Dark Debts Hardback - 1996

Excerpt

Chapter One

Randa couldn't move. She could feel her weight in the chair and it was the only thing keeping her upright. How long was she going to have to stay here? It was three o'clock in the morning and she had to be at work by nine. Or did she? Was this a legitimate excuse to take the day off? Did she have a right to mourn? And would everyone see it as mourning, or merely as the final chapter in a neurotic obsession? She had felt uncomfortable at the paper ever since last summer. She knew a lot of people had bought the self-serving pile of crap Cam had spread around, in which she came off as a psychopath. If she told them about the phone call, would they even believe her? How far "out there" did everyone think she was? A question that had plagued her life. And the other question. How far out there was she?

"How long did you say you've known Mr. Landry?" It came from the older one, a doughy, middle-aged man wearing a shirt the color of Dijon mustard. Neither of them looked anything like she would have expected a detective to look.

(I don't know a "Mr. Landry." Mr. Landry is someone's Political Science teacher. I know Cam.)

"Seven years. Or eight." Then added, "I haven't seen him in a long time." She didn't know whether that was relevant or not. It was certainly relevant to her.

They had made her identify the body. A granite-faced man from the coroner's office had lifted the sheet, while a uniformed cop had supported her by the elbow in case she collapsed. Apparently a fifteen-story fall onto the concrete sidewalk had yielded all sorts of ugliness. She'd have to take their word for it. All she had seen were Cam's eyes. Truth be told, they were all she had ever noticed when she looked at Cam. She noticed everyone's eyes, but Cam's were unlike any she'd ever seen. An ephemeral blue, the color of jeans that have faded just right. But it wasn't the color that gave them their haunting quality, it was the depth. A depth that knew no context, like the light inside a prism. Somewhere near the bottom, a crystal base of hope managed to send a trace of itself to the surface. Along the way it was clouded over by layers of pain and sadness and bitter defeat. That was what she had always seen in Cam's eyes. The hope and the bitterness, locked in mortal combat. Even now, she knew something inside her would be forever scarred by the outcome of that battle.

She glanced at her reflection in the dirty glass partition. Her eyes seemed to be sinking into her face. They looked, as her mother would have put it, like "two little pee-holes in the snow." She tucked a strand of thick blond hair behind her ear, as if that would help. Was thirty-five supposed to look this old? Had she looked so old this morning? God, why was she worrying about how she looked at a time like this?

She braced herself as another angry wave of pain washed over her. How can this be real? How can Cam be dead? He's outrun it for so long.

Outrun what? What part of her was talking, and what was it talking about? She'd noticed lately (in the last year, maybe?) that there seemed to be this voice inside her head that would blow through, make some grand pronouncement, and disappear without the slightest desire to explain itself.

"We've been trying to locate a relative to notify. Do you happen to know of anyone?" It came from the younger detective. His light brown hair had a waxy texture that made him look like a Ken doll.

Randa shook her head. "They're all dead."

"No aunts, uncles, anything?"

She could hear Cam's voice: "Not unless you count those fucking inbred third cousins in Macon." She wondered if she should mention Jack. It wouldn't help, but it would give them something to write in their reports, which might get her out of here sooner.

"There's a brother somewhere, but you won't be able to find him. Cam's been trying for years."

The younger one clicked his ballpoint. "You know his name?"

"Jack. It's probably short for something, they all had fancy names."

"They all who?"

"Cam and his brothers."

"And all the brothers are dead except this Jack?"

"Yes." I wouldn't hold out on you. I'm not trying to keep the corpse for a souvenir.

"So where does this Jack live?"

"Somewhere around Atlanta, the last anyone heard from him. But that was ten years ago."

"And there's absolutely no one else?"

It seemed he was never going to let go of this until she told him something new. She tried to think. Who would have been called if she hadn't shown up? The answer slammed into her head. She took a deep breath.

"He has a girlfriend. Nora Dixon." A lying bitch from some back corner of hell who'd better not show her sorry ass in here until I'm long gone if you don't want to add a homicide to your caseload. "I don't know why she wasn't there, I thought they were living together." She must have met someone who could do her career more good.

"Wait a minute." The younger one again. "If she's his girlfriend, who are you?"

"I'll be damned if I know." Out before she could censor it. She immediately hated herself for the venom she could hear in her voice. How could she be mad at Cam now?

"What does that mean?"

"I'm sorry," she said, not sure why she was apologizing. "We used to be friends."

"Why'd you stop?"

She looked up in time to see Detective Ken wink. Wonderful, now he was going to hit on her. Just what she needed.

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Whoa . . ." He made a show of looking around the room. "Are we in court already? Time flies."

Very cute. David Letterman is probably quaking in his Nikes.

"What time did you say he called you?" The older one showed no sign of noticing the sparring.

"Around one o'clock."

"Could you be any more precise?"

"One-oh-nine. Or nineteen. I remember a nine on the digital clock."

"You remember a niiiiine?" Detective Ken dragged it out, imitating her accent.

"What part of the South are y'all from?"

The part where men talk to women the way you're talking to me, which is why I left.

"Georgia." She gave him the iciest look she could muster. Say "peach." I dare you.

"Georgia," he said, in a tone that implied there was something remarkable about being from Georgia. He let it go at that. He seemed to be picking up on her unequivocal lack of interest.

The other one raised an eyebrow. "Did you know Mr. Landry from Georgia?"

"No. We met here. That was just . . . a coincidence." She trailed off, as she heard her father's voice in her head. "Coincidence is a fool's defense." Why she thought she needed to defend herself was another question.

Under all the paranoia, memories of Cam were starting to emerge, shooting at her like darts, too fast to dodge. She was surprised at what was coming back. It wasn't a montage of great moments. It was a montage of trivia. Holidays. Dinner parties, such as they were. (If there were at least four people present and they used breakable glasses, Cam called it a dinner party.) Concerts, everything from Bruce Springsteen at the Sports Arena to some don't-quit-your-day-job folksinger in the fifty-seat auditorium in the back of the guitar store. Getting lost everywhere. (Neither of them had the sense of direction God gave a banana squash.) Stopping to get directions from an old guy in a Shriner's hat who'd hopped into the car and pored over the Triple-A map with them without a second's thought about who they might be. (Funny, how people always assume they know what danger looks like.) Late-night dinners in funky little coffee shops. The one with the full bar. A grilled-cheese sandwich and a margarita, Cam's idea of heaven. Combing outdoor flea markets for antique Mickey Mouses. Following Cam through cramped, musty bookstores while he piled her arms with books she couldn't live a fulfilling life without reading. Tiny moments of unprompted warmth. A hug from nowhere, a present for no reason. Meaningless arguments that had turned vicious and personal, only to wind their way back to banality and dissolve in some black joke or a simple change of subject. Sitting here now, she couldn't remember the big events. (Had there even been any?) Instead, she just felt the time. All the mundane, directionless time that makes up a friendship.

A friendship. Was that what it had been? A friendship that had been hanging over her head like an oppressive cloud for more years than she cared to acknowledge. What would happen to that cloud now? Did Cam's death mean that it was gone, or that she was stuck with it forever?

"So when he called you, he didn't say anything that indicated . . ." Detective Mustard Shirt groped for a kinder, gentler way to put it.

"That he was about to jump out the window? No. And I don't know why he'd call me to come over if he was planning to kill himself before I could get there."

"Are you saying you don't think he jumped?"

"You said his door was locked from the inside. Obviously he jumped. I'm just saying if you're waiting for me to make any sense of this, we're going to be here for a long time."

"Had he been depressed lately?"

"I don't know. Like I said (if you'd been listening) I hadn't seen him or talked to him in a year."

If he'd been breathing, he'd been depressed lately. She'd never seen him go longer than a week without falling into a major funk. She had eventually learned to stop worrying about it. It was just a part of who he was. And who could blame him? Hell, it was a wonder he could tie his shoes.

"So why did he call you tonight?"

Jesus, how many times are we going to do this?

"I don't know. He said he needed to talk to me. And he said something about being in some kind of trouble, like I told you. He didn't say what the trouble was, he didn't explain why he was calling me specifically, and he didn't say he might kill himself if I got stuck in traffic."

The older detective nodded and wrote something down, completely unfazed by her impatience. He stared at the memo pad. This was how it had been going for the last hour. He'd ask a few questions, make a few notes, then stare at the pad for what seemed like an eternity. If there was a logic to it, Randa didn't know what it was.

Her head felt ready to explode. She pressed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, trying to find the pressure point that was supposed to trigger nerve endings or reroute blood or some damned thing to get rid of a headache. Her holistic chiropractor had shown it to her. (It had never worked before, but what the hell.) Why was this taking so long? Why couldn't they just chalk it up as another suicide in the big city and be done with it? Surely they had better things to do. Wasn't Hollywood, all myths aside, the crime capital of the planet?



She glanced around the bullpen, taking a quick inventory. Probably pretty boring compared to a Saturday night, but colorful nonetheless. Her bleary eyes scanned the collection of prostitutes, dope peddlers, and other assorted rejects from polite society. She wondered if she could catch something unspeakable just by breathing the air. She wondered if she cared.

The older detective was looking at her as if she'd missed a major point and she realized he'd just made some proclamation.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Couple of hours ago, someone robbed a liquor store a few blocks from Mr. Landry's apartment building."

Was that the big news flash? She knew the liquor store he was talking about. It was on the corner of Sunset and Vista, with a wide front door angled for easy access (and getaway) from both streets. None of the businesses around it were open at night, so it really stood out. She and Cam had joked that the owner should just put a sign in the window that said rob me. ("My brothers would have used that place as an ATM," Cam had said.) But what did any of that have to do with Cam's death?

". . . Witnesses described the robber as a white male in his late thirties, about six-three, salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a nice suede jacket, sort of an odd shade of green. He asked the cashier to throw in a bottle of Chinaca tequila. Not exactly your standard profile." He smiled a little. "Your run-of-the-mill liquor-store robber will usually settle for Cuervo Gold."

Randa just stared at him. Cam had a tequila fetish that was not a secret to anyone who knew him or read his books. And she had given him a sage-green suede jacket two Christmasses ago. But surely he wasn't implying . . .

"I noticed an unopened bottle of Chinaca on Mr. Landry's desk, and it rang a bell. Far-fetched, I know, but I swung by and had one of the witnesses take a look at Mr. Landry's driver's license, and what do you know? Bingo."

It was all Randa could do not to laugh.

"That is the most asinine thing I've ever heard! It's . . . it's comical!"

"Yeah, well, I've got a nineteen-year-old stock boy over at the county morgue with a bullet wound in his chest and he ain't laughing very much."

"Well, if you think Cam had anything to do with it, you're out of your mind!"

The incredulity in her voice raised it an octave.

"What makes you so sure?" the young one asked, in his best Sergeant Friday voice. (Evidently trying to redeem his manhood, in light of his two failed pass attempts.)

"In the first place, Cam had more integrity, more humanity, than anyone I've ever known . . ." For the first time she choked up. She swallowed hard, and continued. "And he hated guns. He would never have touched a gun, much less shot someone. And then there's the fact that he'd just signed a book deal with a three hundred thousand dollar advance, which would pretty much alleviate the need to rob a liquor store!" She was practically yelling at them, which was a waste of adrenaline. This whole thing was from The Twilight Zone.

"Three hundred thousand dollars?" It was the older one who spoke, but the younger one's eyes glazed over with the sudden knowledge that he was in the wrong business. The older one recovered and continued.

"How do you know that if you haven't talked to him in a year?"

Because all of my so-called friends sent me every clipping they could get their hands on, just in case I hadn't heard.

"I read it in Publishers Weekly."

The older guy nodded as if his subscription had just lapsed, then went on.

"Well, be that as it may . . ." He looked down at his desk for a moment, then back up. His eyes met Randa's. He was obviously gearing up for something.

"The neighbors told us some interesting things about Mr. Landry's family history, which I assume you know . . ."

So, there it was. Randa had figured they would end up here eventually.

"That's exactly why I know this is crazy."

"Why's that?"

"Because it is. Look, I knew Cam for a long time, and I knew him well."

"You hadn't seen him in over a year."

"I don't think he had a soul transplant in that time."

Then why did he do what he did to you? And why did it catch you so off guard, if you knew him so well? And what on earth was that phone call about? What about what he had said . . . what had he said? "I'm in trouble I didn't even know existed." Well, he certainly knew that liquor stores existed. But what about the witnesses? Could they have been that mistaken? No one on earth looked like Cam.

"Maybe he just had you fooled." Detective Ken again. His arrogance was now enhanced by a patronizing sneer. Randa abandoned all efforts to hide her contempt.

"I don't fool that easily."

They locked eyes, and Randa did not look away as another man approached the desk. She could hear him talking to the older detective as he rustled something out of a brown paper bag.

"Back closet . . . under a pile of clothes . . ." She looked up. The older detective was holding a plastic bag. Inside, marked with a small cream-colored tag, she saw the gun. Her entire body locked with disbelief. The man was still talking.

". . . Forensics dusted it, we're waiting . . . Ballistics said send it over, they're not busy. I said there's no rush, the guy's dead . . ."

"Rush anyway."

Randa stared at the gun. Were they saying it came from Cam's apartment? Behind her, Captain Arrogance could barely contain his glee.

"Well, what do you know? Looks like you fool easier than you think."



It was nearly dawn by the time Randa got home. She sat on her sofa in a stupor, as the sun rose and the room lit up around her. She could only think, she couldn't feel. Her emotions were locked in the bottleneck of information--Cam's death, the police, the guy at the liquor store, the gun--it was too much, it numbed her. All she could do was play this strange night in her head, over and over, searching for any part of an answer.

She had finished filing her column by six o'clock--the latest in a series of tirades on the sorry state of the Supreme Court. It would be her last rant on that topic for a while, since there had been too many letters complaining that it wasn't a "local issue." Really? LA is not going to be affected by the obliteration of the Constitution? Good, I'm living in the right place. In LA, a "liberal" readership meant people who wanted to hear from other liberals on the subjects of where to eat and what movies to see. Next week she'd go back to comparing trendy shopping districts, giving everyone a break now that she'd forced them to think for ten minutes.

She had settled back to zone out in front of a true-crime miniseries that had sounded promising in the reviews. She gave it about fifteen minutes before deciding the critics all had brain tumors and turned it off. She had tried writing a letter to her sister, but when she thought about what she'd say (work sucks; I'm on another stupid diet; it actually got below seventy here yesterday) it didn't seem worth wasting stationery over. She flipped through the latest issue of Rolling Stone but couldn't bring herself to care whether or not Heather Nova's latest album was better than her last one.

It was one of those nights that reminded her she'd inherited her mother's nerves. She was consumed by a feeling of lurking doom. It made no sense, especially on a Wednesday night with her work done. The paper came out on Thursdays, so Wednesday was usually her night to relax. Not that she was someone who ever really relaxed.

Looking back on it now, it was like she'd spent the night waiting for the phone call, as if some deep, hidden part of her had known it was coming.



She had been sleeping on the edge of the bed with her head near the nightstand, and the phone had scared the hell out of her. She hated middle-of-the-night phone calls. A wrong number or someone was dead--too wide a spectrum to prepare for on a moment's notice with a pounding heart.

"Hello!" She'd answered in a tone that demanded a quick explanation.

"Randa?"

She'd recognized the voice instantly. Cam had a very distinctive voice, smooth and almost lyrical, with traces of an accent too watered-down to be placed. She'd always loved his voice. She had thought she would never hear it again. For a millisecond she considered hanging up on him, then asked herself who she thought she was kidding.

"Cam?"

"I have to talk to you. It's really important. I know it's late, but I have to talk to someone and you're the only person I know who might believe this."

"Believe what?"

"I can't do it on the phone. Randa, it's crazy, it's . . . Look, you always said you'd do anything for me."

"Well," she said,"that was a long time and many erroneous perceptions ago."

"I know. We can talk about that, too. You don't know . . . you can't believe the things you don't know."

"Hell, I can't believe the things I do know."

"DAMMIT, RANDA!" It was so loud and so uncharacteristic, she almost dropped the receiver. "I'm in trouble! I'm in trouble that I didn't even know existed! Now are you going to get off your ass and help me or are you just going to send a nice wreath to the funeral?"

"Okay, calm down. I'll be over as soon as I can."

"No! Not here, you can't come here."

"All right. I'll meet you at Ray's."

"Okay. Hurry."

"Okay. Bye . . ."

"Randa!"

"What?"

The line was silent as he thought. "Nothing. Just hurry."