Land of Shadows

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “What for?”

  “I have a thing for arms.”

  He sighed—he knew the deal—and held out his forearms.

  No recent scratches or bruises from a fight.

  “Thanks,” I said, studying his face.

  No scratches there, either.

  “I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but we found Monique last night. She was murdered.”

  Derek’s eyes widened—they were the color of Amaretto and not so sleepy now.

  The dog had felt his master’s mood change and started to whine.

  Colin slowly described Monie’s death, like a doctor giving his patient the worst-case scenario. He was good at it.

  Derek hid his face in the crook of his elbow. “Aw man … Aw man…”

  “We found her in one of those new condo units over on Santa Rosalia,” I said.

  “You sure it was her?” Derek asked.

  “We’re sure,” Colin said.

  “Did you do it, Derek?” I asked, tenderly.

  He gazed at me, his eyes wet. “I ain’t do that shit, ma’am. I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “You piss anybody off recently?” I asked. “Do something that would’ve made her a target?”

  His hands were shaking, and he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Naw. I been layin’ low since April. Ain’t interested in gettin’ in no trouble.”

  I winced. “Dating a minor may now bring you some of that trouble, Derek.”

  He chewed on his lips and studied the ceiling.

  “Where were you between midnight on Tuesday night and two, early Wednesday morning?” I asked.

  “My nigga got buried over at Inglewood that day,” he said. “I was at his grandma’s house out in Gardena, eatin’ and shit.”

  “What did you wear to the funeral?” I asked.

  “Why you got to know all that?”

  “I have a thing for men’s clothes.”

  He could understand my interest in his arms, but the clothes question made him gape dumbly into the distance. “I wore red khakis, a white shirt, red Jordans, that’s it.”

  “A belt?”

  “Yeah. This one right here.” He lifted his tank top to show a battered black leather belt. With shorts that low, what had been the point of wearing it?

  “You got a picture of you at the funeral?” I asked.

  He plucked his phone from his pocket, scrolled through, and found a picture. In it, he stood with a crew of BPS beside a white casket, throwing up signs. He had worn the outfit he had just described to me, down to the belt. If he had owned a Gucci anything, this funeral would have been the occasion to floss it.

  “I’ll need the number to Grandma’s house,” I said.

  “I ain’t killed Monie, ma’am,” he spat, eyes hot.

  King sat up and growled.

  Colin took a step back. “Whoa, buddy.”

  Derek turned to him and snapped, “I ain’t yo’ buddy, sir.”

  “Derek,” I said in my CAPS LOCK voice, “relax, okay? I believe you, but I still need to clear your alibi.”

  He gave me Grandma’s name and telephone number, then snapped his fingers. “I got some more proof. Five-O rolled up on me close to midnight for some bullshit.” In a “proper” voice, he said, “Failure to signal.” Back in his regular tone, he said, “I sat on the curb for like an hour.”

  “Gardena PD?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They followed me back to Grandma’s crib,” he said, sounding more certain than before. “I’m gon’ fight that shit. I ain’t goin’ back to jail for no bullshit traffic ticket.”

  I sighed and faked annoyance. “Whatever. Who killed her, Derek? Right now, I don’t care if you BPS, if you sling, pimp, whatever. All I wanna know is this: who killed Monique? Tell me the truth. Come on, dude.”

  “Ma’am, I’m telling you the truth.”

  In the apartment above, a boy shouted, “Shoot, nigga, shoot!” over man-made gunshots. I recognized the music—Dirty War, Greg’s game.

  “Know anybody who would want to hurt Monique?” I asked. “Like them fools in 18th Street or somebody in the Rolling 60s?”

  “Naw,” Derek said, his shoulders drooping. “I loved that girl. She was the best thing I ever had. We always talked ’bout escapin’ out of LA and livin’ like them fools on Gilligan’s Island.” He grinned, probably imagining himself and Monique wearing grass skirts, living off opakapaka and coconut cream pie.

  “You watch Gilligan’s Island?” Colin asked.

  Derek frowned. “What? Niggas can’t like Gilligan?”

  Colin held up his hands. “My bad.”

  “The Lexus,” I said. “You buy it?”

  Derek smirked. “Naw, I ain’t bought her that bitch car. Probably that nigga Von.”

  “But you bought the other bitch,” I said. “Butter.”

  He sucked his teeth. “Yeah, but I wanted to get her a real dog. A Doberman or a mastiff.”

  “What do you know about Von?” I asked.

  “I know she was with that fool when I called her the night before graduation. That nigga answered her phone like he the boss of shit.”

  The boys in the apartment above us dropped something heavy.

  Colin startled and glanced at the ceiling.

  Derek laughed, and said, “This dude here need some Valium and shit to calm the fuck down. He makin’ me nervous.”

  “Did you and Von exchange words that night?” I asked.

  Derek sneered. “I ain’t gon’ waste my time on that buster. Monie, though. I was gon’ change for her if she just gave me a chance. Now…”

  “You and Monique ever fight?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, we fought.”

  “You ever hit her?” Colin asked.

  “Why niggas gotta beat on some girl, homie?” Derek asked. “You ever hang a nigga in a tree? You eat fuckin’ sushi and cantaloupes for breakfast every day before going to yo’ KKK meetin’?”

  “Just answer the question, Derek,” Gino growled from the door.

  “Naw, I ain’t ever hit her,” he claimed. “She wasn’t that type.”

  “There’s a type?” Colin asked.

  Derek rolled his eyes. “This dude right here.”

  “What if I said a witness placed you at the scene?” I asked.

  “Then, I would say, ‘Bullshit, that fool need glasses,’ cuz I was nowhere near Santa Rosalia on Tuesday night.” He offered a bitter smile and glared at Colin. “Was the witness white? Niggas look alike to white people.”

  “There’s DNA,” I revealed. “And fingerprints.”

  “So?”

  “So, if you were with her—”

  “Ma’am, I told you I ain’t seen Monie since last week. I’ll take a lie detector test to prove that shit.”

  “When?”

  “Hell, we can do that right now.”

  “I’ll arrange a test then,” I said. “Just know that I will find out if you were anywhere near her or inside of her on Tuesday night.”

  “Run that shit,” he said without hesitation. “I’m clean.” He sucked his teeth and dropped his eyes, now silver with tears. “Don’t worry, Monie,” he whispered. “I got this.”

  The way he said her name made me pause. There had been affection in his “Monie.” Like the way Joe Q. Citizen without a record would say his girl’s name.

  Whoever killed Monique Darson now had a price on his head two times. If the State of California didn’t kill him, a G-ride filled with BPS would.

  19

  It was half past noon when Colin and I climbed back into the Crown Vic. “He’s dealing,” Colin said with great certainty. Then, he folded his arms and nodded as though he’d just discovered Presbyterians on Uranus.

  “Now why would you say that?” I asked. “Because there were a hundred boxes of Baggies on his countertop? Because he has seven pages of priors?” I rolled down the window and hoped that air would somehow twist its way between my sweaty torso and bulletproof vest. But the draft only kisse
d my face and lifted my hair, refusing to go any farther. Prude.

  Colin’s eyes goggled. “C’mon, Lou. Dude’s carpet had more grass seeds in it than a farm in Kentucky.”

  This section of Coco Avenue was totally clear now—either the noncitizens had been caught up in the Rapture or had rushed home to watch All My Children.

  “Maybe the seeds were there when he moved in three weeks ago,” I said, fastening my seat belt.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Okay, so I bust him after just eyeballing bags and seeds. Then, we get told that he really is a lunchroom volunteer at the local elementary school as a condition of his parole, and that those seeds really were there before he moved in. We’re Homicide, Colin, not Vice, not Gino and Samoan Ro in the Gang Unit. We weren’t there on a drug case or because he’s BPS. We went there to determine if he killed the girl, and my gut tells me that he didn’t kill the girl. We got enough shit to do without being the Weed Patrol.” I paused, then added, “And I need him out anyway.”

  Colin, arms still folded because he was now pouting, muttered, “So he can do a drive-by on whoever killed her?”

  I turned the car’s ignition. “Murder’s out of tune, and sweet revenge grows harsh.”

  * * *

  We pulled in front of Crase Parc and Promenade with the sun hidden behind pearly-brown haze. Yellow tape still cordoned off the front of the units, but construction crews had received the okay to keep working. So much noise: the whir of drills and saws destroying wood, men shouting back and forth, the beep-beep-beep of heavy machinery backing up. News station field reporters and their cameramen stood in front of the site with microphones clutched in their hands, doing feeds for the three o’clock news. Wide-eyed and sweaty, James Mason, security guard extraordinaire, was pointing back to the condos as he talked to reporter Tricia Yamaguchi, Channel 9.

  Zucca had parked his van in a red zone. He and his team were back inside unit 1B, searching for more clues.

  A gold Mercedes-Benz was parked a few feet away from the CSI van. I knew that car well. Had passed out in its backseat after nights of serious drinking. Had taken my turn behind its steering wheel during trips to Vegas and Palm Springs. The sedan belonged to Syeeda McKay, my sorority sister, friend, and favorite reporter in the world.

  Before being laid off in April, Syeeda had written thoughtful and provocative stories for the Los Angeles Times. I was surprised to see her here—she had been following the trail of the Phantom Slayer, the city’s most active serial killer. She was now writing a book about that investigation.

  “What are you doing in this part of the ’hood?” I asked as we met.

  “A girl died here, almost-sergeant,” she said. “Where else would I be?”

  We hugged.

  Syeeda was taller than Lena but still five-foot-four. She was pretty, but not the pretty that made other women want to push her in front of a train. She had big brown eyes, cheekbones sharper than a paring knife, and great hair. She wore a pair of Gucci loafers that I was determined to buy one day but wouldn’t—only a fool would wear $400 shoes to crime scenes soaked in blood, crap, and maggots.

  She eyed Colin and said, “Hello.”

  I made introductions.

  Colin blushed, smiled goofily, and said, “Nice meetin’ you.”

  Syeeda had that effect on men—she was now dating Adam Sherwood, the lead detective on the Slayer case. And whenever Syeeda was around, Superman Sherwood got goofy, too.

  “It’s just a regular murder,” I said to Syeeda. “Nothing to see here, folks, please move along.”

  She lifted a freshly waxed eyebrow. “Then why are you working it? A woman practically three busts away from HSS?”

  Homicide Special Section detectives like Superman Sherwood handled high-profile cases like the Menendez brothers, the Hillside Strangler, and the Night Stalker murders.

  To Colin I said, “Could you check in with Zucca? See if he found anything new.”

  Colin started off, throwing back a last look at Syeeda.

  “He has a crush on you,” I said.

  She smirked. “Who doesn’t? He was almost cute.”

  “His looks are … subjective.”

  “Steve McQueen.”

  “But with bigger ears.”

  She grunted as she thought about Steve McQueen, then said, “So … What can you tell me?”

  “First of all…” I pinched her shoulder.

  “Ow! Why’d you do that?” she asked, pinching me back.

  “Because,” I whispered, “I haven’t told anybody about the HSS thing.”

  “Oh.” She offered a sheepish grin. “Oops. My bad. So the case…?”

  I eyed her—this would be a delicate dance. If you were careful, planting information via reporter often got results—like witnesses you didn’t know about reading the newspaper and coming forward. And reporters like Syeeda knew all the backroom deals, the grudges, who was sleeping with whom, and on and on.

  She took a step closer to me. “Give me something that those losers over there in front of the cameras would kill their moms to have. I’ll hook you up. Swear.”

  I already knew that I would give her something, but feigned thinking about it. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t need an Al Sharpton around here, telling me that I’m not doing my job and protecting the People.”

  Syeeda rolled her eyes, then pulled from her leather satchel a gold cigarette case. “I don’t race bait—I point out the discrepancies in the justice system because of race.” She plucked out a Newport and stuck it between her lips. “The Phantom Slayer was killing black hookers in a super-poor black neighborhood. As you know, task forces don’t get formed for black hookers in super-poor black neighborhoods until reporters like me start snooping around. Twenty years, Lou, since he killed the first girl, and it’s only now that you all have finally decided to move on it. And that’s because of my articles. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  She lit her cigarette with a golden lighter. “I’d hate to think that your case goes unsolved because the suspect is rich and powerful, and can buy his way out of jail.”

  “Who do you think is rich and powerful and can buy his way out of jail?”

  Syeeda stared at me.

  To be honest, I wanted her to say his name, to breathe life into the idea and make my suspicions real. Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear.

  But Syeeda didn’t bite. Instead she said, “I don’t wanna write that story, Elouise.”

  “I don’t want you to write that story.” I chuckled, but didn’t mean it.

  She chuckled, too, and didn’t mean it, either.

  In a low voice I said, “This is off-record until I give you the okay.”

  The group of TV reporters had noticed the print journalist talking to the lead detective on the Darson case.

  “The zombies have spotted us,” Syeeda said, eyes on the group. “Quickly now.”

  “We found a semen-stained hankie hidden in Monique Darson’s closet.”

  She scrunched her eyebrows. “Does that mean she was settin’ somebody up?”

  “I haven’t confirmed that yet, but it sounds like blackmail, right?”

  Syeeda puffed slowly at her cigarette and stared at a point beyond me—she was thinking, and I liked it when she thought.

  “And when we found her, she was wearing a cheerleader uniform.”

  Syeeda held smoke in her lungs as she processed this new nugget of information.

  “And we talked to one of her boyfriends,” I continued. “A BPS named Derek Hester a.k.a. Sleepy D, but I don’t think he did it.” Then, I told her about his alibi, his willingness to take a polygraph, his obvious affection for Monique Darson.

  “Are you gonna test his DNA against the hankie?” Syeeda asked.

  I nodded. “But I don’t think that’s him splashed all over the place. He’s not explosive enough, no pun intended. Because so what? A thug gets sent to prison.
That boy’s always in prison. No—whoever this guy is must have some means, some influence. And he shouldn’t have been naked with a seventeen-year-old girl.”

  “Hell, Derek shouldn’t have been naked with a seventeen-year-old girl.”

  “True. But I really don’t think he’s good for this.”

  Syeeda shot a plume of smoke into the air, but her eyes remained fixed on that invisible target. “Do you know about Cyrus Darson and Nappy Crase?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “No. But you do.”

  “Cyrus Darson was the lead activist against the Santa Barbara revitalization project, including the construction of these condos. He thought the deal was corrupt, that developers would price out the regular people already living and shopping here.”

  “True so far,” I said.

  “At one point,” Syeeda continued, “there was some back-door dealing between the city and the Crase Group. Certain companies landed contracts while others didn’t. And those companies that got a contract had a history of not hiring blacks and women. Crase didn’t care about affirmative action—he wanted the cheapest bid. But he did this whole song-and-dance about hiring minorities and in the end, still screwed anybody who had tits and was darker than a paper bag. Cyrus’s group gave him the blues, and they showed up at every city council meeting with pickets and bullhorns. They delayed the project for almost two years.”

  “But Cyrus lost,” I declared.

  “Yeah,” Syeeda said, “and Nappy Crase was pissed because of all the money he had lost. Two years is a long time for money-huggers and thugs like Crase.”

  “So payback was the murder of Cyrus’s daughter? Harsh.”

  Syeeda sucked her teeth. “You know and I know: that fucker likes ’em young. Easier to woo and easier to beat, especially with his arthritic knuckles.”

  I clucked my tongue and said, “Hunh.”

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “These little girls actin’ like they’re these sexual sophisticates … Old-ass men old enough to know that she’s just playing another game of dress-up.” She snorted. “Silly rabbit, they don’t want your ancient, tired ass.”

  “Johnny Depp is old now,” I pointed out.

  Syeeda cocked an eyebrow. “But Napoleon Crase and the rest of his kidney-stone-weak-prostate-buddies ain’t Johnny Depp. And c’mon: old Johnny Depp is a world away from 21 Jump Street Johnny Depp. Which version would you choose?”