Land of Shadows

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Since I had no one to talk to, I ran Von Neeley’s name through the car’s computer. No priors. Not even a parking violation. The boy was as clean as the Mormon Tabernacle on Christmas morning.

  Colin exited at Cloverfield, and we were soon cruising the clean streets of Santa Monica, an ocean-side town still lost in morning fog. I could barely pick out Yahoo! over there and Universal Music Group over there. A few more blocks down Colorado and we reached the service department of W. I. Simonson Mercedes-Benz.

  Colin parked at the curb.

  “You can take the lead,” I told him.

  He gasped. “Well, gee whiz. I’ll get to send you out to make copies?”

  I shot him a glare that could sour milk.

  He blanched, because that’s what men do with that glare.

  “Keep it up, smart-ass,” I spat. “You think you don’t have friends in Southwest now, just keep pissing me off.”

  He slumped in the driver’s seat and rubbed his mouth. “All I’m sayin’—”

  I climbed out of the car before he could explain. Didn’t he hear me? I was in no mood to kiss boo-boos and hand out juice boxes. There were worse things in life than being sent from a living room. Being murdered, for one.

  Von Neeley, the young man from Monique’s Facebook albums, stood behind the Enterprise Car Rental desk in the service department’s waiting room. Handsome, clean-cut, no earrings or visible tats. Today, he wore blue slacks, a blue necktie, and a white dress shirt. He was so shiny that he probably bled Windex; so clean, he probably peed Lysol. Right now, he had three customers in line—a sixty-year-old cougar who should not have pulled on those clingy yoga pants this morning; a blond chick who rocked her pair; and a twink with frosted hair, a goatee, and Elvis Costello glasses.

  “A little crowded,” Colin observed.

  “We’ll wait,” I said, and wandered to the coffee bar.

  Colin followed me and grabbed a complimentary muffin from the basket. Then, we plopped on the leather couch to watch CNN.

  And as we sat there with giant muffins and cups of French-roasted coffee, fancy people with fancy cars left their keys with very clean repairmen wielding clipboards and wide smiles. I could have sat there all day.

  Ten minutes later, Von had placed each of his customers into a courtesy car, bidding each to have a blessed day.

  I fixed a second cup of coffee and watched as Colin moved toward Von. I didn’t know what Colin was saying until Von’s “Can I help you?” smile faded. That’s when I joined them.

  Colin introduced me as his partner, and then the three of us wandered out of the building and to the employee parking lot. We stopped near an older-model gray Mercedes that had never seen dirt in its life. “This your car?” Colin asked the kid.

  Von nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Mind if I look in?” I smiled to take the edge off the question.

  “No, ma’am,” Von said. “Go right ahead.”

  I opened the door and was quickly enveloped in New Car Smell wafting from a tin of freshener in the ashtray. Not much to see: CDs, an open pack of Juicy Fruit gum. No blood. No dog hair.

  I closed the door and gave Colin a slight headshake. Clean.

  “When did you hear about Monique?” Colin asked.

  Von licked his lips. “I guess you guys had just left the house yesterday when Macie called me and … Yeah, yesterday.”

  “When was the last time you talked to Monique?” Colin asked.

  “We were together on Sunday,” Von answered. “After Mass, I went over to her house. That was around one o’clock.”

  “And what did you two talk about?”

  Von’s eyes watered as he scanned the sky. “I wanted to see her that night to talk about our future. I’m supposed to fly down to Belize tomorrow with our church—we’re building houses and an orphanage. Before I left the country, though, I wanted to get some things straight with her.”

  “What kind of things?” I asked, scanning his face, hands, and neck for scratches or bruises. Clean.

  “I was gonna ask her to marry me,” Von said. “We’d wait until after she graduated from college to get married, but that’s what was supposed to happen.”

  “Did you propose?” I asked.

  He shook his head, shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets. “It didn’t feel right. Her phone kept ringing, and she kept answering.”

  Colin and I glanced at each other. We had studied the phone records and so we knew who had been calling—a Blood who yearned to be Gilligan.

  Von laughed bitterly. “Yeah, I know about Derek. She used to throw him in my face whenever she wanted something. Pit us against each other like we were dogs. Drove me crazy cuz she was better than that, better than being his girl. But it’s hard to compete financially with a dealer, you know? I tried, though.”

  “Is that why you bought her that Lexus?” I asked.

  He sucked his teeth. “That wasn’t me. Homeboy got it for her.”

  Colin and I looked at each other again—Derek didn’t buy the Lexus, Von didn’t buy the Lexus, so who bought the freakin’ Lexus?

  “Was Monique seeing anyone other than you and Derek?” Colin asked.

  Von glared at the sidewalk. “No.”

  “Do you know anyone who could’ve killed her?” Colin asked.

  “Derek,” Von muttered.

  “Anyone else?” Colin asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Did you kill her?” I asked, voice soft. “Maybe not intentionally, since you say you loved her, right? Maybe because you were jealous of her relationship with Derek? If I can’t have her, no one can, that sort of thing? Maybe you hit her a little too hard or…?”

  A teardrop slid down Von’s cheek. “No, ma’am. Never. I loved Monie. I wanted to spend my life with Monie. I stayed in California for college just so I could be near Monie.”

  Von’s “I loved Monie” was Splenda compared to Derek’s C&H Pure Cane “I loved Monie.”

  I bristled, cuz boy, I hated artificial sweeteners. And I hated men like Von Neeley, the “nice” guys who always wanted to pray with you, who always offered you blessings and put-on smiles. Men who always told women how to live, what to wear, who to sleep with, all in the name of God. Whores and thugs in the shadows, many of them, who committed the worst acts of violence against women and children. Men’s Central was filled with huckster-holy men who had hooker problems, free-flying fists, and “sex addictions.” I had thrown my fair share of these assholes in jail myself and so I knew one when I saw one. And Von Neeley was definitely a Jerk-in-the-Lord trainee.

  “So why should I believe that you loved Monique?” I asked Von now, a little heat in the question. “That you’d never hurt her?”

  “Because,” he said, “I’m not that type of guy, ma’am. I’d never—”

  “You two ever argue?” I interrupted.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did your arguments ever get physical?” I asked. “You ever touch her?”

  He shook his head so hard, he almost gave himself whiplash. “No, ma’am. Never.”

  “Did you ever threaten to hurt her?” I asked. “You know: just to scare her?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  If he called me ma’am one more time …

  “I heard that you hated Monique doing the cheerleading thing,” I said.

  Von jammed his lips together, then said, “I think it sent the wrong message.”

  I nodded. “So did you ever try to convince her to stop?”

  “Many times.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Just…” He shrugged. “I talked to her. Prayed with her.”

  “Argued with her?”

  He nodded. “A few times, but nothing…”

  When he didn’t finish his sentence, I said, “Nothing what?”

  He bit his lip and didn’t speak.

  By now I knew that Von Neeley did not kill Monique Darson—he was a jerk and a liar, but he wasn’t violent. Still, I needed
his alibi to cross him off the list, just so I could tell Lieutenant Rodriguez that I had followed every lead. But the little fucker kept lying to me and refused to go quietly into the night. So, I squinted at Colin, then crossed my eyes.

  My partner gave me a small smile—he, too, knew that Von Neeley was not our guy—then reached into the case file. He pulled out a head shot of Monique Darson on the coroner’s table, eyes closed, lips purple, neck broken. He held it up for Von to see.

  The kid groaned and dropped his eyes to the sidewalk.

  “This is what happens when you let anger take over,” Colin said, matter-of-factly. “You’re smilin’ one minute, she says somethin’ hurtful the next minute, somethin’ like, ‘Derek fucks better than you ever will,’ and then, BOOM! You blank out and lose time. Next thing you know, your hands are wrapped around her neck and she ain’t breathin’.”

  Colin considered the photo, then peered at Von. “You didn’t mean to do it. It just … happened. Is that the deal, Von? Man to man, be honest with me. Did she set you off and shit just … happened?”

  Von’s shoulders were shuddering as he tried not to cry. “No, sir. She said stuff like that all the time, hurt me to the core. But I never reacted.”

  “Never reacted?” I asked too loudly. Okay, I was done—with him, with men. Greg thought I was some ignorant housewife, oblivious to his late-night phone calls to skanks at home and abroad because I was mesmerized by a dick and a Porsche; Colin, another arrogant snot, thought he knew Los Angeles and criminals and everything better than me. And now, this kid thought I was a stupid bitch with a badge. He was about to see how stupid I could be.

  I crossed my arms and took a step closer to Von. “A girl tells you that another man is a better lover than you and you never reacted? Bullshit.”

  With pleading eyes, Von whined, “No, ma’am. I didn’t.”

  “Then, why didn’t you?” I asked. “What kind of man is cool with hearing bullshit like that?”

  Von’s mouth moved, but no words came.

  “I have her diary, Von,” I continued. “And I’ve read about your little temper. She wanted to break up with you, and she was scared shitless what your reaction would be. Why would she be scared?”

  He shook his head and his shoulders slumped.

  “You threaten her?” I asked again.

  “No, ma’am.” His head dropped—he was getting tired now.

  “Where were you on Tuesday night?” I asked.

  “Out with friends, ma’am.”

  “Stop—!” I took a deep breath, exhaled, then said calmly, “Stop with the ma’am thing, all right? It means jack-shit to me. So which friends were these that you were with?”

  “Fr-fr-from sc-sc-school,” Von stuttered. “We all drove up to CityWalk to s-s-see a movie.”

  “What time was the movie?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “Where did you park?”

  He blinked. “Huh?”

  “Which lot did you park in?” I asked, trying not to smile. “Which level?”

  He wet his lips, and said, “P3?”

  “Is that the Frankenstein level, the Dracula level, or the Wolf Man level?”

  “Umm…”

  “I’ll need your friends’ names and numbers.”

  “They didn’t see the movie with me,” Von said. “We just met up for nachos at El Camacho.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “So you saw a movie all by yourself. Which movie?”

  Von blinked. “The new Superman movie.”

  “That’s a lie,” I said with a smirk, “but I’ll let it in just cuz I’m easily entertained. So the movie let out at, what, ten o’clock? What did you do after nachos at the Mexican place?”

  He bit the inside of his cheek, then said, “Just hung out.”

  “By yourself?” I asked, hands on my hips.

  “Yes,” he said, eyes on my badge.

  “Where?”

  He crossed his arms. “I just chilled out, you know? Hung out by the fountain, went into a few shops…”

  “You’re still lying.” My temples throbbed, my stomach ached, and I wanted to vomit—this kid had given me cramps. “Why won’t you just tell me the truth and let me go on my way? Why do you insist on lying to me, Von Neeley?”

  Von licked his lips again. Bet they tasted like Lie.

  Colin touched the boy’s shoulder. “Look, son. We’re gonna find out everything you did that night, down to how many times you took a piss. Wanna know why? Because my partner here? She ain’t gonna let go until she hears the truth. If you don’t wanna be ripped apart, then I suggest you start talkin’.”

  Von swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed like a buoy on the ocean. “I was with this girl Margo on Tuesday night,” he whispered.

  “Is Margo a hooker?” I near-shouted.

  Colin stifled a chuckle.

  Von lifted his chin with pride. “No, she’s not a hooker. She’s a youth minister like me.”

  I rolled my eyes and said, “Hooker. Youth minister. I don’t care what you call her, but I’ll still need her contact information.”

  “Why?”

  I sneered at him. “None of your business.”

  He backed down and recited Margo’s phone number.

  “Is Pastor Margo of age?” I asked.

  His eyebrows scrunched. “Huh?”

  “Your other girlfriend, the one we found dead the other night? She was a minor, Von.”

  “So you broke the law,” Colin said. “Bad deal for a youth minister. Could get you a few years in the Big House. You’re a handsome kid, too, so your dance card will be filled quick as spit.”

  “Margo is nineteen,” Von said, then moistened his lips.

  “And you were together all night?” I asked. “Doing God’s work, I suppose?”

  He kinda nodded.

  “And where were you ministering to each other?” I asked, tired of this Degrassi-High-Teenage-Love-Affair bull crap.

  Von pinched the bridge of his nose, then shoved his hands into his pockets. He now stood before me like a delinquent standing before the school principal. “We went to the Jet Inn over on Slauson.”

  The Jet Inn Motel charged by the hour. The rooms boasted round mirrors on the ceilings and dried blood and semen on the carpets, on the walls, in the air … If Zucca sprayed luminol in the Jet Inn’s parking lot, the entire building would glow like a float in Disneyland’s Electrical Parade. Astronauts at the International Space Station would see it from their kitchen window.

  “The Jet Inn,” I said, shaking my head. “Wow. Do better, Von. She’s a youth minister—she at least deserves the Travelodge over by the airport.”

  “Will everyone have to know about me and Margo being at the motel?” Von asked meekly.

  “If this case goes to trial,” I said, “yeah, they’ll find out.”

  “We’ll probably need to talk to you again,” Colin said, pulling out his business card.

  “I’ll take a lie detector test if you want,” Von offered.

  “Right now,” I said, “we want a DNA sample.”

  Von’s eyelashes fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. “Why? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Which means you’ll be eliminated by your DNA.” I marched toward the Crown Vic.

  Von trudged behind me. Once we reached the car, I opened the trunk and grabbed the DNA kit from the nest of flares, sweatshirts, and spools of barrier tape.

  Von shook his head. “I’m not sure I wanna do that. The DNA thing.”

  I paused—hadn’t expected that response.

  “Why not?” Colin asked. “If you’re innocent, you got nothin’ to worry about.”

  “Me and Monie,” Von said. “We were … We had unprotected sex, and so you could find … you know…”

  “Sperm?” I shouted.

  He blushed, nodded, then said, “But that doesn’t mean that I killed her.”

  “When was the last time you and Monie had sex?” Colin asked.

  “Like
around June tenth.”

  “You’re fine,” I said. “Sperm can live up to five days in the best conditions.” And since Monie’s cervix was not in its best condition, Von’s little guys had probably shattered upon impact.

  “Maybe I should talk to a lawyer,” the kid said.

  Colin and I exchanged looks.

  Von nodded. “Yeah. I think I’ll talk to a lawyer first.”

  And that was that.

  I dropped the DNA kit back into the boot and gave the trunk’s lid a good slam. Then I stomped over to the kid and snarled, “Go ahead and get your lawyer, but know this: I will expose you for what you are, whether you killed her or not, since you seem to care more about your reputation than your dead girlfriend. You are a liar and a hypocrite, and I hate liars and hypocrites. So get your lawyer, Von Neeley. I’m getting your DNA and I’m talking to Margo. And I’m sure there are security cameras at the Jet Inn and I’m almost positive that they’ll have tape of you and a woman who is not your wife checking in at the front desk. So you, Von Neeley, you have a blessed day.”

  And then I stomped to the driver’s side of the Crown Vic and slammed my body behind the steering wheel.

  Moments later, Colin climbed into the passenger seat. We sat in silence until he shouted: “Sperm?”

  I laughed, even though my head was filled with buzzing and white noise. “Thanks for joining me on my gleeful quest to destroy that little jerk.”

  “Anytime, Detective.” Colin lifted his palm. “High-five.”

  And we slapped hands, feeling like partners for the first time in four days.

  35

  I dropped Colin back at the station, then drove to meet Macie Darson.

  The Starbucks in this part of black Los Angeles was a known hub for Old Playas, the sixty- to seventy-year-old men who had a lot of cash in their pockets and the need to recapture their swagger and holla at the Fine Young Thangs wiggling past in spandex dresses; old men who sipped strawberry margaritas at the T.G.I. Friday’s next door in their pressed slacks and shiny Stacy Adams or velour tracksuits and bright white Adidas, the keys to their Caddy or BMW on the table next to that too-sweet margarita or J-with-soda, sucking in their guts, wanting to “get some soon” cuz their sugar was up, damn margarita, or their pressure was down or they had only two hours left on their Viagra high.