The Pressure of Darkness

by Harry Shannon

  FOUR

  The North Hollywood station sat on a rolling green carpet of grass right off Colfax, a main drag close to the Hollywood Freeway. It was an odd, concrete hodge-podge of artsy buildings, apparently designed to link circular and modern to the square and out-of-date. The architect had not succeeded. Jack Burke parked about half a block away. He sat quietly for a few moments, fingering the hundred dollar bill in his pocket. He did not enjoy being around men and women who were still on the job. It made him uncomfortable. Scotty Bowden knew this, but often insisted on meeting here, perhaps hoping to persuade Burke to apply with LAPD rather than work both sides of the street.

  A black-and-white cruised by. The driver, a seasoned homicide dick named Charlie Carney, honked and waved. Burke waved back. Feeling exposed, he slid out of the vehicle and walked down the block, up the steps, and into the freshly painted station.

  "Mills."

  "Red." The balding, beefy desk sergeant barely looked up. He tossed Burke a guest badge and went back to digesting the racing form. Burke strolled on down the hall, turned right and then left and into the back lobby. He paused by the long plate glass window to watch his old friend arguing silently with the speakerphone perched on a huge, cluttered desk piled high with file folders and stapled papers. Of the four of them, Bowden had probably aged best. Unlike Burke, he already had a slight paunch, but that was an occupational hazard, and although there were now a few flecks of gray in his thick, black moustache, he was still handsome. Bowden played a lot of handball, and it showed. His face was still ladies-man perfect, with a faint trident of lines around the dark eyes. Scotty looked up, spotted Burke, motioned.

  By the time Burke entered the cluttered office, Scotty had already terminated the conversation. Bowden wore a fraying white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tight beige slacks, and a brown, food-splattered tie all askew. A 9mm Glock rested comfortably on one hip. When they shook hands, Burke subtly palmed the hundred dollar bill. Bowden casually slipped it into his own shirt pocket. He dropped back into his desk chair, arms behind his head.

  "What are you into these days, Scotty?"

  Bowden shrugged. "We got a bunch of homeless guys doing a vanishing act downtown." His voice had the slight rasp of a heavy smoker. "Probably nothing to it but some scrotums sneaking out of town with a dealer's crack stash, or maybe a couple of bottles of wine. You know how it goes."

  "Who bothered to report them missing?"

  "It was some nun who works the area. They're probably just sleeping it off in some other alley ten blocks away. No big deal."

  "The job."

  "You miss Vegas PD, don't you?"

  "Sometimes."

  "But not enough to join up here?"

  "No way."

  "You're looking pretty good, Red." It was the kind of compliment a vain man makes when he wants reciprocity.

  "You could probably still take me, Scotty."

  "Oh, I doubt that." It was clear he did not. He smiled, slid a manila file, perhaps one inch thick, across the desk. It came to rest at Burke's fingertips.

  "Meet Mr. Peter Stryker," Bowden said. "Best-selling author of the novels Passageway, Magician, Black Dreams, as well as Deadly Appetites, and the recent hit A Taste for Flesh."

  "The big horror writer."

  "Yeah, the same. Although I'm told he preferred being known as an award-winning author of 'dark fantasy,' whatever the fuck that is. Wrote a bunch of shitty campfire stories, you ask me."

  "He died last night?"

  "And then some. Here's what I got from the Sheriff's office." The L.A. County Sheriff's office was responsible for the area known as Universal City. "Stryker appears to have checked into a suite at the Universal Sheraton at around seven last night, under another name. We don't know what he was doing in the Valley, or why he used a different name, but we assume it was to avoid being hassled."

  Burke stole a pencil from the desk and looked down. "Name?"

  "Huh?"

  "The name he used when he checked into the Sheraton."

  Scotty looked at his own notes. "Dan Ira Palski."

  "Mean anything to you guys?"

  "Only that it sounds bogus. Anyway, suite on the south side is empty. Some old, very old fart named Clinton Farnsworth and his blue-haired wife are on the north side, in 1124. I know his name from somewhere. I think he's a local businessman who shows up in the papers now and then. We haven't been able to reach the Farnsworths yet to get their statements, but I figure they're both so old they're half deaf and blind anyway."

  "Anyone else to talk to?"

  "One room service guy went by there and said he didn't hear anything from Stryker's room except classical music and maybe someone humming along, but he wasn't real sure."

  "Not much help."

  "No, but all the contact info is in the file. Anyway, the maid comes in the next day, around lunchtime. She knocks, opens the door, and makes the bed. She heads into the bathroom, nearly barfs all over our crime scene, and runs screaming out the door. The first guys on the scene find Stryker naked in the bathtub with his guts hanging half out. Guy did himself Japanese style."

  "How did he do it?"

  "Medical tools, man. Scalpels and other shit like that. Turns out he was a med school dropout in his twenties. Who knew? He also did a real showbiz number on himself before checking out. Not to be believed."

  "Like what?"

  "It's all in the file," Scotty replied, a bit too briskly. He wanted to wrap things up. "Let me put it this way, my kind of shit from back in the Mo, man. Not too well-adjusted, okay?"

  "He cut himself up first?"

  "You could say that, yeah."

  "Any last words?"

  "A note in lipstick on the bathroom mirror, said 'I can't take this.'"

  "Lipstick?"

  Scotty laughed. "Yeah, a woman's lipstick. Look, you'll learn that rumor has it the guy was a real freakazoid. He was also into cross-dressing or something. When we searched his house we found a closet with a lot of women's clothing, black wigs, and makeup."

  Burke looked up. "Same kind and shade?"

  "Good catch, Burke," Scotty said with a quick grin. "Yeah, looks like the very same lipstick. The lab will tell us for sure, but the preliminary says it is."

  Burke discreetly thumbed through the case file, but kept it flat in his lap. He was not supposed to have it. He was not properly licensed in California as a private investigator.

  "You need to be a bit discreet, of course," Scotty said. He looked out at the hallway to be sure no one was watching. "But take a second. Check this one out. You won't believe it."

  Burke opened the file, shuffled documents. He whistled. There were some ugly photographs of the body in the tub and various blood splatters in the bathroom, along with measurements and details pertaining to the various wounds and the knives and scalpels used, also a preliminary lab report. Burke slipped the file under his shirt. "Strange, but it seems pretty open and shut."

  "All ready to wrap up in a heartbeat." Scotty leaned forward, hunched his big arms. "Quick and easy."

  "Let's hope so."

  Scotty fiddled with his leather watchband. "Trust me on this. Just scan it and file a report, my man. The guy was screwed up. He took drugs and he did himself, and in the nastiest way he could think of. Problem is, the daughter doesn't want to buy that it was a suicide."

  "I see."

  "And this daughter, who is a stone fox by the way, is also about to inherit one shit load of money."

  Burke smiled. "So you told her there was a way to clear up any unanswered questions and that although you couldn't officially recommend anyone, speaking strictly off the record, I might be able to help her out?"

  "Yeah, and you can name your price on this one," Bowden said. "You want to string this thing out, it's probably worth fifteen or twenty grand. The foxy daughter's name is Nicole Moberly, but she's dumped her second husband and she's in the middle of changing it back. So call her Nicole Stryker, okay?"

  "All ri
ght."

  Scotty leaned forward with a slip of paper. "Here's the number and address. She's waiting for you to stop by this morning. She claims to be all tore up about this, so go easy on her at first."

  Burke got to his feet. "Scotty, I can really use the money. Thanks." He extended his hand.

  "No sweat." Bowden cleared his throat. He looked down and away. "Now, if this one does turn out to be a good earner . . . Well, I picked some dog horses this week. I could maybe use an extra little taste this time, you know?"

  "That's cool," Burke responded. "I'll take care of you, Scotty. Brothers?"

  "Brothers." They slapped palms. Bowden seemed visibly relieved. He brightened. "Stay in touch, Red. Okay?"

  "Will do." Burke turned in the doorway. "By the way, Stryker must have had a killer life insurance policy, right?"

  "Why you cynical bastard!" Scotty nodded, his eyes sparkled. "A new one, and just inside of the two year suicide exclusion, too. So your little client could maybe have gotten millions more."

  "But the company won't pay out if this is officially called a suicide inside of the two years."

  "Bingo."

  Burke picked up the one picture he kept on his desk. It was a small headshot of his estranged daughter, Patty. Bowden's tough features visibly softened. He often seemed to drown himself in her blue eyes.

  "Is she doing well?"

  "From what I hear, she's great." A wry smile. "You have a nice day, Red."

  FIVE

  Like a femme fatale, Beverly Glen Boulevard briefly fondled the trousers of the eternally smoggy valley but then backed away, teasingly, into the lush and numbingly overpriced foothills. At the top of the rise sat famed Mulholland Drive, where a forked left turn and a quick right shot down fancy Benedict Canyon, into the 310 area code and some serious money. It was a short trip.

  Although decidedly middle-class, Burke had lived around riches, both in Las Vegas and now California. He was familiar enough with those who'd lost track of what they own and still weren't satisfied. The ubiquitous 'upper crass' denizens of L.A. were generally narcissistic people who had somehow scored big in the indigenous entertainment industry or profited from its constant stream of cash.

  Nicole Stryker's luxurious house was on a shady, overgrown corner near Peach Lane and Tower Grove Drive. The outside was painted a pale blue with a lacy white ribbon of trim. The entrance and upper rooms had been placed at street level, with the lower floor, presumably the bedrooms, standing on stilts grounded in the hillside. Burke parked in the shade and stepped out of the car. The lawn was impeccably manicured and a silver Lexus sedan crouched like a tiger in the spotless driveway. Burke approached the large oak front door, his eyes searching for a doorbell or knocker.

  But then the door opened and time slowed like syrup on a cold morning.

  The woman was under thirty, with hair so blonde it looked white in the morning sunshine. Her body was lithe, eyes a vivid blue. She stared up at Burke with the studied superiority of the eternally privileged. After a long moment, she smiled feral approval. Her voice was surprisingly throaty.

  "Are you Jack Burke?"

  He blinked. "Yes, ma'am."

  "It's about time."

  She turned and strolled away, hips swaying in worn, but tight white slacks with Juicy printed on the back. She moved down some circular steps and vanished into the cool, dark living room. As Burke followed her, the door closed soundlessly on its own. The plush carpeting was white, and without blemish. He walked into the room and found her at the bar, briskly preparing a wine cooler. New age music oozed from invisible speakers. She did not offer him a drink.

  "Sit down."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Stop fucking calling me ma'am."

  Burke perched on the edge of an armchair. Grief did funny things to people, but whatever the cause of her distress, this girl was already an irritation. Now that the initial, sexually charged effect had begun to wear off, Burke could see the plastic perfection of her breasts and a too-carefully sculpted 90210 nose job.

  "I get eight hundred a day, plus expenses," he said, softly. He had impulsively inflated his normal fee by more than twenty percent.

  Nicole Stryker paused. She arched one carefully plucked eyebrow. "I didn't hire you yet."

  "No, you didn't," Burke answered, pleasantly. "But if you're going to be giving me a ration of shit, we may as well start the clock now."

  Nicole surprised him. She set down her drink and exploded into loud, good-natured laughter. "Okay, good. That line got you hired."

  Burke did not smile back. "Not so fast. First, tell me what you want me to do."

  Nicole walked over to the tinted, floor-to-ceiling window and looked out into the canyon. The sun was high enough to have chased cool shadows behind the brush and back under the overpriced homes. One scrawny deer emerged from the hardy foliage to drink from a hidden sprinkler. Nicole sipped her drink. She appeared to choose her words with care. "I want you to look into my father's death. If it was a suicide then fine, but if it was murder I want to know."

  "Okay."

  "And if it was murder I also want you to tell me who it was, why . . . and how they did it."

  "That could be a tall order."

  Nicole Stryker turned to face him. Her eyes narrowed. The bitch is back. "That detective promised me that you were the best man for this. I need to believe he was telling me the truth."

  "That probably depends on what you mean by best."

  "If I need something . . . unusual done, can I count on you?"

  Burke's face remained blank. "I don't kill people for money, Miss Stryker."

  "Nicole." She leaned back against the window and took another swallow of the wine cooler. "But you have killed people before, am I correct?"

  Fucking Scotty, how much had he told her?

  "I'm told you were a police officer until a couple of years ago, Mr. Burke."

  "Yes. I was."

  "Where?"

  "In Las Vegas."

  "What happened?"

  "I left. Sounds like you already know why."

  "To make more money."

  "That's right."

  He volunteered nothing more. Nicole grinned approvingly. "And before that you were in the service. You saw combat in Somalia."

  Close enough. "Among other places."

  Nicole sipped. "I think I saw that movie, in fact. You boys got your asses kicked."

  Burke did not respond, but the room seemed to chill by several degrees.

  "Will you answer some more direct questions, Mr. Burke?"

  He sighed and eased back to a standing position. "You know something? I don't think I like you, Nicole."

  She frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

  "There is a man who can help you, his name is Lynwood. He's in the Encino telephone book under Private Detective Services. Call him." Burke turned, started back up the stairs.

  Nicole Stryker cleared her throat. "Nine hundred a day, plus expenses."

  Burke kept moving. He was reaching for the front door when she called out: "One thousand a day, plus expenses."

  Burke's needs betrayed him. He stopped, envisioning medical bills and a long line of impatient creditors. He swallowed bitterness and his shoulders slumped forward. "On one condition," he said. After a long moment he turned. "Nicole."

  "Go on."

  "You don't ask questions. I do that. You just shut up and let me do my job."

  They glared like alley cats, neither one looked away. Nicole considered, finished her drink and then, conceding defeat, found something fascinating way out in the canyon. "How do we get started?"

  Burke, silent as a predator, returned to the living room and his former position. "Tell me about your father."

  She saw his hands were empty. "Aren't you going to take notes?"

  "I don't need to. Did your father have any enemies?"

  "He had several, to be honest." She took a piece of paper from her pocket. She folded it again and again into a tiny square, flippe
d it at Burke.

  He caught it one-handed, annoyed by her little games. "And this is?"

  "It's a list of people who hated my father enough to have killed him or ordered his death. These are people who are also, to some extent, wealthy and intelligent enough to have pulled off a murder this . . . sophisticated. You can examine that at your leisure, Mr. Burke, just not on my time."

  He tucked the paper into the pocket of his jeans, rugged face bland. "Go on, then."

  Nicole sat down on the carpet and crossed her legs, Indian style. She pulled her hair back, and the pose reminded Burke of something lifted from a Hindu painting. "I assume you know enough about my father's career to know that he was a very wealthy man."

  "Yes."

  "He also suffered from what appeared to be some confusion about his gender orientation."

  "I see."

  "No, you don't," she whispered. Her voice cracked with emotion. "But you will in a minute. Please sit down."

  Burke slipped off his running shoes and sat on the couch, also cross-legged. He ordered his mind to absorb all relevant information, whether spoken or merely observed.

  "Just let me talk for a while, Mr. Burke. Then if you have any questions you can ask them."

  "Go ahead."

  "My mother was an heiress, the granddaughter of one of the Martingale twins. As you may know, the family made a fortune in canned goods. I am my father's only child. I say my father's because my very wealthy mother died in childbirth and my father raised me. I do not remember Father dating in the customary sense of that word. He employed the occasional mistress for sexual release, but he seldom brought one home or introduced me. As for me, I had a series of nannies, plump and pleasant European women who indulged my every whim."

  Nicole Stryker was delivering a monologue of sorts, and as her voice droned on, the sun beyond the tinted windows seemed to drop directly behind her pretty head, creating an odd halo effect, with tendrils of grayish light. As he sank into a trance state, she embodied the goddess and Burke felt the presence of what Carl Jung called 'the numinous.'

  "My father was a remote man, but lest you think passionless just read one of his novels. His soul was burdened by a dark and only marginally contained lust, Mr. Burke. But it was not for mere hedonistic physical sensations. My father craved power over others. And my mother's wealth gave him access to that power. That is why he loved to learn."