Good Morning, Darkness

by Ruth Francisco

  “The Friday before she quit. We went out for a drink at Typhoon.”

  That, Reggie knew, was a restaurant-bar at the Santa Monica airport. “To celebrate?”

  “No. Well”—she smiled—“maybe to celebrate getting through the week. We went for margaritas on Fridays once or twice a month.”

  “Did she seem agitated or upset?”

  “No. Laura doesn’t upset easy. Laura is Laura.”

  “Did she ever mention her mother? That her mother was sick?”

  “No, she never mentioned her family.”

  “Did she give you any indication she was planning to quit her job or leave town?”

  “No. Well . . . she always had travel brochures on her desk. Every vacation she was off some place different—New Zealand, France, Morocco, the Virgin Islands, Hawaii. But she didn’t mention anything in particular.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “Only her ex-boyfriend. Scott.”

  “Did she seem frightened of him?”

  “More annoyed, I think, like he wouldn’t leave her alone. But I don’t think she was scared of him.”

  “Any close personal friends outside of work you know of?”

  “No. She was kind of a loner, I guess.”

  “Was there anything different you noticed, how she looked, how she acted?”

  “On that Friday?”

  “Anytime.”

  “Well . . . maybe there’s this one thing. No, forget it. It’s too stupid.”

  “That’s okay. Tell me.”

  “Well, she kept an action figure of Bruce Lee on top of her computer monitor, you know, one of those little toys.” Amy pointed to the left corner of Johnson’s computer. “When I came in on Monday, it was gone.”

  “Was anything else gone?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “Was the Bruce Lee toy special to her?”

  “Like would she take it with her if she was going to split? I don’t think so. Not more than the photos and other stuff that I put in the box.”

  “What exactly did you put in the box?”

  “Oh, you know—personal stuff. Hand cream, photos—like I said—nail files, gum, her desk calendar.”

  “Who were the photos of? Her family?”

  “No. They were of her and people she met on vacations. She really liked to travel.”

  Reggie would have liked to see Laura’s desk calendar. When he ran out of questions for Amy, he asked Johnson if he could look at the files on Laura’s computer. Johnson hesitated, then said as soon as someone quit, their computer was stripped. All accounting files were stored on a mainframe. Reggie didn’t believe him, but without a warrant, he couldn’t check.

  “How was your relationship with Laura?” he asked Johnson as he closed his notepad.

  Johnson turned beet red. “She was a model employee. Human resources can tell you whatever else you need to know.”

  Reggie figured he’d pushed Johnson as far as he would give. For now. He thanked Johnson for his time and left.

  * * *

  Scott glanced at his watch. He had a date to play racquetball with Peter Flynn at three. He changed quickly into his gym shorts and sneakers and hurried toward the door. He locked up the apartment and jumped into his BMW.

  He raced down Santa Monica Boulevard, then headed south. The marine layer was thick, the air moist. Scott wondered how far inland he’d have to drive to find sun. This kind of weather always left Scott feeling muddleheaded, but at least it would be cool for his game.

  He pulled up to the intersection of Colorado and Eighteenth, by a large building-supply store. He frowned. Mexican day laborers lined the sidewalk, looking anxiously as cars slowed at the light. Scott resisted an impulse to roll up his window. A truck pulled over and was suddenly mobbed by twenty squirming bodies, children’s bodies, not even full-size men. Their desperation made Scott sick. How could they let themselves get like that? Breeding like rabbits. Too ignorant to use a condom. Taking our air. Our space. Our city.

  He revved his motor and raced through the red light. Fuck it if he got a ticket. He wasn’t going to stop near all that.

  He had to concentrate on not speeding as he turned east down Ocean Park, the last stretch before the gym. As he pulled into the 24 Hour Fitness parking lot, he saw Peter’s ass hanging out by the trunk of his blue Volvo station wagon. He was changing into a T-shirt and sneakers right there in the parking lot. What a strange bird he was. He wore basketball shoes and ratty shorts, the elastic all shot, with his butt crack showing. Still, he was the nicest guy Scott knew.

  He’d been spending a lot more time with Peter since Laura went away. That’s how Scott thought about it—Laura going away, as if she were on vacation. Peter was easy to be around. He never asked personal questions and didn’t ask for favors. Cheerful and deferential, Peter made Scott feel like the high school football hero who befriends a nerd; he gave Scott an odd sense of security.

  They checked in at the front desk. They were ten minutes early, but the racquetball room was empty, so the musclehead at the desk said they could go ahead and take the court.

  The racquetball court was a box of gleaming yellow wood with a Plexiglas wall that looked out into the lobby. The room made Scott think of a padded cell—the crushing claustrophobia, the amplified noise, the bleaching white light—and it occurred to him that one of the reasons he played so hard was the jolt of panic he always got in the room. That and showing off for the people glancing in from the lobby.

  Peter served. He was consistent player, strong, methodical, reserving his final burst of energy for the end of the game. Scott, on the other hand, was erratic, which in itself worked as a strategy, keeping Peter guessing, never knowing how hard a ball was coming.

  Scott balanced on his toes, nervous, like a white mouse in a maze. He slammed back Peter’s serve again and again, hitting the ball like it was some evil thing out to get him, an odious eye, relentless, vindictive.

  The ball ricocheted against the Plexiglas like a bullet shot. Peter seemed more aggressive than usual; the room vibrated from the impact of his serves. The men scrambled past one another, smelling the other’s body, feeling his heat. Sweat dripped down their faces and limbs, flipping off their arms as they clobbered the ball.

  The air began to press down on Scott; a hysteria took over, like an enormous bat swooping down on his back, biting his neck, driving him insane. The ball was a thing of pure hate; barely seeing it, he swung madly, bashing it away to save himself.

  They both played as if possessed, like pit bulls from adjacent yards finally getting at each other.

  After a half hour, Scott smashed a rebound that slammed into Peter’s leg. Peter sank to the floor, dropping his racquet and grabbing his calf, rocking back and forth in silence. The room echoed with their heavy breathing, the walls spun around them, the air was heavy and damp.

  Scott felt a stab of erotic, malevolent victory. He stood dizzy, jubilant, above his enemy. After a moment he realized, reluctantly, that this wasn’t the correct response. “Jesus, Peter. I’m sorry.” He picked up Peter’s racquet and squatted beside him.

  “I didn’t expect it to come so fast.”

  “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Sure. It’s my fault. My concentration’s a little off today. I guess I’m tired.”

  “Are you kidding? You were a maniac!”

  Peter grinned at the compliment. Wounded but a warrior still. He stood and hobbled across the court, rubbing his calf. “I’m okay, but I don’t think I can finish the game. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize,” Scott said. But the only thing he really felt bad about was his own lack of compassion. He felt annoyance, not empathy. What was wrong with him? “I was pretty much ready to quit, anyhow. How ’bout if we grab a late lunch?”

  “At four o’clock?”

  “Yeah. My treat.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  On the way to the car, Peter slowed in t
he middle of the parking lot. When Scott turned around, Peter said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Scott.”

  Scott noticed Peter’s knees, knobby, white, and wrinkled, and suddenly felt embarrassed to be seen with him. “Can’t it wait until lunch? I’m starved.”

  “No. I don’t know if I’ll have the nerve to ask you once I cool down.”

  “What’s up?” said Scott, using his most chipper voice, hoping to prod Peter on.

  “If you feel at all uncomfortable about this I want you to tell me, okay?”

  “Sure. Speak, my friend.”

  “Well . . . I was wondering . . . you’ve been broken up with Laura for a few months, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well . . . I was wondering if you’d mind if I asked her out?”

  Scott froze; the air between them pulsed with hostility.

  “I know it might be a little weird for you,” Peter added quickly. “But she always seemed like such an interesting person. She has such good posture.”

  “You want to date a woman because she has good posture?”

  “No, of course not. I’m not good at expressing . . . Hell, I like her. There’s something special . . . well, you know. Of course, if it would make you feel at all uncomfortable . . . ”

  Scott was speechless.

  “I guess it’s a bad idea,” said Peter, disappointed.

  “It’s a fucking terrible idea.” Scott was furious. He found Peter detestable and couldn’t bear to look at him. He stammered, uncharacteristically. “You know . . . I just r-remembered something I n-need to do at work. I’ll have to take a rain check on lunch.”

  “I’m sorry, Scott. I didn’t know you’d be so—”

  “Forget about it. See you next week.”

  “Next week. Sure.”

  Scott jumped into his BMW and screeched out of the parking lot. In his rearview mirror, he saw Peter standing there like an idiot, not moving, watching him drive away.

  After his anger faded to a bitter scum in his mouth, Scott wasn’t sure if he felt worse about Peter bringing up Laura or the fact that now he’d have to find another racquetball partner.

  * * *

  Reggie feared the trail on the San Juan murders was getting cold. Li’l Richie’s girlfriend said she’d let him have her car, but she hadn’t seen him for a month. Whatever she knew, she wasn’t telling. Patrol units were still stationed outside her house. So far, Li’l Richie hadn’t showed.

  “You won’t believe this,” said Velma charging into Reggie’s office. “I went down to Parker Center to do a background check on Li’l Richie’s mother. She was arrested in eighty-seven for prostitution. She’s got family down in Texas. Turns out Li’l Richie’s half brother lives in Houston.”

  “You figure Li’l Richie’s skipped town?”

  “I’d bet on it. Officers found the Cadillac abandoned in South Central. He’s gone.”

  “Why don’t you call the FBI Fugitive Task Force and give them the addresses of his relatives. Guys like that don’t just disappear.”

  Sanchez poked his head around the doorjamb; he looked like he’d been up all night. “Hey, Reggie. There’s a Mexican out front who wants to see ya. You want me to show him back or give ’im the brush-off?”

  “Show him back, would you? And ask Simmons to hold my calls. Unless it’s Audrey.”

  “Right,” said Sanchez. His wink to Velma said he thought Reggie was pussy-whipped. Reggie ignored them both.

  “I gotta get going on the body dump we got last night,” said Velma as she got up to leave. “I’ll catch you later.”

  The distraction was welcome. Reggie had a coffee burn in his stomach and was having a hard time sitting still; he needed a break from the mess of paperwork in front of him.

  When he saw the little man standing shyly in the doorway, wearing black slacks and a starched white shirt as if for church, it took him a moment to remember the Mexican fisherman from the marina. Reggie was both surprised and not surprised, as if he had been somehow expecting him but had given up hope.

  “Come in,” said Reggie. “Please have a seat.”

  The Mexican took a chair on the other side of Reggie’s desk. He sat straight to make himself as tall as possible, like a schoolboy in the principal’s office. He had a wide, pleasant face, and it looked like he’d used water to comb down his hair.

  “How may I help you?” asked Reggie, pulling off his half glasses and laying them on his papers. The Mexican didn’t offer his name, Reggie didn’t ask it.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but you told me to call if I saw the girl . . . Laura . . . again.”

  Reggie almost leaped out of his chair. “You’ve seen her?”

  “No, no. But I have something to tell you.”

  “Go on. What?”

  The Mexican proceeded to tell his story about the arms, the one he’d found and the other one in Malibu, and how he didn’t see Laura after that, and that he knew the arms were Laura’s.

  “What makes you think they were Laura’s arms?” Reggie vaguely recalled the case, a body dump that went nowhere.

  “I just know. But there’s something else . . . ”

  A number of things flashed through Reggie’s mind: first, the Mexican was crazy; second, he was making some bizarre confession; third, he was one of those guys who wanted to be a cop and used any excuse to talk to cops; fourth, how quickly could Reggie get him out of his office. “Yes?” Reggie tapped his pencil impatiently.

  “Well, the sculptor who owns the house she lived in—”

  “Yes?”

  “He leaves his tools out sometimes. He has an ax, and sometimes he leaves it in a log, sometimes leaning against the shed.”

  “What about it?”

  “That’s what he used.”

  “Who used?” said Reggie, frustrated.

  “The guy who chopped her up.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I just know. Ask the sculptor guy if it’s missing.”

  Reggie’s heart was racing. The image was outrageous—Laura being chopped . . . no, it was too much. Reggie didn’t know if he felt so irritated because the Mexican was talking about his Laura as if she were a salami, or because of the remote possibility there was truth to what he was saying. A painful throbbing started at the base of Reggie’s neck, shooting down his rhomboideus muscles and through his shoulders. The Mexican looked so earnest, so sincere. But it was impossible.

  The Mexican continued, “I know that you can’t open up an investigation unless someone reports her missing.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I want to report her missing.”

  Reggie stifled a smile. “It has to be someone related to her, or someone like her boss. You’re a complete stranger to her.” Reggie regretted the way that came out. He could tell he hurt the Mexican’s feelings.

  “Then why don’t you report her missing?” the Mexican asked.

  Reggie pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, but it came anyway, a nervous giggle tickling his throat, then bursting out of his mouth like a hiccup. He clapped his hand over his mouth, alarmed by his sudden hysteria. He excused himself and went on in a somber voice. “Then I couldn’t work on the case. I would be considered too closely involved to be objective.”

  “I know what I say is true, and I want to help.” The Mexican spoke deliberately.

  “Help? How?”

  The Mexican propelled himself forward on his seat, palms beneath his thighs. “I could like investigate for you or something.”

  “This isn’t television. I can’t simply start an investigation because I want to,” although in truth, that was exactly what Reggie had been doing.

  “That’s how I could help. I’m good at watching.”

  That hysteria almost erupted again—the idea of Laura and the arms was too awful. But what if the Mexican was right? What if Laura had been murdered? Hadn’t Reggie feared that all along?

  He regarded the
Mexican’s wide face, his black eyes shining like pools in a cave. He seemed honest and was smart to have guessed that Reggie cared enough about Laura to break a few rules. “Where were you from Friday, April twelfth to Monday, April fifteenth?”

  “Big weekend.” The Mexican smiled broadly. “My youngest daughter’s first communion. Lots of family stuff. Barbeques and church.”

  If that was true, the Mexican would have plenty of backup for his alibi. “I’ll tell you what,” said Reggie. “Let me take a look at the case file on the arms. Then I’ll give you a call.”

  The Mexican gave him a number. “Then I’ll be your detective?”

  “No, that’s quite impossible.”

  The Mexican looked disappointed. “One more thing,” he said as he stood to go. “There was a ring on the arm’s left hand.”

  “A ring?”

  “Yeah. On her third finger like an engagement ring.”

  As the Mexican turned and shuffled out of the office, his words settled over Reggie and seeped into his skin. I just know. Reggie had a feeling, too, that kept him awake at night and gnawed at his stomach. Wasn’t that how God talked to you? A clear, undeniable feeling? Or maybe it was through a Mexican fisherman.

  What had Father John said? God speaks, but rarely in full or coherent sentences.

  Reggie sat staring into his palms. The question was where to begin.

  Since the arms were found on the beach, Reggie figured the case would be handled by the sheriff’s department. Later, he’d call around and find out for sure.

  If the Mexican was right, then Reggie could try to match the DNA from the arms’ tissue samples and the hair samples he’d bagged from Laura’s apartment. But he couldn’t get authorization for the DNA tests unless there was more evidence that Laura was a victim of a crime. Even then, it could take half a year to get back the results. A low-profile case without a suspect would get the lowest priority.

  It would be difficult to work officially on the case, even if the LAPD and the sheriff’s department would cooperate. And someone had to report Laura missing. Someone other than Reggie or a Mexican fisherman.

  Shit.

  * * *