Try Darkness

by James Scott Bell

“Why don’t you take Kylie outside for a look at the ocean?” I said to Sister Mary. “I’ll be right out.”

  54

  WHEN WE WERE alone, Fly said, “You know much about Reatta? And Avisha?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I sure could use that beer. You sure?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Hold on.” He went to the kitchenette, talking as he went. “Yeah, I been doin’ studio work for thirty years. I still got it. Don’t’ let ’em say any different.” He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a Corona.

  “You were about to tell me about Reatta,” I said.

  He came back in, sucking suds. “Reatta and Avisha. Pros, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Hookers?”

  “Escorts, man. High end.”

  “High-end hookers living here?”

  “What’s wrong with living here?”

  “Nothing, I—”

  “Yeah, nothing. Got the ocean right outside the door, man. You know what this spot’s worth?”

  “I get it. So Reatta was working for an escort service?”

  “L.A. Night Silk. Heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know what the deal was, to be honest. Avisha I know for a long time.”

  “You know her boyfriend James?” I asked.

  Fly hunched his shoulders and took another pull on his Corona, shaking his head as he did.

  “What do you know about Reatta? What can you remember?”

  He shrugged. “I just got the impression she knew Avisha from the service, and had this kid and needed a place to stay awhile.”

  “How long was she here for?”

  “I don’t know, two, three months maybe.”

  “Why’d she need to stay here?”

  “You’ll have to ask Avisha. The kid, she okay?”

  “As okay as a kid can be who lost her mother.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  “It’s under investigation.”

  “Murder?”

  “It happens.”

  “Stinkin’ world. I wrote a song called ‘Stinkin’ World.’”

  I was afraid he was going to offer to sing it for me. “Anything else you can tell me about Reatta? Where she was from, anything like that she may have mentioned?”

  Fly shook his head. “I really feel sorry for the kid. She being taken care of okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Living with nuns, huh? I didn’t know they were still minting ’em. She’s a young one. Where she from? They got a coven around here?”

  “I think you mean convent.”

  “What’d I say?”

  “Coven.”

  Fly slapped himself on the side of the head. “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, man.”

  55

  SISTER MARY AND Kylie were standing on a couple of rocks looking out over PCH to the ocean. The wind was still whipping up whitecaps. My pants and Sister Mary’s habit were flapping in the breeze.

  “Windy!” Kylie shouted, laughing, her hair flowing. I was glad for her. Glad for a little bit of happiness. Like gas, the price of happiness was going up. This was a freebie.

  I heard tires on the gravel drive. A sheriff’s car heading our way, slow. Behind it walked the security guard, like a kid who had just called on his big brother to beat up a bully.

  The car stopped and a deputy emerged. A David Caruso type, trying to look cool. His six-point star glinted in the sun. I thought I heard the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

  “How you doing, sir?” he said, meaning he didn’t care at all how I was doing.

  “Great,” I said. “Taking in the view.”

  “You’ll have to take it in somewhere else,” he said. “This is private property.”

  “I’m visiting.”

  “Who are you visiting, sir?”

  “That’s private, just like the property.”

  “Doesn’t work that way, sir. If you and the sister will please—”

  “All right,” I said. “I confess. I’m a raving fan of Detritus and the Electric Yaks.”

  “Sir—”

  “Are you into Detritus?”

  “Sir—”

  “Because I was visiting their bass player, the legendary Fly. He lives right there.”

  The deputy looked at the security guard. “Is there anything to that?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  To me, the deputy said, “I take it your visit is over.”

  “There’s just one more stop I want to make,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “Just over there,” I said as vaguely as possible.

  “The name.”

  “Avisha.”

  “Do you know the last name?”

  “I think she’s undercover,” I said. “If I tell you the name I’ll have to kill you.”

  The deputy said, “You have to leave now.”

  56

  “NOT VERY FRIENDLY,” Sister Mary said as we pulled out of the mobile home park. “I thought Malibu was laid back.”

  “You didn’t think Fly was laid back?” I said.

  “He was a piece of work.”

  “He was also lying,” I said.

  “He was?”

  “Not giving up everything he knew. Just enough to get me to talk.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “So now what?”

  “So now we stop off at Zuma. We take off our shoes and stomp around in the water. Then I take you home and I come back tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Find Avisha,” I said.

  I drove us to Zuma and parked in the lot. We got out and Kylie ran to the sand. Sister Mary took off her shoes—they were not the “sensible shoes” I always thought they had to wear, but black Nikes—and hitched up her habit and went after Kylie.

  I tagged along, watching the two of them laughing at the water’s edge. They drew some looks from people on the beach but didn’t care. Kylie, barefoot now in her yellow dress, jumped and splashed as the waves slapped down and ran up to her ankles.

  Sister Mary joined in. A jumping, splashing nun. Which made Kylie laugh all the louder. Then they held hands and went out a little further. The water came up to Kylie’s knees.

  They were perfectly happy there.

  So I took off my shoes and got on my knees and made a sand castle. Made it the only way I knew how, with a hole in the front for the water to pass through.

  57

  THAT NIGHT I came back in the car Sister Mary drives for St. Monica’s. It’s an ancient Taurus. It still runs.

  The nuns must have blessed the thing a hundred times over. Put holy water in the radiator. Imported carpet from the Vatican. Whatever they did, the thing’s a miracle on wheels.

  Also good cover. I knew the deputy and security guard would have recorded my license plate. The Taurus gave me a little anonymity.

  There was a stretch along PCH where a few cars were parked. People on the beach who had watched the sun go down. A half-moon was out. Some mobile home porch lights were on.

  These mobile parks are not gated communities. It’s not hard to slip in if that’s what you really felt like doing. I felt like it. I didn’t have to go in through the front but could cut right in around the same spot Kylie and Sister Mary had been looking out at the ocean. The only thing between me and the park were some rocks.

  When I got in I saw a light on in Fly’s place. I ignored it.

  I walked past numbers 25 and 26. Twenty-seven was at the end of the row. There was no light on inside or out.

  Some headlights flashed from down the road. I slipped along the side, between 26 and 27. A couple of large plastic trash receptacles were against 27’s wall. I squatted behind them, waiting for the car to pass. Could have been a patrol. I didn’t need to answer any more questions from security guards or deputy sheriffs.

  After it passed I waited a second or two, then tapped on the back door of 27.
No response.

  I knocked again, just make sure. I went up some stairs to the other door—sliding glass. Knocked on the glass. And again.

  Tried the glass door.

  It slid.

  I pushed the curtain aside and poked my head in. “Avisha?”

  No sound.

  “Candygram for Avisha.”

  Nothing.

  I went inside. My eyes were used to the dark but that didn’t help much. The kitchenette had to be close by, so I walked like a blind man, hands out in front, palms inward so I wouldn’t leave a print. The place smelled of perfume and sea.

  I could vaguely make out the contours of the kitchenette. Got to the sink area and found a dish towel hanging by the window. Took it down and used it to open the refrigerator.

  The light was enough to give some illumination, and not enough, I hoped, to call any attention to the place. In the refrigerator was a half-drunk bottle of white wine, the cork stuck in it and the bottle on its side. Next to that, a Baggie with some white pills in it. And an open pack of Oreo cookies.

  I needed to move quick to find . . . I had no idea what. Maybe an address book, if she kept one that wasn’t electronic. Something that would lead somewhere closer to Reatta.

  Five minutes. I gave myself five minutes to find something or get out.

  I went back out to the living room and pulled back a window curtain for some light. The place was neatly kept. Flowered pillows on the sofa. House plants and a bookshelf, with books neatly stacked. On a coffee table was a large statue, Hindu variety. A woman was kicking up her left foot. Like she was leading dance aerobics.

  At least I thought it was a woman. Later I found out it was a guy, a god actually. Shiva, creator of all things. Also the destroyer.

  Busy guy.

  But not giving me much of anything I needed. I thought about flicking on a light but decided against it. Which meant that looking around wasn’t going to bring up anything. Breaking and entering is the same, whether it’s a house or trailer or room in a motel. I needed to get out before a guard—or Avisha or James—popped in.

  I walked slowly back to the kitchenette and was about to elbow the refrigerator closed when I saw the body.

  58

  SHE WAS FACEDOWN in the small corridor to the left of the kitchenette. I’d missed her the first time by turning the other way at the start. The refrigerator light was enough to show me two things. A corpse that was shapely, black, and scantily dressed. And a puddle of blood on the light carpet, looking like the source was the back of her head.

  My throat clenched as I backed up. I bumped into the counter.

  I made the sliding door in about three steps, got out, didn’t bother to close it. Jumped the three stairs. Landed like a tree sloth and found I was looking right into the kitchenette window of number 27. An old face stared at me.

  Naturally I ran.

  I did not pass Go. I did not collect two hundred dollars. I did not look back or slow down. When I jumped the rocks on the side of the hill I fell and rolled the distance to the shoulder of PCH. Rocks, sticks, and grit bit every part of me. When I got up I was bleeding.

  That was not good. Not good for me, not good for the Taurus.

  But we were both better off than Avisha.

  59

  WHEN I GOT back to St. Monica’s I parked the Taurus and went to Father Bob’s trailer. He let me in and I told him what happened. He started cleaning me up.

  “You have to report this,” Father Bob said.

  “No, I don’t,” I said.

  “There’s a dead woman.”

  “She’s not going anywhere. She’ll be found. I’m not going to help them out. Because they’ll be asking me questions. They’re going to be asking me questions anyway, and I’ve got to think up a good lie.”

  “You can’t lie!”

  “Why not?”

  Father Bob stopped what he was doing and faced me. “Are you honestly asking me that question?”

  “What’s got your collar in a knot?”

  “You cannot lie. It is categorical.”

  “Come on, Father. You don’t think there’s lies in the church?”

  “If there are, they are sin. A sin one place does not justify sin in another. It is an affront to the very nature of God.”

  I stood up, knocking my chair over. “Tell God he’s got some affronts going on, too. What does he expect from us?”

  “Ty, don’t.”

  “He hasn’t been doing such a great job lately, so I don’t want to hear from him or you about life, okay? Can we agree on that much?”

  Father Bob’s face reflected more hurt than disapproval. Which only made things worse.

  “Thanks for the cleanup,” I said, and left. I walked past my trailer and up the hill. In back of St. Monica’s it was all undeveloped land. I thought about walking out into it as far as I could.

  Almost did.

  I cursed out loud. Cursed Father Bob for the way he could get his teeth in me.

  Then I walked back to the grounds and got my phone and called the Malibu/Lost Hills sheriff’s station. I told them where they could find the body. I told them who I was and that I’d come down tomorrow and tell them exactly what happened.

  Then I called Detective Brosia, got his voice mail, and spilled the story to him, too.

  When I finally clicked off I looked up at the sky and said, “Satisfied?”

  60

  THE NEXT DAY was Friday. I drove to the Malibu/Lost Hills sheriff’s station on Agoura Road. They were expecting me. I got directed to a small, spare county nondesign conference room and sat for about fifteen minutes.

  Finally a middle-aged deputy sheriff entered and introduced himself as Sergeant Mike Browne. He had a yellow pad and pen with him. He sat down opposite me.

  “We found the body,” Browne said. “Just as you told us we would. Now we need to figure out why you knew and why you decided to tell us about it.”

  “Because I found her. I thought you should know. I wasn’t going to tell you at first.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it wouldn’t look very good, would it?”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “He’s got scruples. He scruped me. So I’m telling you. Here’s the whole thing. I had a client who was murdered sometime Monday night. The LAPD detective in charge of that is Brosia, at Central Division, if you want to check with him.”

  Browne wrote it down.

  “She has a daughter, six years old. From the daughter I learned they’d stayed with someone named Avisha, about a year ago, near the ocean. She remembered some things, and based on that a friend and I drove the girl down here and she spotted the mobile home park. She remembered it. I found out Avisha lived there. But one of your stalwart deputies ran me off.”

  Browne nodded but said nothing.

  “So I came back at night. I wanted to try to find her without anybody getting in my face. It was dark at her place but the sliding door was open. I went in. I found her body and I left. I called you later.”

  “Why’d you wait?”

  “I was nervous about it.”

  “What time was it when you found her?” Browne said.

  “Probably eight-thirty or so. I remember parking about eight-fifteen, eight-twenty.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  “I was eating. Then I was driving.”

  “Where did you eat?”

  “Is that important?”

  “It might be.”

  “Arby’s,” I said.

  “Did you talk with anyone?”

  “The girl who took the order. I sat at a table by myself.”

  “Did you make any calls or get any?”

  I shook my head.

  “There’s another thing,” I said. “A guy named Fly Charles is a neighbor of Avisha’s. I talked to him.”

  “Fly Charles?”

  “Remember Detritus and the Elect
ric Yaks?”

  Browne shook his head.

  “Before our time,” I said. “They had one hit years ago. He was their bass player. He told me Avisha had a boyfriend named James. You may want to follow up on that.”

  Browne scribbled some more, then said, “This isn’t the first time you’ve been around a murder.”

  “And charges against me were dropped because they found the real murderer. I helped them. I’m helping now.”

  “I hope you’re not planning on leaving the country anytime soon.”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll probably need to talk to you again.”

  “Of course.” I gave him my phone number and my address as St. Monica’s.

  “That’s a monastery, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You like fruitcake?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. I can get you as much as you want.”

  61

  SISTER MARY WAS at prayer when I got back. I waited in the courtyard, sitting on a bench and looking at the statue of the woman the place was named for. St. Monica had her head cocked and was looking up.

  A brass plate on the base of the statue told how St. Monica agonized and prayed for seventeen years for her son, Augustine. She was told by a bishop that “the child of those tears shall never perish.”

  There was nothing in there about Augustine saying, “Thanks, Mom.”

  But there was this inscription:

  Exemplary Mother of the great Augustine, you perseveringly pursued your wayward son not with wild threats but with prayerful cries to heaven. Intercede for all mothers in our day so that they may learn to draw their children to God. Teach them how to remain close to their children, even the prodigal sons and daughters who have sadly gone astray. Amen

  Astray. Now that I could relate to.

  I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye and turned. Sister Hildegarde was closing the door to the office, walking with a man in a suit toward the parking lot.

  The man in the suit had perfect black hair, neat and trim and moussed. I couldn’t see his face, but he walked like a lawyer. He walked like somebody with billable hours.

  They went out to the parking lot and the guy got in a black Mercedes and drove off. Sister Hildegarde came back, saw me sitting in the courtyard.