Land of Shadows

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Mom clutched her neck, then dropped her gaze. “He’s away.”

  “Away. Of course.” Detective Peet gave Mom a stupid smile, then stood from the couch. “I’ll keep in touch. I may want to talk to your husband later on.”

  He had been in our house for only eight minutes.

  32

  Angie and Cyrus Darson sat silently on the living room couch. Their eyes skipped from Colin down to their tight fists, to the coffee table, then back to Colin. Their red-rimmed, hollowed eyes told me that they had not slept. Angie had lost weight overnight and seemed shrunken and skeletal in her droopy cable-knit sweater. Cyrus hadn’t shaved—salt-and-pepper stubble had overtaken his face and his dreads hung at his shoulders like clubbed snakes. The house stank of burnt toast and cigarettes, which had snuffed out the more pleasant scents of the roses, lilies, and hydrangeas sitting on the mantel, on the sideboard, and on the dining room table. The mail had piled up, and a tower of envelopes and catalogs teetered on the coffee table. Other than our voices, the muted roar of the clothes dryer was the only sound in the house.

  Around seven that morning, the Darsons had claimed Monique’s body from the county morgue. Macie had refused to go into the building and had wept in the car.

  After Cyrus told me all of this, I had started to ask questions about Monique’s life … including that question. Neither he nor Angie had answered it yet, and now here we sat, in uncomfortable silence.

  I turned to Colin. “Can you…? Umm … Can you call Dr. Brooks? He should have test results by now. Thanks.”

  Colin’s lips flattened and the muscles in his neck flexed. “Sure,” he growled, pissed with being dismissed from another interview again.

  I offered him a barely there what-can-I-do shrug and a comforting smile to the Darsons. Once the front door closed and Colin was out of the house, I asked that question again: “So, other than Derek and Von, do you know of any other men Monique may have had a sexual relationship with?”

  Cyrus hunched over—talking about his dead daughter’s sex life was transforming him into an armadillo.

  “I told her ‘be careful,’” Angie said, taking the scenic route to a response. “I knew she was active—and she wasn’t a ho about it, so don’t get it twisted—but I wasn’t interested in becoming a grandmother anytime soon. I ain’t Renata’s momma, all excited about taking care of somebody else’s babies.” She rubbed her arms, then closed her eyes. “I know I’m not answering … She ain’t mentioned nobody else.”

  “Did you know what type of relationship she and Derek had?” I asked.

  “She didn’t have a type of relationship like that,” Cyrus said. “Not with him. We would’ve put a stop to that immediately—we don’t allow gangbangers in this house and Monie would never be interested in boys like that. No. We didn’t know.” He looked to his wife for an “amen.”

  But Angie was biting her thumbnail and tugging at her sweater.

  Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “You knew?”

  She gave a hesitant nod. When Cyrus hopped up from the couch and stormed around the living room, she shouted, “What was I supposed to do, Cyrus? She’s a grown woman.”

  “What the hell, Angie?” Eyes wide, he held out his hands. “You let our baby date a thug? A felon?”

  “The girls date a whole buncha people,” she shouted back. “Am I supposed to know every boy that Macie talks to? That ain’t my job no more!”

  “I talked to Derek yesterday,” I said. “He’s no longer a suspect.”

  Cyrus shook his head. “That doesn’t matter.”

  “For me, it does. Part of an investigation is not only identifying suspects but eliminating them as well.” Since neither parent responded, I continued. “I do know that Monique was seeing an older man. She called him a ‘big baller’ on her Facebook page. And she talked to him on the phone at least once a day. Has an older man that you don’t know visited sometime over the past several months?”

  Both parents shook their heads.

  “Can you keep a list for me from now on? Like, who sends a card, who shows up at the funeral service and so on?”

  A zombie nod from Angie.

  Cyrus had hunched over to support himself on the sideboard. He used one of his hands to rub his left temple.

  “Mr. Darson,” I said, “are you okay?”

  “Headache,” he muttered, with his eyes closed.

  “He hasn’t slept,” Angie explained. “Nobody has.” She turned to him. “Baby, you want an aspirin? Or—?”

  He waved her off. “Let’s just…” He groaned, stood upright. “What else do you need, Detective Norton?”

  I pulled from the expandable file a copy of Monique’s phone records. “Do either of you know this number?” I pointed to an entry highlighted in green.

  “No,” Angie said. “Who does it belong to?”

  “We don’t know,” I said, “but we will soon.” I slipped the records back into the folder. “One more thing. Cyrus, you were against the Santa Barbara redevelopment efforts. You protested at the site for more than a year and attended city council meetings and—”

  “He’s a community activist,” Angie said. “What Crase and them was doing was wrong, bringing in outsiders to rebuild our neighborhood without hiring people from the neighborhood. So yeah, we picketed. Us and about three hundred other people from Leimert and Crenshaw and Baldwin Hills.”

  Cyrus threw a weak glare in Angie’s direction—he was still agitated that she knew their daughter was screwing a banger.

  “We were influential, too,” Angie continued. “We knew we hit a nerve, cuz Crase started sending thugs to try and scare us. Throwing rocks and jumping people, late-night phone calls, sleep with the fishes BS. But we didn’t back down, even though it had gone past arguing. People were getting hurt now. If there was nothing shady going on, why was Crase and them doing this to us?

  “And so, other people started asking questions. Were they gonna hire minorities once the shops and theater and hotel opened? Were there gonna be black businesses? Were the police gonna be around to keep the knuckleheads out? Would our schools get some of that tax revenue?”

  “And you two led all of this?” I asked.

  Angie gave a weak smile. “You do what you gotta do. What’s right is right.”

  “And now, you, Cyrus, work at the same condo site you had protested.”

  “Yeah,” Angie said, “and at least twelve percent of the guys down there come from the community.”

  “I’m truly impressed,” I said with a nod. “Cyrus, where were you working before?”

  He picked at a scab on his elbow. “Here and there. Whole lotta places.”

  I waited for more but he didn’t speak. “Like where? Who gave you a 1099 at the end of the year?”

  Angie held up a hand. “Why is that important, where he worked?”

  I offered her an assuring smile. “We need to consider everyone in your circle as potential suspects. Including past employers and coworkers.”

  Cyrus swallowed, then said, “Can I get you that list later today?”

  “Sure,” I said, “but let me just put this out there, though. I don’t care if you worked under the table, that you didn’t pay taxes on income. Whatever. I’m not the IRS.”

  My assurance didn’t offer relief—his jaw remained tight as an oyster.

  “So no hard feelings from the Crase Group after the protests?” I asked. “Napoleon Crase has let bygones be just that?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Angie asked.

  “Because,” I said with awe, “he and his investors had spent more than thirty million dollars on this project, and because of you, it all stalled for more than a year. He’s rich, but he ain’t so rich that he wouldn’t notice a couple of million missing from his checking account because of a few neighborhood malcontents.”

  Angie started to rebut my argument but stopped. Instead, her mouth slowly fell open.

  Because with talking comes enlightenment …

  “W
hat are you…?” she whispered. “You don’t think Napoleon Crase had something to do with Monie, do you?”

  Cyrus gaped at me. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I wanted to mention Crase’s address found in Monique’s diary, to show that I was far from kidding. No—that discovery could possibly wend its way back to the Devil himself.

  “Crase is an older man,” I said instead, counting off fingers. “He’s rich. He wouldn’t want his name out there as a pedophile. And Monique—”

  “Would never sleep with Napoleon Crase,” Cyrus shouted. “Never in a million … That’s … that’s sick.”

  “But then you thought she’d never sleep with Derek Hester, either,” I pointed out. “Never in a million years.”

  “And when she was about to expose him, he killed her,” Angie murmured.

  “It’s certainly a theory I’m considering,” I said. “Again: everyone is a suspect.” To Cyrus, now pacing near the living room window, I said, “Have you ever seen Napoleon and Monique together? Has he ever met her? Has he ever called the house and she answered the phone?”

  “No,” he shouted. “No, no, no!” He clamped his hands over his eyes. “I refuse to believe any of this. He’d never do anything like what you’re suggesting.”

  I wanted to put Cyrus Darson and a dish of Super Glue into one of Zucca’s airtight chambers to see if Napoleon Crase had been handling him lately.

  “He has a history of dating very young women,” I said, holding up a finger. “He has a history of assaulting those very young women,” I added, holding up a second finger.

  Angie had started to whimper as the idea of Napoleon Crase and her daughter expanded like foam in her mind.

  “Angie,” Cyrus said, “Nappy Crase would never … He has a girlfriend. Several girlfriends.”

  “I wouldn’t call Brenna Benevides a girlfriend,” she snapped. “She’s a whore, and that’s the truth.” She turned to me. “And she looks like she just stopped wearing training bras last week.”

  “What numbers do you have for Napoleon Crase?” I asked. “Give me everything. Assistant’s number, fax, Twitter handle, anything and everything you have.”

  “I’ll get it.” Angie, grateful for having something to do, hopped off the couch and hurried to the den.

  Alone now with Cyrus, I said, “So how long have you known Crase?”

  “Long time,” he said, then swiped his mouth.

  “Was your relationship always adversarial?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not until you became an activist and blocked his progress?”

  He said nothing.

  “Your record.”

  His shoulders jerked back as though I had just reined him in. “What about it? All that was a long time ago.”

  “I understand. But is it possible that someone from your long-time-ago…?”

  Cyrus crossed his arms.

  “You get that scar during one of your stints in County?”

  “Did I get it in County? Yes, that’s where I got it.”

  I paused, just to let the lie stretch its legs. “Is there anything else in your past that I should know about? Again, I just want to find out who killed Monique.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “I know Crase is, like, your boss or whatever. And I know that he probably sponsored that television over there and your wife’s brand-new Prius, but you cannot protect this man. Do you understand me?”

  Cyrus folded his arms and said nothing.

  “He may have killed your daughter, Cyrus. He may have murdered Monique.”

  He stared out the window, as silent as a sphinx.

  “When bad people don’t get what they want,” I said, “they destroy. You blocked Napoleon Crase for more than a year, and now he may be trying to destroy you … starting with your children.”

  “I know that,” he spat. “You don’t think I know that?”

  I slipped over to stand behind him. “You want me to solve this case, you gotta help me. Right now, though? I’m putting together a puzzle without a picture.”

  Cyrus Darson didn’t speak and refused to give me the help I needed—even though that meant the Bad Guy going free. Again.

  33

  Cheap phone to his ear, he stands on the veranda with the city sprawled before him. Usually, he is a deliberate man—he eats the same breakfast each morning, takes three different routes to work on alternating days, and chooses the type of woman he beds. Lately, though, he knows he has been acting too impulsively. And life is getting a little messy because of his rashness. He must do something to regain control. Which means he must to do something about her. Now.

  Just an hour ago, he had cruised the streets behind the wheel of his truck—west on Florence, north on La Brea, east on Century, east, south … He had found another Boost Mobile store in the worst part of South Central, one in between a liquor store and a fish market. There were lots of people going in, lots of people coming out; dealers and gangbangers in the parking lot selling and buying dope and whores; poor people everywhere, so many people, like sand at the bottom of the ocean.

  He had purchased the disposable phone with cash. Had used the name “Ato Zee.”

  The saggy-tittied salesgirl didn’t get the joke and didn’t care enough to ask for his identification—hell, everyone knew Benjamin Franklin.

  And now, with the new phone to his face, he dials his angel’s number. The line rings … rings …

  He paces and watches a police helicopter circle over a Culver City neighborhood miles away.

  “Hello?” Her voice feels like warm buttered rum. Just hearing it makes his heart throb, makes his pulse slur one beat into the next.

  “Hello, my queen,” he says. “You amaze me.”

  No hyperbole. She has done everything he has asked of her. She believes everything he says. Her commitment runs deep, and now he knows how Hitler felt as Germans did all kinds of shit in his name. Even then, though, some had seen the so-called light and had betrayed their Fuhrer. How had that happened?

  And can it happen to him? Could his angel, his right hand, betray him?

  Of course she could. Of course she will.

  He must do something about her. Now.

  “What do you want this time?” he asks. “You deserve something extra-special.”

  “Umm … Surprise me,” she says. “I’m easy to please. You know—”

  A shot zigzags from the front of his head to the base of his skull. The pain left by the fiery trail knocks him to his knees, makes him clench the phone so tight it cracks. Hurts so bad he can’t even scream. His body shakes and the city dims … dims …

  A slight moan trips from his lips and his hands loosen. Tears well in his eyes and now he hears her, still on the phone, calling his name.

  Light-headed, he struggles to kneel, dull sharpness still lodged in his shoulders. He lifts the phone to his ear and tells her, “Hold on.” He grabs a filled water bottle and shakes it. He twists off the cap and plucks a long-handled cotton swab from the couch cushions. He dips the fluffy end of the swab into the cloudy liquid, then sticks the wet cotton up his nostrils. In just seconds, his face numbs and the pain lessens and he wishes he could shoot cocaine directly into his brain instead of snorting it and swabbing it.

  “You okay?” she asks, her voice shrill. “I’ll come over—”

  “No,” he says, weakly, “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll do anything for you,” she whispers.

  “Die for me?”

  She pauses, then says, “Yes. I love you.”

  He smiles—he must do something about his angel before her change, and his, comes.

  34

  Outside the Darson house, Colin sat on the hood of the car, texting on his phone.

  “You drive,” I told him, then slipped into the passenger seat. As soon as he turned the ignition, I jabbed the heat button—another cool June day in Los Angeles.

  In silence, he pulled away from the curb and o
ut onto Leimert Boulevard.

  “Cyrus Darson knows something,” I said. “And I don’t know what that is or why he’s keeping quiet, but I do know that he’s protecting Napoleon Crase.”

  No response from Colin.

  “Any word from Brooks?” I asked.

  “Monique had HPV,” he said, as though he’d said, “A car has wheels.”

  “Shit,” I said, eyebrows raised. “Did she know?”

  He nodded. “She’d gone to the doctor right before graduation. Dr. Brooks is faxing you the lab tests. She didn’t have any alcohol, weed, or any other controlled substance in her system, but he did find semen. There hasn’t been an immediate DNA hit on that yet. Lieutenant’s bumped up all of our DNA requests to Priority.”

  I playfully punched him in the arm. “See? That’s good stuff. I told you Brooks would have something.”

  Colin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

  I tapped my earring. “You mad at me?”

  He jammed his lips together, then pushed out, “Nope.”

  “If you got something to say, spill it or squash it. I don’t have time or patience for bullshit.”

  He considered me with fire-filled blue eyes. “You sent me away.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The interview with Monique’s parents,” he said. “You sent me on an errand like I was your kid or some shit.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair, then tugged a lock to make sure that I was awake and that we were really having this conversation. “Have you ever taken classes in body language?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know—”

  “That they were embarrassed. I know—”

  “Especially in front of a funny-talking white man wearing cowboy boots.”

  “Funny-talkin’? Who are you callin’—?”

  “Put on your big girl panties, Detective, and get the fuck over it, okay? I’m done talking about it.” I crossed my arms and glared out the passenger-side window. “Get on the 10 West, then exit on Cloverfield.”

  Colin accelerated, his jaw tight, and roared up Crenshaw Boulevard as though the street had just called his first cousin a whore.