She had been so beautiful that night, so vulnerable. He would’ve done anything for her.
After the night he almost tried to rape her, something changed in Scott. He’d seen the beast in himself. Staring at that ax in the moonlight, his body shaking, holding on to the post at the bottom of her stairs like a sailor to the mast during a storm, he’d nearly collapsed at the thought of what he might do, the video in his brain flash-cutting: the ax, her neck, splattered walls. He could feel her there on the other side of the apartment door, listening for the sounds of his leaving, his footsteps, the car door, the engine. The rage stopped suddenly, as if he’d been tumbled among rapids, then swept into a shallow pool of water. He felt the cool mist on his face and heard the plaintive foghorn. It was so quiet. He felt his breath calming, his heartbeat slowing. His brain felt light, his thoughts clear.
He went home. This wasn’t the way to love Laura. The next day he called when he knew she wasn’t home and left an apology on her message machine; he was willing to wait, weeks, months, if he had to. And if she didn’t call, he would learn from his mistakes and go on. There was only one Laura in this world, but there were other women who were interesting and beautiful and needed love.
But he didn’t have to wait months. She phoned him the following Friday night. Her voice was distressed, and it sounded like she’d been crying. She begged him to come down to the marina. He hesitated—astonished really, at her sudden reversal—and besides, he had plans to get together with a woman he’d met at . . . But her voice—pleading and desperate. Well, sure. He’d be right there. Was something wrong? “Just come, please Scott. I need you.”
He didn’t even change his shirt. He jumped in his car and raced to the beach. It was around eleven o’clock. There wasn’t any parking close by, so he had to walk several blocks to her apartment.
She heard him come up the stairs and swung open the door. She was barefoot, wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. The porch light was off; she grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. The lights were dark. “What’s going on?” he asked as she dragged him into the living room, thinking he should take off his shoes, like he usually did, but Laura pulled hard.
Tears, catching the moonlight, glistened on her cheeks.
His heart was filled with love for her. As he put his arms around her, Laura clung to him. He’d always wanted this from her, this total surrender, this need, this vulnerability. It completed him, as if somehow giving him permission to go into the world and make it his own. He was empowered. He would do anything for her. You waited all your life to be needed like this, a crisis that transforms you. He was her savior, her knight in shining armor, her superhero.
He pushed her hair out of her eyes, behind her ears, then kissed her cheek; it was damp and salty. Yes, this was love.
This was how he wanted to remember her, her needing him and only him. All the rest of it didn’t make any difference—the body, the blood, the fear. All he needed was that moment, when he knew what love was. Even if he never felt it again, it was all worth it for that one memory.
Before he’d finished his second beer, Scott leaned back in his seat and fell asleep with Laura in his arms.
* * *
If you walk down any street in Los Angeles and look into the parked cars, you’ll see all these people just sitting behind the steering wheel. Sometimes I count. Every block always has at least two. How come? What’s so great about sitting in a car? Are they listening to the end of a song? Or maybe they’re early for an appointment. Maybe they just had a bad experience and they’re trying to put their head together before they face the freeway. Or is it the only place they can get any privacy? Sometimes in the winter, I sit in my truck because it’s the only place to get warm. Maybe they’re just cold.
It’s funny. People don’t expect you to see them in their cars, like they think they’re invisible, and if they catch you, they give you this dirty look, like you’re being rude. They act like they’ve been caught picking their nose.
Anyhow, I was walking to the marina jetty to go fish—around five a.m., like usual—and I saw a car parked in the alley with a guy sleeping inside. I recognized him. He was the guy who used to show up in her kitchen for morning coffee. I figured he must know by now she wasn’t there, and if he knew she wasn’t there, why was he hanging out? It was still dark. His face caught the streetlight. His blond hair was flopped over his forehead, and he had a sweet smile like an angel. He looked harmless. But like Abuelita—my grandma—used to say: Hasta el diablo fue un ángel en sus comienzos. Even the devil was an angel when he began.
I got a funny feeling about him, so I decide to keep an eye on him.
* * *
Velma sat in front of Reggie’s desk, going over her notes for the Venice Gang Task Force, in particular the San Juan murders.
“The FBI has traced a number of calls from Li’l Richie’s brother’s house in Houston to Los Angeles. The dumb shit has been calling his girlfriend. They were ready to take him when he disappeared. They alerted security at the airports and bus stations in case he tries to get out of town.”
“Has anyone actually seen him yet?”
“No. But they’re sending a surveillance tape from the Houston Airport. They think they might have a picture of him picking up someone.”
“You’d think he’d know better than to hang out at airports.”
“We’re not talking master criminal here. He’s a nineteen-year-old gangbanger.”
“I’d like to take a look at the tape.”
“I’ll give it to you when it comes.”
The telephone rang. “Detective Brooks,” Reggie answered.
“Hello. This is Françoise Augier at Dubois Gallery.”
“Hi. I was just looking at the photos you sent over. Hold on a sec.” As Reggie scrambled to unearth the infrared photos from his piles, Velma motioned she’d be back and slipped out.
“I hope they help you,” Françoise said. “The platinum on the inside of the ring was so worn that I was afraid we wouldn’t find anything, but you can clearly make out the jeweler’s stamp in the infrared photos.”
Reggie studied the image. It was a design of a crown with the letters BC at the bottom and a number 578 on the top. “Do you know what the number and letters mean?”
“I can’t help you there. Jewelry is a specialized field. I don’t know much about it.”
“What about the crown? And the squiggly thing above it.”
“Could be a logo. Maybe he was a royal jeweler. Your guess is as good as mine.” Françoise continued. “I made a few inquiries about your sculptor Jean Boulogne. Capri Gallery on Melrose handles his business for the West Coast. I’ve met the owner several times, and he was willing to give me the number in Arles where Boulogne is spending the summer.”
“Thanks. That’s great.” Reggie scribbled down the number. “Do you know anyone who might be able to trace the seal back to the original jeweler?”
She paused. “You might try Isaac Brovsky. He’s here in L.A. He traces stolen art back to the original owners. He might be your best bet.”
Reggie took down his number and thanked Françoise. He’d make an appointment to visit Brovsky later that afternoon.
* * *
Scott checked his messages with the receptionist on his way into Bay City Realty. A Mr. and Mrs. Crofton wanted to see his listings in Santa Monica. He’d already told them they couldn’t afford the area, but they were insistent. He figured he’d start out showing them dumps for half a million, to shake them up a bit, then take them to visit a pocket in Culver City that was just turning around. He had a modest three-bedroom on a large plot of land, not exactly charming, but clean. He wouldn’t tell them about the gang wars two blocks away on Centinela.
He glanced at the rest of his messages. Mr. Gray, turning down the offer on the Wainwright place. Asshole. Even with the sizzling market, he’d have to wait weeks for a better offer for that dump. Connie Philips asking him to call back. Peter Flynn. That was one he w
ouldn’t bother to return.
As he read his messages, he shuffled slowly down the hallway toward his desk, scuffing his shoes on the new carpet. He froze midstep.
“There he is! The divine Mr. Goodsell.” Even before he turned the corner and looked into his boss’s office, her voice rushed at him like a bomb blast. Her tall, voluptuous body was poised in a chair before Harrison’s desk in a way that suggested an aggressive businesswoman as well as seductress. With her oversize teeth and curly black hair, she looked even more predatory than he had remembered.
“Hey, Scott!” called Harrison, hardly able to tear his eyes away from heavenly creature in front of him. “Come in for a moment, would you?”
Scott hesitated but, seeing no escape, braced himself for unpleasantness. He entered Harrison’s office. For show, he shook Vivian’s hand, then retreated several steps. His face stretched in multifarious mutating masks before settling on a wide, eager smile.
Scott could see Vivian was in performance mode: her two-thousand-dollar suit and Rolex watch, her lips and nails painted bright red. He recognized her perfume, Amarige de Givenchy, cloying as overripe apricots.
“I take it you know each other?” Harrison, apparently taken in by Vivian’s Fifth Avenue act, frowned slightly, imagining, perhaps, a fading opportunity for a fling with a New York sophisticate.
“Yes, indeed,” said Vivian, “we’re ooold friends,” implying any number of things—illicit trysts, scandals narrowly averted, partners in crime. The effect was to make Harrison’s eyebrows rise halfway up his balding pate.
As Vivian stood, Harrison jumped to his feet and went to her side. She looped her arm through his and sashayed toward Scott, teetering on her heels.
“Well, Scott”—Harrison was nearly stammering—“it should be a pleasure, then, for you to show Ms. Costanza around today.” Scott couldn’t think of many things less pleasurable. Harrison continued. “She tells me she’s moving from New York and needs to buy a place relatively quickly. Since she doesn’t know the area, I thought you might show her around different neighborhoods, on the Westside, of course. Give her a sense of prices she can expect to pay in various areas, freeway access. That sort of thing.” He turned to Vivian. “Do you have children, Ms. Costanza?”
“No.”
Her answer seemed to please Harrison. “Well then, you don’t have to restrict her to areas with good schools, although that’s always good for resale.”
“Oh, I won’t be selling for a while,” said Vivian.
“Perhaps someone else could take her around,” said Scott, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “I have an appointment today with Mr. and Mrs. Crofton.”
“Oh, the Croftons.” Harrison sighed dismissively. “I’ll have Melissa handle the Croftons. Don’t worry about them.”
Scott realized there was no point arguing. He didn’t really care about missing a commission from the Croftons. They were bargain hunters and, in this market, more trouble than they were worth. But the idea of spending the day with Vivian was not appealing.
Harrison clapped Scott on the shoulder like he was doing him a favor. “You two make a day of it. Have lunch on Bay City Realty. Enjoy yourselves.”
Vivian gave Scott a reptilian smile. He thought it best to get her out of the office as soon as possible.
“Why don’t we get started, then,” Scott said. “We’ll take my car.”
“Excellent,” said Harrison. He handed Vivian a notepad with the office’s turquoise and pink logo across the top. “You’ll probably want to take notes. L.A. is a big, confusing town.”
Scott pulled Vivian by the elbow out the door and to his car. Where to go? The idea of driving into the desert and dumping her flashed across his mind.
“I think I’d like to see the Marina Peninsula first,” she said as she got into the car. She crossed her legs and pulled up her skirt to just above her knees. “I hear they have a low crime rate.”
He turned down Washington Boulevard to Lincoln, then south. “How long do you plan to keep up this act?” he asked.
“What act?”
“Pretending you want to buy a house in L.A.?”
“I’m not pretending. I think it’s time to open a West Coast branch of the gallery. Besides, I’m going to stay here until I find out what you did to Laura.”
“What does Laura have to do with anything?”
“No need to be coy, Scotty. I’ve been doing some checking around. Seems you’re the only person Laura talked to before she left town. Not her landlord, not her boss, not her maid, not her friends at work. Poof. She’s gone. Disappeared.”
“She told me she sent a letter to her boss.”
“Did she? I wonder who signed that letter.” As she spoke, Vivian’s voice rose operatically.
“Laura did. What do you mean?”
Her eyes bore into Scott. “I talked with her boss. He said she had to go see her sick mother.” Vivian suddenly smiled. “We both know her mother is dead.”
Scott thought fast. “Obviously, she wanted a quick and easy excuse. She told me Johnson was a lech, so I understand her wanting to keep it simple.”
“And you respect her privacy, so you’ve been telling everyone she left to care for her mother.” Vivian’s sarcasm flitted like a butterfly, just out of reach.
“That’s what she asked me to do,” said Scott, turning a corner sharply and throwing Vivian against the door. “You know how secretive Laura has always been.”
“You are so full of shit. I think you killed her, Scotty. What’d you do with her? Pour acid over her body in the bathtub and flush her down the L.A. sewers? Or maybe you dumped her corpse in the Angeles Crest Forest.”
“Oh, stop it. I didn’t do anything with her. And as far as stalking her, I never threatened her. I only wanted to talk to her.”
“Save your denials for the police. I’m not buying it.”
Scott’s chest tightened, but he managed to keep his voice light. “The police? Why would you want to bother them?”
“I plan to file a missing-persons report.”
“But Laura’s not missing,” Scott chuckled. “I just received a letter from her from Paris.”
“I don’t believe you. Laura would never go to Europe without telling me.”
“Well, there you have it. Laura is growing and changing. Maybe she didn’t want to have to ask you along.”
“Were you born charming, or is this a recent development?”
“You bring out the gallant in me.”
“Fuck you. What’s she doing in Paris? And why would she write to you? She hates you.”
Scott knew that wasn’t true. Laura had never hated him. “You make a lot of presumptions, Vivian. It’s easy to speculate about what goes on between a couple, but you can never really know how they feel about each other. Not even you, Viv. Laura and I love each other. We have some issues, but we’re working on them. Laura wrote me that she needed a break from L.A. and wanted some time to think about us.” To Scott it felt real, the heartache and longing of a couple estranged but in love, he and Laura.
“People don’t give up their jobs and apartments simply because they need a break.”
“Maybe people don’t, but Laura did. She’s spontaneous. She gets these moods. You know how she is.”
Scott was alluding to a trip Laura and Vivian took to Mexico, spur of the moment, after Laura had already accepted a job at a bank. When she lived in New York with Vivian, she often slipped out of the city to Vermont or Martha’s Vineyard without telling anyone, returning days later without explanation.
Vivian had no instant rejoinder. She looked out the window. They were passing sailboats, then wetlands. Scott assumed she didn’t know exactly where the marina was. It probably wouldn’t occur to her that he’d take her someplace else.
He turned right on Jefferson Boulevard to Playa del Rey. Expensive condos quickly gave way to desolate marsh.
Scott parked beside the road near Dockweiler State Beach, an isolate
d stretch of sand under LAX flight patterns. It was less benign than it looked: South Central gangs often used the beach as their battlefield. It was where the L.A. River dumped into the ocean, where debris met the sea, where the city flushed out its crap like a big asshole. Planes crashed there, kids got stabbed, bodies washed up. Bad things happened at Dockweiler Beach.
Vivian seemed impatient to get out of the car. After Scott got out and opened her door, she slipped off her heels and walked barefoot toward the water, kicking up the sand like an actress waiting for a music cue. Scott found it irritating.
A cyclist sped by on the curvy bike path. A dozen crows, feasting on the eggs of least terns, cawed raucously. Miles of empty beach lay before them.
Vivian slipped off her soft suit jacket and folded it over her arm. Underneath, she wore a sleeveless shell; Scott noticed that her upper arms were beginning to go soft. “I know Laura would not disappear without telling me,” she said.
“She’s done it before.”
“Not like this.”
“No? Isn’t that what she did when she came out to L.A.?”
“She called me once she got here.”
“Well, she’ll probably call you from Paris. She probably has called already, but didn’t want to leave a message.” Scott recalled how it used to irritate him that Laura never left messages.
“I don’t believe you,” Vivian said softly. But Scott felt her begin to doubt herself. It was exhilarating, like reeling in a fish.
“Didn’t she tell you how bored she was at work?” he asked.
“Yes. But she said she was excited about some classes she was taking.”
“That’s probably what inspired her to go to Paris.”
Vivian looked at him, then shook her head. “You’re weaving quite a pretty tale. I wonder if it will fool the police.”
Good Morning, Darkness Page 15