Good Morning, Darkness

by Ruth Francisco

  “She in her terrible twos?” the woman asked, her voice softening.

  “You got it.”

  “It’d be easier to find in the morning. All this construction makes it dangerous to be poking around.”

  He could see her better now; she was a woman in her sixties, wearing a knee-length trench coat. “I don’t think I can face her without it,” he said.

  “I know what you mean,” she said amused. “Good luck.”

  She walked away, her terrier sweeping side to side like a metal detector. He hoped she hadn’t gotten a good look at him, hunched there in the dark. If she did, she’d remember a young daddy, stooped and tired, afraid of his daughter’s temper tantrums.

  He gave up on trying to find Vivian’s shoe, wondering now if one of the dogs had taken it. When he got back to his car, he took her purse and the other shoe from the trunk. He drove behind Baja Cantina on Washington Boulevard. He took the cash from her wallet, $184; thought of keeping a credit card; then decided against it. He was about to toss her purse into the restaurant dumpster, when he saw a homeless man round the corner eyeing him suspiciously; Scott pulled back his arm and drove around the block.

  He parked a block away, on Via Dolce, then took a walk. He emptied out her wallet in a storm drain, then tossed the purse, wallet, and shoe in different residential trash cans in a four-block area.

  There was only one loose end, he thought, as he got back into his car; She was still registered at Loews Hotel in Santa Monica. In a day or two, the maid would notice she hadn’t been back to her room. What would they do then? Contact the police? Would they pack up her stuff and store it until she came back? She’d probably prepaid with a credit card. That’s what they cared about—getting paid. They couldn’t possibly call the police every time someone left without checking out. He figured that had to happen quite often. Probably every day.

  * * *

  When Reggie called Loews Hotel for a second time, the receptionist said there was no Vivian Costanza registered. He asked to speak to a manager. A Mr. Silva got on the line. When Reggie asked if Vivian had checked out, Silva said he couldn’t give out that information on the phone. Reggie sighed. Police got no respect in this town.

  Before he left for Loews, Reggie called Ronda Wiley and asked if they had come up with any new information on Laura.

  “We have credit-card charges from Paris: clothes, books, art supplies, and a ticket to London.”

  “Doesn’t it seem odd there are no hotel charges?”

  “She could be staying with friends, I suppose. I called the credit-card company for signature receipts. That always takes a while.”

  “Good. Anything else?” asked Reggie.

  “We checked her data against all the Jane Does who’ve come in the last three months.”

  “No dice?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  “It looks like Vivian Costanza checked out of her hotel. Do you have another number for her?” As he said this, he remembered he had Vivian’s home number—from Laura’s phone bill—in his car.

  “She left?” asked Ronda surprised. “She told me she’d call before she returned to New York. She gave me her gallery and home phone in Manhattan. Just a sec.” After some rustling of papers, Ronda gave Reggie the numbers.

  Reggie first left a message on Vivian’s home phone, then called the gallery. A lyrical voice with a Puerto Rican accent answered the phone. “Helloooo. Galleria Costanza. This is Amaldo. How may I be of service to you this morning?” His voice zipped up and down several octaves, nearly breaking into song.

  “This is Police Detective Reggie Brooks from Los Angeles. May I speak to Vivian Costanza.”

  “Oh, my. Are you a real cop?”

  Reggie hesitated. “Yes. LAPD.”

  “Ooooh. I’m getting chills. You’re black, aren’t you? I can tell by your voice. You went to college, though, am I right?”

  Reggie sighed. “This is quite important. May I speak with Miss Costanza?”

  “Has that girl gone and gotten herself into trouble? I warned her about Hollywood. All those loose willies.”

  Reggie was reduced to begging. “Please, may I speak with her?”

  “Oh, Vivian’s not here.”

  “Do you know if she has returned to New York?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Do you speak with her often?”

  “Oh yes. Several times a day. She’s been very anxious about sales on the last Wendy Sharpe exhibit. But she needn’t worry. They’re flying off the walls.”

  Reggie didn’t know who Wendy Sharpe was and didn’t ask. “When was the last time you spoke with her?”

  “That would be . . . let’s see . . . three days ago.”

  “Is that unusual for her to go so long without calling you?”

  “Yes, come to think of it. I hope she’s run off to Palm Springs with some Hollywood stud muffin. She needed some exercise, if you know what I mean.”

  Reggie gave Amaldo his number and asked him to call if he heard from Vivian, and if she did call, to have her telephone Reggie immediately.

  “How tall are you?” asked Amaldo.

  Reggie hung up. He pulled on his sport coat and headed out of the station.

  The Loews was one of a string of new luxury hotels built on the beach between Venice and Santa Monica. Despite its pink marble interiors and elegant landscape of palm trees and impatiens, it was the kind of cheap construction that would look shabby in a couple of years; its peach-white stucco exterior was already water-stained under the balconies. Rooms started at $249 a night.

  Reggie parked his slickback in front. None of the half-dozen Hispanic valets offered to park it for him; they scattered in all directions like mice.

  Reggie marched over the red carpet up to the front desk. He flashed his badge and asked to speak with Mr. Silva.

  Mr. Silva was much more cooperative in person. Apparently, Vivian had not checked out, though the maid reported she had not slept in her bed for two days, and she hadn’t stopped for messages. Since the room had been reserved by another person for that night, the maid was now collecting Vivian’s belongs to put in storage. “It happens all the time,” Silva said. “People simply disappear. We don’t want to run up their credit card bills unnecessarily, and we need the room. So we store their stuff for six months. For a fee, of course. Some come back. Some don’t.”

  Reggie asked to see the room. Silva looked like he was going to ask for a warrant, then didn’t. He took a key and rode with Reggie to the fourth floor.

  Thankfully, the maid had yet to get there. The room looked like Vivian intended to return: a half-packed suitcase lay open; cosmetics were spread out in the bathroom; a silk peignoir with an ostrich-feather collar lay tossed over a chair. There was no evidence of a struggle; no evidence of a second person’s presence. Reggie would have liked to dust for fingerprints, but he had no authority here. He did ask the maid to wear gloves when she gathered Vivian’s belongings into clear plastic bags. “We always wear gloves,” the maid replied. “You know, because of AIDS and hepatitis and stuff.” He’d dust for fingerprints later, if he found cause for a warrant.

  Vivian had brought a lot of clothes with her from New York, business suits, mostly, one cocktail dress, seven pairs of shoes. She seemed to have a preference for black. He checked the pockets of her bags. There were cards for a number of art galleries and restaurants around town. Reggie found one for Bob Harrison at Bay City Realty; a number, probably his home phone, was on the back.

  When Reggie didn’t find Vivian’s address book, he figured she carried it with her. He found a number scratched on a pad by the telephone; he called it.

  “You have reached the residence of Beatrice Goodsell. Please leave a message.” The beep was a three-tone gong. He hung up. Why did Vivian have the home number for Scott’s mother?

  Later, Reggie ran a credit check on Vivian. She hadn’t used her cards in three days. He began to get a sick feeling in his stomach.

 
; * * *

  Two mornings in a row, Scott got up before seven, jogged down to Palisades Park, then up Montana to a Starbucks on Fourteenth Street, where he bought coffee and a paper. Still no body had been reported. He figured by now the sidewalk was finished, and after that, they might not find her body for years.

  It was Saturday. Even though it was cloudy, he thought he’d take the bike down to Venice while it was early. He wanted to see what Carroll Canal looked like in daylight. The idea of revisiting the spot oddly excited him.

  He put on black bike shorts, a gray T-shirt, and, although he hated to wear one and didn’t think there was any particular reason to be cautious, a bike helmet to hide his hair. He took San Vicente Boulevard and Ocean Avenue to the Santa Monica Pier, then rode down to the bike path between the boardwalk and the beach. When he got to Venice Boulevard, he turned inland to the canals.

  He walked his bike along Carroll Canal, on the side opposite the duck park and the construction site. He was astonished: it looked like no one had touched the site. He was grateful that his handiwork appeared undisturbed, but it made him uncomfortable that they hadn’t gotten to around to laying the rebar and pouring the cement. He was afraid there was a work stoppage of some sort. He’d seen sites lie abandoned like this for weeks, while the contractor waited on supplies or building permits or a city inspection. He began to worry. Maybe he should move the body. He hadn’t buried it very deeply.

  Two women walking by the construction site looked over at him, then at the site, wondering what he was staring at. He moved on. He’d wait another couple of days. If the workers hadn’t started work again by Monday, he’d consider moving the body. But that seemed extremely risky; he’d gotten away with it once, and it hardly seemed possible that he could go unnoticed a second time.

  As he pushed his bike down the sidewalk, he ran into a gang of ducks led by two enormous geese. They quacked angrily at him, moving grudgingly out of his way, leaving a slippery mess of white and brown droppings. He was revolted. Disgusting lice-infested vermin! As if the canals weren’t polluted enough without their stinky crap. The water was probably half urine. It sure smelled like it. He couldn’t imagine how people found them charming. If he lived in the canals, they would drive him crazy. He gave a laggard mallard a swift kick in the butt, sending him squawking into the water.

  The women across the canal looked at Scott with round mouths of indignation. Scott laughed. He got on his bike and rode off.

  When he got home, he took a shower and got ready for his first showing of the day, a stucco box in a bad area of Culver City; it looked deceptively benign in the morning, which was the only time he’d show it. He was just about to leave when there was a knock on his door. Probably one of his irritating neighbors. He shouted that he was coming, slipped on his shoes, and stumbled to the door.

  Connie stood at the top of the stairs, dressed in one of her candy-colored latex outfits, her bike shoes clacking against the cement like tap shoes. She leaned her bike against the railing. “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Sure, I guess. I have to leave in a minute.” Scott was surprised she’d known his address, but then remembered their first date, almost a year ago, when they’d stopped by to pick up something or other—his cell phone if he remembered right. He hated to invite her in. Then he figured it didn’t really matter. “Come on in,” he said at last.

  She entered his apartment, looking around like she was afraid to touch anything. That made him mad; the place wasn’t that messy. But the look on her face was repulsion. Or was he imagining it? He guessed it did smell kind of funny. What was that? Cumin? An Indian family had moved in next door, and the place always reeked of something he couldn’t quite place: some kind of meat with curry, or rancid fat. What did he care? As soon as he got his Swiss account, he was gone.

  He opened the windows. Connie was still standing by the door. “Well, what’s up?” he asked.

  “I left two messages on your machine, but you didn’t call back,” said Connie.

  “When?” As Scott hunted for the things he needed to take with him—address book, property profile, cell phone, business cards—he barely listened.

  “Wednesday. Also on Thursday.”

  He honestly didn’t remember. “I wish I could stay and chat, but I’m already late.”

  “I won’t take much of your time. I came by to tell you I’m pregnant,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Scott was astonished. That hadn’t happened in a while, so long ago, in fact, he’d stopped worrying about contraception. He figured the women he dated were old enough to take care of themselves. He suddenly felt extremely annoyed, like when he came out of a store to find a meter maid writing him a parking ticket. “I suppose you think it’s mine?”

  “There’s no doubt.”

  He snapped his briefcase closed and pulled on his jacket. “How much is an abortion these days?” he said. He tried to sound jocular, but it came out hostile. He didn’t care. “Four hundred dollars? I guess RU-486 is about the same price. I’m good for half.”

  “I’m keeping it,” she said.

  His scalp itched like crazy. “Just like that? Don’t I get a say here?”

  “Not really. An unwed father has no legal rights regarding the fetus.”

  He was outraged. The injustice of it all. This woman with his baby. The thought made his mouth taste of vinegar.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not asking you for financial support or anything. You don’t ever even need to see the baby. In fact, I rather you didn’t.”

  “Then why in fuck did you come and tell me about it?”

  She was near tears. “I thought you’d want to know, that’s all.”

  “I fucking don’t want to know.” He couldn’t wait to get out of this country. It was this thought—that soon he’d be away from this cesspool of a city—that kept him from exploding. How the fuck did he get into such a mess? That stupid ring and that fucking engagement farce for his mother. Dammit all!

  Connie was looking scared. Scott tried to control his voice. “Look. I don’t care about the baby. Do whatever you want with it. I appreciate your playing along with the engagement thing. I hope you didn’t take it seriously.”

  “No, of course not. You were very clear about that.” She sounded hurt.

  He glanced at her hands, then looked for his keys and cell phone. “Good. I need the ring back, however.”

  “I gave it to your sister.”

  He spun around, furious. “You what?”

  Connie backed up two steps. “I gave it to Samantha. She told me that her grandmother gave it to her and that it was really hers. So I let her have it.”

  “I can’t believe you did that! It wasn’t yours to give to anyone,” he fumed.

  “I felt uncomfortable keeping it. Besides, you didn’t answer my calls. Samantha asked for it. What was I supposed to do?”

  He wanted to hit her so badly that he could feel his fingernails digging into his palms. His thighs began to vibrate. “Get out!” he yelled. “Get out!”

  She jumped up like a frightened cat and ran out the door.

  He listened gratefully as she set her bike down at the bottom of the stairs and spun off. Shaking overtook his body, and a sharp pain hit below his sternum. He clutched his chest and sank onto the sofa. He was too young for a heart attack. He slurped down some cold coffee left in a nearby cup. If he took shallow breaths, it didn’t hurt too much. After a minute, the shaking stopped.

  He couldn’t believe the insane loathing he felt for that woman. How dare she take his sperm and make a baby, threaten to keep it, a copy of himself that would wonder about him even if he never saw it? Someday the little monster, like an avenging angel, would track him down and demand to know why he’d left, demand attention and feelings as if he had a right to them. How dare she use an umbilical cord to strangle the life out of him, cooking up from her mess of blood and tissue a little beast that would live to hate him just as he hated his father?

  He woul
dn’t let her get away with it. How fucked were the laws to say a woman could keep a baby without the father’s permission? Fucking women’s rights. What about his rights?

  It was time to show these women their place.

  * * *

  The receptionist at Bay City Realty asked Reggie to wait for Bob Harrison to finish signing closing papers with a client. In a few moments, Harrison popped out of his office with a young couple who looked like they’d just agreed to donate a kidney. The husband looked particularly pale. Harrison clapped his hand on each of their shoulders, laughing like a Texas rancher at a Sunday-afternoon barbecue. He made a great show of handing them the house keys, then walked them out to their car. When he came back, he wiped his forehead with a plaid handkerchief. “Phew, it’s getting humid out there,” he said.

  “They say it’s going to rain,” said the receptionist.

  “This time of year?”

  “An early hurricane in the Pacific is coming up the coast along Baja. Hurricane Angelo.”

  “The rain will be good for my tomatoes.” He turned and noticed Reggie.

  Even though he wasn’t wearing a uniform, Reggie saw cop flash in bright lights behind Harrison’s eyes. Reggie introduced himself and asked if he could have a word. Harrison told the receptionist to hold his calls, then ushered Reggie into his office.

  “Have you ever met a woman by the name of Vivian Costanza?” Reggie asked.

  Harrison blinked twice. “Yes, she came in last week. She told us she was planning a move from New York and wanted a residence on the Westside.”

  “Did you show her any properties?”

  “I gave her to one of our finest Realtors, Scott Goodsell. He showed her a few places, but apparently, she wasn’t that serious about buying yet.”

  “Did she seem to know Scott?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes. I think she said they were casual acquaintances or something like that. No, old friends was what she said.”

  “Do you know if Scott saw her again?”