Chasing Darkness (9 page)

THE RURAL
vibe of Laurel Canyon set the sixties stage for crossover folk-rockers like David Crosby, Graham Nash, and Joni Mitchell to write about peaceful easy feelings, cocaine cowboys, and very nice houses with two cats in the yard. The high, tight trails wrapped through the ridges were only a few blocks from Sunset Boulevard, but, separated from the city by steep canyon walls, felt as if they were miles in the country. That rural sensibility was preserved and sustained by a small encampment of shops, markets, and restaurants at the base of the canyon.

I pulled into the tiny parking lot, then ambled into the market. You get a peaceful easy feeling, amblin' is how you walk.

The market was larger than it looked from the outside, with a high ceiling and narrow aisles jammed with goods, supplies, and candy. A pretty young woman was seated behind the register. An older man wearing a Lakers cap was behind a nearby deli counter, mixing a large bowl of tuna salad.

I took out a picture of Lionel Byrd I had clipped from the paper and showed it to the woman.

“Could you tell me if you recognize this man? His name was Lionel Byrd. He was a regular customer here.”

She blinked at the picture with wide, curious eyes.

“Are you a policeman?”

“Nope. Elvis Cole. I'm a private investigator.”

She smiled, the smile making her even prettier.

“Is that really your name?”

“What, Cole?”

“No, silly, Elvis. I'm Cass, like Mama Cass Elliot. She used to live right up the hill. A dude comes here, his name is Jagger, and a dude named Morris who says he was named after Jim Morrison, but that's kinda sketchy.”

The sixties live.

Cass called over her shoulder.

“Phil, can you come see this, please?”

Phil put down the bowl of tuna and came up behind her, wiping his hands on a towel. Cass showed him the picture.

“Was this guy a customer?”

Phil considered the image.

“He's the one they found in the fire. You didn't see the news?”

Cass didn't know what we were talking about.

Phil said, “Yeah, he used to get the curry chicken. It was always the same. The curry chicken on a sesame roll. He had a bad foot.”

Phil was a score. They might have shot the bull while Phil made Byrd's sandwich, and Phil might remember something useful.

“That's right. He was here about two weeks ago, just before he died. Do you remember what you talked about?”

Phil handed back the picture, shaking his head.

“Sorry, bro. He hasn't been in for a couple of months, something like that. It's been a while.”

“He was here exactly fifteen days ago, and two days before that. I found these at his house.”

I showed him the two most recent receipts. Phil squinted at them as if they were an incomprehensible mystery, then shook his head.

“I don't know what to tell you. We get busy, I wouldn't have seen him if he didn't buy a sandwich.”

The tingle faded, but Cass brightened and spoke up.

“We might have delivered. Let's see if Charles remembers.”

Phil was still squinting at the receipts.

“There's no delivery charge, see? We didn't deliver. There would be a charge if we delivered.”

Cass said, “Oh, don't be a gob.”

She went to the end of the counter and shouted for someone named Charles. A stock clerk in a green apron ambled out from between the aisles. It wasn't just me.

Phil took the picture, and showed him.

“You deliver for this guy? The name was Byrd.”

Phil glanced at me again.

“Where'd he live?”

“Anson Lane. Off Lookout, up past the school.”

Charles took his turn with the picture, then shook his finger as if the finger was helping him fish up the thought.

“The dude with the foot.”

“That's the one.”

“Yeah, man, I saw it in the paper. That stuff was crazy.”

“You delivered groceries to him two weeks ago?”

“Nope, I never delivered to him. I know him from the register, but he hasn't been down in a while. Ivy came for his things.”

Cass laughed.

“Oh,
that
chick!”

I said, “A girl named Ivy picked up his groceries?”

“He'd phone the order, and she'd pick it up. He had to stop driving.”

Cass was making a big loopy grin.

“Charles was so totally into that chick.”

Charles flushed.

“Stop it, dude. Discretion.”

“Who's Ivy?”

Cass touched the midpoint of her left forearm.

“She had a broken heart here on her arm. The wreckage of Charles's love.”

“
Dude!
”

Cass was pleased with Charles's mortification and crossed her arms smugly.

“She lived up there in the big redwood house. A total hippie throwback to the commune age.”

Charles shot a sulky glance at Cass.

“It's not a commune. Dude rents out his rooms, is all. Ivy crashed there for a few weeks.”

Cass mouthed her words with exaggerated volume.

“Not long enough to drop her shorts.”

Phil laughed and went back to his tuna.

The big redwood house was next door to Tina Isbecki. I had been there less than an hour ago and spoken with a bald man named Lloyd and a woman named Jan who identified herself as a screenwriter. Neither had known anything about Lionel Byrd, and no one named Ivy was present.

“I was just up there talking to Lloyd. Ivy doesn't live with them anymore?”

“Uh-uh. She went home.”

Great. The only person I'd found who had any contact with Byrd had ridden the tornado back to Oz.

“Because of what happened?”

“She left before the fires. She only had the room while her real place was being repaired. They found mold in her bathroom.”

Charles suddenly looked alarmed.

“Hey, he didn't kill her, did he? Is she dead?”

“No, it's nothing like that, but I'd like to speak with her. You know how to reach her?”

Cass made swoony eyes.

“Ooohhh, yeeaaahhh.”

Then she mouthed, “Stalker.”

Charles couldn't give me Ivy Casik's phone or address, but he knew how to find her apartment. Ivy's car had died in the parking lot, and Charles had given her a lift to pick up cash for the repair. He had brought her to an apartment in Hollywood.

I copied the directions, thanked them for the help, then went out to my car.

When I reached the parking lot, a stocky kid in a Foo Fighters T-shirt and black wraparounds was peering at the interior. You drive a '66 Corvette, you get that. He saw me coming, and stepped away.

“Nice ride. Want to sell it?”

“No, thanks.”

“Too bad. I could rock a car like this.”

He lit a cigarette, then drifted away to a blue Mustang. He stared at my car as he smoked. Vehicle envy.

I headed back to Sunset, then followed Charles's directions east into Hollywood. Things were looking up. I had a real, live lead who might even be able to provide something useful. Of course, the odds she knew anything useful were probably along the lines of getting brained by a meteor, but you take your hope where you find it.

I was feeling so good, I almost didn't see the black Toyota pickup pull into traffic behind me. It was the same Toyota with the Tattooed Beach Sluts sticker. A few seconds later, the Foo Fighters' blue Mustang appeared a few cars behind.

Ivy Casik's address would have led me into the low foothills near the Hollywood Bowl, but I drove south through West Hollywood in a loose circle around the Farmers Market, watching my rearview mirror.

The Mustang tightened up on the truck, then the truck turned off. A few blocks later, the truck was waiting at a cross street ahead of me. As I drove past, the truck turned in behind, and the Mustang disappeared. We went on like that, leapfrogging through the city, with one or the other of them always behind me but never for very long. They were using radios or cell phones to coordinate their moves.

When I was certain they were following me, I took my pistol from under the seat, put it beside my leg, then called Pike. He was still watching my house.

Pike said, “You get a tag?”

“Mud on their plates. Nice trick, seeing as how we haven't had rain in five months.”

“You think they're police?”

The Foo Fighter seemed pretty young for an officer, but a lot of guys in their early twenties looked younger.

“Could be. Bastilla was pissed off when I told her I was looking for Tomaso. Maybe they're the same guys who searched my office.”

Pike grunted.

“An officer wouldn't piss on your chair.”

“Crimmens phonied a confession in a capital crime. He would piss on a chair if he thought he could cover the search by making it look like vandalism.”

“Okay.”

“I'm on my way to see a woman named Ivy Casik up by the Bowl. When you're on them, I'll lose them, then you can follow them home.”

“I'm all over it.”

“Thought you might be.”

I turned north toward the hills and maintained an easy, meandering pace, watching them drift in and out of the mirror. Sometimes I didn't see them for blocks at a time, then one or the other would reappear.

I slipped into a shoulder harness, then covered it with a light cotton jacket. The day was too hot for the jacket, but the jacket covered the gun.

Sixteen minutes later, Pike called.

“I'm on the Mustang.”

“Good hunting.”

I closed the phone and picked up speed.

I TURNED
up Hillcrest into an older residential area with winding streets, high curbs, and plenty of sturdy palms. When I climbed into the curves, the truck and the Mustang were easy to lose. They would probably circle for a while, blaming each other for losing me, but then they would head for home, unaware Pike was with them. After I finished with Ivy Casik, I would join him, but they wouldn't know that, either. Then we would talk.

I parked beneath a jacaranda tree across from Ivy's building, then headed for her apartment. Ivy lived in Apartment 4, which was the bottom unit at the back of the courtyard. I rang the bell twice and knocked, but she wasn't home. Perfect.

Ivy wasn't much of a lead, but she was the only lead I had, so I returned to my car. Twenty-two minutes later, a dusty Ford Neon appeared and parked on the opposite curb. A tall young woman with serious eyes and straight hair climbed out. She had the broad shoulders and defined legs of an athlete and was wearing running shorts, a thin T, and blue Saucony running shoes, as if she had been for a run. The little heart on her forearm stood out like a strawberry.

I followed her into the courtyard, hurrying to catch up.

“Ivy Casik!”

She jumped sideways as if I had shouted “Boo,” and seemed about to run.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”

She glanced at the other apartments as if she might start calling for help.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry.”

I held out a card.

“Elvis Cole. I'd like to ask you about Lionel Byrd, the man you knew as Lonnie Jones.”

She backed away, still searching the apartments for help.

“Who are you?”

“I'm a private investigator. Just look at my card.”

“Anyone can get a card.”

I spread my arms.

“I could show you my gun.”

She hesitated, but seemed to grow calmer. I put away the card and held out my license.

“Licensed by the State of California, see? I'm sorry I scared you.”

“You're a policeman?”

“Private, but the police will want to talk to you. I would have called before I came, but I didn't have your number.”

She studied the license as if it was difficult to read.

“You
are
Ivy Casik, aren't you?”

She glanced up, but seemed to be getting used to me.

“Why are you here?”

“About Lionel Byrd, the man you knew as Lonnie Jones.”

“Yes?”

I couldn't tell from her answer if she recognized his name or not. “The people at Laurel Market told me you knew him. A clerk named Charles. Did you read the newspaper this morning?”

“Charles.”

“Yes. Do you have any idea what I'm talking about? You knew the man as Lonnie Jones?”

She seemed to think about it, then hooked her hair behind her ear. “I'm sorry. This is all so weird. That guy in the paper, he was really Lonnie?”

“I understand. Kinda creeps you out, doesn't it?”

“Yeah. You want to come in? It's easier than standing out here.”

Her apartment was small and clean, with only a single couch and coffee table in the living room, and a small circular table near the kitchenette. The furniture was new, and had the efficient lines of furnishings that had probably come with the apartment. The kitchenette was immaculate. So were the floors and the table. The only thing out of place was a newspaper, open to the story about Byrd.

Ivy offered me a bottle of water, took one for herself, then perched on the edge of the couch. I pulled one of the dining chairs closer to sit with her.

I said, “Has anyone talked to you about this?”

“You mean the police?”

“They questioned your former neighbors last week. They pretty much spent all this past week up on Anson, interviewing people.”

“I had no idea. I saw the paper, and I thought, ohmigod, that's Lonnie, but the picture was so bad. I was like, is this a joke?”

“It isn't a joke.”

“This is surreal.”

“How well did you know him?”

“I picked up groceries for him a couple of times. It's not like we hung out.”

Her voice took on a defensive whine, as if I had accused her of being a serial-killer sympathizer.

“It's okay, Ivy. You didn't know.”

“Here he was with the cane, and he asked for some help. He didn't say anything obnoxious. I was going to the market anyway. What was I supposed to say, no? He was just an old man.”

She flipped her head. When she moved, her hair swayed like a curtain in the breeze.

I said, “Did he ask you to pick up drugs?”

“Uh-uh. I just stopped at the market a few times. They don't have a pharmacy.”

“Not prescription drugs. He was using oxycodone manufactured in Mexico. He would have gotten them illegally.”

She sat taller, and her lips tightened into a bud. It was a rough way to ask, but I wanted to see her reaction.

“I didn't buy drugs for him.”

“Okay. I had to ask.”

“Do you think I'm a dealer?”

“You might not have known what you were buying. He might have asked you to pick up a package, and you didn't know what was in the package.”

“Only the market.”

“If he couldn't drive, someone had to get them for him. I'm not saying it was you.”

“Well, it sounds like you are. I was just trying to be a nice person, and now you're accusing me of being a dope connection. I really resent this.”

“I'm not accusing you. I know it sounded like that, but I'm not.”

“Whatever. Am I going to have to do this again with the police?”

“Probably, but they're not nearly as much fun as me.”

Her mouth tightened again, which is almost always a sign I'm wearing out my welcome.

My cell phone vibrated, so I excused myself and checked the call. It was Pike. I told her I had to take it, and opened the phone.

Pike said, “You with the girl?”

“That's right. Where'd they go?”

“Nowhere. The Pony parked as soon as you lost them. We're on Franklin at the bottom of Hillcrest.”

“What about his helper?”

“The truck left. Four or five streets feed down from these hills, so the truck probably set up at a different location.”

“Okay.”

“If the Pony leaves, you want me to follow?”

“Absolutely.”

I closed the phone.

“Sorry. We're almost finished.”

“Whatever.”

“Did he ever do or say anything that made you fearful?”

“I wouldn't have gone to the market for him if I was scared of him.”

“Okay. Did he ever ask if he could take your picture?”

She gave an exaggerated shiver. She knew I was talking about the album.

“Yuck. No. I would've told him to fuck off.”

“All right. One last thing. Did he say or do anything that made you think—or makes you think now, in retrospect—that he was suicidal?”

She grew distant for a moment, then went to the newspaper. She touched it, but did not pick it up.

“Not like, I'm going to blow my brains out, but he was depressed. He was really scared of the police. He thought they were out to get him.”

“He did?”

“The police framed him for murder. He talked about it a lot.”

I took a slow breath.

“He told you about Yvonne Bennett?”

“How the police tried to frame him. He hated the police. He said they were always trying to get him. I mean, here's this gimpy little man going on with a major persecution complex, and it sounded so made up.”

“He didn't make it up.”

“Are they really writing a book about him?”

I shook my head, not understanding, and Ivy Casik went on.

“Someone came to see him about how the police framed him. The guy told him it could be a book and a movie, and all this stuff, and Lonnie was bragging how he was going to be rich, and it all sounded so absurd.”

My mouth felt dry, but wetting my lips didn't help.

“Who was this person?”

“I don't know. A reporter, he said. This reporter was doing a story about how the police fucked him over.”

Ivy Casik was an attractive young woman. It was easy to imagine Byrd making up stories about books and movies to impress her.

“Did you see this person?”

“It was just something Lonnie told me, like the dude brought this little tape recorder and asked lots of questions.”

“A dude who came to the house?”

“Yeah. Do you think he was lying?”

“I don't know.”

“I thought he made it up until I saw the paper. They really did charge him with murder. They really did drop the charges. Those things were true.”

“Yes,” I said. “Those things were true.”

A new player had entered the crime scene. An unnamed person who might have approached Lionel Byrd to discuss the subject of murder, and who might or might not even exist. If someone had been looking for Lionel Byrd, I wondered how they had found him. Everyone on Anson Lane thought Lionel Byrd was Lonnie Jones.

I wondered how I could find out if Lionel Byrd's story about the reporter was true. The police should have gone through Byrd's phone records and back-checked the numbers, so Bastilla probably already knew, but she probably wouldn't tell me. Maybe the guy in the Mustang would know.

After Ivy Casik let me out, I called Pike, filled him in, and asked about the Mustang.

“What's our boy doing?”

“Still hasn't moved.”

“Any sign of the truck?”

“Nope.”

“I'm on the way.”

I had only gone three blocks when the black Toyota pulled out of a side street in front of me. I wasn't sure it was the same truck, but the Toyota bucked high on its springs and powered away. He had probably been searching the area while the Mustang waited below, and was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

Cops with a busted surveillance would have stopped to badge me, but the Toyota ran. I thought he would run for the flats and the freeways and his buddy in the Mustang, but he skidded onto a cross street instead, climbing higher in the hills. He probably felt he had a better chance of losing me the higher we went, but I pushed after hard, closing the gap.

The curves grew tighter the higher we climbed, looping and crossing like snakes. I wanted to call Pike, but the driving was fast, and my hands were filled with the shifter and wheel. I didn't think he knew where he was going or where the streets went; he just drove it, trying to leave me behind. We busted through stop signs, circled the same streets, turned downhill hard and then it was over. He had turned into a cul-de-sac. He was trapped.

The driver's window was down, and the driver was watching me. His eyes were large and bright from the chase, but waiting to see what I would do. He was big, with beefy forearms and heavy shoulders, but a wispy mustache and zits on his chin made him look even younger than the Foo Fighter. He couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen. He was a kid.

I had once seen three grown men shot to death by an eleven-year-old with an AK-47. I took out my pistol, but did not raise it. He was no more than ten yards away.

“Get out of the truck. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

His door opened. He raised his hands, then slid out. He looked even younger once he was out, like a baby-faced high-school lineman. I thought he might run because kids always run, but he didn't.

I said, “Close it.”

He pushed the door closed.

I got out of my car, holding the gun down along my leg because I still didn't know what he might try or what I might have to do when he tried it.

“On your knees. Fingers laced on your head.”

He did what I told him. Here we were in a small cul-de-sac in a residential neighborhood where someone might step out for the mail or come home from school. I holstered the gun, snapped the safety strap, then stepped away from my car.

“What in hell are you doing?”

A voice behind me said, “This.”

Something hard slammed into the back of my neck and dropped me into the street. That's when I realized the kid had not been trying to get away. I had not trapped the black Toyota in the cul-de-sac. He had trapped me.