Land of Shadows

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “That’s your problem,” he shouted. “Eww. Politics. You don’t care. You should care.”

  “Dude was high as fuck,” I yelled back. “He was a danger to the community. He had three Baggies of weed in his jacket and two Costco-sized tubs of Ecstasy and Viagra in his trunk. Fine: he didn’t kill our girl, but goddamn, he’s an asshole who could’ve hit and killed your family. But I guess you’ll forgive him for that since he’s gonna play for the Lakers someday.”

  Lieutenant Rodriguez pounded his desk with his fists. “Damn it, Lou! You want us to have a black eye? You want folks screaming about racial profiling? You want your reporter friend writing an article about how Southwest Division targets more black men than any other race?”

  I rolled my eyes. “The BMW’s windows were so freakin’ dark—another offense—that I couldn’t see inside the car. So at that time, I didn’t know who the driver was or what box he checked on the last census.”

  Lieutenant Rodriguez sank in his chair and tugged at his mustache. “Lowenstein threatened to call the mayor.”

  I laughed. “Good luck with that. Ain’t the mayor in Maui right now, helping himself to the local lady reporters?”

  “Be careful.”

  “I’m always careful. I even restrained myself from stomping in Crase’s head yesterday. But I guess that doesn’t count.”

  “You’re letting this affect your judgment, Lou.”

  “This?” Confused, I shook my head. “What is ‘this’?”

  “Sometimes you focus on one thing until you can’t see anything else,” he said “And sometimes, that changes everything about you.”

  I closed my eyes and forced myself to smile.

  “I just want you to be as good as you can be,” he said.

  Dumbstruck, I gaped at him. “So caring about something makes me a horrible person?”

  “No. Caring about something too much that it affects your judgment is a problem,” he said. “And to be honest, I’m three seconds from pulling you off this—”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Lieutenant Rodriguez called out, “Yeah?”

  Colin poked his head in and said, “Sorry to interrupt but we have a visitor. A relative of Monique Darson.”

  To my boss, I said, “This isn’t personal, Lieutenant. I’m just doing my job.”

  But maybe I did care too much. But that’s who I was; that’s what I did. For many people, Greg included, that wasn’t good enough. Sometimes, I wished that I could read something horrible in the newspaper and say, “Wow, that’s too bad,” then drive down the hill to buy a handbag and a Frappuccino. But I can’t, no matter how hard I try, even when I’m doing just that. One day I will luck out. One day, a callus will form around that part of my heart, and then I will stop caring like some cops, and then I will be as good as I can be. This will lead me to Hell, but at least I won’t care only because I can’t.

  Before we returned to the very popular interview room 1, Colin squeezed my shoulder. “You made the right call, partner. Todd was a danger.”

  But his support didn’t silence the noise in my head—which sounded like a middle school orchestra was warming up during basketball practice. All squeaks, squawks, and echo. Colin said something else, but I couldn’t hear him over the clarinets.

  A woman the color of peanut butter was seated at the table, hunched over a cup of coffee. She wore jeans and a blue postal worker’s shirt. She had a mustache and the loveliest hazel eyes in the world.

  I introduced myself and shook the woman’s hand.

  She said that she was Freeda Duffy, Monique’s cousin. “But y’all can call me Free.”

  “So,” I said as Colin and I sat across from her, “why are you here so early in the day?”

  “I work graveyard at the post office,” she said, “so I’m just getting off. I had been plannin’ to talk to y’all when it was more convenient, but it’s been four days now and it ain’t been the right time yet, so here I am.”

  I didn’t say anything—my head still buzzed with that school-orchestra-gymnasium noise.

  Colin kicked my leg to get me started.

  I opened my mouth, but no words came.

  So, he started. “Well, we certainly appreciate you stoppin’ by.” He cleared his throat and said, “Detective Norton?”

  Wide-eyed, I stared at him like a child who had forgotten her lines during the Christmas pageant.

  Colin winked at me, then turned to Freeda. “So what can you tell us, Miss Freeda?”

  “Monie and me was together on Tuesday afternoon,” she said. “Like between one and four.”

  Colin said, “Yeah?”

  “Even though I’m older than Monie and Macie, Monie and I was real tight. I drove her places before she got that car, anytime Macie wouldn’t drive her. Anyway, she and Macie was fussin’ with each other over the phone on Tuesday.”

  Colin nodded. “Macie mentioned that to us.”

  “Did she tell you that they was arguin’ about Max?”

  I lifted an eyebrow—that woke me up. “Really?”

  She laughed. “Of course she didn’t tell you. I only heard one part of the conversation—Monie’s side—but Monie had called Max that afternoon and Macie answered his phone. Monie tried to play it off like she had dialed the wrong number but Macie was like, ‘Why you got my nigga’s cell number anyway?’”

  I leaned forward. “Do you think Max and Monie had something going on?”

  The woman took a long sip of coffee. “I don’t think so but if they weren’t sneakin’ off yet, it was only a matter of time before they did. Them two was gettin’ real close. Right before she got that Lexus, he picked her up from school in his Bentley a few times.”

  “Like how many times?”

  “Three or four.”

  “What color is that Bentley?”

  “Midnight blue with, like, glitter in the paint. And right before Monie left the house on Tuesday night, she made sure she brushed Butter. I asked why she was gettin’ so crazy with the lint brush, and she told me, ‘Max hates dog hair in his car.’”

  My heart stopped—Max had been in Temecula, according to Macie, according to Pechanga Casino and Resort.

  “Wasn’t Max out of town with Macie on Tuesday?” Colin asked, reading my mind.

  “I don’t know who was where,” Freeda said. “And Monie only said this to me about Butter, in that by-the-way way. Not braggin’ or nothin’ but more worried, and so you talk yourself to death to calm down, know what I mean?”

  Guess we needed to speak with Max Yates in person after all.

  “Did Macie know Monique was planning to see Max that night?” I asked. “Or any night?”

  Freeda laughed. “Hell no. She woulda killed Max and Monie. Macie too busy bein’ fabulous and spending Max’s money to see him dump shit right under her nose. That girl is clueless.”

  47

  The phone on my desk chirped, and the sound startled me. I wasn’t asleep, nor was I awake. I had been existing in a state akin to screen-saver mode. Fully alert now, my gaze landed on the dead purple roses Greg had sent me days ago. When the phone chirped again, I grabbed the receiver too quickly and almost knocked over a cold cup of coffee, my fifth cup in an hour. “Lou Norton, Homicide.”

  “Hey!” It was Zucca, and he sounded too damn cheery for nine in the morning. “You sound like a gravel truck. One of them days?”

  “One of them weeks.” I rubbed my eyes, remembering too late that I wore eyeliner—eyeliner that I had applied yesterday morning. “What’s up?” I grabbed the small compact mirror I kept in my desk drawer and … yep. Raccoon eyes. Lovely.

  “Field trip! Come down to the center. I have fresh coffee and assorted pastries.”

  I glanced over at the pot of steaming crude only cops called coffee. “Assorted, huh?”

  “Don’t make me beg.” He paused, then added, “Although I’ve been told by various ex-girlfriends that I’m extra sexy when I beg.”

  “They tell you t
hat before or after you pay them?”

  “Ha-ha. See you soon.”

  I left a sticky note on Colin’s monitor. Going to see a man about some spit.

  As I grabbed my purse, Lieutenant Rodriguez came to stand at my desk. “I’ve been thinking.”

  Here it is: my dismissal. I squared my shoulders. “Yes, sir?”

  He rubbed his jaw, sighed, then said, “Bring Crase in for another interview. A formal one. I’ll join you.”

  A smile found the edges of my mouth. “Yes, sir.”

  I waited for my boss to return to his office before calling Crase’s home.

  He picked up the phone on the first ring.

  I introduced myself again, then said, “We would like you to come back in for another interview.” There was steel in my voice as though our prior conversation had not left me a wrathful, volcanic Gila monster.

  He paused before saying, “It’s Saturday.”

  “It is Saturday.”

  Another pause, then: “I won’t be available until Monday.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I’ll be bringing my attorney with me, and that is when he will be available.”

  I didn’t speak, pissed at the delay.

  “You have my word, Detective,” he said, amused. “I have no reason to run. Ten o’clock, Monday morning.” And then, he hung up.

  I muttered a curse or three, then slammed down the receiver. I had no choice but to wait until Monday.

  It was almost ten o’clock when I pulled off the 10 Freeway and into the parking lot of the Forensic Science Institute. I lifted my face to the June sun—so bright, so warm, so alive. I didn’t want to leave it. The sun made me feel like I was wrapped in a lover’s arms, a lover I hadn’t seen in years, and his breath on my neck made me sway. But Zucca wanted to show me something, damn him, so I entered an ex-boyfriend of a building with fluorescent tubes of cold light and central heat.

  I found Zucca, clad in his white lab coat, in a brightly lit laboratory crammed with microscopes, computer monitors, and millions of vials and tubs of chemicals. He had brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and as he had promised, the pastries were assorted—from glazed to cinnamon to pink-frosted. None of this lifted my spirits, though, or made me forget that I hadn’t slept and hadn’t eaten and hadn’t even taken a shower. But I faked it as all women are taught to do in that special fifth-grade assembly where boys weren’t allowed.

  “This was worth the trip,” I cooed before taking an enthusiastic bite into a sweet roll. “Good, very good.” I sipped from my cup of coffee. “Strong and rich. Just like I like my men. Or something.”

  He grinned, pleased that he had pleased me. “First: toxicology came back on that DNA we got off Monique Darson.” He handed me the report. “Cocaine. Also, a mix of acetaminophen, aspirin, and caffeine.”

  “Excedrin?”

  “Yep, and a lot of it. Somebody has a problem.”

  “One of many.”

  “Let me show you something else,” he said, leading me to his workstation. On the monitor, there was a black-and-white graphic of twelve bars. Yellow flags of jargon like TPOX and CSF1PO sat atop the rectangles.

  I pointed to the monitor. “Let me guess: I’m looking at Monique Darson’s DNA.”

  He nodded. “First, I tested all the blood found in the condo against the semen and saliva found on her body and that handkerchief. Same DNA. I ran it through CODIS to look for a match.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing came back,” he said, eyes on those bars. “No matches in the database.”

  I tossed the rest of my sweet roll in the trash and snapped, “You called me down here to tell me that?”

  He blinked at me, wounded. “Of course not. I called you down here because … The DNA from your sister’s shoe also came in.”

  “It did? And?” All feeling had left my face. I held myself so tight, my body vibrated from the strain. I willed my mouth to open. Willed my thoughts, swirling like falling leaves, to land into a coherent order.

  He clicked his mouse and a new CODIS graphic sat atop Monique’s. “There were no matches in the database for that DNA, either.”

  I kicked the desk—anxiety had morphed into anger because that meant Napoleon Crase … “Damn it, Zucca!” I shouted, near tears.

  “No matches in CODIS,” he quickly added, startled at my outburst. “But there is a match.” As I tried to tuck in my pissiness through controlled breathing, Zucca minimized Tori’s results, then moved them next to Monique’s. “I could bore you with the specifics, go on and on about indexes and PCR analysis and STR loci, but all you’ll care about is this: you find the man who killed Monique Darson, and you’ll find the man who killed your sister.”

  48

  He finds an empty bench near the library, a place he has always found too closed-in—all those walls of books everywhere. The sun shines bright and hot in this part of Southern California and he regrets wearing a sports coat. He had wanted to fit in with the academics but in this weather, even the oldest professors were wearing short-sleeved polo shirts. There aren’t many students around, though, to wonder about the old guy in the wool jacket.

  Spring semester has ended and pretty coeds in tight groups giggle and roam past him with nowhere to go. None of the tanned beauties look his way. Bitches. Their dismissal of him makes his stomach burn. Makes his skin stretch until he thinks his chest will rip apart at any moment.

  His head hums and he reaches into his jacket pocket for the pill case. He opens it, plucks three white disks from the many, and pops them, dry.

  There she is …

  He watches her through the library’s glass door.

  She’s organizing books on the return cart. She’s dyed her hair cinnamon. And it is longer than before. She wears gym shorts and a UC Irvine tank top. When she stoops, the muscles in her twenty-year-old thighs stand out like jungle vines.

  At one time, he liked Elvia’s athleticism. But soon her strength made loving a challenge. She started to keep up with him, had stopped being scared, had wanted to switch roles and force him to submit. And so he stopped calling her. Every now and then, he follows her around the city to see who she’s conning. The current boyfriend plays soccer and drives a red Fiat.

  As he watches her, burning spreads from his crotch and down through his legs, forcing him to stand and move away from the bench.

  Elvia pushes open the library door and steps out into the sunshine.

  He stuffs his hands into his pockets and saunters along the path.

  She ambles behind him, now talking on the phone. She’s saying something about beer and chicken wings.

  He casually glances over his shoulder.

  She looks at him and her eyes brighten with recognition. “Oh my…” To the person on the phone, she says, “Let me call you back.”

  He stops in his step, cocks his head, and smiles. “Well, well, well.”

  “Oh my gosh,” she says, coming in for a hug. “What are you doing here?”

  She feels so soft. And her hair and skin smell like honey and almonds. “Just met a friend for coffee. Two old guys remembering when.”

  She touches his cheek. “You’re not old.”

  He pretends to blush and drops his eyes to the pavement. “You wouldn’t want to have a drink with an old not-old guy, would you?”

  She bites her lower lip. “I’m meeting a friend right now at Hooters, but…” She smiles. “What about drinks later tonight? At that little place you’d take me to all the time?”

  That “little place” served twenty-dollar cocktails and appetizers made from strange animals that had lived in swamps prior to their deaths. The music was something Moroccan, chaotic, loud. He hates that “little place.” But he takes her hand and kisses it. “Anything for you.”

  “How about eight?”

  He nods. “Sounds good.”

  She tiptoes to kiss him on the lips. “I’ve missed you.”

  He kisses her back. “I’ve missed you, too.”
His hand slides up to her neck and his thumb strokes the cartilage near her clavicle.

  She steps back. “I have to go meet my girl.”

  “Enjoy the wings,” he calls out, then watches as she struts away from him.

  Wings and beer.

  What kind of last supper is that?

  49

  You find the man who killed Monique Darson, and you’ll find the man who killed your sister.

  Zucca had seen my hesitation after he had stated this. I then told him that my number-one suspect, Napoleon Crase, had now been exonerated by DNA. But then, the scientist went tap-tap-tap on his computer and into CODIS. No DNA samples had ever been taken from Napoleon Crase. “So that cup you collected during his interview?” Zucca said. “That cup just became extremely important. I’ll let you know when we finish analyzing it.”

  This also meant that Todd Wisely, Derek Hester, Von Neeley, and any of Monique’s high-school-aged sweethearts were too young to be Tori’s murderer. Napoleon Crase, though? He was juuuust right.

  I was getting there! And as the saying went, by perseverance, the snail reached the ark. And now, I saw that blessed boat on the horizon.

  It took one phone call to the Department of Pensions and a request signed by Lieutenant Rodriguez to obtain the address of retired detective Tommy Peet. And by two o’clock, I had pulled in front of Peet’s home in Torrance, a beach city twenty miles south of Los Angeles. An American flag hung above the clean-swept porch of the ranch-style house. The green Bermuda grass had been freshly mown.

  A small white man with a pug nose answered the door. He saw the expandable file in my arm and the gold shield on my hip and he smiled. After introductions, Peet asked, “Where you stationed?”

  “Southwest,” I said. “Just like you were. And I’m actually here to ask about an old case of yours. It may be related to a murder I’m working now.”

  Peet invited me into a living room filled with Montgomery-Ward-ish brown furniture. Fox News played on a new large-screen television while a tumbler filled with melting ice and a slick of brown liquid sat in the holder of an armchair. There were no doilies on the coffee table. No copies of Women’s Day magazine left in the creases of the love seat. No sweet smells of perfume or potpourri or pot roast cooking in a Dutch oven. No pictures of a wife or a child, no pictures at all except for the one above the mantel, the one of a younger Tommy Peet in his dress uniform, not smiling for the camera.