Land of Shadows

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Back when I was thirteen, I had thought Detective Peet was a big man, at least six feet tall, and as wide as a barn door. Back then, his nose hadn’t been so red, and he had worn his hair slicked back like he did now. Today, though, his hair was all gray and as fine as an eaglet’s. As I sat across from him, I expected a light to shine in his blue eyes. I expected him to say, “Hey, you’re that tall-for-her-age black kid with the missing sister, right?” But there was no recognition. A good thing or not, I didn’t know.

  “Back in 1988,” I said, “you worked a missing child case.” I handed him a copy of Tori’s incident report, then summarized the case as he slipped on reading glasses.

  “I’ve been retired for fifteen years now,” he said, still reading. “I don’t know how I can help.”

  “Do you have any theories about what happened?” I asked. “Were there suspects? Persons of interest?”

  “We talked to a couple of gangbangers, a few football players, and another guy that was in love with her.”

  “Anyone else?”

  He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “If you’re looking at Nappy Crase, we cleared him.”

  “How?”

  “His alibi checked out. He was in the store, and he never left the store until closing around midnight. There was a security tape that confirmed this.”

  “I hear that Crase likes them young.”

  The old guy shrugged.

  “And I hear that he plays patty-cake with their faces.”

  Another shrug. “I was investigating a kidnapping and possible murder. Didn’t care who Crase banged and how he banged ’em.”

  “Even if he banged ’em so hard, they stopped breathing?”

  “No reason for me to think that.”

  “What about the others?”

  “What others?”

  “There were other people at the store that day. I have their statements.” I reached into Tori’s folder again.

  “Don’t need to see them,” he said, giving me a dismissive wave. “I took those statements, remember? Look, the missing girl was trouble. She dated hoodlums and she slept around, and got in trouble all the time. She was shoplifting and Crase caught her and let her go. She saw a group of guys—”

  “Guys? Who were these guys?”

  “Some kids who weren’t around by the time I got to the store that night. No one knew them, and they were miscellaneous anyway. The last place the Starr girl was seen was the liquor store’s parking lot about an hour later. She was standing by Nappy Crase’s Cadillac. Meaning, she went back there, I’m thinking, to vandalize his car.”

  “Who saw her standing there?”

  “The girl’s friends. One of their names, I think, was Golden.”

  “You took a statement from Golden. Did you ever follow up with her after that?”

  “No need.”

  I let that statement hang in the air—of course there had been a need. Golden had been one of the last people to see Tori alive.

  And Tommy Peet’s face and neck flushed—he knew that I knew that he hadn’t done his best work on this case.

  “Did Nappy Crase see Victoria?” I asked. “Standing by his car, I mean?”

  “Yeah, and it pissed him off, according to this Golden.”

  “And then?”

  “And then Golden went home. Victoria was still in the parking lot when she left.”

  “So Victoria got caught, Crase released her, she came back an hour later. After Golden left, what did Victoria do next? Just stand there in the lot by the car until the Rapture?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did you care?”

  The old man tugged at his floppy ear. “Honestly? At the time, I didn’t care. The city was different back then. The culture was less … politically correct. And just weeks before I caught the Starr case, I had been looking for another missing teenage girl who hadn’t really been missing. And truth be told, I thought the Starr girl was doing the same thing.”

  “And Victoria’s wristwatch?” I asked. “The one found beneath Crase’s Cadillac?”

  “He said he didn’t know how it got there.”

  “And you, of course, believed him.”

  “The girl had been standing near his car—even her friends said that. She could’ve dropped the watch by accident. Or she could’ve left it there intentionally. There were a lot of ways that watch could’ve gotten there.”

  “Many ways,” I said, nodding my head. “Like: it could’ve come off her wrist during a violent struggle with Napoleon Crase.”

  Peet dropped his head and took off his glasses. “It haunts me, that case, and I’m lucky if I don’t think about it twice a day. The mom seemed really nice. Like she had tried real hard to keep her kids on the right path. But sometimes…” He rubbed his hands together, Lady Macbeth style, then exhaled. “I don’t see how the Starr case is related to what you’re working on now. Unless they bused in some white kids from Brentwood, black girls get dead in the Jungle all the time. Why you got such a hard-on for Crase?”

  I blinked away the tears in my eyes and made my fingers sift though the expandable file as a distraction. “The DNA found in the current case matches the blood in the Starr case. The girl I found, Monique Darson, was murdered at Nappy Crase’s new condo development, not far from the old liquor store. All I need now is a positive DNA match from Crase, and to get a warrant for that, I need to have all my Rockettes in a row.”

  “Crap,” Peet muttered. “So it’s possible that there’s a connection.”

  “Yep.” I stood from the couch and offered him my hand. “Thanks for your time.”

  He walked me to the door without speaking. After I left, he would probably pour a finger or two of Scotch into that tumbler.

  Anything to forget.

  50

  Colin met me at Napoleon Crase’s car dealership located on La Cienega Boulevard. NC Posh Auto was adjacent to Beverly Hills and socioeconomically far from the Jungle. In seven miles, the streets changed from liquor stores, kidney dialysis centers, and fried fish joints to Thai cafés, bridal shops, and car dealerships that sold preowned Jags, Bimmers, and Benzes, oh my.

  “You’re grinning,” he said as we walked to the lot. “You been rollin’ around in pow all day?”

  I said, “What the hell is ‘pow’?”

  “Powder,” he said. “Light, fluffy snow.”

  “Ah. Zucca had great news,” I said, then told him about the matching DNA from Tori and Monique.

  “So we’re lookin’ at old guys, then,” Colin said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Which means Napoleon Crase…?”

  My smile grew ten times.

  “So you’re drooling,” he said. “What now?”

  “Gotta think about that. LT is back on my side for now—don’t wanna screw that up and have him kick me to the curb just when I’m about to sing my solo.”

  He patted my back. “Good job. And Max Yates?”

  I shrugged. “Might as well talk to him since we’re here.”

  Not many customers were car shopping this afternoon. A young Japanese couple stood near a blacked-out Maserati. A teenage boy slobbered over a yellow Ferrari.

  A Persian man in a shiny shark-blue suit met us at a purple Aston Martin. His name tag said BEHROUZ and he wore a smug smile even though he wore that suit. He said to Colin, “Buying the little lady a car today?” Before Colin could respond, Behrouz turned to me. “We have every luxury car made, no need to go elsewhere. Don’t worry about payments—we’ll work it out. Don’t let this guy tell you no today.” He gave that smug smile again.

  I badged him and his smile lost its shine … unlike that suit. “Is Max Yates here today?” I asked.

  Behrouz sighed with relief. “Yes. Yes. I’ll get him for you.” He hustled to the sales office hidden behind one-way glass.

  I waggled a finger at Colin and said, “I’m not letting you tell me no today.”

  He grabbed my finger and tugged. “As though I’d dare.�
�� Then, he plucked the container of Tic Tacs from his pants pocket and dumped thousands of little candies into his mouth.

  I winced. “I think you have a Tic Tac problem. You should see someone.”

  As he crunched, little shards of candy flecked the sides of his mouth. “Tic Tacs, sex … I got a million problems, Lou.”

  I leaned for a closer look inside the Aston Martin. “No wonder Max could hook Monique up with any car she wanted. So many just sitting here, doin’ nothing.”

  Since the recession, people had been losing: jobs, homes, fancy cars. What had seemed easy to do in 2000—$700 for a car note, $500 for registration, insurance to cover it all—was now equivalent to deep-sea diving without an oxygen tank. Gas prices were too high, car registration fees had increased, and with the city’s growing pothole problem, you needed new tires every three hundred miles. Many cars ended up in lots like this, wearing LIKE NEW! and ONLY 10,000 MILES! signs. Pretty hookers with gimpy legs and missing eyes.

  Max Yates strolled out of the sales office in a suit that didn’t shine, that didn’t have strings hanging from its hems, and that had taken a tailor a month to sew. He had acorn-colored skin and smog-colored eyes. He was tall but needed to hit the gym to ward off the belly starting to droop over his waistband. He grinned to show white planks of porcelain teeth. A gold Rolex heavier than my head flashed from his left French cuff. He moved as easily and unhurriedly as a pillar of smoke.

  “That guy’s smooth,” Colin whispered.

  “That guy’s old,” I said. “Macie didn’t tell me that Max is old enough to remember the last episode of M*A*S*H.”

  And this—Max Yates’s age—changed everything.

  I glanced at my partner. “I thought he was in his twenties when you ran his name in the computer.”

  “This dude ain’t the dude in the computer,” Colin said. “Is it just me, or do you also think the Darson girls got some daddy issues?”

  I snorted. “Show me a girl who ain’t got daddy issues and I’ll show you where they buried Jimmy Hoffa.”

  “This guy your type?” Colin asked.

  “No,” I said, “but he kinda looks like the dude you picked up at Trader Joe’s.”

  “Whole Foods,” Colin corrected.

  Max stood before us now, but not so close that I wouldn’t have to speak a little louder. “How may I help you, Officers?” His voice was raspy and slow, his accent a mix of school and street.

  And his voice made every hair on my arms bristle. I flashed my badge again and said, “I’m Detective Norton from Homicide. This is my partner, Detective Taggert.”

  Max offered us a sad smile, and those strange eyes of his turned soupy. “You’re here about Monie, right?”

  “We’re talking with people in her immediate circle,” I said. “And since you’re dating her sister, we thought maybe you could help.”

  Max nodded. “Of course. I’ll try my best, Detectives.”

  “How was shopping at Neiman Marcus?” I tried to take a small step toward him, but somehow Max Yates moved back—without moving.

  “Neiman Marcus.” He rolled his eyes. “Did Macie tell you? She’s disappointed because that dress she wanted? They didn’t have it anymore. I told her to find another dress—there were millions of them there. But she wants what she wants. And that means she left the store empty-handed.” He cocked his head and said, “Here someone is, offering to buy something for you, and she remains spoiled and singular-minded. I just want to help her but…”

  “Kids these days,” I said. “But then, you’re rather generous with the Darson girls. You gave Monie the Lexus, right?”

  He nodded. “I wouldn’t say ‘give.’ The note was ridiculously low, something she could handle once she started her job at the store. But it wasn’t free. Macie and I wanted to do something nice for her after doing so well in school.” His eyes dropped to the asphalt and he slowly exhaled through his nose. “Monie was a good kid and Macie misses her. The last few days, she’s been all over the place. Emotionally, I mean, especially after we heard that Renata died. Macie’s gone from playing Colombo to crying, starving herself, and vowing revenge.” He bit his lip and exhaled again. “Are the two cases—Renata’s and Monique’s—connected?”

  “Not sure yet,” I said.

  “Are there any suspects in Monie’s case?”

  “We’re looking at a few people,” Colin said.

  “Let me guess,” Max said. “Von and Derek.”

  Colin crossed his arms.

  Max made a self-satisfied grunt. “Isn’t it strange? The thug seems more upset by this than the good boy. Have you noticed that or am I being too harsh with the young Reverend Neeley?”

  Yes, I had noticed Von’s reaction, but now that no longer mattered.

  Still, I said, “People display grief in different ways. Moving on: what was your relationship with Monique?”

  He frowned. “Relationship with Monique? Well, we didn’t really interact. But if I was hard-pressed to say something, I guess I’d say that she was like a little stepsister to me. Annoying. A bit spoiled just like her sister. Always on the phone. Seventeen.” He winced. “I’m forty-two years old. I’m no longer accustomed to the noise of teenagers.”

  “How did you and Macie meet?” Colin asked.

  “She was looking to buy a car. I hooked her up with the Maserati. Afterwards, she invited me to coffee.”

  “How about Macie and Monique?” I asked. “Did they get along?”

  Max leaned against a shiny LIKE NEW! Escalade. “Macie lost patience with Monique all the time. They bickered over family business. I didn’t get involved. Just let them fight it out.”

  “Were you ever alone with Monie?” I asked.

  He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, alone?”

  “Just like I asked. Not a trick question.”

  His brow furrowed. “Certainly. If Macie went to the bathroom, and Monique was with us, she and I were alone. If Macie left to retrieve something out of the car, again … But Monique and I were never alone-alone for long periods of time.”

  My eyes held his gaze. “So you like dating young women?”

  “As opposed to old women?” He chuckled. “Who doesn’t? No offense.”

  I said, “None taken. Oops, I lied.”

  “Look,” he said, the cultured accent dropping some, “Monique was a good kid but she was off-limits. Girls that age worry me. A lot of them are looking for father figures. Some of them think it’s exciting, being with an older man, and they think that, all of a sudden, they’re sophisticated and worldly. Most of them? I’d say that most of them are playing tea party and dress-up.”

  “And do you like playing tea parties and dress-up?” I asked, remembering Monique Darson’s cheerleader uniform.

  Max rolled his eyes. “Macie and I were together on Tuesday night up until Wednesday around one in the afternoon. We had been in Temecula for a long weekend. Stayed at Pechanga. I lost $5,000 at the craps table.” He said this carefully, as though one misspoken word would launch every Patriot missile in the United States.

  “Yeah?” I said. “And if someone said that you were in Los Angeles on Tuesday—?”

  “Detective Norton, your insinuations—”

  “Insinuations?” I said. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to insinuate. So I’ll ask you straight out like old women tend to do: did you and Monique have a thing going on?”

  “A thing?” He laughed. “No, we did not have a thing going on.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s DNA.”

  His eyes sparkled. “Wonderful. Hope it helps you catch whoever killed Monique.”

  I nodded. “I hope so, too. What did you drive to Temecula?”

  Bored with me, Max Yates shoved his hands in his pockets. “A Bentley Continental GT.”

  I spotted two black Bentleys parked near the sales office. “One of those?”

  “Neither of those,” he said, his jaw tightenin
g.

  “Where’s the one you drove?” I asked.

  “At the mechanic’s. Highway 15 is a rough road and I think something happened to the struts.”

  “Good mechanic?”

  “The best.” Max smiled, but those smog-colored eyes were flat and lightless. “Rudy’s Tires and Automotive over in Mar Vista. I can get you his business card.”

  Behrouz and his three-day suit crept over to us. “Mr. Yates, you have a call. Val Agranov from the Lakers.”

  “We have a contract with the team,” Max explained to Colin and me. “Providing cars for some of their lesser players who can’t afford their own $450,000 Bugattis. I need to take this call, if you don’t mind.”

  “No problem,” I said, handing him one of my business cards. “If we have any more questions—”

  “Please stop by anytime,” he finished as he glided away from us. “Anything to help.” He held the card to his nose, then patted the Persian on his shoulder before disappearing into the sales office.

  51

  Golden Lee never overcame. She lived on Coco Avenue, down the street from Derek Hester, in the same ghetto apartment building that she had lived in back in the Eighties. One of Tori’s friends, Golden had been the one with the MIA daddy, the two brothers and stepbrother in jail, the always-pregnant mother who shot smack into her tired veins, and the grandmother who had been a hood-rat back in the day, who had borne seven kids before she had reached thirty, who had found Jesus in her fifties and had raised each of her thirty-eight grandchildren, including Golden, since then.

  Even as a child, Golden had been “thick,” with an ass like a well-fed donkey’s. She had green eyes and lips that always smelled of tobacco and strawberries. She had introduced Tori (and me) to beer, cigarettes, Black P Stones, tattoos, abortions, and porn.