Land of Shadows (7 page)

Prostitute.

Wino.

Church, church, immigration lawyer, liquor store.

Repeat.

I hopped on the 10 Freeway East, then exited off Caesar Chavez Boulevard in East LA.

Prostituta.

Un borracho.

Iglesia, iglesia, abogado de immigración, una licorería.

Repetir.

In a city with more than three million souls, you had a lot of dead—on average, fifty thousand people died in Los Angeles every year. From suspicious-looking heart attacks and strokes to gunshot and stab wounds, the Los Angeles County Department of Coroner saw them all. Everyone was welcome, no matter their race, religion, or political affiliation. Death accomplished something Mahatma Gandhi and other people of peace could never do: bring the world together.

The coroner's office never closed, either. Bodies rolled in, bodies rolled out. Death had no schedule.

Colin paced in the large, windowless autopsy chamber near the stainless-steel sinks. Like me, he wore powder blue scrubs, a hairnet, a disposable plastic face mask, and booties. This was his first postmortem exam as an LAPD detective. He nodded to me, clearly anxious (a rare state for him) behind that face mask.

There was a lot of activity in this room. One medical examiner was taking pictures of a tatted-up Crip who had been peppered to death by gunfire. Another ME was scrubbing up and preparing to examine a familiar-looking blonde (sitcom actress, maybe?) who had jaundice, bloody wrists, and what appeared to be a thing for sharp objects. Blondie had more scars than the gangbanger—scars beneath her boobs, armpits, ears, and chin. An eternal knife fight with a plastic surgeon.

I caught my reflection in one of the glass-front cabinets. At least, I
thought
it was me. Couldn't be sure with the hair cover and the face shield. I took a deep breath and exhaled—the new swipe of Noxzema beneath my nostrils wasn't working. I could still smell raw flesh and old blood mixed with Pine-Sol.

Brooks stood at the countertop, gathering scalpels, scoopers, and tweezers. A pair of scissors slipped from his grip and clattered to the orange tiled floor. He cursed, scooped up the scissors, then chucked them in the sink.

A naked Monique Darson lay on the stainless-steel table. Her limbs had relaxed as rigor mortis started to disappear. Brooks's assistant, Big Reuben, a giant black dude plucked from the end zone of Cowboys stadium, was taking the last pictures of the girl—one of which I'd use for the family's notification. A blue body bag with
MONIQUE DARSON
written on the plastic sat on the only available examination table. Zucca would comb over the bag's insides in search of fibers or hair that had been left behind.

Brooks approached the table and said to me, “Didn't I just see you?”

I introduced Brooks to Colin. The pathologist barely acknowledged my partner's existence before asking me, “So what were you doing before you got the call?”

“At Krav Maga with Lena.”

“Sy told me that Lena's there hunting for her next ex-husband.”

I snorted. “Aren't we all?”

He reached for the hanging microphone and stated the date, time, and those in attendance. Then, he noted the girl's statistics—sixty-four inches, one hundred pounds, brown shoulder-length hair, and brown eyes. Then, he peered into those eyes. “Petechial hemorrhaging present in the conjuctival surfaces of the eyes.” He stated that he was removing the Gucci belt, then said, “Two ligatures are present on the neck. Ligature A is the form of a V on the anterior of the neck. Ligature B is a bruise around the neck. Excessive hemorrhaging. Ligature A is right below the mandible and consistent with hanging. However, there is a lack of hemorrhaging, which indicates that the injury occurred postmortem.”

He moved down to her torso. “Bruises on the sternum, right breast, and rib cage.” He measured the length and width of each bruise.

Genitalia. “No evidence of external injury.”

Arms and legs. “Abrasions along the wrist, biceps, and triceps.”

Colin raised his hand.

Brooks clicked off the mike.

“What do you think made the scratches?” Colin asked.

Brooks, eyes still on those cuts, said, “Fingernails?” Then, he clicked on the mike and considered her left hand. “As we indicated earlier, the victim is wearing acrylic fingernails with yellow fingernail polish. The tips have been cut. On the right middle finger—that acrylic nail is missing.”

Ankles. “Tattoo on the right ankle. Decorative letters spelling ‘Baby Girl.'” And then, Brooks took a scalpel and made a Y incision from her shoulders to her abdomen. Big Reuben crunched through her rib cage with a tool that resembled gardening shears.

I jerked at the last crunch.

After Big Reuben removed the sternum, Brooks leaned closer to peer at the girl's internal organs. “No evidence of injury.” Then, he extracted the heart, examined it for trauma, stepped to the countertop, weighed it, and cut a piece for microscopic examination. Then, he did the same for her lungs, liver, and kidneys.

He returned his focus to the girl's neck. He cut out her larynx, then pointed to a jagged bone just above her throat. It was covered in reddish tissue flecked with spots of purple. “The hyoid bone is fractured.” He clicked off the microphone, then pointed to the bruises on her neck. “See how there's uneven hemorrhaging around the neck tissue? The belt wouldn't do that—the belt would've left even hemorrhaging. What you see here is manual strangulation.”

“Why didn't anyone hear her screaming?” Colin asked, shaking his head.

“Probably because he got her right beneath the vocal cords,” Brooks explained. “Her neck's not thick so that part probably happened very quickly. And just looking at the blood in the body cavity, I can see that there's no clotting. Again, that tells me that she died pretty quickly.” He exhaled long and loud, and his mask fogged. “So the fun part: who wants to stay for the brain?”

I took a step back. “I've ODed on fun. But you'll remember to check out that possible skull injury?”

Brooks nodded. “Of course.”

“I do have one more question before you break out the Stryker. How long has she been dead?”

For several moments, Brooks stood silent as he stared at the girl reposed before him. Then, he said, “The maggots I collected in the closet are now adult flies … So, she's been dead now for approximately twenty-six to twenty-eight hours.”

I did the math in my head. “That means she was killed between midnight and two o'clock yesterday morning.” I turned to Colin. “Which meant that she didn't write that suicide note you found on her phone. Whoever wrote it, wrote it fifty-one minutes too late.” To Brooks, I asked, “And the apparent cause of death?”

“Asphyxiation due to strangulation.” The pathologist's eyes met mine. “You were right, Lou. This is a homicide.”

 

11

And she was
just
talking about Chi, too. Had told her friend Malia that he had been the best lover she had ever had. That once? He was so deep that the condom had come off and, like, afterward? She couldn't pull it out and had to drive to the student health clinic on campus and, like, have a nurse fish it out. That. Was.
Crazy!

But after that night? He didn't call her again.

And she had been totally embarrassed and pissed and everything.

But then tonight happened. Okay. More like this morning. A four
A.M.
hook-up when she had class in three hours.

I must be on crack.
But then sex with Chi?
Crack-tastic.

Nikita didn't consider herself to be a beautiful woman. She was an ethnic mutt, long-limbed and tawny-skinned, with sharp cheekbones and a luscious mouth hiding teeth that were a little crooked. The retainer she wore at night would straighten them out. Until then, the teeth kept her humble—at nineteen years old, she already knew that she had the power to make grown men like Chi beg for mercy.

She smiles at her reflection in the golden doors of the hotel elevator. The Omni. Fancy. But then, Chi is rich and powerful, and she is Hott and deserves fancy.

A bellhop also stands in the car. He smiles and gazes at her, bottom to top.

Does he see through her pink trench coat? Does he see her red push-up bra, the one with the little black bows, and the tiny, red sheer skirt and … nothing else?

She winks at him, then purses her lips.

The bellhop blushes and gapes at the elevator doors.

Oh, yeah. He sees. And he knows why she's here.

The elevator stops. A bell dings and the doors open to the twenty-first floor.

She throws the hotel worker one of her sultriest looks, then says, “Sweet dreams.”

His stare burns her ass long after the elevator doors close.

Alone now, Nikita's heart races as she sashays down the hallway in search of room 2109.

Will he, like, have Moët and that other stuff?
Paste
?
Pate
? Nasty but classy food a sophisticated woman would like, not some boring chick from Irvine studying education at Jesus-camp Chapman University. And she's just at Chapman because of her parents or whatever.

And here we are …

She takes a deep breath, wets her lips, and knocks twice on the door.
Maybe he'll make mimosas. And maybe he'll have strawberries. Big ones. Ooh! And Cool Whip.

“It's unlocked,” a man shouts from inside the room.

She opens the door and crosses the threshold. Bummer—he didn't choose a suite. Nice room, though. Big bed with thousands of pillows. Flat-screen television. A whirlpool tub in the bathroom.

Sweet.

Chi sits in the armchair at the windows, wearing suit pants and a blue, long-sleeved shirt. Behind him, the lights of Petco Park stadium shine.

She smiles as the trench coat slides off her body and lands on the thick blue carpet. “Someone order room service?” she coos.

Ohmygosh, that sounded so good!

His eyes move from her hips to her breasts and back to her face. “Long time no see,” he says.

“And do you like what you see?” she asks.

He smiles and beckons her to come to him.

She takes one step and then another … another … until she stands over him.

His pupils are as big as pennies. And there's already white powder on his nostrils.

“You started the party without me?” she asks, fake pouting.

“Don't worry,” he says. “I have everything you need. Sit.”

Nikita straddles him, then leans back until her long hair brushes his knees.

“You miss me?” he asks, his voice thick, his fingers tracing her long neck.

She stiffens but nods: his hands are freezing and his fingers feel like sausages. Ugh.

“You're not scared, are you?” His crooked smile never reaches his eyes.

“I'm a big girl,” she says. “I can handle what you got, baby.” She bends forward to kiss him.

He grips her neck, keeps her from that kiss. “Still not scared?”

What was this? A hazing ritual? Why did she have to prove—?

“I asked you a question,” he says, his hold tightening.

She squeezes out, “No,” but now air comes by sips and gulps. Her heart beats double time. “Stop, baby. You're—”

Tighter.

And now, Nikita is on her back, on that thick blue carpet, with a view of the ceiling, most of it blocked by Chi's twitching, sweaty face.

Only Malia knew she was driving down to San Diego; and Malia won't worry if Nikita doesn't show up to their dorm room because—

Tighter.

She tries to push him off, to bat him away.

His free hand pins her left arm down and his knee pins down the right.

Tighter.

The light in the room … fuzzy … gray.

How long has she…?

 

12

As I left the autopsy chamber with a photograph of Monique Darson in my hand, Brooks's Stryker saw buzzed to life. The tool sounded like a dentist's drill but louder, meaner. Even though I was thirty paces down the hallway, memory told me that I smelled hot-burning bone, that I heard the
pop
of the cranium separating like two halves of a honeydew melon. Memory can be a callous bitch sometimes.

Monique Darson's family needed to know that she had been murdered—it was four in the morning, though. Usually, horrific news was best delivered before breakfast, but not today. I couldn't do that to this family, who probably hadn't been concerned with her absence.

Growing up without Tori, I had freaked out every time the phone rang, every time someone knocked on our door. Would it be the police with news? Would it be Tori? Sometimes, it had been Detective Tommy Peet with an update—still no Tori. It had never been my sister knocking or calling. And it had never been my dad, who could have heard through the grapevine that his eldest daughter had disappeared and here he was, back from Wherever, to look for her … and to comfort me. No.

Some mouth-breather realtor had told Colin that the city of Glendale was just a twenty-minute drive over the hill to South Los Angeles. Genius didn't take into account …
Los Angeles
, with its overturned cement trucks, six-car fender-benders, and lost refrigerators blocking the left lanes of the freeway. And what about the road closures and the men working and the roving police chases? Unless the agent had meant twenty
football
minutes. Converted into real time, that would be … a six-hour drive. Sounded right.

The thought of driving all that way to Glendale and then, in three hours, driving back over the hill into Los Angeles, made Colin as weepy as a pastor's wife in a strip club. He kept staring at his car, and then, glowering at the foggy purple foothills to the north, back to the car, back to the hills, and on and on.