Chasing Darkness (22 page)

SYLMAR WAS
a small rural community at the foot of the Newhall Pass, where the San Fernando Valley died against the mountains. The main streets were lined with outdated strip malls and fast-food outlets, but remnants of truck farms and plant nurseries were scattered across a landscape gone largely undeveloped thanks to the ugly convergence of freeways, railroad tracks, and power stations. It was the kind of area where signs offered
FEED
and
TACK
.

Pike followed me to a small house in a ragged neighborhood between the Golden State Freeway and the railroad. The yards were large the way they tend to be in rural areas, and burned dead by the heat. More than one house sported rusted-out cars and chain-link fences so old they sagged from the weight of the air. Even in that shabby neighborhood, Sara Hill's house looked tired and sad.

The white Neon was not in her drive, so we cruised the area to see if it was parked nearby or hidden in someone's yard. When we returned to the house, we parked on either side of the street, then Pike trotted down the drive to cover the rear. I found three letters and some throwaway flyers in the mailbox. The letters were addressed to Sara Hill. We had the right place.

I brought the mail to the door, rang the bell once, then knocked. A few seconds later, Mrs. Sara K. Hill called from behind the door.

“Who is it?”

“I phoned about Ivy Casik.”

“Go away. I don't know anything about the credit, and I ain't got nothin' to say about it.”

“I have your mail.”

Her voice rose.

“Put it down. Stealin' mail is a federal crime. I'll call the police.”

“I'm the police. Open the door and I'll show you my badge.”

Lying is often the best policy.

Sara Hill threw open the door. She was a large woman with angry eyes and swollen joints, and she filled the frame with her bulk. She wore a thin housedress frayed at the hem, and rested her weight on a cane. I tried to see past her, but couldn't.

“You're not from the credit?”

“I don't know anything about the credit. See?”

I held up my license. It didn't look anything like a badge, but she probably didn't understand what she was seeing.

“You gimme that mail. I don't like the look of you one bit. You look like your voice.”

I held up the mail but didn't give it to her.

“The Neon.”

“You're not from the credit?”

“No, I am not from the credit. I'm trying to find the woman who is driving your car. She may have knowledge of a crime and she might be in danger.”

The angry eyes softened into something fearful, as if she was used to bad news and figured she was about to get more.

“She didn't have an accident, did she? I don't think I could take that right now.”

“Do you know a young woman named Ivy Casik?”

“I don't know any Ivy Casik. My daughter is Jonna Hill. She has the car, but I guess she could've loaned it out. What happened?”

I tried to see past her again, and held up my hand to indicate Ivy's height.

“This tall. A big girl, athletic, with straight hair. A heart tattooed here on her arm.”

Her eyes fluttered with even more fear, then she pivoted on the cane and grabbed the wall for support as she headed into the house. She pointed the cane at something deep in the room I could not see, so I followed her.

The small living room was as ragged as the yard, with threadbare furniture that smelled of sour flesh and pickles. An ancient console television sat under the window, but it probably hadn't worked in years. She was using it as a table. A small Hitachi portable was on the console, along with a couple of pictures. She jabbed the cane toward one of the pictures.

“That's Jonna right there. Don't you dare tell me something bad.”

The picture was yet another high school graduation portrait, the kind every school in America takes during senior year so they can sell different sizes to you and your family. Jonna was Ivy, of course, only younger, with naturally dark hair. I had seen a lot of these graduation pictures in the past week, but Jonna Hill's picture was not the last. A picture of Yvonne Bennett was beside it.

I stared at Yvonne for a while, then looked at Sara Hill. The only part of her I saw in her daughters were the eyes. Seeds of anger were deep in their eyes.

Joe Pike stepped out of the kitchen, as quiet as air moving through air.

“She's not here.”

Mrs. Hill staggered sideways in surprise, catching herself on her cane.

“Jesus Lord, what is this? Who are you?”

I gave her a gentle smile.

“It's all right, Mrs. Hill. He's the police, too. We just wanted to make sure everyone was safe.”

I glanced at Pike.

“See if she left anything.”

Mrs. Hill waved the cane after him as he disappeared.

“Where's he going? What's he going to do?”

“Look around. It's a cop thing. We always look around.”

She jabbed at the picture again.

“You better not be from the credit and lied to get in here. Jonna warned me the credit might send a man looking for her.”

I kept my voice gentle, just like the smile.

“Did Jonna tell you she was hiding from a collection agency?”

“She got behind, is all. You know how these kids do with the plastic. She said they were getting mean about it and if anyone came I should say I don't know where she is and haven't heard from her.”

Then she studied me as if realizing what she was saying.

“That isn't you, is it? If you're lying I'll get on the phone right now. I'll call the police.”

“We're not from the credit.”

“Then why do you want Jonna? She isn't in trouble, is she?”

“Yes, I think she is.”

Sara clumped to the couch and eased herself down.

“Lord, please don't tell me that. She told me she had the credit problems, but now something like this.”

I picked up the picture of Yvonne. Yvonne would have been five or six years older than Jonna, and though I could see a resemblance, they didn't look much alike. Even in high school, the woman I knew as Ivy Casik looked humorless and dark. Even then, Yvonne's mouth had already curled into a knowing grin absent of innocence.

“Is this Jonna's sister?”

“I don't talk about that one. That's the bad one. She was always bad, and her bad ways caught up. I wouldn't even keep it up there if it wasn't for Jonna. She gets mad when I put it away.”

“Her name was Yvonne.”

Sara Hill was surprised.

“You knew her?”

“I worked on the case.”

“She was a tramp. Wasn't no better than a cat in heat from when she was little.”

My right eye ticked and I fought to control it. I put the picture back in its place.

“They had different fathers to go with the different last names?”

“The good one and the bad one, just like the girls, and the good one wasn't worth too damn much, either. He left like they all left, off to take up with tramps. Vonnie drove half of'm away, acting the tramp.”

Pike reappeared. He shook his head, telling me he hadn't found anything. I sat beside Mrs. Hill.

“We need to find Jonna. She's got worse trouble than bad credit.”

“Don't tell me she's turned into a whore. Jonna was always the good one, not like Yvonne. Just please don't tell me that.”

“Remember Lionel Byrd?”

“I never heard of him.”

“Lionel Byrd was charged with Yvonne's murder. You didn't know that?”

She twitched her cane as if she didn't give a damn either way.

“I washed my hands of all that. She was always bad, and her bad ways caught up to her. We parted company long before she was punished.”

I wasn't quite sure what to say.

“You washed your hands.”

“When the police called I told'm I wanted nothing to do with it. It liked to kill Jonna, though. My God, she carried on, going on and on about how this man got away with it, but I just wouldn't hear of it, all that sordid mess, and I said this must stop, Jonna, Yvonne isn't worth it. Yvonne has always been like this and she got what she deserved.”

Pike said, “I'll wait outside.”

Mrs. Hill frowned as he left.

I said, “Did Jonna want to punish the man who murdered Yvonne?”

She waved the cane again.

“Don't be silly. She got over all that, got herself a good job, and she's doing just fine, thank you very much. Jonna's my good baby. We don't talk about Yvonne. She knows I won't have it.”

“Where is she?”

“I guess she's at home.”

“We just left her place. It looked like she moved out.”

Mrs. Hill seemed confused.

“Maybe she thought you were from the credit. She was here just a little while ago, and told me she was going right home.”

Something in her casual certainty made me wonder if we were talking about the same thing.

“She went back to Hollywood?”

“What's down in Hollywood?”

“Her apartment.”

“She doesn't live in Hollywood. She lives right over here by the reservoir.”

I could see it in the clarity of her eyes. Sara Hill was telling me the absolute truth as she knew it. Her daughter had successfully lied to everyone.

Then her eyes grew smaller and blinked.

“You're not from the credit, are you? She was so afraid someone would come after her she thought she might have to hide.”

I gave her a smile I did not feel.

“I'm not from the credit. Tell me where Jonna lives. I'll find out why she's afraid.”

JONNA HILL
had rented a small bungalow not much larger than Angel Tomaso's garage, less than a half-mile from her mother. Pike stayed with Sara to prevent her from warning her daughter, so I drove to Jonna's alone. I didn't know what I expected to find, but she was getting ready to leave.

The white Neon was parked at the side of the house with its trunk open like a hungry mouth. The woman I knew as Ivy Casik was carrying an armful of clothes toward the car when I pulled into her drive. She didn't recognize me at first because she stood with the clothes, staring, and then I got out.

“Hi, Jonna. Remember me?”

She dropped the clothes and ran toward her door. I closed on her fast, but she reached the door, and for no reason I knew then or now, she turned hard for the street. Maybe she was so scared all she thought was to run and keep running.

I tackled her in the front yard, and the two of us tumbled into the baked earth and dead grass. She punched and gouged, pumping her knees to get away until I locked her elbow.

“Stop it, Jonna—stop!”

“I told the police about you! I'll call them again!”

“C'mon. I know you're Yvonne's sister. Stop.”

She finally stopped, sucking air with a whimpering sound that wasn't quite crying.

I pulled her to her feet, then brought her inside, where she sat with her face in her hands. Several pictures of Yvonne Bennett were pushpinned to the wall, most showing the two of them as children together, Jonna much smaller because Yvonne was older, Jonna unsmiling even then, Yvonne with an arm protectively around her shoulders. Jonna had already taken down a few, but some were still up.

“Who helped you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Who helped you kill him?”

She shook her head.

“All I knew was Lonnie Jones. I didn't know who he was until I saw the paper.”

“So Yvonne Bennett's sister just happened to rent a room across the street from the man who was accused of murdering her?”

“Shit happens.”

“Where'd you get the pictures?”

“I don't know anything. I'm going to call the police.”

Someone had given her the pictures. Someone had told her where to find Lionel Byrd and had put the plan in her head and convinced her she could finally make the man who murdered her sister pay. Someone had used her, and I thought it might be Wilts. If Wilts wanted to set up Byrd to stop the Repko investigation, it had to be Wilts, but I didn't have proof.

“Was it Wilts?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did Wilts give you the pictures?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Her eyes were clear and unafraid, and I knew she wasn't going to admit to any of it. I called Pike on my cell.

“She's here. I have her.”

“I'm on my way.”

I put away the phone, then looked through Jonna's things. I was mostly checking for a gun or knife or something she might kill me with, but I found a copy of Lionel Byrd's original arrest report and court documents relating to the dismissal of the charges against him.

I held them up to show her.

“This is what we call evidence.”

She raised her middle finger.

“This is what we call the finger. You don't have shit.”

Her wallet, keys, sunglasses, and two cell phones were on the kitchenette counter. I didn't pay attention to the phones at first, but one was familiar. It was a clunky, inexpensive knockoff, exactly the same phone pictured on the spec sheet I found in Marx's file.

When I picked up the phone, Jonna shifted uneasily.

“I don't know why you're doing this to me, but I'm going to have you arrested. That's no bullshit.”

I touched a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

“That isn't my phone. I found it.”

“Shh.”

The more I examined the phone, the more certain I became. Jonna's other phone was a nice little Motorola, but the Kyoto was identical to the disposable phone in Marx's file. Debra Repko had received six calls from a prepaid number assigned to the same model phone. She had called a similar phone on her PDA.

Pike turned into the drive behind the Neon and let himself through the door. He nodded when he entered, but said nothing. Jonna's eyes widened as if he were a cobra. I showed him the phone.

“Look familiar?”

“The disposable.”

“Uh-huh.”

I turned on the phone and watched the display as the phone found a signal. It took me a minute to figure out how to access the call list, then I scrolled through the outgoing calls. Maybe I smiled. All the outgoing calls had been placed to the same number, and it was a number I recognized.

Pike said, “What?”

“She's been calling the same number Debra Repko called. All the incoming calls were from the same number, too.”

“Wilts?”

“Let's find out.”

Jonna pushed up from the chair and tried to run, but Pike wrapped her in his arms. She kicked and whipped her head from side to side, but Pike held her close and covered her mouth. He squeezed just enough to make her stop squirming, then nodded at me.

I dialed the number, then waited through the rings. I didn't wait long.

A voice said, “Jonna? Jonna, where have you been? I've been calling—”

I held my breath, and wondered if he could hear the pulse pounding in my ear.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

He raised his voice.

“Do we have a bad connection?”

I turned off the phone, then took a deep breath. I wanted to push it out and blow away all the terrible feelings, but I couldn't move.

Pike said, “Was it Wilts?”

I shook my head.

“No. Not Wilts. It was Alan Levy.”