To Bring My Shadow

by Matt Phillips

  “And you’re perfect?”

  “Detective Ryerson is spick and span, my man. I’m clean as a bobby pin. Spick and fucking span.”

  The housing development—country club, really—was comprised of wide streets named for valuable jewels. Ruby Place. Diamond Circle. Sapphire Drive. We took Amethyst Lane. It ran through manicured lawns and well-tended flower beds. Each yard flanked a large garage with a golf cart bay and, to the left or right, a mission-inspired home. Built with red tile roofs and splashed with beige desert colors. Glass block featured prominently on one side or another. Large windows looked out on low-walled courtyards. As Slade steered along the rolling street, we searched for Decassin’s address. I thought about how we were many dimensions removed from the neighborhood where Chato bit his bullets, and from where the Santa Muerte shrine called to me. Gated communities, I thought, are the most recent manifestation of royalty.

  “How much you think these places go for, Frank?”

  I sighed and said, “You’re looking at a million dollars.”

  “Just to play golf in the morning, huh?”

  “Shit,” I said. “You got to pay for that, too. Club fees, partner.”

  “No shit?” Slade spotted the address and parked alongside the curb.

  We watched the house for a minute. Inside, a light illuminated the big front window. The curtains were drawn and, through them, we saw two shadows moving together. Like every other house on the street, the garage was closed. I opened my door slightly and heard the faint expression of a saxophone. “We got a jazz geek, Skinny.”

  Slade cocked his ear and listened. The lonesome notes spilled out across the manicured landscape. Sprinklers came on nearby—a brushing sound in the darkness.

  “No doubt Decassin has expensive tastes,” Slade said. “You don’t get to be a DA’s right-hand man if you can’t name your varietals.”

  “Whatever the fuck that means.”

  “It’s wine, Frank.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You’ve never heard of wine?”

  “Whatever kind you just said. Decassin can keep all that shit to himself for all I care.”

  Slade shook his head, checked the rearview mirror. “What’s this now?”

  I checked the mirror on my side and saw a sleek-looking sports car pulling in behind us. The headlights were off, but I recognized the body style. “Newer Porsche, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  I watched in the mirror as the Porsche stopped some twenty feet behind us and the driver’s side door opened. A tall white man in a well-cut dark suit climbed out of the car. He looked both ways down the street, closed his door, and approached the back of our shitty Ford.

  “Heads up, Skinny. Looks like security, a private detail.”

  We both stepped out of the Ford at the same time. I kept one hand near my gun. You never know. It can even happen in the manicured, oh-so-perfect country club set. It happens everywhere. And I didn’t want to die in a suburb. Frank Pinson, after all the shit he’d been through, deserved to die in the city. Give me that, at least, I thought.

  The security man stopped, measured us with a cool, VFA gaze. He sneered and sniffed through one nostril. “You two cops trying to pull something funny?”

  Slade lifted a hand in reassurance. “We picked up Turner the other day on something. Just want to have a chat with daddy.”

  Our playmate guffawed. “Fucking kid. Can’t stay out of trouble no matter how much he gets paid. This shit is getting ridiculous.” He pressed a finger to his right ear and spoke to somebody in a room somewhere. “The cops are here about the kid. It’s no big deal.”

  Me and Slade looked at each other, swung our heads back at the security guard.

  I leaned against the Ford. It swayed with my weight. “You in the service?”

  A curt nod. “Two tours in Afghanistan.”

  “No kidding?”

  “I got the shrapnel to prove it.” He patted his abdomen. “And now I play rent-a-cop for a big shot. Lot of good my sharpshooting did, huh?”

  Slade said, “We thank you for your service.”

  He said, “Fuck my service. You two can go on up. Just knock on the door.”

  Slade came around the back of the Ford and we started up the concrete walkway to the front of the house. I looked over my shoulder at the security man as he sat down on the Porsche’s front fender. I turned to him with my hands on my hips. “Is there a reason you drive a Porsche around?”

  The guy laughed, though it was a sad, short-lived sound. “Decassin thinks it makes us feel special. He wants us to feel like we’re guarding the president or some sorry shit. Reminds me of some of these warlord jackasses I ran across in the Middle East.” He stood and looked at the car, shook his head. “All this thing does is make me have to shift every three fucking seconds. Plus, they send me for groceries sometimes. It can be a real bitch. I’d rather drive a Prius for fuck’s sake. On the job, that is.”

  “You ever think about City PD?”

  “Applied my ass off. Never got past the lie detector portion. You do a lot of bad shit when you’re overseas and in…Well, maybe you know, huh?”

  “That’s too bad,” I said moving away from him and shaking my head. “You have a good night now. Enjoy the ride while you’re at it.”

  He flipped a hand like a card dealer telling us we lost a bet. “That, I will do,” he said. “And I’ll get all the cats from trees and change grandma’s underpants, too.”

  I followed Slade up the walkway. The saxophone got louder, mixed with a piano and steady drums, a maraca somewhere behind all that. Slade pressed the doorbell. Both of us listened for the high-pitched chime.

  We were there to see Decassin, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the woman. My balls dropped when she answered the door. Her head reached to about my throat and she wore her brown hair short. It was crinkled up like the ladies used to do in the eighties. Her nose was sharp, but small and cute. High cheekbones ran into leaf-shaped brown eyes. She wore a slip dress—a nice green—that flattened against her hips, slim belly, and thighs. The dress ended above a pair of short white heels. Okay, so she reached to right below my throat. It wasn’t too far to bend for a kiss. She didn’t say anything, but instead turned and swayed her hips as she led us into the large sitting room. I felt ashamed of myself for enjoying the slow burn in my gut. After all, I still wore my silver wedding band.

  Behind me, under his breath, Slade said, “Good God in heaven.”

  We sat on a low leather couch without armrests. The room was furnished with modern stuff, all of it a shade above uncomfortable. The woman sat in a spacey-looking chair with orange accents and a back that, to me, looked like vinyl or plastic. Decassin sat in a matching chair to her right. He pinched a cigar in one hand and cupped a bottle of European beer in the other—Peroni. He wore trim, dark-colored slacks and a loose-fitting button up. It was unbuttoned to the center of his chest, where black tendrils of hair jutted out like cat’s whiskers. His skin was dark brown and he wore his black hair parted to one side.

  The jazz was still rolling out across the room. It didn’t end until the woman lifted her manicured hands and clapped twice.

  The music stopped.

  I watched the woman and didn’t remember words.

  Decassin cleared his throat and nodded at us. “I hear my son has been giving you trouble, detectives.” He sipped some Peroni and rolled it inside his mouth, swallowed. A lone trail of sweat ran down the center of his forehead, dripped from the tip of his nose. He wiped it away with the back of his wrist.

  I looked at the woman again and held my breath.

  Slade said, “That’s right, Mr. Decassin. And miss...”

  “Portray,” the woman said. “Finney Portray.”

  “Miss Portray,” Slade said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He studied her for too long before shifting his focus back to Decassin. “We came across Turner after he
found a man who had been—”

  “Murdered,” Decassin said. “I know.”

  “How’s that?” At least I found two of my words. I tore my eyes from the clingy green dress and stared at Decassin. It was hot in the house and I began sweating under my arms and beneath my collar. My face still hurt, but the aspirin was working.

  “You look as if you’ve been in a boxing match, Detective. Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “It happens. Even to big strong guys like me.”

  Finney said, “I bet it does.” Her voice ran out like hot water.

  My balls ached and I knew Slade’s did too. Ah, lust—the creature beneath the sea.

  Decassin puffed on the cigar and blew smoke over his shoulder. “My son, stepson actually, winds up in the wrong place at the wrong time more frequently than I’d like. He came home two nights ago and told me about the man’s…body. He was shaken up, and he seemed genuine that it was nothing involving him. I’m hoping that’s still the case.”

  “But it does involve him,” I said, “and it involves you as well, Mr. Decassin.”

  “How so?”

  Slade leaned back on the couch, tried to find a place to rest an arm. He decided to drape his right arm behind me, across the back of the couch. “Dead man happens to be an employee of yours, Mr. Decassin. Gentleman named Enrico Frederico Pablo Castaneda.”

  I noticed Finney look into her lap as Slade said the name.

  Decassin arched his plucked eyebrows. “I’m sorry for the man and his family, but I’ve never even heard the name. He doesn’t work for me, detectives.”

  “Oh, sure he does,” I said leaning forward and placing my elbows on my knees. I swore I smelled lilies and chamomile tea. Finney, maybe. “We know Castaneda didn’t fill out an I-9 or nothing, but he sure as shit worked for you.”

  “I’ve never heard of him. What was the man’s profession? Perhaps I’m mistaken, but—”

  “Logistics, I guess you’d call it.”

  Slade said, “And strategic communication.”

  For the rough stuff, I thought. “Logistics and strategic communication then.”

  “My executive assistant handles all my logistical and administrative issues.” Decassin shifted slightly in his chair. He puffed on the cigar again and cooled his mouth down with the beer. Beside him, Finney looked at her hands, tried to memorize them.

  “Your assistant handles it all, huh?”

  “That’s right, Detective...”

  “I’m Pinson. This is my partner, Ryerson.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’m not sure why you think this man worked for me, but I’m positive you’re mistaken. I’ve never heard the name.”

  “If you say so,” Slade said. “What about the name Applewhite? You ever heard that one?” Finney looked me dead in the eyes. I smiled at her. She started to take slower breaths. Her chest rose and fell with practiced precision.

  Decassin glared at Slade. He pinched his cigar and ashes dropped onto the shiny tile floor. “What makes you ask that, Detective Ryerson?”

  “Well, not sure if you’ve heard, but your former business partner, Mark Jacoby, was found dead yesterday. Shallow grave. In the desert. Oh, and the wife and kid, too.”

  Decassin grunted. “In fact, I did hear about Mark. We weren’t partners, however. Both of us had seats on a development board. That’s all. I was sorry to hear about him and his family.”

  “And you didn’t think,” I said, “that we were coming to chat about him?”

  “I had no reason to, Detective. My security detail informed me this concerned Turner.”

  I tried my best to look surprised. “But you must have had it in the back of your head? I’m curious—how’d you hear about Jacoby?”

  “A man named Xander Dames told me. I believe he’s a federal agent handling the case.”

  I rubbed my hands together, thought I was getting somewhere. “Did Dames ask to speak with you about the Jacoby case?”

  Decassin placed his cigar in a glass tray on the low glass-topped table between us. He set the beer there too and it made a delicate glass on glass sound. “Why would he need to speak with me in depth, Detective?”

  Slade said, “Man’s got to cover his bases, am I right?”

  “I don’t believe,” Decassin said, “that I’m any sort of base to cover.”

  “Tell us about your affiliation with Applewhite.” When I said it, Finney stood and stomped into the kitchen. “She don’t like that name, huh?”

  Decassin’s face colored red. He reached into a pants pocket and pulled out a gold necklace, started to fiddle with it in his right hand.

  I took this as a nervous tic, what you call a parasympathetic response. A good detective looks for these mannerisms, notices them. A second later, I saw the glinting charm on the end of the necklace as it dangled from Decassin’s palm—that damned Santa Muerte. Here she was again. “You pray to the lady?”

  Decassin squinted, tilted his head. “It’s just a habit, something to help me think. This is a necklace given to me by a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “I’m beginning to feel like—”

  Slade cut him off. “A lying sack of shit?”

  Decassin shoved the necklace back into his pocket. “A simple internet search will show I do some political work for Ronald Applewhite. I’m a citizen and I’ve done nothing illegal.”

  “So you say,” I said.

  “I raise money for Applewhite—that’s all, Detective.”

  Slade stood and walked over to a painting on the wall. One of those line and shape drawings they call modern art. I never did become a fan. There were a few other similar paintings hung around the place. I found myself thinking I’d stepped back into the ’80s. Decassin had that look about him, the suave gangster dealing in crack cocaine and weapons. Slade put a finger to his chin and said, “What do you suppose this is?”

  Finney Portray breezed back into the living room and stood behind Decassin. In her hand, a thin glass of champagne caught the light. She said, “It’s not anything. It’s just a feeling. Ask yourself what it wants to be.”

  Slade nodded. “I think it wants to be something it’s not.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” she said.

  “I’d prefer you to practice arts criticism on your own time, Detective. My wife and I—”

  “You two are married?” I couldn’t believe that I could believe it. But I could.

  “Happily,” Decassin said. “Are you married, Detective?”

  I showed my wedding band, used my other hand to yank the ring off my finger. I held it to the light, examined it. I said, “I used to be, but my wife’s dead now. She was distraught.” I slipped the ring into my coat pocket and watched Finney’s eyes.

  She studied me, but gave no sign of her thoughts. She drank from her champagne glass.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Decassin stood and turned to Slade. “If you don’t mind, Detective, I’d rather not talk tonight. It’s nothing personal, but it seems you’ve come here under false pretenses. I don’t quite appreciate that on a weekend, not with the hours I put in.”

  Slade turned to watch Decassin.

  I stood and smoothed down my wrinkled slacks.

  Slade sighed and said, “I think I know what this is: I think it’s a big shot drug man trying to make his political chops. I think you want a bigger piece than you’ve got, Decassin. We don’t know why you had Castaneda killed, but we know you’re tied into drugs, and that you got ties to possibly the next county DA. We got a lot of dead people with your name in their contact lists. The Jacobys, the Castaneda brothers. In reality, the two of us—Frank and me, I mean—we aren’t the smartest men. But we’re no dummies either. We’re going to burn your ass. I fucking promise you that. When you go to sleep tonight, I know you’re going to dream about my handcuffs.” Slade slipped a hand behind his back and pulled out the silver bracelets he kept there. They dangl
ed from his hand like good luck charms.

  Decassin’s face got redder. The color spread to his neck. It showed despite his dark skin. “You two need to get the fuck out of here. And you can go through my lawyer next time. I don’t want to see your faces ever again.”

  We moved to the door and, when we got to it, I turned around and said, “You better get used to me and Slade here, Mr. Decassin. We might be ugly bastards, but we’re going to be your only friends come Monday.”

  “I don’t need any pinché friends,” he said.

  “Oh, come on now,” I said, “Even big shots like you need friends, amigo.”

  As we walked out the door I saw Finney Portray smile. She covered it by taking another sip of champagne.

  Chapter 26

  The next day, Saturday morning, I woke up with full sun shining bright in my eyes. I reached up from bed and touched the hot window pane with my fingers. True, it wasn’t the best weekend for me to sleep in, but Slade said I needed it. My body agreed with him. Hell, I didn’t even drink myself to sleep after we met Decassin.

  The room was hot.

  I whipped the sheets off and saw I was still in my slacks and sport shirt. My tie lay unraveled on the carpet.

  It looked to me like a noose.

  I stood and slipped the tie around my neck, made a loose knot. On the nightstand, my cell had a text message alert. It was Slade: Coffee at Rodan’s. Noon-ish. The time on my cell said it was 11:42 a.m. For once, I wouldn’t be late. I brushed my teeth, pissed down the black hole in my bathroom, and walked out into the bright light of Saturday morning.

  Rodan’s is a little diner off El Cajon Boulevard. It’s been there since the forties and, matter of fact, there’s an image of JFK pasted onto the side of the building. He’s in the back seat of a black convertible Lincoln, cruising down the main boulevard. There’s a crowd out to see him, moms and dads and tiny kids waving and smiling at the pretty boy president. A dedication beside the image says that JFK was shot dead in Dallas not six months after visiting our city. Every time I walk by that smiling pretty boy, I think: