Try Darkness (13 page)

“Well, thank you for asking,” I said. “Now, can you tell her we’re here?”

“Sir, I’m asking for the last time.”

I shook my head. The guard flipped his official Captain America super-security-guard pad closed and walked with purpose toward the front of the property.

A crunch of footsteps behind me. It was an old guy in a denim jacket with floral designs stitched into it. He wore two braids, Native American style, woven from his gray hair and tied off with paisley fabric. He had on wraparound shades and a cowboy hat. He was either Willie Nelson’s evil twin or the great grandson of Sitting Bull.

“Been a long time since I seen a nun,” he said.

Sister Mary smiled. “Sort of like spotting a great pied hornbill, isn’t it?”

Mr. Braids paused, then bent over and looked at Kylie. “Well, hi there, honey,” he said.

Kylie hid behind my leg.

“Don’t you remember your old pal Fly?” he said.

Fly?

“Heard you mention Avisha,” he said, as if having the name Fly was the most natural thing in the world. “That’d have to be the little girl who was here about a year ago. Kelly, wasn’t it?”

Kylie’s head pushed against my hamstring.

“You folks come on up to my place,” Fly said. “Petey there, the security guy, he insists that you be seeing somebody. Well that somebody’d be me. Fly Charles. Maybe I can help you out.”

53

FLY’S MOBILE HOME
was paneled with faux pine and held old venetian blinds, a well used sofa, TV, and glass-topped coffee table with a Domino’s pizza box and two empty Corona bottles. On the wall over the sofa was a glass-encased electric bass. And next to that, framed, a gold record.

“Musician?” I said.

Fly grunted.

I went to the gold record for a closer look. “Detritus and the Electric Yaks?”

Fly grunted again.

Sister Mary said, “Oh wow! My dad had your album!”

“Thank you,” Fly said.

“I guess I never heard it,” I said. “Sorry.”

Fly shook his head. “The second one didn’t do so hot. Then we broke up. Old story.”

“Were you Detritus?”

“Not then. Now maybe.”

“You played bass?”

“Still do, man.”

“Like Flea?”

“Don’t even say that name!” Fly erupted. “He
stole
that name! He took it from me, just like he took my style!”

“Flea took your style?”

“He was a punk kid, and I mean punk in the worst way, out of Fairfax High, when he came to me for a lesson, and I was messing around and slapping my bass, and the next thing you know . . .” His voice trailed off in disgust.

“Red Hot Chili Peppers,” I said.

“Don’t say that name either!”

“But the Electric Yaks,” I said, “you still had that album.”

“One song on that album. That was it! They called us a one-hit wonder, and once that happens, man, you can’t ever get back. You want a beer or something?”

“No thanks,” I said. “Sister Mary, you want a beer or something?”

She made a face at me.

“So how’s Kelly doin’?” Fly said. “Come on out, honey. You don’t have to be afraid of ol’ Fly.”

Kylie stayed close to me. I said, “Kylie is her name. Kylie. You knew her mother?”

“Oh yeah, sure.”

“And Avisha?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to talk to her,” I said. “Can you tell me where I can find her?”

“She’s in number 27, just down a couple. So where’s the mother? What was her name—Reanne, something like that?”

“Something like that.”

“Uh-huh. How’s she doing?”

I put my hand around Kylie’s shoulder. “She’s dead.”

Fly took off his sunglasses, which aged his face about ten years. His gray eyes were tired, his skin sallow. It was the Keith Richards look, the kind that could make Botox nervous. “Bummer,” he said.

“How well did you know Reatta?” I said.

“Reatta. That’s it. Yeah.”

“How well?”

“How well did
you
know her?”

“She was a client of mine,” I said. “I was her lawyer.”

“She had a lawyer?”

“It’s not like a rash,” I said.

“Most of the time,” Sister Mary said.

Fly said, “Maybe I should to talk to you, outside the hearing of . . .” He glanced at Kylie.

“Why don’t you take Kylie outside for a look at the ocean?” I said to Sister Mary. “I’ll be right out.”

54

WHEN WE WERE
alone, Fly said, “You know much about Reatta? And Avisha?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I sure could use that beer. You sure?”

“I’m good.”

“Hold on.” He went to the kitchenette, talking as he went. “Yeah, I been doin’ studio work for thirty years. I still got it. Don’t’ let ’em say any different.” He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a Corona.

“You were about to tell me about Reatta,” I said.

He came back in, sucking suds. “Reatta and Avisha. Pros, you know what I’m saying?”

“Hookers?”

“Escorts, man. High end.”

“High-end hookers living here?”

“What’s wrong with living here?”

“Nothing, I—”

“Yeah, nothing. Got the ocean right outside the door, man. You know what this spot’s worth?”

“I get it. So Reatta was working for an escort service?”

“L.A. Night Silk. Heard of it?”

“No.”

“I don’t know what the deal was, to be honest. Avisha I know for a long time.”

“You know her boyfriend James?” I asked.

Fly hunched his shoulders and took another pull on his Corona, shaking his head as he did.

“What do you know about Reatta? What can you remember?”

He shrugged. “I just got the impression she knew Avisha from the service, and had this kid and needed a place to stay awhile.”

“How long was she here for?”

“I don’t know, two, three months maybe.”

“Why’d she need to stay here?”

“You’ll have to ask Avisha. The kid, she okay?”

“As okay as a kid can be who lost her mother.”

“How’d it happen?”

“It’s under investigation.”

“Murder?”

“It happens.”

“Stinkin’ world. I wrote a song called ‘Stinkin’ World.’”

I was afraid he was going to offer to sing it for me. “Anything else you can tell me about Reatta? Where she was from, anything like that she may have mentioned?”

Fly shook his head. “I really feel sorry for the kid. She being taken care of okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Living with nuns, huh? I didn’t know they were still minting ’em. She’s a young one. Where she from? They got a coven around here?”

“I think you mean
convent.
”

“What’d I say?”

“Coven.”

Fly slapped himself on the side of the head. “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, man.”

55

SISTER MARY AND
Kylie were standing on a couple of rocks looking out over PCH to the ocean. The wind was still whipping up whitecaps. My pants and Sister Mary’s habit were flapping in the breeze.

“Windy!” Kylie shouted, laughing, her hair flowing. I was glad for her. Glad for a little bit of happiness. Like gas, the price of happiness was going up. This was a freebie.

I heard tires on the gravel drive. A sheriff’s car heading our way, slow. Behind it walked the security guard, like a kid who had just called on his big brother to beat up a bully.

The car stopped and a deputy emerged. A David Caruso type, trying to look cool. His six-point star glinted in the sun. I thought I heard the theme from
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

“How you doing, sir?” he said, meaning he didn’t care at all how I was doing.

“Great,” I said. “Taking in the view.”

“You’ll have to take it in somewhere else,” he said. “This is private property.”

“I’m visiting.”

“Who are you visiting, sir?”

“That’s private, just like the property.”

“Doesn’t work that way, sir. If you and the sister will please—”

“All right,” I said. “I confess. I’m a raving fan of Detritus and the Electric Yaks.”

“Sir—”

“Are you into Detritus?”

“Sir—”

“Because I was visiting their bass player, the legendary Fly. He lives right there.”

The deputy looked at the security guard. “Is there anything to that?”

“Well, yeah.”

To me, the deputy said, “I take it your visit is over.”

“There’s just one more stop I want to make,” I said.

“Where?”

“Just over there,” I said as vaguely as possible.

“The name.”

“Avisha.”

“Do you know the last name?”

“I think she’s undercover,” I said. “If I tell you the name I’ll have to kill you.”

The deputy said, “You have to leave now.”

56

“NOT VERY FRIENDLY,”
Sister Mary said as we pulled out of the mobile home park. “I thought Malibu was laid back.”

“You didn’t think Fly was laid back?” I said.

“He was a piece of work.”

“He was also lying,” I said.

“He was?”

“Not giving up everything he knew. Just enough to get me to talk.”

“How could you tell?”

“It’s a gift.”

“So now what?”

“So now we stop off at Zuma. We take off our shoes and stomp around in the water. Then I take you home and I come back tonight.”

“Why?”

“Find Avisha,” I said.

I drove us to Zuma and parked in the lot. We got out and Kylie ran to the sand. Sister Mary took off her shoes—they were not the “sensible shoes” I always thought they had to wear, but black Nikes—and hitched up her habit and went after Kylie.

I tagged along, watching the two of them laughing at the water’s edge. They drew some looks from people on the beach but didn’t care. Kylie, barefoot now in her yellow dress, jumped and splashed as the waves slapped down and ran up to her ankles.

Sister Mary joined in. A jumping, splashing nun. Which made Kylie laugh all the louder. Then they held hands and went out a little further. The water came up to Kylie’s knees.

They were perfectly happy there.

So I took off my shoes and got on my knees and made a sand castle. Made it the only way I knew how, with a hole in the front for the water to pass through.

57

THAT NIGHT I
came back in the car Sister Mary drives for St. Monica’s. It’s an ancient Taurus. It still runs.

The nuns must have blessed the thing a hundred times over. Put holy water in the radiator. Imported carpet from the Vatican. Whatever they did, the thing’s a miracle on wheels.

Also good cover. I knew the deputy and security guard would have recorded my license plate. The Taurus gave me a little anonymity.

There was a stretch along PCH where a few cars were parked. People on the beach who had watched the sun go down. A half-moon was out. Some mobile home porch lights were on.

These mobile parks are not gated communities. It’s not hard to slip in if that’s what you really felt like doing. I felt like it. I didn’t have to go in through the front but could cut right in around the same spot Kylie and Sister Mary had been looking out at the ocean. The only thing between me and the park were some rocks.

When I got in I saw a light on in Fly’s place. I ignored it.

I walked past numbers 25 and 26. Twenty-seven was at the end of the row. There was no light on inside or out.

Some headlights flashed from down the road. I slipped along the side, between 26 and 27. A couple of large plastic trash receptacles were against 27’s wall. I squatted behind them, waiting for the car to pass. Could have been a patrol. I didn’t need to answer any more questions from security guards or deputy sheriffs.

After it passed I waited a second or two, then tapped on the back door of 27. No response.

I knocked again, just make sure. I went up some stairs to the other door—sliding glass. Knocked on the glass. And again.

Tried the glass door.

It slid.

I pushed the curtain aside and poked my head in. “Avisha?”

No sound.

“Candygram for Avisha.”

Nothing.

I went inside. My eyes were used to the dark but that didn’t help much. The kitchenette had to be close by, so I walked like a blind man, hands out in front, palms inward so I wouldn’t leave a print. The place smelled of perfume and sea.

I could vaguely make out the contours of the kitchenette. Got to the sink area and found a dish towel hanging by the window. Took it down and used it to open the refrigerator.

The light was enough to give some illumination, and not enough, I hoped, to call any attention to the place. In the refrigerator was a half-drunk bottle of white wine, the cork stuck in it and the bottle on its side. Next to that, a Baggie with some white pills in it. And an open pack of Oreo cookies.

I needed to move quick to find . . . I had no idea what. Maybe an address book, if she kept one that wasn’t electronic. Something that would lead somewhere closer to Reatta.

Five minutes. I gave myself five minutes to find something or get out.

I went back out to the living room and pulled back a window curtain for some light. The place was neatly kept. Flowered pillows on the sofa. House plants and a bookshelf, with books neatly stacked. On a coffee table was a large statue, Hindu variety. A woman was kicking up her left foot. Like she was leading dance aerobics.

At least I thought it was a woman. Later I found out it was a guy, a god actually. Shiva, creator of all things. Also the destroyer.

Busy guy.

But not giving me much of anything I needed. I thought about flicking on a light but decided against it. Which meant that looking around wasn’t going to bring up anything. Breaking and entering is the same, whether it’s a house or trailer or room in a motel. I needed to get out before a guard—or Avisha or James—popped in.

I walked slowly back to the kitchenette and was about to elbow the refrigerator closed when I saw the body.

58

SHE WAS FACEDOWN
in the small corridor to the left of the kitchenette. I’d missed her the first time by turning the other way at the start. The refrigerator light was enough to show me two things. A corpse that was shapely, black, and scantily dressed. And a puddle of blood on the light carpet, looking like the source was the back of her head.