Audrey suggested he go to a shrink. But as much as a shrink might try to convince him he wasn’t to blame—that it was the fault of his Catholic upbringing; or of losing his father and his little brother to a car accident that he survived, then later, his mother to cancer; or of his body chemistry; or of giving himself entirely to his job in a city that hated cops—a shrink could not absolve him. A shrink could not take away his nagging guilt.
He stopped for early mass at San Ignatius, and as the host melted on his tongue, he felt the steady throb in his head melt into the unfinished cement floor of the nave. For a moment his grief abated. He felt forgiven and strong.
But by the time he slipped behind his desk, he was again heavy with despair.
His desk was rough terrain, valleys and precipices of paperwork—subpoenas, murder books, witness statements, suspect interviews—and he imagined toy trains winding up the mountains of reports, under pencil trestles, around lakes of coffee. Today he had to tackle stacks of sixty-dayers from his detectives, updates on unsolved homicide cases, each one thirty pages of meticulous details, cases that had almost no chance of being cleared. Then there were the cases they were working on now: the murder of a twelve-year-old boy killed during a car-jacking; a double murder after a dope house rip-off; another double murder between gang members during a street fight; two more drive-bys and two body dumps.
And then there were this week’s murders in Oakwood.
Before he’d even sat down with his coffee, Reggie’s supervisors, Detective Lieutenants Newcomb and Blake, dragged Reggie into an office. Burnout, they said, not to be unexpected. Reggie was over forty and still working homicide, when most of the other detectives were in their twenties and thirties. Reggie was one of their best detectives, they said, commanded respect from the other officers, got them to do their jobs quickly and efficiently. But the Venice Gang Task Force had solved only two out of seventeen cases. Crime wasn’t down, it was up. Reggie was late on all his paperwork, and his follow-up on older cases was lousy.
The crack-house killing of five people on Thursday night, now called the San Juan murders, was high priority. Council woman Pauline Parker was breathing down their necks, expecting results from the millions she spent on antigang detail in her district. Her constituents were scared, complaining, writing letters to the editor, and she was up for reelection in six months.
“We’ve got to see results. Now!”
“Tell us if it’s too much for you, Reggie.”
“We’d hate to replace you, but if we don’t see some perps in custody fast, we’ll reassign you to robbery or community outreach, or maybe to another bureau that isn’t so demanding.”
Nothing like being reamed on a Monday morning.
Reggie had begun looking over the notes from the San Juan murders, when Detective Velma Perkins poked her head into his office, her overbite smiling, her muscular body and breasts busting out of her uniform.
“Hey, Reggie. You asked to see me?”
“Yes. Come in.”
Velma flopped down in a chair in front of him. “You look bummed. What did Newcomb and Blake want?”
“They’re thinking of putting me out to pasture.”
“No! They can’t do that! They’re blowing up their own assholes. They oughta take their hands off their dicks long enough to see what it’s like out there.”
“Thanks, Velma.” She was in attack mode. Reggie pulled a package of Fig Newtons out of his desk drawer to calm her down. “Where are we on the San Juan murders?”
She squeezed a Newton and sucked out the fig before picking at the cake. “A few people in the neighborhood said they knew someone named Li’l Richie who drove a white Cadillac. No one seems to know his last name.”
“You search the computerized moniker file?”
“Yup. There’s a half dozen Li’l Richie’s on the Westside, a few in jail. I made up a few six-packs with their mug shots. Our only witness, James Floyd, didn’t recognize any of them.”
“You get anything from the mother?”
Velma sighed. “She denied that her brothers were in a gang. I asked for names of her brothers’ friends, and she says”—Velma, imitating the woman, swiveled her head side to side with serious attitude—“‘They’s my family. I ain’t gonna rat on no family.’ Some family! I swear, Reggie, I nearly lost it with her.” Velma mimicked herself: “‘Your brothers were running a rock house under your nose, and you’re telling me you knew nothing about it? Your two babies got blasted all over your living room. Wha’s wrong with you, woman? Maybe you don’t care ’bout your mother and your kid brothers, but your babies? Damn, you’re cold! Now talk to me!’”
Reggie laughed. It felt good to laugh. He hadn’t in awhile. “What else?”
“Well”—Velma chomped another bite of cookie—“we have patrol units keeping an eye out for a white Cadillac in the neighborhood, but nothing so far. We got one witness who says Li’l Richie bought his Cadillac from a used lot over on Jasmine and Washington. I made a visit and looked through their paperwork for Cadillac sales. There was only one with Vogue Tyres—sold to a woman, Tina Dupres, about six months ago. I ran the plates. Bingo. A guy named Charles Richard Cole III, resident of Mar Vista, got a traffic ticket in the car last month.”
“Charles Richard Cole III. Sounds aristocratic. Does he have a record?”
“No. But one witness said he was a member of the Bones.”
“That’s in Santa Monica. Why would he be over here in Crip territory?”
“Turns out, the Ellsworth boys weren’t gangbangers. The Crips were pretty ripped that they were dealing drugs, and so were the Culver City Boys. There was a contract out on them.”
“The Culver City Boys and the Santa Monica Bones have been talking merger. You think Li’l Richie did the competition to get in good the Culver City Boys?”
“Could be.”
“Any sign of the murder weapon?”
“Nope. Ballistics says it’s a thirty-eight. He didn’t dump it in the area, so I bet he still has it.”
“This Tina Dupres is his girlfriend?”
“Looks like it. I put twenty-four-hour surveillance detail on her apartment. If he comes near it, we’ll have probable cause to get a search warrant. We might find the gun there.”
After Velma left, Reggie felt overwhelmed with fatigue, as if some poison were seeping out of his bones into his muscles. Burnout. Maybe Newcomb and Blake were right. What had Father John called it? Acedia? He’d said monks call it the noonday demon. A listlessness, a mild despondency, a feeling that all the sacrifices you make aren’t worth shit. It’s when you ask yourself why you bother working the long hours, missing sleep, meals, your family? Life itself!
Then the guilt follows. Guilt over slipping on the job and not caring, over neglecting those you love.
Reggie thought of Laura walking meekly into class for the first time. She came to him for protection—at least that’s the way he saw it. He realized he felt less guilty for loving Laura than for not making her safe.
He knew he had to do something about these feelings that kept him from breathing right. There was no choice.
He had to find Laura. He had to know she was safe. He had to see her again, to test what his feelings were for her. He had to know if maybe she had these feelings, too.
* * *
Scott looked at his watch. It was one-fifteen PM. He thought he might catch a matinee. He opened the Los Angeles Times to see what was playing when the telephone rang.
“Good afternoon. May I speak to Scott Goodsell?”
Scott had expected this call sooner or later, but the voice on the other end made his breath short; sweat exploded on his temples. The rich bass resonated with wide vibrations that Scott could feel even over the phone line, and the words had the rounded articulation of a black man, a big black man. It made Scott think of a whale deep in the ocean.
“This is the man. Speak to me.” Scott reached for chipper, but sounded forced.
“Th
is is Detective Reggie Brooks from Pacific Division. We spoke once before. I wondered if it would be possible to meet with you.”
“What about?”
“I’d like to talk about Laura Finnegan.”
Scott tried to keep his voice relaxed. “What about her?”
“We can go into that when we talk. You’re not far from the Cow’s End Café. Could we meet there at three p.m.?”
Scott felt some relief that he wasn’t being asked to go to the station. That probably meant he wasn’t going to be arrested. Not yet, anyhow. “Do I have a choice?”
“We all have choices.”
“Then this is not in any official capacity.”
“No. But if you have a few minutes, I would very much like to talk with you.”
Scott’s first instinct was not to meet with the cop. No one had to talk to a cop unless he was charged with something. Even then, he had right to legal counsel. But maybe it would be better to answer the cop’s questions as if there were nothing to hide. He’d write out his story beforehand so his facts would be consistent, then, a quick workout so he’d be relaxed. Maybe he could get the cop to like him. Most people did.
“Sure, I’d be glad to meet you. How will I recognize you?”
“You’ll know who I am.” The cop hung up without saying goodbye.
Cow’s End Café was a rustic coffeehouse at the end of Washington Boulevard, near Venice Pier. A black-and-white Holstein-patterned sign with a cow’s udder hung over the door. The bottom floor had several small tables and torturously uncomfortable wooden stools; upstairs looked like a fraternity lounge, with tattered couches and wingback chairs. Screenwriters and students worked upstairs, while the dog walkers, tourists, and Web designers hung out below.
When Scott walked in, he had no doubt who Officer Brooks was. The only African-American apart from the Jamaican behind the counter, he was huge and looked rock hard. He wore khakis and a polo shirt and had that compressed Superball look of off-duty cops—calm on the outside, but get them agitated and they’ll start bouncing all over the place. He wore half-lens reading glasses like librarians wore; he took them off when he saw Scott.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said, raising his cup to the Jamaican for a refill.
Scott stood close to six feet, but he felt like a child, following the sergeant. As the detective sat on an old couch, the sides bowed in, like a gondola. Scott took a rickety chair on the opposite side of the table.
“I ordered you a decaf mocha cappuccino. I hope that’s all right.”
“Sure,” said Scott, wondering how the officer knew what he’d order. The thought that the cop had been making inquiries about him made him uncomfortable. But no doubt that was his plan, to make Scott nervous so he’d say something stupid. “How’d you know that was my drink?”
“Just figured.”
So that’s the way it was going to be. Fine. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”
“When was the last time you saw Laura Finnegan?”
“Months ago. You should know. You’re the one who got the judge to expedite the restraining order.”
“And you haven’t seen her since then?”
“No, sir.”
“But you’ve talked to her.”
Here Scott knew he had to be careful. “A few weeks ago, she called me from upstate New York. She told me her mother had a stroke and she was going to stay on and take care of her for a while.”
“She called you at home?”
Cautiously, Scott replied, “I don’t remember. Could’ve been at work.”
“How long did she say she was going to be away?”
“She didn’t know. That’s why she asked me to clear out her apartment. She’s never been close to her mother, and she thinks maybe now she should spend some time with her.” This last part was true. Laura once mentioned that her mother, before she passed on, was a religious nut, borderline crazy, whom she had avoided visiting.
“She asked you to take care of her affairs even though she has a restraining order out on you?”
“Yes. She doesn’t have many friends out here. No family. We’ve had our differences, but we’re still very close. She trusts me completely.”
“Why didn’t she ask her landlord to put her stuff in storage?”
“I don’t know how well you know Laura”—Scott thought he saw the cop flinch—“but she’s a very private person. I’m sure she didn’t want to bother him with her problems.” Scott had to keep himself from smiling. “The truth is, I think he annoys her. You know, a bit of a busybody. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a thing for her.”
“Where did you store her stuff?”
“In a storage locker in Culver City, on Overland.” Scott realized he shouldn’t have dumped Laura’s belongings so quickly. But his sister had a locker that he could show if he had to.
“Do you have a number for her mother?”
“No. She said she was at one of those nursing homes where each patient gets a little cabin to herself, but they were moving her to a more intensive-care facility, and she didn’t know the new number.”
The Jamaican came with their coffee. Scott noticed the cop had it black.
“Is she staying at a motel?”
Scott knew he was talking too much, giving too many details that might haunt him later. But the cop kept shooting questions at him, trying to rattle him, he supposed. “She didn’t tell me. Maybe she thinks I’d bug her or something.”
“What’s the name of the nursing home?”
“She must’ve told me, but I don’t remember.”
“Did she tell you the name of the town?”
“No. But she said it took her about three hours to drive from Albany.”
“North?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have no way of getting in touch with her?”
“No.”
“And she trusts you to take care of everything?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t leave you a number to call if you had questions about what to do with things such as her car and her mail?”
“No. I figure she wants to have contact kind of one-way, if you know what I mean. So she has control.”
“I see.” Officer Brooks handed him a card. “When she contacts you again, would you ask her to call me?”
“Sure.” Then Scott added, “She likes you, you know.”
“She said that?”
“Sure.” Scott grinned from ear to ear, pleased as punch at making the tough cop blush. So the cop carried the torch for Laura. Well, perhaps Scott could use that if he had to.
Without saying another word, the cop stood and left the café.
* * *
Reggie didn’t like Scott; he found him obsequious and annoyingly amiable, bobbing up and down, saying yes on the outside and fuck you on the inside. When Reggie saw brothers acting like that, he felt ashamed, but in a white man it was repugnant. What made Scott more pathetic, Reggie thought, was his confidence that people believed his lies.
Reggie didn’t.
Something made him curious. Usually when a cop asks about someone, the first thing a person says is, “Why, has something happened to her? Is she in trouble?” Scott hadn’t asked. As if he knew.
Other things didn’t make sense. People flew home to take care of parents all the time, but they didn’t stop their lives or give up their apartments and jobs. If Laura were using her mother’s illness as an excuse to get away from Scott, why would she have him take care of her affairs? Why couldn’t he remember where the nursing home was? If Scott knew Laura so well, he’d know that from previous conversations. He said she’d told him the nursing home was three hours out of Albany. Reggie looked at a map. He figured three hours was about one-hundred and fifty miles. Three hours west, she would’ve flown into Syracuse; three hours south, Newark; three hours east, Boston. If she were going north, it would make more sense to fly into Burlington, Vermont, unless the place was smack in the middle of the Adi
rondack Mountains. That shouldn’t be too hard to track down.
When Reggie to back to his office, he pushed aside all the paperwork on his desk and reached for the phone. His legs were quivering like when he’d been to the gym after a week-long layoff. He had no legal authority to do what he was doing, and he certainly didn’t have the time.
By calling in a favor, Reggie managed to get Scott Goodsell’s and Laura Finnegan’s telephone bills for the last three months, but they proved disappointing. There were no calls between the residences. Neither revealed any numbers to upstate New York. On Laura’s bill, there were several calls to a number in New York City, which Reggie discovered belonged to a Vivian Costanza. Something told him she might merit a call.
He ran a credit check on Laura. She hadn’t used her credit cards in the last three weeks. But that was not unusual. She appeared to often go months without using a credit card, a tendency that probably came from doing other people’s finances and seeing how much trouble they got into. He figured he’d check again in another few days to see if there was a charge.
Reggie shoved aside a white Styrofoam tray of Chinese takeout. It didn’t taste quite right; maybe he was coming down with something. He picked up the phone again and called Laura’s supervisor at work. Reggie had spoken with him once before regarding the restraining order, asking him to call if Scott showed up at Laura’s office. In talking to him briefly, Reggie pegged him for someone with something to hide.
Mr. Johnson said Laura quit without notice but sent in a letter of resignation after missing a few days of work. He sounded sore about it, like he took it personally. Sounded like he might’ve had an interest in her. But then Laura seemed to be the kind of girl who starred in a lot of male fantasies.
“Do you have a copy of her letter of resignation?” Reggie asked.
“I sent it down to human resources. They would’ve put it in her personnel file.”
“Could you make a copy and fax it to me?”
Good Morning, Darkness Page 8
