Land of Shadows (15 page)

“What are you doing in this part of the 'hood?” I asked as we met.

“A girl died here, almost-sergeant,” she said. “Where else would I be?”

We hugged.

Syeeda was taller than Lena but still five-foot-four. She was pretty, but not the pretty that made other women want to push her in front of a train. She had big brown eyes, cheekbones sharper than a paring knife, and great hair. She wore a pair of Gucci loafers that I was determined to buy one day but wouldn't—only a fool would wear $400 shoes to crime scenes soaked in blood, crap, and maggots.

She eyed Colin and said, “Hello.”

I made introductions.

Colin blushed, smiled goofily, and said, “Nice meetin' you.”

Syeeda had that effect on men—she was now dating Adam Sherwood, the lead detective on the Slayer case. And whenever Syeeda was around, Superman Sherwood got goofy, too.

“It's just a regular murder,” I said to Syeeda. “Nothing to see here, folks, please move along.”

She lifted a freshly waxed eyebrow. “Then why are
you
working it? A woman practically three busts away from HSS?”

Homicide Special Section detectives like Superman Sherwood handled high-profile cases like the Menendez brothers, the Hillside Strangler, and the Night Stalker murders.

To Colin I said, “Could you check in with Zucca? See if he found anything new.”

Colin started off, throwing back a last look at Syeeda.

“He has a crush on you,” I said.

She smirked. “Who doesn't? He was
almost
cute.”

“His looks are …
subjective
.”

“Steve McQueen.”

“But with bigger ears.”

She grunted as she thought about Steve McQueen, then said, “So … What can you tell me?”

“First of all…” I pinched her shoulder.

“Ow! Why'd you do that?” she asked, pinching me back.

“Because,” I whispered, “I haven't told anybody about the HSS thing.”

“Oh.” She offered a sheepish grin. “Oops. My bad. So the case…?”

I eyed her—this would be a delicate dance. If you were careful, planting information via reporter often got results—like witnesses you didn't know about reading the newspaper and coming forward. And reporters like Syeeda knew all the backroom deals, the grudges, who was sleeping with whom, and on and on.

She took a step closer to me. “Give me something that those losers over there in front of the cameras would kill their moms to have. I'll hook you up. Swear.”

I already knew that I would give her something, but feigned thinking about it. “I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't need an Al Sharpton around here, telling me that I'm not doing my job and protecting the People.”

Syeeda rolled her eyes, then pulled from her leather satchel a gold cigarette case. “I don't race bait—I point out the discrepancies in the justice system
because
of race.” She plucked out a Newport and stuck it between her lips. “The Phantom Slayer was killing black hookers in a super-poor black neighborhood. As you know, task forces don't get formed for black hookers in super-poor black neighborhoods until reporters like me start snooping around. Twenty years, Lou, since he killed the first girl, and it's only
now
that you all have finally decided to move on it. And
that's
because of my articles. Tell me I'm wrong.”

She lit her cigarette with a golden lighter. “I'd hate to think that your case goes unsolved because the suspect is rich and powerful, and can buy his way out of jail.”

“Who do you think is rich and powerful and can buy his way out of jail?”

Syeeda stared at me.

To be honest, I wanted
her
to say his name, to breathe life into the idea and make my suspicions real. Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear.

But Syeeda didn't bite. Instead she said, “I don't wanna write that story, Elouise.”

“I don't want you to write that story.” I chuckled, but didn't mean it.

She chuckled, too, and didn't mean it, either.

In a low voice I said, “This is off-record until I give you the okay.”

The group of TV reporters had noticed the print journalist talking to the lead detective on the Darson case.

“The zombies have spotted us,” Syeeda said, eyes on the group. “Quickly now.”

“We found a semen-stained hankie hidden in Monique Darson's closet.”

She scrunched her eyebrows. “Does that mean she was settin' somebody up?”

“I haven't confirmed that yet, but it sounds like blackmail, right?”

Syeeda puffed slowly at her cigarette and stared at a point beyond me—she was thinking, and I liked it when she thought.

“And when we found her, she was wearing a cheerleader uniform.”

Syeeda held smoke in her lungs as she processed this new nugget of information.

“And we talked to one of her boyfriends,” I continued. “A BPS named Derek Hester a.k.a. Sleepy D, but I don't think he did it.” Then, I told her about his alibi, his willingness to take a polygraph, his obvious affection for Monique Darson.

“Are you gonna test his DNA against the hankie?” Syeeda asked.

I nodded. “But I don't think that's him splashed all over the place. He's not explosive enough, no pun intended. Because so what? A thug gets sent to prison. That boy's always in prison. No—whoever this guy is must have some means, some influence. And he shouldn't have been naked with a seventeen-year-old girl.”

“Hell,
Derek
shouldn't have been naked with a seventeen-year-old girl.”

“True. But I really don't think he's good for this.”

Syeeda shot a plume of smoke into the air, but her eyes remained fixed on that invisible target. “Do you know about Cyrus Darson and Nappy Crase?”

I narrowed my eyes. “No. But you do.”

“Cyrus Darson was the lead activist against the Santa Barbara revitalization project, including the construction of these condos. He thought the deal was corrupt, that developers would price out the regular people already living and shopping here.”

“True so far,” I said.

“At one point,” Syeeda continued, “there was some back-door dealing between the city and the Crase Group. Certain companies landed contracts while others didn't. And those companies that got a contract had a history of not hiring blacks and women. Crase didn't care about affirmative action—he wanted the cheapest bid. But he did this whole song-and-dance about hiring minorities and in the end, still screwed anybody who had tits and was darker than a paper bag. Cyrus's group gave him the blues, and they showed up at every city council meeting with pickets and bullhorns. They delayed the project for almost two years.”

“But Cyrus lost,” I declared.

“Yeah,” Syeeda said, “and Nappy Crase was pissed because of all the money he had lost. Two years is a long time for money-huggers and thugs like Crase.”

“So payback was the murder of Cyrus's daughter? Harsh.”

Syeeda sucked her teeth. “You know and I know: that fucker likes 'em young. Easier to woo and easier to beat, especially with his arthritic knuckles.”

I clucked my tongue and said, “Hunh.”

“I don't get it,” she said. “These little girls actin' like they're these sexual sophisticates … Old-ass men old enough to know that she's just playing another game of dress-up.” She snorted. “Silly rabbit, they don't want your ancient, tired ass.”

“Johnny Depp is old now,” I pointed out.

Syeeda cocked an eyebrow. “But Napoleon Crase and the rest of his kidney-stone-weak-prostate-buddies ain't Johnny Depp. And c'mon: old Johnny Depp is a world away from
21 Jump Street
Johnny Depp. Which version would
you
choose?”

And for just a second or two, we lusted after
21 Jump Street
Johnny Depp.

“So here you are again,” Syeeda said. “You, Napoleon Crase, and another seventeen-year-old girl.
Another
cheerleader. In this part of town.”

“Coincidence, right?”

She tossed her cigarette to the ground and smashed it with her shoe. “Einstein said, ‘Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous.'”

“I have to be careful here,” I said. “Rodriguez will throw me off this case if I behave badly.”

“But you
are
looking at other people,” Syeeda said.

“I am but…” I twisted my lips, then said, “But Crase is an evil bastard.”

“Crase
is
an evil bastard, so do not underestimate the powers of the Emperor. Bring fire, bring cannons, bring big men with bigger guns. And warrants: bring plenty of those. You got this, Lou.”

The construction trailer door banged open and slammed shut.

My gaze shifted to the trailer's porch. A balding white man wearing chinos and a burgundy polo shirt stood there with a radiophone and clipboard in his hands.

Syeeda turned to see the man, too, then said in her best David Attenborough voice, “The hawk spots the lizard. She circles high above the ground, floats on air currents before she swoops in for the kill.”

I cracked my knuckles. “The hawk is about to serve a warrant to search that trailer.”

“You'll tell me if you find anything exciting?”

“Yep. And you'll tell me if you hear anything that will help me solve this case?”

“Absolutely.” She opened her mouth, then popped it close. Then: “Quick question.”

“And here I am, thinking I almost escaped.”

She leaned forward and whispered, “So, are you off of them now?”

“Am I off of what?”

She smirked.

I poked the inside of my cheek with my tongue, then searched the sky. “Any day now.”

She peered at me, then said, “It's your Spidey senses, you know. They're tingling and warning you not to procreate with this man.”

“This
man
has been my husband for eleven years,” I said with a twisted grin. “Not that you would know anything about being in a committed relationship.”

“True,” she said, unflinching, “but we're not talking about me. I'll say it again: having a baby to save your marriage is like a sailor fixing that rip on the
Titanic
with needle and thread.”

I pulled my fingers through my hair and forced a smile to my lips. “Doomed, am I?”

She stared at me, then said, “You're the one trying to conceive on the Pill.”

“Oh, Sy. Stop bein' an old lady, will ya?” I bowed at my waist, wilting beneath her hard eyes. “Now if you will excuse me. I have to see a man about a horse.”

After promises of drinks to catch each other up on men issues, I strode toward the bald man and the trailer. Syeeda's eyes burned my back—the hawk was being watched by a falcon.

 

20

Heavy machinery roared and grumbled, and hot tar made the air sticky with stink. Somewhere, a truck was backing up and its beeping … beeping … beeping made me want to scream. But the smell of fried meat wafted from the bright yellow and green roach coach parked on the street—those fragrant tendrils of smoke twisted up my nose, to my brain, and Mickey-Finned my jangled nerves. I hadn't eaten since the crack of dawn and my stomach growled just as it had when I stood here eighteen hours ago.

I clipped my badge to my jacket's breast pocket and slipped my aviators back over my eyes. Then I called Colin on the Motorola. “I'm on my way to the trailer. Get over here as soon as possible.”

He said, “Copy that.”

As soon as that call ended, another call came in—it was Dispatch with Macie Darson holding on the line to talk to me.

“Detective Norton?”

“Hey, Macie. How are you?”

The young woman laughed weakly. “I think the shock's starting to wear off but … I'm okay, I guess.” She took a sharp breath, then slowly exhaled. “When you have a chance, could we meet to talk again? I may have more information that will help my sister's case.”

I clamped a hand over my free ear to block the sounds of growling earth-movers. “Of course. When?”

“Tomorrow morning? Like around ten or eleven? At the Ladera Starbucks.” After I agreed to the time and place, she thanked me for doing everything I could to help her family. The sound of a dial tone told me she had hung up.

Poor girl. No one expected to deal with murder on a Thursday morning.

The weak sun beat down on me even though it hadn't hit seventy degrees yet. But the beads of sweat that rolled down the middle of my back and were being half-assedly absorbed by my already soggy bra? Yeah, those beads could give a damn about highs and lows.

I ignored shouted questions from the TV reporters and strode toward the construction trailer. Workers in hard hats and grimy jeans paused in their step as I passed. One of them said, “The LAPD hiring like
that
now?” His buddy added, “I need to serve and protect, cuz
damn
.”

But the bald man in the burgundy polo, the one standing where I needed to go, threw an irritated glance in my direction. He clomped down the steps and headed west and to the ongoing construction of the back condos.

“Excuse me, sir,” I called out to him. “I'm Detective Elouise Norton and—”

“I don't know anything,” he said, frowning. His voice was rough, as though he'd found it soaking in a vat of cement.

I offered him the smile I'd give an IRS auditor. Cold but polite. “First of all, I didn't ask you anything. Second, what's your name? I didn't catch it.”

He gave me the up-and-down. “I didn't throw it.”

My smile dropped. “Give me your name unless you wanna give it to me at the station, ass-hat.” Then I came to stand up against him—I had a good three inches on this guy. And even though I had only attended two Krav Maga classes in the last month, I still had more muscle than this soggy tomato in chinos.