Land of Shadows (35 page)

“How did you and Macie meet?” Colin asked.

“She was looking to buy a car. I hooked her up with the Maserati. Afterwards, she invited me to coffee.”

“How about Macie and Monique?” I asked. “Did they get along?”

Max leaned against a shiny
LIKE NEW!
Escalade. “Macie lost patience with Monique all the time. They bickered over family business. I didn't get involved. Just let them fight it out.”

“Were you ever alone with Monie?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean,
alone
?”

“Just like I asked. Not a trick question.”

His brow furrowed. “Certainly. If Macie went to the bathroom, and Monique was with us, she and I were alone. If Macie left to retrieve something out of the car, again … But Monique and I were never
alone
-alone for long periods of time.”

My eyes held his gaze. “So you like dating young women?”

“As opposed to old women?” He chuckled. “Who doesn't? No offense.”

I said, “None taken. Oops, I lied.”

“Look,” he said, the cultured accent dropping some, “Monique was a good kid but she was off-limits. Girls that age worry me. A lot of them are looking for father figures. Some of them think it's exciting, being with an older man, and they think that, all of a sudden, they're sophisticated and worldly. Most of them? I'd say that most of them are playing tea party and dress-up.”

“And do you like playing tea parties and dress-up?” I asked, remembering Monique Darson's cheerleader uniform.

Max rolled his eyes. “Macie and I were together on Tuesday night up until Wednesday around one in the afternoon. We had been in Temecula for a long weekend. Stayed at Pechanga. I lost $5,000 at the craps table.” He said this carefully, as though one misspoken word would launch every Patriot missile in the United States.

“Yeah?” I said. “And if someone said that you were in Los Angeles on Tuesday—?”

“Detective Norton, your insinuations—”

“
Insinuations
?” I said. “I'm sorry—I didn't mean to
insinuate
. So I'll ask you straight out like old women tend to do: did you and Monique have a thing going on?”

“A
thing
?” He laughed. “No, we did not have a
thing
going on.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“There's DNA.”

His eyes sparkled. “Wonderful. Hope it helps you catch whoever killed Monique.”

I nodded. “I hope so, too. What did you drive to Temecula?”

Bored with me, Max Yates shoved his hands in his pockets. “A Bentley Continental GT.”

I spotted two black Bentleys parked near the sales office. “One of those?”

“Neither of those,” he said, his jaw tightening.

“Where's the one you drove?” I asked.

“At the mechanic's. Highway 15 is a rough road and I think something happened to the struts.”

“Good mechanic?”

“The best.” Max smiled, but those smog-colored eyes were flat and lightless. “Rudy's Tires and Automotive over in Mar Vista. I can get you his business card.”

Behrouz and his three-day suit crept over to us. “Mr. Yates, you have a call. Val Agranov from the Lakers.”

“We have a contract with the team,” Max explained to Colin and me. “Providing cars for some of their
lesser
players who can't afford their own $450,000 Bugattis. I need to take this call, if you don't mind.”

“No problem,” I said, handing him one of my business cards. “If we have any more questions—”

“Please stop by anytime,” he finished as he glided away from us. “Anything to help.” He held the card to his nose, then patted the Persian on his shoulder before disappearing into the sales office.

 

51

Golden Lee never overcame. She lived on Coco Avenue, down the street from Derek Hester, in the same ghetto apartment building that she had lived in back in the Eighties. One of Tori's friends, Golden had been the one with the MIA daddy, the two brothers and stepbrother in jail, the always-pregnant mother who shot smack into her tired veins, and the grandmother who had been a hood-rat back in the day, who had borne seven kids before she had reached thirty, who had found Jesus in her fifties and had raised each of her thirty-eight grandchildren, including Golden, since then.

Even as a child, Golden had been “thick,” with an ass like a well-fed donkey's. She had green eyes and lips that always smelled of tobacco and strawberries. She had introduced Tori (and me) to beer, cigarettes, Black P Stones, tattoos, abortions, and porn.

Mom had made valiant attempts to end the friendship between Tori and Golden—like she had with Kimya and me. But Mom was always working, and so she had as much power as a light saber found in the discount bin at K-Mart.

Hard living had taken its toll on the woman standing in the doorway of her apartment: blotchy skin, a stringy weave that had worn away her hairline, flabby arms with caked-on deodorant in hairy pits, and a perma-scowl that only Jesus could fix. But then, four kids ages two through twelve ran around in the filthy apartment. They were climbing on furniture with stuffing popping from its seams, watching music videos with half-naked video hoes wiggling fat asses in the camera lens, stomping on bags of Cheetos and Skittles, McDonald's and Popeye's, as far as the eye could see. And even though Golden had to be forty-three years old, her belly was swollen and the poor tired stork would soon arrive. Looked like Golden used birth control like I used Viagra—never.

Hell, I'd scowl, too. And then I'd find a gun.
Pop.
One in the melon.

Golden frowned at my badge. “Don't tell me. JaVonte's ass finally dead.” She said this as though I had just told her that she could save money on a new long-distance calling plan.

I blinked. “I don't know a JaVonte, ma'am.”

She folded her arms. “Then it's Kenyon? Ro-shaun?”

“Are we talking about your children?”

She rolled her eyes. “My baby daddies.”

I said, “Ah,” then told her the reason for my visit.

She suggested that we remain outside to talk. “Last time a cop came in, little Trey took his gun out his belt. Trey only six but he know his way 'round shit.” She said this with a glimmer of pride. Then she recited all that happened on that summer day in 1988: strolling down to the store, Tori being caught, her little sister Lulu running home.

Lulu was standing in front of her—guess she didn't recognize me, and after Napoleon Crase's interview, I was fine with that. I had never liked Golden and had always felt like my guardian angel had abandoned me so that the Devil could drag both Golden and me to Hell.

“I'm interested in what happened
after
Crase let her go,” I said, louder now since a stereo from another apartment began blasting Tejano music.

“Me and Tori went off with these guys we knew,” Golden said. “We had just met one of them like the day before. We had sex with them at that park over by Dorsey High School. Man, that was a long time ago.” She laughed and shook her head. “Anyway, we went back to the store after that, to the parking lot. Tori and her guy, the new one, said they was driving to Baskin-Robbins for some ice cream.”

“Ice cream. How wholesome. And then?”

“That was the last time I saw that dude. Didn't know something had happened until the next night when Kesha Tee called me.” She paused, then asked, “They ever find Tori?”

“No,” I said and scribbled on the notepad. “What was the name of the guy you were with?”

“Antonio Robinson,” she said. “He my oldest boy's daddy. He in jail now. Tonio, not my son. Tonio always in jail. Like County got a rewards program.”

I chuckled. “And the other guy? The one Tori was with. What's his name?”

She thought for a moment, then slowly shook her head. “I don't remember his name. Like I said: that week was his first time he hung out with us. And the last time, too.”

The apartment door flew open, and a girl of about fifteen stuck out her head and yelled, “Momma, Kobe busted his head open.”

I moved faster than Golden into the apartment, being sure to first secure my gun.

The living room smelled odd, uncommitted to just one type of stink. Pee, fried eggs, lilac air freshener, and a crappy diaper. The kids had turned off the television and were all huddled on the carpet around a two-year-old boy. Kobe's chubby face was slick with tears, mucus, and a trickle of blood.

Little Trey—I knew it was him because a barber had sheared
LIL TREY
into his hair—sidled closer to me.

Golden took her time as she brought over a battered first-aid kit, its cover smudged with old bloody thumbprints. She yawned as though she carried a box of saltine crackers instead of lifesaving interventions. To baby Kobe she said, “Your momma gon' kill me.”

I paused. “Kobe's not yours?”

She crinkled her lips. “He one of my grandbabies.”

Little Trey moved closer to me. “Hey, lady,” he said, his breath hot and wheezy. “Lady, what's your name?”

I ignored the boy and applied gauze soaked with witch hazel to Kobe's forehead. The gash wasn't deep, more blood than bite.

“Hey, lady,” Little Trey said again. “Lady. You got a gun?”

More pressure applied to Kobe's forehead, a swipe of ointment, a bandage, and a pat on the boy's back, and I was out the front door.

Golden thanked me for cleaning up the toddler, then said, “I wish I could remember dude's name. Oh, well.” And then, she closed the door. The volume on the television returned to normal, and Golden screamed, “You just as stupid as your goddamned, jailbird daddy.”

Grandmas never run out of hugs or cookies, do they?

 

52

Colin would fill out the profile on Max Yates since we now knew he had done the Hustle at his school's homecoming dance. And I would prepare for my Monday morning interview with Napoleon Crase. I called Pepe, and he agreed to roll past Crase's Baldwin Hills home every now and then, just to make sure that my very special guest didn't get a late-night hankering for empanadas in Argentina.

Home was where I had left it a day and a half ago: a mile from an ocean I rarely visited. That would change, though. With the new developments in Tori's case, I would soon have the bandwidth to let the sun shine in.

I grabbed the phone from the kitchen charger and retreated to the sun deck. Someone in the neighborhood was barbecuing—smoke mixed with the salty air—and I decided to invite Syeeda and Lena over for grilled steaks and wine after talking with Greg.

It was now early morning in Tokyo. My husband would just be waking up. He would find cartoons to watch on the television, then complete a hundred sit-ups and a hundred push-ups. He would then drag himself to the bathroom, shave and shower, then pull on a T-shirt and jeans. He would eat waffles and corned beef hash for breakfast.

His line rang … rang …

Worry reared its head.

Maybe he's with Michiko. Ha-ha.

Worry didn't think that my joke was funny and cocked an eyebrow.

“Hello?”

“Hey, you,” I said to my husband.

Worry's eyebrow remained cocked.

“Hey, you,” Greg said.

Was it the connection or was he whispering?

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked.

He didn't speak at first, said, “Huh?,” and then, “No. I just got out of—”

“Honey, you coming back into the shower?” That was not my question, nor was it my voice
asking
that question. Had Japan's version of Just a Friend just asked my husband to fuckin' wash her back?

“Who the fuck you with?” I shouted, already knowing who the fuck he was with.

I was pacing around the sun deck now, a starving cheetah ready to throw herself at a stupid hippo. Don't remember half of what I said, but the bulk of words heard by Greg and my poor neighbors had been the four worst profanities in American English, including the dreaded C-word.

“Calm the hell down, Elouise,” Greg warned. “I can explain—it's not what it seems.”

“There's some great explanation about why another woman just asked if you, who she called
honey
, were coming back into the shower?” I screeched. “She just busted you out, asshole.”

I pictured him wearing his black Calvin Klein boxer briefs, hunched over in bed, his bourbon-colored eyes squeezed shut, his hand on the washboard stomach he paid too much attention to as a married man.

“She's just an associate,” he said.

“She designs
purses
,” I spat. “How the hell is that associated with video games?”

He had no answer. Because those two things? Purses and video games? Not associated.

After we concluded our vicious shouting match, after he admitted to sleeping with Michiko Yurikami, after he shouted six times, “It didn't mean anything, it didn't mean anything,” I pressed End Call and collapsed in the chair. No more strength. No more resolve.

That was it. No more.

I loved him.

I hated him.

What if he meant it, that it didn't mean anything?

No. It meant something, it meant everything. My husband was a liar and the truth was not in him.

The phone rang, but it wasn't a pinball machine and I answered.

“What's up, lovely lady?” Lena said.

I opened my mouth to speak and a sob broke from my chest.

“Oh, crap,” she said. “Lou, what's wrong?”

I squeezed out, “Greg …
gurgle-gurgle
.”

“I'm on my way,” Lena said.

Maybe Greg's affair was my fault. Being around me seemed to send people to far-off places where I'd never find them, emotionally or physically. Unlike Tori, though, I would not search for Greg, not this time. I would not beg him to be my love, beg him like I had begged my father to come back to me. Greg Norton would not break my heart. But then, he couldn't break something that had been shattered years ago.