Try Darkness

by James Scott Bell

  “Just like that?”

  “You’re going to help me out, too. You’re going to try to come up with some names for me. You’re going to think real hard. Do you think you can think hard for me, James?”

  “I can try, man.”

  “Good. Write out your brother’s name, address, and phone number. Tell him I’ll be talking to him. And here’s some free advice. You lie to your lawyer and it’s very bad. Do you understand that?”

  “Yeah, man, you don’t—”

  “Are you lying to me, James? In any way?”

  “No!”

  “Okay then. Now we call the deputy at Malibu station and we take you in. You are going to say that you didn’t kill Avisha, and that’s all. I’ll take it from there.”

  James nodded.

  84

  DEPUTY BROWNE SAT us in an interview room and James told him he was innocent. I told Browne I would do some checking and when I found out some useful information, I’d let him know.

  “Sure,” he said, like he didn’t believe me.

  And why should he?

  Browne requested that James not leave the county.

  I thought they only said that on TV.

  Then I took James to his car outside the Ultimate Sip and went back to St. Monica’s ten dollars richer.

  What a roll I was on.

  85

  THE NEXT MORNING I took on Sister Mary again on the court.

  This time I brought my A game.

  I was hot. In a zone. When I played high school ball I was deadly from fifteen feet. Automatic. Had a silky shot I modeled after Larry Bird. A little fadeaway that was unstoppable.

  Today it was going in, and Sister Mary didn’t like it.

  We played one on one and I took her down, eleven to four.

  “Just thought you should see the game when it’s played right,” I said afterward.

  Sister Mary, in her gray sweats, said, “I’m ready. Show me.”

  “You didn’t see the sweet jumpers? The perfect spin on the ball?”

  “Was that you?”

  “What does a guy have to do to get appreciated around here?”

  “Eat more fruitcake.”

  “I’ll take the dis instead, thank you very much.”

  “Okay,” she said, “I can handle that.”

  She bounced the ball a couple of times. I kept wondering what she would have been if she hadn’t given her life over to the church. A reporter maybe, one who could dig out facts, a bulldog.

  Or maybe a cop or private investigator. She could get people to open to her. She had a way of making you feel comfortable and when she listened, she really listened. She didn’t have a personal agenda.

  Maybe that’s what they make you pack up when you get here, your agendas. Leave them behind for God.

  Which brought to mind Sister Hildegarde.

  “Come with me a minute,” I said.

  Sister Mary paused, then rolled the ball to the side. The basketball court backs up against the hill at the edge of St. Monica’s. There’s a dirt path up the hill to the perimeter wall, which has a wooden gate they keep unlocked. Something about trusting St. Benedict and his devotion to hospitality.

  Which worked for me.

  I opened the gate and that brought us to the crest of a hill. From here we looked out over the northern section of the Santa Susana range. Undeveloped land. About sixty acres of it was owned by St. Monica’s.

  “It’s pretty today,” Sister Mary said.

  “Imagine what it’ll be like when the development goes up just over there.”

  “What development?”

  “Homes, of course. Big, new, jammed together, designer McMansions. Dogs and kids and cars.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The dream village of Sam DeCosse Junior, with the cooperation of Sister Hildegarde.”

  She faced me. “Can you get to the point?”

  “Sister Hildegarde has made, or is about to make, a deal to sell off some of this land. To the DeCosses, so Junior can get into home development. They want to make money. Apparently Sister Hildegarde does, too. Now why would she do that?”

  “You know why. To pay for health care for the older ones. Like Sister Perpetua. But we are supposed to take care of our own, not sell off assets and hire somebody else to do it.”

  “Can Sister Hildegarde just decide to sell?”

  “Oh, it has to go through a council vote, and technically the archdiocese has to approve. But in reality Sister Hildegarde can pretty much have her way. I’m just sick about this.”

  “What if I talk to Sister Hildegarde?”

  “You?”

  “Yeah. Lawyer talk. Get her all confused.”

  “That would be pouring gas on the fire, Mr. Buchanan. Best not.”

  “Is there anything you can do? Protest? Take it to the cardinal or the pope or something?”

  “Maybe I’ll write a letter. To Sister Hildegarde. And a copy to the archdiocese.”

  “There you go. A little protest.”

  She shook her head. “No protest is little to Sister Hildegarde.”

  “Now, that I can believe,” I said. “But don’t let it be said that a nun who can throw an elbow on the court—”

  “I don’t throw elbows! I use them judiciously.”

  “Fair enough. You don’t strike me as someone who’ll back down from anything if she believes in it.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “Then think this through with me. How does a woman living at the Lindbrook Hotel, a DeCosse property, come to connect with Father Bob, who happens to live on the grounds of a monastery that owns land about to become another DeCosse property? And then end up dead?”

  “Because she found something out?”

  “It would have to be something big enough to put a contract out on her. I mean, she was getting evicted illegally. So what?”

  “Or maybe it’s a coincidence. I mean, it’s not surprising that DeCosse owns properties all over.”

  “Think about it,” I said. “After we play another game. The irresistible force versus the immovable object.”

  “Which one are you?”

  “Irresistible, of course.”

  “And I shall not be moved,” Sister Mary said. “I’ll even let you take it out.”

  86

  SISTER MARY AND I brought Kylie to the Ultimate Sip on Monday morning. I got them both hot chocolate with whipped cream and had a Darwinian for myself. I was starting to get hooked.

  I made some calls. One of them to Detective Brosia. Left a message.

  Sister Mary said, “We need to talk about Kylie’s schooling.”

  “Do we?” I said.

  “I want to go to school,” Kylie said.

  “You ever been?”

  Kylie shook her head.

  “We need to get her caught up,” Sister Mary said. “I want to undertake tutoring for a time.”

  “What’s cootering?” Kylie said.

  “It’s something nuns do with rulers,” I said.

  “I ought to slap you for that,” Sister Mary said.

  “Slap who?” Kylie said.

  “No one,” Sister Mary said. “If Mr. Buchanan can focus for a moment, I would like to ask him a legal question.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  “Goody!” Kylie said.

  “My question is as follows, Mr. Buchanan.”

  “Ty, please.”

  “Mr. Buchanan, what are the legalities involved in private tutoring vis-à-vis the truancy laws?”

  “Did you just say vis-à-vis?”

  “What if I did?”

  “That’s good. Usually I have to write those kinds of words down.”

  “Your answer?”

  “I don’t know the answer.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “It’s what I do. What about public school?”

  “In Los Angeles? Are you out of your mind?”

  “Touché. Parochial school?”


  “Yes, when she is brought up to speed.”

  “Speedy,” Kylie said.

  “I don’t think it will take long,” I said. “Go for it.”

  87

  BROSIA CALLED ME back. “What have you got?”

  “Maybe we can trade a little information.”

  “I don’t do that. You can tell me what you have and I’ll let you know.”

  “That doesn’t sound exactly fair.”

  “I’m not interested in fairness.”

  “You don’t sound like you like me anymore,” I said.

  “I don’t like the fact that there are two dead women and you’re involved with both of them.”

  “You call what I’m doing ‘involved’?”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Interested.”

  “There’s nothing worse than an interested lawyer. You’re not an investigator or a cop. You’re going around sticking your nose in places it shouldn’t be. And you’re not licensed to do that.”

  “Detective, you know as well as I do that a license is not required when working as a lawyer. Now, I could hire an investigator, but I figure with the money I save doing it myself, I can go to Starbucks.”

  “If you end up making things tougher on me, that could mean obstruction.”

  “I know what I’m doing. The question is, do you?”

  “Listen—”

  “Have you talked to any of the people at the Lindbrook yet?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Have you figured out how somebody could get in wearing a big rainbow hat and get out and nobody saw him?”

  “Mr. Buchanan, I’m giving you a friendly warning.”

  “Those never work for me. You have to make it mean.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Those don’t work for me, either.”

  Long pause. “You called me, remember?” Brosia said.

  I was operating on too much caffeine. I didn’t need to make him angrier. At least I knew that much. Sometimes I’m a real clear thinker.

  “Sam DeCosse, the old man,” I said. “He’s interested in buying a piece of property adjacent to St. Monica’s monastery. That’s where Reatta went to see the priest.”

  “Are you suggesting Sam DeCosse had something to do with her murder?” Brosia asked.

  “I’m exchanging information with you,” I said. “Which, by the way, means it’s your turn.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “How did Reatta die?” I asked.

  “Her neck was snapped,” Brosia said.

  I thought of Kylie then, asleep in the closet as this happened to her mother.

  “Thanks for calling,” Brosia said. “Let’s do this again soon.”

  88

  I DROVE BACK to the Lindbrook to take it one floor at a time. The same little man with the wheat pasta hair was behind the Plexiglas. His eyes got round like lollipops when he saw me.

  He started shaking his head.

  “I have some questions for you,” I said.

  “You get out!” he said. “Or I’ll call the cops.”

  “Listen, Bashful, I represent the tenant in 414. I have the authority to go in and spend the night if I want to, which I would if I wanted to train a cockroach.”

  He picked up the phone.

  As long as he stayed in his aquarium, there was not much I could do. So I turned my attention to the guys sitting in the lobby.

  Disco Freddy was nowhere to be seen. The one guy I recognized was the man named Oscar. He was sitting near the window reading a newspaper.

  I joined him.

  “How you doing?” I said.

  “Oh. Hey. What’s up?”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Take a load off,” he said. “I just been reading about our wonderful mayor and his little dogs.”

  “The mayor has dogs?”

  “Did I say dogs? I meant the city council.”

  “Whoa.”

  “That’s what I said. I used to be a cop, you know. Back in the day when they’d stand up for the troops. Back when the public was on your side.”

  “Glory days?”

  Oscar closed the paper. “Just the days when a cop didn’t have to look twelve ways before doing his job, thinking he might get videoed doing his job and then getting reamed for it. But you didn’t come here to listen to me jabber on, did you?”

  “Matter of fact, I wanted to ask about the murder in 414.”

  “You’re workin’ for the girl, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Cute little thing. She okay?”

  “All things considered, not too bad.”

  He leaned over the table like a conspirator. “You want to know if the cops talked to me, don’t you?”

  “Did they?”

  “Not very much. Like they were just goin’ through the routine. I guess somebody dies here, it doesn’t rate much attention. Not the way I woulda handled it.”

  “Why’d you stop being a cop?”

  He paused, looked out the window at Sixth Street. “I went into the Turkey Stress Relief Program. Finished first in my class.”

  “Turkey Program?”

  “Wild Turkey.”

  “Ah.”

  “Had a wife. She left. Being married to a cop’s no life. No kids. Here I am.”

  “Oscar,” I said, “would you help me out with this case?”

  The dark eyes cast a little glow. Then he smiled, showing a lost upper tooth, a gap where old memories might leak out.

  “What do you want to know?” he said.

  “Where were you on the night the woman was murdered?” I asked.

  “I was right down here, where I always am. I was sitting and watching Disco Freddy—I watch out for him, see, make sure he doesn’t wander into the street too far—and played some cards with Ricky.”

  “Who’s Ricky?”

  “Third floor.”

  “Might he have seen anything?”

  “Don’t think so. We talked after—he couldn’t recall. Course, the way he pickles his brain, it’s kind of hard for him to remember much.”

  I was kicking around in my mind how much to tell Oscar. For all I knew, he could have done it. Unlikely, but this was beginning to sound like an inside job. People in Rasta hats don’t just waltz in unnoticed, do their thing, and leave without being seen.

  “How long did you and Ricky play cards?” I asked.

  “Till about eleven or so. I remember ’cause the TV news started. Eleven’s about when I get to bed.”

  “What room?”

  “I’m 207.”

  “You went to bed after that?”

  He smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “You had company?”

  “That’s none of your business, counselor.”

  “It could be police business.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you trying to say you think ol’ Oscar has to have an alibi?”

  “Do you?”

  “You know, you’re a funny guy. I’ve done nothin’ but try to help you, help the cops. Help the little girl. That’s all I’ve done and you think I could do that? You can leave right now, Mr. Lawyer, and take the train right to hell.”

  He pushed himself away from the table and stood up.

  “Wait,” I said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m flying blind here.”

  “You just flew into a wall.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Before he could answer, the lights of an LAPD patrol car flashed through the front window. It pulled up to the curb and two uniforms got out.

  They walked into the lobby where the Munchkin had come out from his lair. He pointed at me, and the officers walked over.

  “Can you tell us what you’re doing here, sir?” the younger of the two cops asked. He was tall and skinny. His partner, older and fatter, I figured was his trainer. Letting the kid take a stab at questioning.

  “No,” I said. “What I
’m doing here is my business.”

  The cop blinked so hard you could almost hear his lids clacking.

  “You’re trespassing,” the cop said.

  “I’m not.”

  “Do you rent a room here?”

  “My client does.”

  The cop frowned and looked at the Munchkin, who shrugged.

  I produced a card, gave it to him. “You can call Lieutenant Brosia at Central if you want to check it out. There’s currently litigation over the tenancy. I have authority from the tenant to be on the premises. It’s just that simple.”

  “He’s causing trouble!” the Munchkin said.

  The older cop shook his head, like he’d just placed the Munchkin in the nut category.

  “Hickman, is that you?” Oscar had come up from behind me.

  The older cop squinted. “Oscar?”

  “Hey man.”

  Smiles and a handshake.

  Oscar said, “Me and Hickman rode together a long time ago.”

  “Back when men were men,” Hickman said, mostly to his young partner. “How you doing?”

  “I’m alive.”

  “That’s great,” Hickman said.

  The Munchkin said, “Hey.”

  “Much ado about nothing here,” Oscar said to Hickman. “Me and Mr. Buchanan been talking quietly. I can vouch for him.”

  That was that. The Munchkin stormed off like a child who got his toys taken away. Hickman and Oscar swapped a couple more jovialities. The young cop looked at me and I looked at him.

  That’s when Disco Freddy burst into the lobby with a shriek.

  The young cop spun around, his hand going to his gun.

  “Easy,” Oscar said.

  Disco spun around and put his hands out. “Mr. John Travolta!” he said.

  “Time to roll,” Hickman said, giving Oscar a clap on the shoulder. The cops left, walking quickly past Disco.

  I looked at Oscar. “Thanks,” I said. “How come you backed me?”

  “Because you said you were sorry,” he said. “Everybody deserves another chance. I’m talkin’ from experience.”

  Disco Freddy strutted across the lobby like Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Well, not really like it, but if you tried real hard, you could almost pretend to see it.

  “Mumbuddynomakenomubbamind,” he said to us.