appropriate.

  God, I love this girl.

  “’Bye, sweetheart,” I murmur.

  “’Bye.”

  I hang up and stare out the small window, watching the clouds go by. I search for a level place inside myself, but I’m having trouble. Fear is my oldest friend and he’s taken advantage of my unease to cuddle up close.

  “Something wrong?” Alan asks, startling me from my reverie.

  I shrug. “Bonnie. She wants to talk about going to public school.”

  He raises both eyebrows in surprise.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow.”

  “Scares you, huh?”

  His eyes are gentle, patient, kind. Alan knows me pretty well, and a lot of that is because I trust him so much.

  I sigh. “It terrifies me. I mean, I understand. She’s twelve. I knew I couldn’t keep her inside a cocoon forever. But it scares me to think about her…out there.”

  He nods. “Understandable. She’s been treated rough. So have you.”

  “That’s the problem. Every parent worries about sending their child out into the world. But not every parent has seen what I have. The possibilities aren’t just theoretical for me.”

  “Yeah.” He is silent for a moment. “I love Bonnie, Smoky, you know that. Truth is, the idea scares me too. Not just for her—though that’s the biggest part of it, of course—but also for Elaina, and for you. Bonnie is your second chance at being a mom, and probably Elaina’s only chance to experience a little of what that’s like. You and Elaina are the most important women in my life, and if something happened to Bonnie…I don’t know. I don’t think either of you would make it back from that.”

  He smiles, rueful. “But on the other hand, I’m happy about it. Because it means that that little girl really is okay.” He looks at me, his gaze intense. “You understand? She’s not afraid to venture out into the world again. That’s progress, Smoky. It means we’ve done good by her. And that’s pretty cool.”

  I smile at my friend. He hasn’t taken away my fear, but he has tempered it, a little. Because what he’s said is true. Bonnie was almost lost to the world after a visit from a monster. Her soul had been flickering out there on the edge of forever, a tiny candle in a rainstorm. The essence of her had nearly been snuffed out.

  Now she was telling me that she was strong enough to want to start building a life with more than just me in it. It was terrifying, it might even make me a little bit jealous, but yes, it was also pretty cool.

  “Thanks, Alan. That helps.”

  “No problem. Just don’t expect me to be all wise and understanding when she starts dating.”

  I grin at him. “Dating? There will be no dating going on.”

  He grins back.

  “Amen to that.”

  12

  SIMI VALLEY, LIKE MUCH OF VENTURA COUNTY, IS MUCH NICER than LA proper. It’s younger, smaller, and safer. The 118 freeway connects Simi and the San Fernando Valley, but the drive between the two takes you through undeveloped country, rolling hills and mini-mountains.

  The easternmost side of Simi Valley is older, with homes that date back to the sixties. As in all things USA, the more west you go, the newer things are.

  This is what California used to be, I think. Clean air, unending sun in the spring and summer, a horizon you could still see. Simi is a fair-sized city, but it lacks the congestion and traffic snarl that has been a staple of Los Angeles for many moons.

  Traffic is annoying but not crippling and we arrive at the police station around 7:00 P.M.

  “That must be Atkins,” Alan says.

  I see a middle-aged man with a receding brunet hairline in the parking lot of the station, leaning up against his car. He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit, not off the rack but not Armani either. He spots us and comes up to greet us as we park.

  “You must be Agent Washington,” Atkins says to Alan, putting out his hand with a smile. “No offense, but you’re pretty hard to miss.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “I’ll bet.” Atkins turns to me. “And you’re Agent Barrett.”

  His eyes dance over my scars, something I’m long used to by now. I don’t mind certain subsets of the population examining my face. Homicide cops like Atkins, for example. His interest is genuine and quizzical. He looks, shrugs inside, and lets it go, no disgust or horror evident. Most physicians do the same. Small children run the gamut from “is that your real face?” to, in the case of nine-year-old boys, “wow, cool!”

  “Thanks for meeting us this late,” I say, shaking the hand he’s offered.

  “Hey, anything that will help me crack this case.” His eyes go flat, expressionless. “This one bothers me.”

  He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You see a lot of dead people, doing what we do. None of it is good, but some of the corpses become ghosts.

  “Tell us about it,” Alan says.

  Atkins inclines his head. “I can tell you about her death, and I will, but first I thought I’d take you to see a man who can tell you about her life.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Father Yates. Catholic priest in the Valley who almost literally pulled Rosemary out of the gutter.”

  Alan looks at me and raises an inquiring eyebrow.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I quip, using humor to push aside my exhaustion. I gesture to Atkins’s car. “You drive. You can fill us in on the way there.”

  IT OCCURS TO ME THAT American carmakers are unlikely to go out of business as long as police forces exist. The car is a fixed-up Crown Vic, no longer black and white, just black and sleek with a growl under the hood.

  It’s dark out now, the moon is up, and we’re headed back down the 118 freeway again. It’s rush-hour light at the moment; there are other cars around us, but the distance and speed are companionable. The sky is cloudless and the moon is full. Silver, not yellow. It makes some of the rocky hills in the distance look like they have snow on top.

  I’m in the front seat with Atkins, Alan is in the back.

  “Rosemary Sonnenfeld. Single white female, age thirty-four, five-five, approx. one hundred twenty-five pounds, in good physical shape. She was found dead in her apartment with a bag of coke on the nightstand next to her. On first glance the thought was that Rosemary had reverted to type. She was an ex-prostitute, ex-porn girl, ex-coke and sex addict. I thought she’d probably decided to get high and maybe was a little out of practice on her coke usage and overdosed.”

  “Makes sense,” Alan says. “What changed your mind?”

  “A closer look. Tox screen showed she had enough coke in her system to kill a horse, but she’d also been stabbed in the side.”

  “Interesting,” I allow, not yet willing to give up data on Lisa Reid.

  “Yeah. Then, of course, there was the cross. Silver cross, about two inches high and one inch wide. Engraved with a skull and crossbones and the number one forty-two on the back. It had been inserted into her.”

  The same as Lisa Reid, I think. And one forty-two? Lisa was one forty-three.

  “If all that wasn’t enough to call it a homicide,” Atkins continues, “the icing on the cake is that the cross was inserted postmortem.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty definitive,” Alan says.

  “Then there’s Father Yates.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Yates is a priest who does a lot of good, but he’s no fool. He made Rosemary do a piss test once a month at a local clinic.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised. “Sounds like a pretty distrustful priest.”

  Atkins smiles. “Father Yates is a realist. He’s a true believer, and he does good work. But he has a three strikes rule. If he takes you in and helps you get clean, you get three relapses and then you’re gone.”

  “So I take it Rosemary had stayed clean.”

  “For over four years. I checked her r
ecord. Nothing during that time. She’d held a steady job, she volunteered at the church every weekend. Everything says that she really had gone on the straight and narrow.”

  “I can see why this one got to you,” I say.

  Most people think that cops are cynics. There is truth to that stereotype. We see the worst that people can do or be. It makes us…attentive. But we’re people too. Most of those I’ve known in law enforcement, however hardened they may be, still harbor a willingness to believe that someone could—maybe—turn their life around. A bad guy or girl could—maybe—wake up one day and decide to become a good guy or girl. It’s just that—a maybe—but it never really goes away. No one can live with the idea that man is basically evil and stay happy.

  “Yeah,” Atkins says. “Anyway. It was a homicide, but everything dead-ended. Forensics came up with nada. We couldn’t find any past known associates that were still alive. Ten days later, no viable suspects.” He shakes his head in frustration. “I’ve been doing this for a while, Agent Barrett. I know when a case is going to go cold. This had that feel to it—until Agent Washington called me.”

  “Was there any evidence of sexual violation? Any ejaculate near the body?”

  “No.”

  “How was her body positioned? Were her legs together or apart?”

  “Together. Arms folded over her chest.”

  “Interesting,” I murmur.

  “What?” Atkins asks.

  “Our other victim was a transsexual. Rosemary was an ex-porn actress and sex addict. Based on our victims, I would have expected a sexual component to these crimes, but it’s been absent both times. The only commonality we know of is the cross. Strange.”

  “What’s it mean?” Alan asks, prodding me.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know yet. Let’s see what the priest can tell us.”

  “ROSEMARY WAS ONE OF MY favorite successes. One Rosemary could make up for ten failures. You understand?”

  Father Yates is a very fit fiftyish. He has rough-hewn, handsome features, close-cropped salt and pepper hair, and dark, intelligent eyes. They are what I used to call “priest eyes” to my friends. Too full of kindness to get self-righteous with, too full of an understanding of the ways of sin to hide anything from. I grew up Catholic, though I am long lapsed, and I recognize the type of priest Yates is: hands-on, approachable, devout without being out of touch with the realities of life.