Try Darkness

by James Scott Bell

  When I sat, Gilbert Calderón leaned over to me and whispered, “You’re not scum.”

  I leaned over to Gilbert Calderón. “Just don’t talk.”

  Mitch Roberts argued his side and he was sharp, informed, persuasive.

  Judge Anderberry slipped her reading glasses off her nose and let them fall to her chest on the beaded string.

  “I would like to compliment both counsel,” she said. “Strong arguments on both sides. Mr. Buchanan, you are an able lawyer, and if you can keep your client in control it will be a pleasure to have you. You have presented a very strong argument here. I have considered it. I have considered the testimony and demeanor of the witnesses and . . .”

  Dramatic pause. She had to be a frustrated actress.

  “. . . I find there is probable cause to bind the defendant over for trial. Let’s set a date.”

  28

  “SO YOU LOST?” Sister Mary said.

  “It’s only round one,” I said.

  We were in the courtyard outside the building and had just stopped at my desired location—the Chicago-style hot dog stand.

  Sister Mary looked at me, at the stand, and at the umbrella over the stand. “This is the finest meal you were talking about?” she said.

  “You ever had a real Chicago-style dog?” I said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  The vendor was a short gray man with a walrus moustache. In a thick Chicago brogue he said, “You haven’t lived, Sister.”

  “Drag ’em through the garden,” I told him.

  The vendor smiled. “Here’s a guy who knows whereof he talks. This is my kind of guy.”

  He pulled out a bun and plopped a dog on it and started with the condiments, in the right order, starting with the mustard. When he got to the onions Sister Mary said, “I’d like some ketchup with that, please.”

  The vendor reacted like he’d been shot. He stopped his work, holding the half-finished dog in his left hand. He looked at me. “You better explain life to the sister. Because I am not givin’ one a these up if that’s what she’s thinkin’.”

  Sister Mary looked stunned.

  “You don’t put ketchup on a dog,” I whispered.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just not done,” I said. “It ruins it. It’s like . . .”

  “It’s like kissin’ your boyfriend and he’s got B.O.,” the vendor said. Then quickly added, “With all due respect, Sister.”

  “Trust us on this one,” I said.

  “Aren’t you allowed to have your own hot dog the way you want it?” she said.

  “No,” the vendor and I said at the same time.

  “Do I finish?” the vendor said, holding up the bun. “Or do I dump it?”

  “By all means, finish,” Sister Mary said. “Far be it from me to cause a disturbance in the Force.”

  “That’s the ticket,” the vendor said. “I like her.”

  The man gave us two of the nicest-looking Chicago dogs I’ve ever seen, along with a couple of Cokes. We went to a bench.

  I was about to take my first bite when Sister Mary said, “Hold it, bub.” Then she crossed herself and said, “Bless us, O Lord, and these your gifts, which we are about to receive from your bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  She nodded at me and we began to nosh. After that first bite she made a face. It was a mix of beatific vision and fright. I figured it was the peppers.

  She recovered and said, “Not bad.”

  “You’ll get used to it. Once you do, you’ll never look back.”

  “I thought you did well in there,” she said. “Very L.A. Law.”

  “L.A. Law? You were just a little thing.”

  “I had a poster of Corbin Bernsen in my room.”

  “Arnie Becker? He wasn’t exactly a model of chastity.”

  “But he was so cute. Who did you have a poster of in your room?”

  “Magic.”

  “Johnson?”

  “Is there any other? He played like I wanted to play. But my mind kept writing checks my body couldn’t cash.”

  “You still have a move or two.”

  “Thanks, I—”

  The tinny sound of an ancient hymn interrupted us. It was Sister Mary’s cell phone. She begged my pardon and flicked it open.

  I took a huge bite and thought about Magic Johnson in game four of the 1987 championship against the Celtics. The baby sky hook. The ultimate game winner. I wondered if I had one in me for Calderón. I thought I’d had a chance with Judge Anderberry . . .

  Sister Mary’s face lost all color. Frozen expression.

  “What is it?” I said.

  Tears started to trickle, then stream down her face.

  29

  WE GOT TO the Lindbrook an hour later. Two black-and-whites were parked in front on Sixth. Father Bob and several others were milling around on the sidewalk. Gawkers passed by and paused, looking in. Free show.

  “I haven’t been able to get any information,” Father Bob said. “They herded us out and won’t talk to us. I told them I was a priest, but they didn’t let me in. All we know is that she’s dead and no one knows where Kylie is.”

  Father Bob had come here to visit Reatta, to see how she was getting along. He’d managed to ask several of the other residents if they’d seen the little girl, but they hadn’t.

  “Wait here,” I said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Sister Mary said.

  Father Bob nodded. “Me too. Tell them we’re clergy. Do your lawyer thing.”

  That’s the noise I was trained for, so I waved them along. The moment we stepped into the lobby a uniform stopped us. “No entry, sir,” he said.

  At least he called me sir. I was still in my court clothes. “I’m the lawyer for the victim,” I said. “Who’s in charge?” I showed him my card.

  “You’re the lawyer for somebody at this hotel?”

  “Who do I talk to?”

  “This is a secured site, sir,” the officer said. Polite but firm.

  “There’s a girl involved, a little girl. Do you know where she is?”

  “I don’t know that, sir. If you’d like to wait—”

  “I wouldn’t like to wait. I want to know where the girl is. And I want access to room 414. Now.”

  The cop looked behind me. “Who are they?”

  “Clergy,” I said. “This is her priest. He wants to administer the last rites. You cannot keep them out.”

  “Sir, I can’t—”

  “Do you want me to cite the California Code on this? And State and Federal Constitution? But worse, do you want this splashed all over the news? How you let a soul go to hell because you denied the victim her—”

  “All right, all right. Just wait.” He turned around and spoke into a handheld.

  I looked at Father Bob. “Was that enough noise for you?”

  He smiled. “Well done, though technically it’s not the last rites. It would be a prayer after death.”

  “So sue me,” I said.

  “That’s your job,” he said.

  The uniform turned back to me and said, “Come with me.”

  30

  THE DETECTIVE IN charge introduced himself as Lieutenant Brosia. He was around fifty and wore a beige coat over a white shirt and dark blue tie. His brown hair was neatly combed. He looked like he pushed weights to keep in shape.

  We were just outside the door of room 414. I could see a couple of other people moving in the room. Crime scene team.

  “I don’t appreciate you throwing your weight around,” Brosia said. “We can’t release the body. We’re treating this as a homicide and there’ll be an autopsy.”

  “I’m here with her priest,” I said. “He wants to . . . do what he does.”

  “Which is what?” Brosia asked.

  “A prayer for the dead, if you please,” Father Bob said.

  I said, “There’s a little girl. Named Kylie. Six years old. Do you have her?”

  “I’m afrai
d not. We’ve spoken to a couple of the residents and they have no idea where she is, either.”

  “You figure she was taken?”

  “We don’t know. You were representing this woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can give us a full identification then? She had no ID.”

  “All I knew was her first name, Reatta.”

  “May I go in?” Father Bob said.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” the detective said. “This is a crime scene.”

  “This is a matter of a soul,” Father Bob said. “I have a right to go in.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Brosia said.

  Frankly, I wasn’t sure what the law was on this. I said to Brosia, “Look, do you really want to draw a line in the sand over this? You want it to get out that the LAPD denied a poor dead woman a prayer?”

  “Is that some kind of threat, sir?”

  “Not at all. I’m looking out for both our interests here.”

  Brosia thought about it. “How long will it take?”

  “Not long,” Father Bob said.

  “All right,” Brosia said. “I’ll allow you in. You will not touch anything. You will pray and then leave.”

  Father Bob and Sister Mary moved past me. Brosia let them in. When I tried to get in he put a hand on my chest.

  “Not you,” he said.

  “She’s my client,” I said.

  “You’re a lawyer, not a priest, and that’s a big difference.” Brosia smiled.

  I rolled my eyes and tried to think of a legal argument to get myself in there, but then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Maybe I’d need help from Brosia later on.

  Brosia went in and I watched through the open door. I could see Reatta’s body lying on the bed, fully clothed. Her head was at a slight angle, eyes open in death. I could see no blood. One of the CS team was clicking digital photos.

  Father Bob knelt at the side of the bed, as did Sister Mary. As if they were taking over the room. Everybody stopped what they were doing.

  Crossing himself, Father Bob said, “May Christ, who called you, take you to himself. May angels lead you to Abraham’s side.”

  Sister Mary said, “Receive her soul and present her to God the Most High.”

  “Give her eternal rest, O Lord,” Father Bob continued. “And may your light shine upon her forever. In your mercy and love, blot out all sins she has committed through human weakness. In this world she has died. Let her live with you forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord.”

  Sister Mary and Father Bob said, “Amen.” So did the photographer.

  They came back out and joined Brosia and me.

  “Now,” Brosia said, “who was she, Father?”

  “I only knew her first name,” Father Bob said.

  “I thought you were her priest.”

  “I am.”

  “But you don’t know anything else?”

  “Maybe that was her full name,” I said. “Reatta. No last name.”

  “Maybe,” Brosia said. “But that doesn’t help me much.”

  “Can you run prints?” I said.

  “That’ll be done,” he said. “But they’ll have to be in our system for a match. Sometimes people like this just fall through the cracks.” He handed me his card.

  I gave him one of mine. “We have to find the girl,” I said.

  “We have somebody on that,” he said.

  I looked at the body. “How was she killed?”

  “I’m not going to get into that,” Brosia said. “I would like you all to come down and make a statement for me. Anything will help.”

  “I want to know what you’re going to do to find the girl,” I said.

  “I told you. We’re doing what we can. Of course.”

  “I know what that means,” I said. “She’s not going to be high priority—”

  Sister Mary touched my arm. “He said he would do whatever he could,” she told me. “I think you should take him at his word.”

  31

  HEADING DOWN THE stairs, I said to the nun, “You don’t need to interrupt me again.”

  “You needed it,” she said. “You were going to say something you’d regret.”

  “I can handle my own commentary.”

  “Just trying to help.”

  “Well don’t.”

  “Listen.” She stopped in front of me. “I care about finding her as much as you do.”

  Father Bob, farther along, said, “Come on, now. We can settle this outside.”

  When we got back out to the sidewalk I saw Disco Freddy. He was twirling in the street, right off the curb. The old guy who’d applauded for him was there, too. He looked at me with recognition.

  I spoke out loud to everyone who could hear me. “Have any of you seen the little girl who lived in 414? Any idea where she could be?”

  A few heads shook.

  The old guy came to me and said, “I asked about her first thing. Nobody knows, man. She just up and disappeared.”

  “You see anybody around here who didn’t look like he belonged lately?” I asked.

  “Only like ever’ day. This place is looser’n goose grease. My name’s Oscar. I’ll help if I can.”

  A guy with a gray ponytail and jeans and a large gut pushing a Western-style shirt said, “She was a quiet kid. I remember that.”

  Disco Freddy shouted, “NumbuddynomakenomubbamindDebbieReynolds!”

  “Shut up, Disco!” Oscar shouted.

  “Disco Freddy!”

  “He thinks he’s doin’ a show at Candyland,” Oscar said.

  “Why’d you say Candyland?” I said.

  “That’s just the room downstairs. There’s vending machines. Cokes and candy. We call it Candyland sometimes. Disco thinks it’s a theater. Like Broadway.”

  32

  I BLEW BY the uniform with a wave. He didn’t try to stop me. Only this time I went for the stairwell and down to the basement.

  It was a rec room of sorts. A few chairs and tables. Some cards spread on one of the tables. An old, warped Ping-Pong table in the middle. And against the far wall, two vending machines. One had candy and snacks. The other was courtesy of the Coca-Cola Company.

  One corner of the room was taken up with a chaos of old furniture—upturned tables, cushions, benches—half of it covered with an old paint-spattered tarp. It was like someone had once decided to clean the place up then forgot about it halfway through.

  It was also a place where a kid could make a fort or hiding place.

  “Kylie?” I said. “Are you in here?”

  No answer. I didn’t get too close to the clutter. “It’s me, Ty, the lawyer you and your mom met. Remember? Where you got a hot chocolate? And you gave me a secret map?”

  Silence.

  “I’m all alone. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. I was trying to help your mom, and I’ll help you. That’s what I do. Are you in there? You want me to help you get out?”

  A long pause. Then I heard a movement. A creaking under the tarp. Then the tarp itself moved.

  “It’s okay, Kylie. It’s going to be okay.”

  A foot peeked out of the enclosure, in a little tennis shoe. Followed by the other, then Kylie’s tiny form backing out and into the open. She was covered with dirt and dust. She had her little pink backpack on one shoulder. She rubbed her eyes. “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “Then we’ll get something to eat,” I said. “Come on.” I went over and picked her up. She let me, leaning her head on my shoulder.

  “My mommy’s dead,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said. “I know.”

  “Don’t let him get me.”

  “No. I won’t.”

  Then she started to cry. Softly at first. Then it grew. Her body shook and I was the only thing she had to hold on to, so she held. I stroked her hair and let her cry it out. Her warm arms squeezed my neck. As they did, a rippling heat expanded outward from inside me. It made me nervous, like I’d been hand selected
for an elite team I wasn’t qualified for, some Delta Force dropping into a jungle battle zone. Then nerves melted into resolve. I’d never been a father. But now, filled with something primal, I knew what it must be like to have a daughter who comes to you in the night, frightened of darkness or dream, and you are the one she seeks, and you know you will do anything to protect her. Anything.

  I knew this without pause or analysis or Dr. Phil.

  I just knew.

  Then I carried her upstairs.

  33

  I ALMOST MADE it outside without getting stopped. My aim was to gather Father Bob and Sister Mary and get out of there. I could call Brosia later.

  But the uniform saw me on the sidewalk and ordered me to stop. A crowd quickly gathered around, the denizens of the Lindbrook, even Disco Freddy, and started making noises toward Kylie. Some cheering.

  She buried her head deeper in my chest.

  “Back off!” I shouted.

  Father Bob stepped in with a little more patience and gently pushed the people back.

  A moment later Brosia appeared. “Let’s get her out of here,” he said.

  “Where?” I said.

  “My office. Central. It’s a couple blocks away.”

  “I want to get her something to eat first. Calm her down.”

  “I want her at the station, now.”

  “In a little while,” I said.

  “She’s a witness.”

  “She’s also my client. I’ll get her to you soon enough.”

  34

  THE FOUR OF us—Father Bob, Sister Mary, Kylie, and I—convened at a corner diner. Sister Mary took Kylie into the bathroom and cleaned her up. She came back tired and a little cranky. Kylie, that is.

  She wanted pancakes. I ordered her pancakes.

  “We’ll go talk to the policeman in a little while,” I said to her. “I’ll be with you the whole time, okay?”

  Kylie nodded.