Land of Shadows (28 page)

Lieutenant Rodriguez turned to Pepe. “And is he coming?”

Pepe nodded.

“It's just gonna take a little more time,” I said, my nerves jangled, my voice sounding wary even to me. “The lab will come back with prints. A witness will come forward. And there
will
be blood.” I forced a smile to my face, clinging to optimism like a junkie clutching the last eight ball in the galaxy. “This case is solvable,” I said. “Everybody repeat after me.
This case is solvable.
”

They all played along.

This case is solvable.

This case is solvable.

This case—

My desk phone rang. Grateful for the interruption, I grabbed the receiver.

“Lou!”

“Zucca!” I said. “Please tell me that you have good news.”

“I have good news. First, the acrylic nail found in the trailer belonged to Monique. So she definitely was attacked there. And I got a print off her underwear.”

“
What?
A print? How?”

“VMD.”

Vacuum metal deposition. Lovely. Zucca had placed the panties into a vacuum chamber where gold was heated to the point of evaporation. He then reduced the pressure inside the chamber, causing a very thin film of evaporated gold to spread over the fabric. He heated zinc next and that attached to the gold, but only in the spots where there were no fingerprint ridges. Those left-behind fingerprint ridges couldn't be “lifted,” but they could certainly be photographed. In a way, it was like a reverse X-ray.

“I'm dancing,” I told Zucca. “You can't see me dancing. No one can see me dancing, but I'm freakin' Lord of the Dance jigging on the inside right now.”

Because girlfriend-beating Napoleon Crase's fingerprints were in the system.

He laughed, then said, “A fingerprint tech is about to feed them into AFIS to get possible matches. Shouldn't take too much longer. As for DNA from the victim and on that handkerchief: still out on that. And the high-tech guys still haven't gotten around to the victim's netbook. Sorry. We're just really jammed.”

Despite the DNA delays, I still couldn't help but smile as I hung up. Couldn't help but picture my shiniest pair of handcuffs clamped around Napoleon Crase's wrists. “Zucca got a print,” I announced to the room. “Shouldn't be too long now.”

“Okay. What about that mystery phone number?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked, not placated by this recent development.

“Still working on it,” Luke said. “The provider is slower than a snail in a snowstorm.”

Joey laughed. “Say that three times.”

Luke said, “Slower than a snail in a—”

“So what's next?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked, ignoring them.

“Next up,” I said, “Napoleon Crase comes in for an interview this afternoon.”

“According to his secretary-slash-girlfriend,” Pepe said, “he's been in Chicago all week. He flew back this morning.”

“Tread carefully,” my boss warned. “And keep looking at
everybody
. No fuck-ups.
None.
What about the press?”

“The press release is done,” Joey said, “but no one's demanding answers right now.”

I had three voice mails from reporters; fortunately, none of them worked for major dailies.

“What about your friend?” Colin asked me.

Joey laughed. “Oh, yeah! Sexy Sy.” He turned to Pepe for a high five.

Pepe left him hanging.

Meanwhile, I glared at Colin for bringing up Syeeda.

Lieutenant Rodriguez considered both of us, then focused on me. “And what are you going to tell Miss McKay if she asks?”

“We're pursuing all leads at this time,” I said, unblinking.

Lieutenant Rodriguez grabbed another slice of pizza from the box. “You better go find some leads to pursue, then. We don't wanna lie to the press now, do we?”

 

40

Napoleon Crase needed to
feel
something. He needed to step inside interview room 1 not as a self-made man and not as BFF to the councilmen of black Los Angeles. No. He needed to come in as a human, vulnerable and uncertain of his fate. And he needed to confess that he had been involved in the death of Monique Darson and the kidnapping and murder of Victoria Starr.

I wanted to tape autopsy pictures of the Darson girl along the room's wall, mixing in a few shots of her laughing, posing with Butter, and accepting her high school diploma at graduation just a week ago. On one of the walls, I wanted to tape up pictures of Tori, too. Shots that I had plucked from our family photo albums long ago: high school graduation, baptism, church fashion show. I wanted to tape up area maps, the condo site circled in red, just a block away from the old liquor store, also circled in red.

But I couldn't contaminate the interview. Any lawyer worth his degree would claim intimidation and false confession. So the room had to be stark, bare, blank.

I could, though, bring in a folder that held my eight-ball pictures. And those pictures, I hoped, would pound the man into a true confession.

Colin pointed to the camera bolted in the upper north corner of the room. “Is it good?”

Pepe nodded. “Yeah. Luke put in a new tape and made sure that the microphone was working.”

“And I brought provisions for our guest.” I waggled a bottle of water and a disposable cup wrapped in plastic.

Pepe said, “Good luck,” then squeezed my shoulder before he left the room.

Colin and I waited for Napoleon Crase in the crowded lobby. My partner took my hand more than once. “You're doin' the ear-tugging thing. Keep it up and you'll tear your earlobe.” He paused, then said, “You sure you don't want me in the room?”

I nodded.

“Because I'm here.”

“I know.”

“And you sure you wanna do this?”

“Do what? My
job
?” I frowned at him. “You think I'm being irrational?”

His bottom lip disappeared. “I just…”

I snorted. “Weren't you the one ready to go over and kick his ass?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Colin, I spent my entire teenage life writing in a journal and nightmaring about what this man did to my family. You would do whatever it takes to stop those dreams, dreams that I
still
have, wouldn't you?”

Colin scratched his jaw and didn't speak for a long time. Then: “I enjoy working with you, Elouise, and … And I don't really wanna start over with a new partner, know what I mean? But you do what you have to.”

At three o'clock sharp, a chauffeured Maybach pulled up in front of the station.

Colin grinned at me. “He's kidding, right?”

I stared at the car's passenger climbing from the backseat. The old man wore a tailor-made Italian suit and so much gold that he could be seen twinkling from the stratosphere—fancier than the green chinos and brown short-sleeved shirts he wore during my childhood. I glimpsed Brenna inside the Maybach. Well, I glimpsed her long legs, one manicured hand, and the egg-sized diamond on her finger.

Napoleon Crase, gaunt and crinkly, opened the station's glass door, and his cologne (pine forest and musk) wafted in on top of the draft. Had the weight loss been the result of the diet recommended by his proctologist? Or was Brenna Benevides into yoga and vegan macrobiotics, and therefore so was he?

Colin and I met Napoleon Crase in the middle of the lobby. I introduced my partner and without thinking, I offered Crase my hand.

We shook—my stomach lurched and the rest of me went stiff. I tried to keep my Scowl of Disgust stored in its bin, but its tail end muddied the feigned, it's-not-personal, just-doing-my-job cop smile.

“I don't have much time,” Crase said, glancing at his gold Rolex. “I have a meeting at City Hall in an hour.” His voice was still deep and craggy, like canyon walls as tall as Mount Everest.

I wiped my Crase-contaminated hand inside my pants pocket. With each step, that soiled lining burned my leg.

We escorted the businessman deeper into the building.

Crase's eyes never stopped moving, and he was already sweating as he took in the commotion of the Southwest Division. The angry mother demanding information about her jailed son; the tired grandmother holding a pink slip from the bail bondsman; an adolescent Hispanic girl translating for her bleeding father.

And through more chaos: ringing telephones, undercover cops wearing black ski masks, screams from the drunk tank …

We arrived in the quiet of interview room 1. Crase cleared his throat, then said, “Busy today.”

“The days are longer now,” I said, easing into the interview. “That means more time to hang out, more time to drink, more time to get in fights. Please have a seat, Mr. Crase.” I plopped into the chair across from his.

He thanked me and sat with his hands folded on the table.

“Have you ever had to do something like this?” I asked. “Be interviewed by the police?”

He smiled. “A long time ago.”

I faked a smile of my own—his last domestic assault had happened just last year. Not much of a “long time ago.” “Well, I certainly appreciate you coming in to talk with me. It's very important that we turn over every rock in this case, big and small.”

He offered a nod full of understanding.

I waved my hand over the bottled water and cup. “If you'd like coffee, I can get you some, although I must warn you: it's horrible.”

He chuckled and unscrewed the bottle cap. “Water's fine.”

I leaned forward. “So we're here to talk about Monique Darson, who was found Wednesday evening, murdered in a condo unit on Santa Rosalia Drive.”

He crossed his legs and glanced at his watch again.

“And we wanted to talk to
you
because there's a connection—well, a few connections between you and the victim.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Because she was found on my property.”

I pushed away the notepad and pen—he'd talk more freely if he saw that I wasn't taking notes. “First things first. Where were you on Tuesday, June 18?”

He narrowed his eyes as he thought, then said, “For most of the day, I was at home, packing for my trip to Chicago.”

“Which home is this?”

“73881 Don Tomaso Drive in Baldwin Hills.”

The same address found in Monique's diary.

“And what time did you leave for Chicago?” I asked.

He pulled a handkerchief from his chest pocket, then said, “Car service picked me up sometime that evening and drove me to LAX. And my plane left around ten or so, on United Airlines.”

“How did you find out about Monique Darson's murder?”

He paused, then said, “I believe that my project manager Hank La Garza called.”

“At what time?”

He reached for the bottled water. “I don't recall.”

I opened my folder and selected the autopsy picture of Monique Darson. I slipped it before him. “Do you recognize this young woman?”

He nodded as he poured water into his cup. “That's the young woman you all found at my condominiums. I've started a scholarship fund in her honor.”

“That's nice. Had you ever met her before?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“You sure?”

“I'm not a liar, Detective, and I resent the accusation.”

I let my arms relax and took slow, easy breaths. “Mr. Crase, I'm not accusing you of anything. People forget. Misremember. Is there any reason why Monique Darson would have your phone number in her cell phone's telephone book?”

His eyes widened. “No.”

“What about your address?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Has she ever been to your home?”

“No.”

“Is there any reason why your DNA would be found—?”

“She was found on my development,” he interrupted. “I walk through those units all the time, checking on the progress, meeting the workers … I've sneezed a few times from the dust.” He gave me a knowing grin. “I don't have to tell you, Detective, that we're both shedding skin and spit as we sit here. So yes: there may be some of my DNA on Miss Darson.”

I nodded and gave a lopsided smile. “Let's change gears, then.” I took a sip from my own cup of water.

Napoleon Crase did the same.

I opened the folder and selected the only photo left: the high school picture of Tori, circa 1988. Feathered hair, fuchsia lipstick, and blue eyeliner. I slid it before him “What about this girl? You recognize her?”

He glanced at the picture and his body jerked. After catching his breath, he said, “I have a meeting downtown in an hour. Will this take much longer?”

“You mentioned that you had a meeting,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

Crase swallowed. “I do not know her, Detective.” His shirt collar was darkening with perspiration.

I pulled out the ancient witness statement from the folder and read aloud Napoleon Crase's words.

As I read, his eyes never left that photo of Tori. “Care to revise your answer?” I asked.

He dabbed at his forehead with the hankie. “I remember her now.”

I waited for more but he didn't elaborate. “There's a connection between these two girls, sir. Maybe you can tell me what that is.”

His nostrils flared. “My land.”

“What happened after you caught Victoria Starr for stealing candy?”

“I let her go,” he said, firmly. “But then she came back to vandalize my car, and I scared her away. Where she went after that and who she ran into was not my problem. And I was cleared—I had proof that I had nothing to do with her disappearance. I'm completely innocent.”

“
Completely
innocent?” I asked, eyes narrowed. “In the past, you've been arrested for domestic abuse.”

He flicked his hand. “Misinterpretations.”