The Cracked Earth

“Tough and engaging …
Concrete River
is my kind of L.A. novel—hard as nails with a soft spot in the middle.”

—Michael Connelly, author of the Harry Bosch mysteries

“Shannon is a fine writer. Make no mistake, this is the real L.A., real people, some of them you cross the street to avoid, looking everywhere but at them. Take a walk with Jack Liffey, a brave and decent man.”

—Kent Anderson, author of
Night Dogs

“If Raymond Chandler had written
The Day of the Locust,
this is the book he would have written.”

—Mike Davis, author of
City of Quartz

“Like Graham Greene—and there are other admirable resemblances—he is an explorer of that shadowy area in which, as spurs to positive action, abstract idealism and personal psychology merge. The author has achieved one of the most stimulating of the form's uncountable possibilities.”

—
Sunday Times
(London)

“A serious adventure … [that] draws much of its strength from a clear presentation of social and political tensions.”

—
Times Literary Supplement

“Fast and exciting action.”

—
Daily Telegraph
(London)

“Racy, ambitious.”

—Clancy Sigal, author of
The Secret Defector

DEWEY JAMES MYSTERIES:
America's favorite small-town sleuth! “Highly entertaining.”

—
Booklist

by Kate Morgan

FORREST EVERS MYSTERIES:
A former race-car driver solves the high-speed crimes of world-class racing… “A Dick Francis on wheels!”

—Jackie Stewart

by Bob Judd

THE REVEREND LUCAS HOLT MYSTERIES:
They call him “The Rev,” a name he earned as pastor of a Texas prison. Now he solves crimes with a group of reformed ex-cons …

by Charles Meyer

FRED VICKERY MYSTERIES:
Senior sleuth Fred Vickery has been around long enough to know where the bodies are buried in the small town of Cutler, Colorado…

by Sherry Lewis

INSPECTOR BANKS MYSTERIES:
Award-winning British detective fiction at its finest… “Robinson's novels are habit-forming!”

—
West Coast Review of Books

by Peter Robinson

JACK McMORROW MYSTERIES:
The highly acclaimed series set in a Maine mill town and starring a newspaperman with a knack for crime solving… “Gerry Boyle is the genuine article.” —Robert B. Parker

by Gerry Boyle

JOE WILDER MYSTERIES:
Featuring struggling-novelist-turned detective Joe Wilder … “Crime fiction at its riveting best.”

—Faye Kellerman

by T.J. Phillips

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

THE CRACKED EARTH

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime edition / February 1999

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1999 by John Shannon.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 0-425-16732-1

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Pam

Catastrophes adapt themselves to their relevant cultural order. Los Angeles represents a horizontal break, a breaking open of spaces in an intellectual sense. There never was a foundation or a profundity, but only a cracked surface.

—J
EAN
B
AUDRILLARD

“Y
OU WAIT,” THE TOUGH-LOOKING
L
ATINA MAID SAID, AND
then waddled away like a tugboat. There was nowhere to sit in the large tiled entry and his eye quickly ran out of things to look at, though a number of them had entertainment value while they lasted. A real elephant-foot umbrella stand out of Graham Greene, an oak coat tree from some monastery, and a Chinese vase as tall as his chest overflowing with unopened junk mail.

A single English phrase broke through a flood of Spanish: “Don't use the word ‘kidnap.'…” That got his attention, all right. The woman's voice had a strange familiar timbre to it.

On his way up into the Hollywood Hills, he'd wondered idly who still lived up here in the big houses around the cul-de-sacs like Avenida Bluebird. The movie folk had mostly gone west to Bel Air and Malibu, leaving the hills to the coke dealers and the ruthless new music execs. He'd been sent to see a woman named L. Bright, and he'd guessed that she'd turn out to be the widowed third wife of a very rich dentist.

He heard that honeyed voice again, and then it was lost in the burring of a leaf blower that started up out front. The maid came back finally and beckoned him in. When the heavy door closed, it snuffed the sound of the leaf blower right out. The large room was craftsman, Norman, and Moorish in equal proportions, with sunlight streaming in through motionless gauze curtains. But he didn't look at the furnishings for long. He couldn't help staring at the woman.

“Yes, I'm Lori Bright.”

He wondered if the young lawyer who'd referred him had been playing a joke. But the young guys didn't know the older stars anymore.

“I'm shorter than you thought.” She smiled with a rueful confidence and brushed back one side of the glossy blond hair that looked like it had been labored over by a half-dozen hairdressers. “And older.”

“Hell,
I'm
older than I thought,” he said. “Jack Liffey.” He took her hand, small and firm, and tried to keep his eye from drifting across her body. Somewhere in the back of his brain, a calculator was working out her age. When he was fourteen, he'd probably masturbated to the famous
Life
picture of her in a half-off slip, but she'd only have been nineteen or so herself. She wore a kind of peasant getup that he associated with Ava Gardner.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“What are you having?”

“Herb tea.” She pronounced the
H
with that marvelous gravelly voice. He tried to remember if she was married to somebody British, but he had never followed who movie stars married.

“That'll be fine.”

“I could have Anita get you something stronger.”

He shook his head. He didn't drink—or smoke or do a lot of other things—but it was complicated to explain why and he wasn't there to talk about himself. She stooped to pick up a telephone, with a lot of bobbling going on under the peasant blouse, and punched in one digit.

“Two teas,” she said, and set the phone down. “Please sit. You're making me nervous.”

“Really?” He forced himself to tear his eyes off her for a moment and sat in a leather Mission chair that looked like it had once belonged to Will Rogers. Being ambushed by celebrity must have unsettled something in him. “Maybe it's because my curiosity would kill a whole bunch of cats.”

She smiled and sat on a Mission sofa. “You'd best get over the awe before we talk. Then I'll have your undivided attention.”

He didn't know quite what to say. He wondered if Marilyn Monroe had ever sat in the chair he was in, the spirit of her rump communing now with his, or maybe Jane Fonda, or Billy Wilder.
A Week in Palm Springs,
he thought. Lori Bright had lounged in the bubble bath while Cary Grant, caught in the wrong room in one of his last movies, tried to keep his eyeballs from ripping sideways out of their sockets.

“Don't feel bad. I see that reaction a lot. For the life of me, I can't figure out why we're envied. You've been to college, right?”

He nodded. He had a master's degree in English literature, but that was something else he wasn't there to talk about.

“Actors hang out with other actors. Maybe two in a hundred have been to college. They can say witty words, but they don't think them up. Mostly they can't cook or build things or carry a tune. They've been around the world but only in hotels and only staring in mirrors. Famously, their eyes go blank when the conversation wanders away from their own doings. What's to envy?”

“I think the money helps.”

“But it's not the point, is it? You don't envy the CEO of IBM. I have no idea what glamour is supposed to be. As far as I can figure, it's just circular. You're enviable for being envied.”

He never liked these instant overconfidings that were so common in L.A., and he was also annoyed at himself for reacting to her like an out-of-towner gaping in a restaurant. “When was your last movie?” he said.

Her eyes went hard as steel and everything about her face stiffened. It was probably a trick, but it was really chilling. “You've got a mean streak.”

“Look, you can't do this poor-little-rich-kid routine on me. You've got everything people want. The house, the friends, the travel, the money. And you were the most attractive star of the sixties for my money, because you always played smart.”

She opened her mouth, but he forged on. “I've seen photos of you all my life, and you've never seen a photo of me. Okay? Offhand, since you bring it up, I'd say glamour is about the illusion of a life that's completely insulated from unhappiness. But I don't think you asked me up here to talk philosophy.”

Once again a strange kind of confidence stole over her features. She cocked her head as if she'd just noticed one of his features, maybe an extra nose. “You really get your back up. That's a plus.” She got up and pulled the curtain aside to look out in a strange theatrical gesture. “I wonder if you can be bought.”

That really tore it. What movie was this? he wondered. He kept his mouth shut.

“It isn't an empty question, Mr. Liffey. My daughter has disappeared. I think when you look for her, you're going to have to ask questions of some pretty rich and powerful men.”

“Gosh, maybe you'd prefer a rich and powerful detective.”

“Don't be angry with me, please.” Now she was vulnerable and defenseless, dark clouds scudding in over her sunny plain. Being around her a lot would be a real emotional whirlwind.

But then he decided he could use the money.

“Tell me about your daughter.”

“Lee is fifteen going on twenty-five. Her retro style of choice at the moment seems to be beatnik. She's a sophomore at Taunton School, but she disappeared from there a week ago Thursday.”

She seemed to lose interest in whatever was outside the window.

“I take it she boards.”

Lori Bright nodded with her lips pursed. “I suppose you don't approve of private schools. A part of me doesn't either, but it seemed to settle her down. At some ages girls do a lot better when they're out of sight of the boys. She came home most weekends.”

He got out a tiny pad, just to look professional. “What was her major?”

“They don't believe in that at Taunton. Everyone's a generalist until the last year. She thinks she wants to study film, heaven forbid.”

“You don't want her following in your footsteps?”

“Or her father's. He's Lionel Cohn.”

“I see. Is he still in the picture?”

She turned and stared thoughtfully at him. “Interesting diction. No, Lionel is not in the picture. Twelve years ago he started grazing in greener pastures, and I do mean greener. He sees Lee now and then between jobs. He's on location right now up in the Owens Valley shooting a killer-robot film. Poor dear. He despises them more than I do.”

“She has a boyfriend?”

“Last year at Hollywood High there was a black football player, but I believe she's settled in chastely at Taunton. She's always been a very shrewd and unconfiding girl, at least with me. You'll have to ask her girlfriends at school.”

The maid knocked twice and then glided in with the tea.

“Has she ever run off before?”

With the tiniest of gestures, Lori Bright requested he wait until after the tea was served. He wasn't even sure how she did it. He wondered if they gave acting classes in signals like that. The maid set the tray down in front of her.

“Thank you, Anita. If Bruce or Tennyson call, I'm taking
una pequeñita siesta.”

“Sí,
madam.”

She left quickly, loose flat shoes slapping against her soles, and shut the door softly.

“You don't want her to know?”

“She knows. It's just not polite to air intimacies in front of the help as if they didn't have their own curiosity. It's rude, don't you think?”

“It's not something I think about a lot. Has your daughter ever run away from home before?”

“Never. Oh, there was once. When she was very little I punished her unfairly—for something a playmate had done—and she pretended to run off and hid next door until after dark. She has a fierce sense of justice.”

“Drugs?”

“No, thank you,” she said quickly, and then laughed. It was so infectious he had to laugh, too. She was still smiling as she poured the tea. “I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. I had my own bout with cocaine when Lee was about eight and she disapproves mightily.”

“What about religion?”

“No thanks again.” She didn't laugh this time. He got up to take the steaming cup of perfumy tea. “Her father is Jewish, but secular. I'm just plain secular, and so is Lee, as far as I know. In my experience the only grown-ups who believe in anything are Catholics. Especially among actors. It's the hold of all that ritual.”

“I was thinking cults.” He took a long sip of the tea that smelled like some shrub you'd find on the hillside.

“I doubt it. She's not a joiner.”

“How did you and she get along?”

“You and
she
in the nominative.” Lori Bright smiled and raised her carefully plucked eyebrows at him, and he wondered why she was trying to charm him now. Maybe it was just a routine with her, a habitual approach to the postman, the store clerk, the passerby, a way of buying her way back from glamour to reality. “You
have
been to college. We spatted now and then. I'm fairly strict about her hours when she's staying here, in by midnight on Friday and Saturday. She just turned
fifteen
.”

“Do you have a man friend she might object to?”

“I'm in between,” she said, staring straight back at him, and he swore it was meant to be taken as flirtation. He was suddenly nervous again. He remembered her distress in
Enough Is Never Enough
and he couldn't imagine anyone not wanting to comfort her the way Mitchum had.

“Do you have any guess where she's gone? A friend, her father?”

“No. I'm sorry if I don't seem to be taking it too seriously. I'm sure she'll turn up, but Lionel would kill me if something happened and I didn't try to track her down.”

“I need a contact at the school and a recent photograph if you have one. But first, I'd like to see her room.” He swilled down another mouthful of the abstemious tea, and that was plenty. His spartan urges had their limits.

“Privacy has always been a luxury in my profession.” She stood up. “But it's a bit of a trial having a stranger actually prowl the house. I suppose you're not
such
a stranger now.” She took his upper arm in one strong hand and led him through an archway beside a baronial fireplace.

She let go, but his arm still burned where her hand had been. I'll bet you do that to all the boys, he thought.

“At the top of the stairs, just on the left. I think I'll let you look by yourself.”

“I'll try not to soil things. By the way, is her name Cohn or Bright?”

“Borowsky. It's Lionel's legal name. I'm tired of the story about it. You can ask him if you see him.”

She was already walking away and for a moment he watched her buttocks reciprocate against her gauzy skirt, speculating on dance training, and then he tried to get his head working clearly. He took hold of that terribly inviting, vulnerable-tough image of her and pushed it down hard into the interior white suspended space where he kept everything else he had lost, or fucked up, or never had. He knew he could keep her there and get on with things because he had a hard selfish streak.

The first thing that struck him in the girl's room was the large black lapel button taped to the wall that said
EAT SHIT AND DIE,
but any kid might think that was funny. There were Victorian colored prints of stringy pastel flowers and a rather silly poster of a birthday cake being run over by a big snow tire. He drifted to the single shelf of books—S. E. Hinton, the beat poets, Khalil Gibran,
The Fountainhead,
Alan Watts, Aleister Crowley's book on black magic, and Henry Miller. It was a sampler of all the cul-de-sacs of Western culture. There was an expensive-looking boom box and a pile of tapes with names like Thrashing Apes, violent names without wit or imagination. He saw an oversize deck of cards and guessed they were probably tarot, but when he turned a few up he saw the star, square, triangle of Rhine cards, popular with the ESP crowd.

He went through the drawers one at a time, prodding gently and feeling the undersides for taped-up secret messages or keys. He found only expensive black underwear, padded black bras, a hundred used batteries, black tank tops, and an old stuffed elephant, worn from being clutched in bed. The clothes in the closet were mostly black, too, blouses, tight skirts, black jeans on hangers, and a long shiny leather coat like something from the panzer korps. The closet shelf held a year-old high-school yearbook from Hollywood High. He found her by name in a group photo, skinny and innocent looking in a pink dress, obviously from before she'd joined the Waffen SS. He wondered what had happened there, only a year earlier, to drive her to private school.