Chasing Darkness (20 page)

“You’re
up early.”

He
looked up at his mother, coming out the back door. She wore a red gingham shirt
with the sleeves turned up and big jeans, rolled at the bottom. On her head was
a wide-brimmed straw hat, though the sun wasn’t anywhere in sight yet. Her
gardening gloves were in one hand, hot tea in the other.

“Well?”

He
smiled. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Last
time you couldn’t sleep, you and Sheila were breaking up. Your heart cracked
again, eh?”

He
shook his head. “My heart’s fine.”

“Doesn’t
look like it,” his mother scolded. She passed him and looked over her vegetable
garden as though grading its performance. “She’s got you that good, she’s
probably worth it.”

“Who
are you talking about?”

She
pulled her hat off and frowned, shaking her head. “Whoever you’re over here to
talk about. I can tell by that forlorn look in your eyes that this isn’t about
a case. You’re never over here at this hour over a case. So I know what it’s
about. She’s somebody, whoever she is. And special, I’m gathering. So I don’t
know why you’re here with your old mom instead of being with her at this hour.”

He
turned and paced a few steps, then came back. “It’s case-related too. Things
have gotten complicated.”

She
watched him. “You’re crushing my grass with that pacing. Go get my extra gloves
in the shed and we’ll work some of that energy off.”

“I’m
in clean pants, Mom.”

She
waved him on. “There are some kneepads in there too if you’re afraid of a
little dirt.”

Nick
saddled up in kneepads and gloves and entered his mother’s garden.

“Anything
looks like this,” she said, waving a yellowish-green stem with clover-like
leaves. “Out. And dig a little to get the bulbs underneath. Bloodsuckers, these
oxalis.”

Nick
turned his attention to pulling weeds, and they worked in silence for a few
minutes.

His
mother picked at the weeds with a vengeance. “She got a name?”

“Sam.
Sam Chase.”

“Hard
name for a lady.”

“She’s
a hard lady.”

“White?”

He
nodded.

His
mother stopped and smiled.

“What’s
so funny?”

She
pushed her hat up with the back of her gloved hand. “I always thought you
needed someone tougher.”

He
continued to pull weeds. “I’m afraid she may be too tough.”

“She
doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

“She
doesn’t seem to want anything to do with anyone. But especially not me.”

“How’s
she involved in this case?”

“The
victim was her case. Some jerks are even saying she’s a suspect.”

“You
think she’s capable of killing?”

He
met his mother’s gaze. “No.” He pulled out two more clumps of oxalis. “Someone’s
framing her.”

“Humph,”
his mother said.

They
were quiet for a minute while Nick tried to think about who could possibly have
gathered enough evidence to make it look like Sam was guilty of anything. He
would have liked to wring the prick’s neck.

“You
going to think out loud or do I need to start guessing?”

Nick
looked at his mother. “I’m frustrated is all. No answers, and she doesn’t let
me in. Someone’s messing with her stuff at work, leaving her strange messages.
I’ve only seen one, but I think there have been more. She needs help, but she
won’t ask. Last night I told her what I’d heard about the accusations against
her.” He cringed at the memory of Sam’s anger. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told
her. You know, the messenger and all that.”

“No,
you were right to tell her. She needed to know, even if it was painful. And if
it had come out later from somewhere else, it would have been worse.”

He
thought about his mother’s words.

His
mother worked quietly and Nick knew she was considering this information,
preparing her diagnosis and treatment.

“When
I met your father,” his mother began, “I’d been through a lot. I wasn’t open to
meeting a man, and especially not a white man. I thought I had enough trouble
living as I was, without dealing with a mixed relationship.” She smiled. “I
didn’t realize that every relationship between a man and a woman is mixed. Just
the nature of the beast.”

That
was certainly true from his experience.

“I
didn’t know how to open up. No one ever taught me.” She took her glove off and
squeezed his hand. “No one until your father. I never would’ve asked for
help—not from anyone.” She pointed to the geranium. “That’s what that plant
reminds me of. He gave it to me after he had that first heart attack. He told
me it was to remind me that love grows and ours was still growing.”

Nick
stared at the geranium. All these years, he’d had no idea the plant held so
much significance.

“You’ve
got to teach her.”

“I
don’t know how—”

She
waved her hand. “Shh. ’Course you do. Just give her space, but be there if she
needs you. She’ll come when she’s ready.” She blinked hard. “Now get. I got
work to do.”

Nick
stood up and pulled the gloves and kneepads off, trying to digest what his
mother had told him. How could he teach Sam Chase to ask for his help?

“You
come by next week for dinner—both of you.”

Nick
leaned down and pulled his mother’s hat off, kissing the top of her head.
“You’re the best, Mom.”

“Good
thing. I’m the only mom you’ve got.”

Nick
watched her work for a minute in silence and then headed for the gate. He
wished he could bottle some of her wisdom and drink it. He knew she doled it
out in exactly the right portions to provide him with whatever he needed at the
moment. He thought about giving Sam her space. He needed to cool off and let
her come to him. He could do that. He smiled at his mother. As he walked to his
car, he thanked his dad again for finding her.

Maybe
he could catch dinner at his sister’s. He glanced at his watch, amazed to see
it was half past ten. “Christ,” he muttered, making a U-turn and turning his
car toward home. He’d spent the day cruising past the crime scene and around
the Walters’ neighborhood and then to Alf’s diner to try to locate Dougie.

Not
a single thing in his whole day had gone right. He hadn’t even eaten since the
stale piece of pie he’d ordered at Alf’s almost six hours earlier. He wondered
what was in his fridge and realized he didn’t even care.

He
just wanted to go home and straddle his bass—let himself unwind. And if Mrs.
Jacobs upstairs wanted to make a stink, let her call the damn cops. It would
give them all something to laugh about at the station. And he could use a
laugh.

He
was heading off the freeway by his house at quarter to eleven when his cell
phone rang.

“Thomas,”
he answered.

“It’s
Cintrello.”

“What’s
up?”

“I
need you in Martinez—at Estudillo and Marina Vista by the railroad tracks.”

“I’m
off.”

“Yeah,
well, it was my day off, too. Not any fucking more.”

Nick
turned his car into a driveway, then pulled out in the opposite direction.
“What’ve you got?”

“Another
one.”

“Another
one?” he repeated. Another Sandi Walters?

“Thought
we had this all tied up with a goddamn bow with Lugino. Not anymore. Whole
thing just blew apart. And the undersheriff is all over my ass.”

“You
want me to pick up Lugino?”

“No
need. He’s here. Hasn’t left yet. Was supposed to be gone already, but his bail
fell through on possession of Mary Jane. I think he needed twenty-five bucks or
some damn thing. Couldn’t raise it. Lucky bastard. No chance this was his
work.”

Nick
tightened his grip on the phone. “Same M.O. ?”

“Pretty
damn close. You’d better check it out. And while you’re at it, give your friend
Chase a call. She have an alibi?”

“What
does that mean?”

The
captain didn’t answer his question. “Corona insists she be on the scene, but I
don’t like it. And it’s my jurisdiction, so she doesn’t touch anything and she
doesn’t go anywhere on that scene without someone watching her.”

“Captain,
Chase is not involved in these crimes.”

“Like
hell she’s not. Victim’s another one of her cases.”

“Fine,
but she’s not guilty of anything.”

“We’ll
see, but it’s her victim, her M.O. Looks like the same guy. From what I hear,
the fucker thinks he’s clever. Go see for yourself.” The captain cursed and
hung up.

Another
victim. And the killer wasn’t Lugino. Nick hammered his open hand on the
steering wheel. “Damn.”

Sam
Chase wasn’t asleep when Nick’s call came. She had been sitting up in bed with
three weeks’ worth of coupons, cut up, sorted on her lap by product. She’d been
clipping coupons since the boys had come to live with her, and every few weeks
she clipped another batch and added them to a large accordion file. When the
phone rang, she had just been filing a Brawny coupon under “P” for paper
towels.

She’d
been thinking nonstop about what Nick had told her—evidence that she was
involved with Sandi Walters’ murder. “Evidence.” The word rang in her mind as
clear and sharp as “guilty.” What could they possibly have? She’d been home
that night. She’d been alone for most of it. She knew the questions they would
ask. Had she seen anyone? Talked to anyone?

But
she hadn’t. She’d heard Derek come in at curfew and that was it. The phone
rarely rang for her. Sam stared at the walls of the barrier she’d built around
herself, contemplating the irony of it. The same walls she’d thought would
protect her left her open to their accusations. She had no alibi.

Tonight
she’d been anticipating a personal call from Nick, but not this. Nick’s voice
was cold and tired as he gave her directions to an apartment in Antioch. She
remembered the neighborhood. It was not a place she could forget. She didn’t
blame Nick for his tone. She’d been the one to tell him that she would handle
this alone. How could she not? How could she justify taking him down with her?
It wasn’t smart for either of them. But now, without his smile to look forward
to, she felt very alone.

Dressed
warmly, she used her roof light and sirens to move through the sparse traffic
quickly. That was how she wanted this to be—quick.

Nick
hadn’t given her any details on the phone—no victim’s name or M.O. His voice
rang with the same tired frustration she felt about this case. She wanted to go
back to Yoshi’s, to dance in his apartment. Suddenly she wanted anything but to
do the job she was supposed to do. When had it all built up? And worse, why was
it crashing down so quickly?

It
felt like everything had been stirred up. Sorting it out didn’t even seem
possible, or perhaps just not realistic. And Nick deserved more. She wanted to
give him more, but how could she possibly explain what she was feeling if she
didn’t know? Maybe it would be better to just forget the whole thing.

She
parked in front of the address Nick had given her over the phone.

The
shanty-like structure could hardly be called an apartment complex. It was a
cement U-shaped building, covered with spray paintings of curses and gang
markings in all colors. A few of the tags she recognized from her days in
homicide. She didn’t miss them.

This
wasn’t the first time she had been here. The memory of a little girl surfaced
in her mind, and of the thin, almost decayed crack mother whom the judge had
refused to see as a long-term danger to her child.

The
stench rose fast against the thick, hot air of summer and the hard cement
surfaces. Even the rain couldn’t wash these smells away. Fire seemed the only
true purifier. The corridors were quiet, people locked away behind doors. No
one would have seen anything. There were no eyes in these walls. People turned
their heads and expected others to do the same.

Yellow
crime-scene tape marked the latest battleground, and Sam shoved her hands in
her pockets and walked straight for it. A police officer stood at the door.

“Sam
Chase,” she said, showing her badge. “Department of Justice.” She watched his
face, waiting for his expression to judge her guilt.

Instead,
he nodded her through without so much as a sideways glance. She should have
felt better, but the not-knowing was making her crazy.

She
shoved her personal problems aside and surveyed the surroundings. The inside of
the apartment made the corridor look pristine. Sam had seen humans live in
utterly foul conditions, but this was worse than she’d ever seen before, worse
than the last time she’d visited this same apartment.

Lying
in the center of the stained carpet was the woman Sam remembered. Painfully
thin and jaundiced, her remains were crumpled on the floor like a soiled rag.
Like Sandi Walters, she had two eucalyptus branches tucked behind her ears. The
tree had begun to take on the symbol of death.

Nick
knelt on a tarp laid beside the body, speaking with the medical examiner. He
looked up and gave her a nod. His brown eyes looked duller today, and she
wondered if the death wasn’t getting to all of them.

Sam
walked immediately to the woman’s feet and, not daring to kneel for fear of
tainting the scene, crouched over to stare at the arches of her feet. Nothing
stood out to her. Frowning, she circled the body, looking for something
different about this one—some tag, like the gum wrapper on Sandi Walters. The
wrapper had been obvious, and she suspected it had been a mistake. Even if she
hadn’t seen it at the time, it would have been quickly caught by the M.E. She
scanned the room for something flashy and elegant that would stand out from the
rubbish. She found nothing.

This
dead woman, Eva Larson, like Sandi Walters, had been accused of abusing her
daughter. Passed down from the attorney general’s office after relatives in
Utah complained of the girl’s situation, the case had been delegated to Sam at
D.O.J. The judge had sentenced Eva to eight weeks of rehab, during which time
the girl stayed in foster care.