Land of Shadows (14 page)

He squinted at me, making his sleepy eyes almost close. “Monie?”

“May we come in, please? Unless you wanna do this at the station.”

He gave me the up-and-down and asked Gino, “She Five-O for real?”

“Naw,” Gino said. “She a sandwich artist over at Subway.”

Derek sneered. “Sergeant Walston got jokes.” Then, he stared at me. “Ain't nothin' scare you, huh?”

“Bees,” I said, faking a shiver.

He smirked. “You need to be up in a classroom, teachin' niggas algegras and shit 'stead of bustin' fools' nuts.”

“You sound like my mother,” I kidded. “Did she call you? Did she tell you to say that?”

He laughed. “You got jokes, too.”

“Wednesdays and Thursdays only,” I said, doing anything to make him—and his Rottweiler—relax.

Derek tugged the dog's leash. “C'mon, King.”

Colin and I entered the apartment while Gino and Ro stood at the open door.

The apartment was clean, too clean. There was no furniture in the living room, just a patio chair placed in front of a forty-inch television now playing the “Lucy Stomps Grapes in Italy” episode. Empty Olde English bottles lined the baseboards around the room. In one of two dog dishes, there was a bone the size of a T. rex's leg. About ten yellow boxes of sandwich bags sat on the kitchen counter.

“You part of the summer lunch program?” Colin asked.

Derek frowned. “What?
Sir
?” He glanced at the boxes, and then at Gino, now stepping into the living room and standing near the television. “They was on sale at Target,
sir
.”

The bedroom closet probably hid guns, Baggies of weed, some raw, and some white. But I couldn't wander around without probable cause, and the hospitality shown to us by Mr. Hester thus far didn't warrant probable cause.

“Do you have your dog under control, Derek?” I asked, hand back on my Glock. “Cuz I'd hate to shoot him. I'm an animal lover.”

Derek, eyes on Colin, drawled, “King cool.”

“Monique Darson,” I said, “how do you know her?”

“We friends,” he said, focusing on the television set.

“Romantic?”

Gino hit the TV's power button, forcing Derek to focus on me instead.

“Were you in a relationship?” I asked again.

“Somethin' like that,” he said in a flat voice. “Not that she wanted everybody to know. Except when she came 'round here. Anywhere else, though? My name was ‘Whodat?'”

“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.

Colin was rubbing something on the filthy shag carpet with the toe of his shoe.

King growled, and perfect drops of spit fell from the dog's gleaming white teeth.

I gave Colin a quick headshake.
What the
fuck
, dude? Stop that.

“I ain't seen Monie since the night she graduated,” Derek said. “Pissed me off. She ain't want me at the ceremony, but I was supposed to buy her a gift? Fuck that. I ain't talked to her after then. Wait—no. I talked to her on Tuesday, like in the afternoon. She wanted to meet me somewhere, but I wasn't down wit' that.”

“Mind if I look at your arms?” I asked.

“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 kissed 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.