Land of Shadows (9 page)

“Who
is
this Crase character?” he asked.

“Back in the day, he owned only one store,” I said. “Crase Liquor Emporium. It was in the torn-down plaza across the street from where we found Monique Darson's Lexus. Then, one store became two stores, then so on and so forth.”

I told my partner about Crase's rise in Los Angeles' business world, and I also shared with him Crase's well-documented propensity to date girls young enough to be his granddaughters.

Colin took a sip of coffee, then said, “So, the bad guy gets rich, dates hot girls. Meanwhile, your sister stays missing and you and your family…”

I said, “Yeah,” then swiped at my sweaty brow. “Umm … I don't wanna talk about this anymore.” I waggled my head, then released a burst of air. “I'm hungry. You hungry?”

Colin stared at me for a moment before dragging out, “Sure.”

Relieved, I yanked open the fridge and said, “I doubt we'll have time for a proper meal today.” Hands shaking, I grabbed random items off shelves and pretended to be interested in domestic this-and-that.

So, Colin and I ate our American breakfast as penny-colored light blinked between the kitchen blinds, as the
tap-tap-tap
of joggers' shoes brought Cielo to life. Stuffing your face with bacon, eggs, and sourdough toast was always the most proper response to pain, right?

 

13

The Darson house was a slate-gray, two-story Spanish-style protected by a decorative wrought-iron fence. A red Maserati was parked in the driveway behind a black Toyota 4Runner and a white Toyota Prius. This neighborhood was a hybrid, too—some houses had been purchased by professionals who mowed their lawns and hosted church potlucks; while other houses were rented by Those People, families with dangerous-looking youths wearing long white T-shirts who sat on the porch all day, smoking cigarillos and chronic, getting shot on the regular, cursing so much you had to bring the kids in and give them baths to rinse off the neighborhood filth.

Earlier this year, I had visited Garthwaite Avenue. Work-related, of course. A fifteen-year-old gangbanger (also a father of two) had been murked on the sidewalk just four houses down from the Darsons.

Before we approached the front door, I clutched Colin's arm. “We will not tell them upfront that she's dead—they'd be too shaken up to tell us anything useful. And we will not mention the belt or the fingernails.”

Colin said, “Got it,” and then finished crunching his mouthful of Tic Tacs.

I shifted the growing case file to my other hand and held my breath as I rang the door.

Like any cop, I hated family notifications. You never knew how folks were gonna react. In normal situations, they wailed and sobbed, pleaded with God and the LAPD for justice. In abnormal situations, families wanted to fight me, or they sat on the couch, sphinx-like, and said, “Oh. Okay.”

Colin also took several deep breaths as we waited for someone to answer the door. His eyes shifted back to the sidewalk, to the golf club–wielding old couple walking their terrier, to the mother herding three young children into a minivan, and finally to the red Maserati sexing up the Darsons' driveway. The Mas was a fancy car for most neighborhoods, including this one.

A woman wearing a bus driver's uniform answered the door. She could've been my age or a bit older. A pink scarf covered her hair. Her lips, plum-colored from smoking, wore bread crumbs and a frown. She was not pleased that someone was ringing her doorbell so early in the morning.

I showed her my badge and introduced Colin and myself as homicide detectives.

The woman's scowl worsened. “What's this about?”

Colin glanced at me—had she not heard the word “homicide,” the biggest clue to what this visit was about?

“Are you the mother of Monique Darson?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm Angie Darson. What's wrong?”

“May we come in?” I asked.

“Momma,” a young woman shouted from inside the house, “who is it?”

Angie didn't answer her daughter and continued giving me the too-early-in-the-morning-for-this-bullshit stink eye.

I glanced past Angie and into the house at that young woman, who was about twenty-one or so, standing at the bottom of the staircase.

Whoever she was, she wore a fuchsia-and-gold Pucci scarf on her head and a silk robe covered in Dolce & Gabbana's logo. “Momma, what's going on?”

“Get your father,” Angie said over her shoulder. After the girl had run up the stairs, Angie turned back to us. “What did she do? Is this about Derek?”

I offered a comforting smile, hoping that Colin would write “Derek” (the same “Derek” from Monique's suicide note?) into his pad as soon as possible. “This will be easier if you let us come in.”

She stood there, though, unmoving, blocking our way as though we were vampires, thinking about what I was asking her to do. Finally, she sighed and stepped aside. Guess she had heard some sexy things about vampires. “I don't have much time,” she snapped. “I'm already running late.”

The house smelled of cigarettes, coffee, fried bacon, and toast. The morning news played on the newish LCD television bolted to the living room wall. Old crap was mixed in with new crap—a new leather sofa and love seat alongside a stained corduroy armchair; a new, antique-ish lamp placed atop a tired area rug with shedding tassels; a yellowing porcelain ashtray sitting on a new cherry coffee table. Someone had won the Showcase Showdown on
The Price Is Right
.

A man with long, graying dreadlocks came down the steps as he buttoned his blue uniform shirt. “What's happening?”

The young woman came down behind him and clutched his arm. “They're detectives.” She was pretty: high cheekbones, large doe-brown eyes, and perfect eyebrows that looked drawn on. She was bosomy beneath that short D&G robe.

“Are you Monique Darson's father?” I asked.

“Monie?” he said. “Yeah. I mean, yes, Officer. Cyrus Darson.”

Dual pearly scars ran like diagonal train tracks from the man's upper lip, across his nose, and into his thick hair. He'd had the locks and those scars for a very long time, and the scars, especially, made me wince—they had been mean and bloody and hydrogen-bomb hot on the day he'd received them.

I nodded at the young woman. “And is this Monique Darson's sister?”

Both father and daughter nodded. He said, “This is Macie, our oldest.”

Angie aimed a remote at the television and the screen went black. She sat on the new sofa with her hands clutching her arms. Macie remained on the steps as Cyrus moved to the living room, offering Colin and me a place on the love seat before settling into the armchair.

I opened my leather binder and turned to Colin.
Ready?

My partner nodded, steno pad in hand.
Time to plow the road.

“When did you last see Monie?” I asked.

Angie tugged at her hair scarf. “Tuesday evening around six o'clock. I know it was almost six cuz my sister Jolene called. Monie was supposed to be babysitting for her and flaked out.”

“Do you know what Monique did instead of babysitting?” I asked.

“She had a date, but she didn't tell me who she was going out with.”

“How was her mental state when she left the house that evening?”

Angie scratched her left palm, then flexed her hand. “She was mad at me. We argued cuz she flaked on Jolene, and we said some nasty things to each other, and she drove off.”

“Drove off?” Colin asked. “In what type of car?”

“A red Lexus,” Macie said.

“Did she carry a purse?”

Angie nodded.

“Do you know what kind of purse?” Colin asked.

“Did somebody steal her purse?” Cyrus asked, eyebrows bunched in confusion.

“She had my red Dooney & Bourke,” Macie said.

“Did she have any appointments back on Tuesday afternoon?” I asked. “Nail, hair…?”

Angie shook her head.

Macie shook her head.

Cyrus was still trying to figure out if his daughter's purse had been stolen and that's why two homicide detectives had knocked on his door at seven in the morning.

“Any school event on Tuesday night?” I asked. “A pep rally or a game or…?”

“No,” Angie said. “She would have worn her uniform if there was a game. And anyway, she's out of high school.”

“So she had on regular clothes, then?” Colin asked. “Because, as you said, she had a date that night.”

Angie nodded. “She wore jeans, I think. And them boots that drive me crazy. It was hot as hell outside and she had on boots.”

“So she goes on her date,” I said. “And what did you do?”

“I ended up babysitting the kids and…” Angie reached for the pack of Kools on the coffee table. “Why are you asking us these questions?” She shook out a cigarette but didn't pluck it from the pack.

“I'll explain everything in a minute,” I said, “but it's important that we ask a few more questions first.”

“What about you, sir?” Colin asked Cyrus. “When was the last time you saw your daughter?”

“Around noon on Tuesday. I had a job out in El Segundo that afternoon. Monie was still in bed when I left.”

“And what do you do for a living?” I asked.

“Electrician.”

“What time did you get off?”

Cyrus paused, then said, “Umm … Around seven.”

“You come home after?”

“No.”

I waited for him to continue.

Cyrus licked his top lip, then said, “I got a bite to eat and umm … Went to have a few beers, and umm, played some pool, and then I came home.”

“Around what time?” I asked.

He blinked. “Around two? Two thirty?”

I nodded, then turned my attention to Angie. “And you were…?”

“Babysitting,” she said. “Up until midnight.”

“Monie,” I said. “Is that Monique's nickname?”

Both parents nodded, and Cyrus added, “And we call her Baby Girl, too, cuz she's the baby of the family.”

“Macie and Monie are five years apart,” Angie volunteered. “When Monie was born, she was sickly—a heart murmur—so she got a lot of attention. Macie wasn't used to sharing space but she loves her sister. Makes sure she never lacks for nothing. Makes sure she never overtaxes herself.” Angie looked over to the staircase and to Macie, who nodded—
yes, I take care of my sister, yes, I love my sister.

“Other than Tuesday's argument,” Colin said, “is Monique a good kid? Any behavioral problems?”

Angie gave a smile that warmed the room. “She's a wonderful child. Smart. She was captain of the cheer squad. She was valedictorian at graduation last week. She's going to Cal State Dominguez Hills to become a vet.” She held up her hand and said, “Okay, stop. Cops just don't show up to people's front doors to hand out awards for good behavior.”

My heart fluttered in my chest as I leaned forward. “There's no easy way to say this, so … Last night, a young woman was found murdered at a condo site over on Santa Rosalia Drive, near the old Santa Barbara Plaza. We believe she's your daughter Monique.”

“
What?
” Angie took several quick breaths, Lamaze style. “No. Nuh-uh. No.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Wait minute, wait a—I don't understand.”

Macie understood immediately and covered her mouth with her hands.

I reached into the expandable file and pulled out the autopsy photograph of a very dead Monique Darson. I offered it to Cyrus Darson. “Is this your daughter?”

Cyrus took the photo and peered at the image. The picture shook in his grasp and he whispered, “Yes.” He turned to his wife with drooped shoulders. “It's Monie.”

Angie's breathing had become shrill, and now she was keening and rocking until finally crying out, “No!
No!
”

Macie flew into the living room and perched at her side. She threw her arms around her mother, but Angie wrestled out of her grasp. “No! Not my baby! Oh, God, no!”

Colin and I sat there in sad silence, noting every action the Darson family made. Studying them as though they lived in a tank and we had just added a bead of liquid mercury into their environment. We watched as Cyrus remained in the armchair like a tree trunk. We watched Macie comfort her mother and suggest that she go upstairs and lie down.

But Angie shook her head—she didn't want to lie down. She gasped for breath, swiped at the air as though wasps were attacking.

Macie ran to the kitchen, returning almost immediately with a handful of paper towels. She handed the bouquet to her mother, who then told her, “Go put some clothes on.”

Macie nodded, considered us with despondent brown eyes, then jogged up the stairs.

“How did it happen?” Cyrus asked, now squeezing a chair cushion.

“We believe she was strangled to death,” Colin said.

“What?” Angie shouted. “Who did it?”

“We're working to find that out, ma'am,” Colin said.

Angie muttered, “No, no, no,” and the tears started again. But she stopped. “Where's Butter? Her dog. When she left the house on Tuesday night, Butter was with her. Where's Butter?”

“The dog was not with your daughter when we found her.” I remembered that line in the suicide note—whoever killed Monique had asked Angie and Cyrus to take care of the dog. “Can you describe Butter for me?”

Angie rose from the chair and stomped to the mantel. She pulled a picture out of its frame. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “She's a bichon frise.”

It was the same dog found on the phone's lock screen.

“You said she was valedictorian?” I asked, trying to lead Angie back into safe territory.

“Excelled at everything,” Cyrus said, waving his hand at all the commendations and awards on the walls. “She was supposed to start working at Trader Joe's next week.”