Robert Crais - Chasing Darkness

“Charles.”

“Yes. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about? You knew the man as Lonnie Jones?”

She seemed to think about it, then hooked her hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry. This is all so weird. That guy in the paper, he was really Lonnie?”

“I understand. Kinda creeps you out, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. You want to come in? It’s easier than standing out here.”

Her apartment was small and clean, with only a single couch and coffee table in the living room, and a small circular table near the kitchenette. The furniture was new, and had the efficient lines of furnishings that had probably come with the apartment. The kitchenette was immaculate. So were the floors and the table. The only thing out of place was a newspaper, open to the story about Byrd.

Ivy offered me a bottle of water, took one for herself, then perched on the edge of the couch. I pulled one of the dining chairs closer to sit with her.

I said, “Has anyone talked to you about this?”

“You mean the police?”

“They questioned your former neighbors last week. They pretty much spent all this past week up on Anson, interviewing people.”

“I had no idea. I saw the paper, and I thought, ohmigod, that’s Lonnie, but the picture was so bad. I was like, is this a joke?”

“It isn’t a joke.”

“This is surreal.”

“How well did you know him?”

“I picked up groceries for him a couple of times. It’s not like we hung out.”

Her voice took on a defensive whine, as if I had accused her of being a serial-killer sympathizer.

“It’s okay, Ivy. You didn’t know.”

“Here he was with the cane, and he asked for some help. He didn’t say anything obnoxious. I was going to the market anyway. What was I supposed to say, no? He was just an old man.”

She flipped her head. When she moved, her hair swayed like a curtain in the breeze.

I said, “Did he ask you to pick up drugs?”

“Uh-uh. I just stopped at the market a few times. They don’t have a pharmacy.”

“Not prescription drugs. He was using oxycodone manufactured in Mexico. He would have gotten them illegally.”

She sat taller, and her lips tightened into a bud. It was a rough way to ask, but I wanted to see her reaction.

“I didn’t buy drugs for him.”

“Okay. I had to ask.”

“Do you think I’m a dealer?”

“You might not have known what you were buying. He might have asked you to pick up a package, and you didn’t know what was in the package.”

“Only the market.”

“If he couldn’t drive, someone had to get them for him. I’m not saying it was you.”

“Well, it sounds like you are. I was just trying to be a nice person, and now you’re accusing me of being a dope connection. I really resent this.”

“I’m not accusing you. I know it sounded like that, but I’m not.”

“Whatever. Am I going to have to do this again with the police?”

“Probably, but they’re not nearly as much fun as me.”

Her mouth tightened again, which is almost always a sign I’m wearing out my welcome.

My cell phone vibrated, so I excused myself and checked the call. It was Pike. I told her I had to take it, and opened the phone.

Pike said, “You with the girl?”

“That’s right. Where’d they go?”

“Nowhere. The Pony parked as soon as you lost them. We’re on Franklin at the bottom of Hillcrest.”

“What about his helper?”

“The truck left. Four or five streets feed down from these hills, so the truck probably set up at a different location.”

“Okay.”

“If the Pony leaves, you want me to follow?”

“Absolutely.”

I closed the phone.

“Sorry. We’re almost finished.”

“Whatever.”

“Did he ever do or say anything that made you fearful?”

“I wouldn’t have gone to the market for him if I was scared of him.”

“Okay. Did he ever ask if he could take your picture?”

She gave an exaggerated shiver. She knew I was talking about the album.

“Yuck. No. I would’ve told him to fuck off.”

“All right. One last thing. Did he say or do anything that made you think-or makes you think now, in retrospect-that he was suicidal?”

She grew distant for a moment, then went to the newspaper. She touched it, but did not pick it up.

“Not like, I’m going to blow my brains out, but he was depressed. He was really scared of the police. He thought they were out to get him.”

“He did?”

“The police framed him for murder. He talked about it a lot.”

I took a slow breath.

“He told you about Yvonne Bennett?”

“How the police tried to frame him. He hated the police. He said they were always trying to get him. I mean, here’s this gimpy little man going on with a major persecution complex, and it sounded so made up.”

“He didn’t make it up.”

“Are they really writing a book about him?”

I shook my head, not understanding, and Ivy Casik went on.

“Someone came to see him about how the police framed him. The guy told him it could be a book and a movie, and all this stuff, and Lonnie was bragging how he was going to be rich, and it all sounded so absurd.”

My mouth felt dry, but wetting my lips didn’t help.

“Who was this person?”

“I don’t know. A reporter, he said. This reporter was doing a story about how the police fucked him over.”

Ivy Casik was an attractive young woman. It was easy to imagine Byrd making up stories about books and movies to impress her.

“Did you see this person?”

“It was just something Lonnie told me, like the dude brought this little tape recorder and asked lots of questions.”

“A dude who came to the house?”

“Yeah. Do you think he was lying?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought he made it up until I saw the paper. They really did charge him with murder. They really did drop the charges. Those things were true.”

“Yes,” I said. “Those things were true.”

A new player had entered the crime scene. An unnamed person who might have approached Lionel Byrd to discuss the subject of murder, and who might or might not even exist. If someone had been looking for Lionel Byrd, I wondered how they had found him. Everyone on Anson Lane thought Lionel Byrd was Lonnie Jones.

I wondered how I could find out if Lionel Byrd’s story about the reporter was true. The police should have gone through Byrd’s phone records and back-checked the numbers, so Bastilla probably already knew, but she probably wouldn’t tell me. Maybe the guy in the Mustang would know.

After Ivy Casik let me out, I called Pike, filled him in, and asked about the Mustang.

“What’s our boy doing?”

“Still hasn’t moved.”

“Any sign of the truck?”

“Nope.”

“I’m on the way.”

I had only gone three blocks when the black Toyota pulled out of a side street in front of me. I wasn’t sure it was the same truck, but the Toyota bucked high on its springs and powered away. He had probably been searching the area while the Mustang waited below, and was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

Cops with a busted surveillance would have stopped to badge me, but the Toyota ran. I thought he would run for the flats and the freeways and his buddy in the Mustang, but he skidded onto a cross street instead, climbing higher in the hills. He probably felt he had a better chance of losing me the higher we went, but I pushed after hard, closing the gap.

The curves grew tighter the higher we climbed, looping and crossing like snakes. I wanted to call Pike, but the driving was fast, and my hands were filled with the shifter and wheel. I didn’t think he knew where he was going or where the streets went; he just drove it, trying to leave me behind. We busted through stop signs, circled the same streets, turned downhill hard and then it was over. He had turned into a cul-de-sac. He was trapped.