Nothing: Los Angeles: Nothing, #1

Nothing

by Barry Crowther

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Barry Crowther.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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Digital Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your online book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank You for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © 2012 Barry Crowther

All rights reserved.

ASIN:B004UVQGI0

http://www.barrycrowther.com

DEDICATION

Mum and Dad

You're the Best xx

STARK SUNSHINE

Looking at the spot where my sister was murdered I felt nothing. On the drive here from the airport I saw myself dropping to my knees. Screaming. Barking at the injustice. Now I'm here. Staring at the empty space. Nothing. Maybe a mild self-loathing. Outside of that no feeling at all. Not even numbness.

Largo waits beside the car at the curbside. The house was a two story single family home. Sky is blue within blue. Palms sway. Sea spray fills my nostrils with Californian air. It makes me sick.

A woman appears. She must have come from the house. I remain on her driveway staring at the cracked concrete slab, looking for a sign of something. Looking for a marker. The sky is blue blue blue. Heat burns against my black suit. She speaks to me.

You the brother?

She tries to keep her voice steady and even. A common enough thing. Her voice. No other sounds on the street. No more kids hollering and running. Kicking cans. Playing ball. Not since my sister had been taken from this world. This meat grinder of a world.

I stare at the woman then back to the concrete baked at the edges and wet from sprinklers. This is where she fell. Lay. Bled. Closed her eyes and died. A small strip of yellow police crime tape hangs limp from a drain. The cops must have had trouble securing the area. I ask.

Who killed my sister?

FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS

She swallows. I wait for a moment. She tries. She tries hard to stop herself. Keep her mouth shut. Keep out of this mess. Her daughter safe inside the house...for now. Playing with her little brother. My sister eating dirt. She tries but this is not new to me. I am good at getting people to talk.

The number of murders I have committed, people I have killed you could count on one hand. The people I have tortured, maimed, buried, burned, cut, severed and fucked-up-generally, you would have to remove your shoes to count and then some.

I take a small step toward her. I feel Largo follow me. Again a small step. The woman shrinks back. She says.

I don't know his name. Just described him to the police and they said a name right away. They knew who it was.

No one has a name that quick. No one gets it that fast. Maybe we should go inside.

Her eyes wide. Largo places a hand on my shoulder. I would have fucked him up for placing a hand on me now but I know he is right. I trust his judgment. I am too close. I ask her.

This man, describe him to me.

Hispanic. Red baseball cap. Wings on his neck.

His neck. Wings on his neck?

Wings tattooed across his neck.

I point to my throat.

Here?

She nods. Nods again.

Not across the back?

I point to the nape of my neck.

She stutters.

No only the front.

What was on the cap?

White writing. Maybe a name.

What writing?

She shrugs.

I look at Largo. I am hot. I take off my sunglasses. New ones just for this trip. I wipe my eyes clear with my fingertips. Squint against the bright sun.

If I find you've lied. You know, bullshitted in some way. I may have to come back and find the truth. Your daughter home?

She's at her friends.

Which friend?

Wha —

Which fucking friend? Where is she? Where is my sisters 'best friend'?

Amy, Amy Coolidge's place.

The woman points to the house across the street. It's a basic low-rise with a bench in the front garden alongside a small fountain in the shape of a seashell. I ask her.

The police know who it is?

She nods. Her eyes tear up. A tear clouds her vision. I have seen this many times. She is afraid. She fucking should be. I turn back to Largo, he nods and we head back to the car. Largo says.

She's telling lies

I know

What next?

The cops.

Then what?

We'll come back.

SPANISH VILLAGE BY THE SEA

San Clemente is a small village by the sea. Very Hispanic in history. It has a small sheriff’s department. It had to rely on law enforcement from a nearby larger city, Irvine, to handle murder cases.

California still has all its falseness. I pull off my jacket and place it in the trunk over the 2 pump actions and several boxes of shells. The sky is blue. Sun beating everything with no mercy. Largo drives the rest of the way in silence.

I like the silence. I like Largo. Air con is cranked to full making the rental too cold. I take my piece from the glove compartment and check the pipe. A nice, round, shiny 9mm shell shows itself. I clip it shut, check the safety, put it back.

Largo stares ahead. We pull across onto the 405 and into the business district, leaving the freeway at John Wayne airport. We had arrived at John Wayne a few hours earlier. My sisters funeral will be in 2 days time. I will not be there. The sheriff's office is a compact building with a lot of parking spaces. Largo pulls into a slot directly in front of the steps.

Largo speaks.

You need me?

No. Wait here, keep the air con going.

We had already eaten. The temperature reader in the car glowed 101 degrees in blue LED.

O.C. LAW

I walk up the steps and pull the scratched aluminum door to the sheriff's office. Cool air poured onto my skin. It felt comfortable and unpleasant at the same time.

A small woman with black hair, a broken nose and blue eyes looked over her spectacles. I told her who I was. She looks at me, the same as the others behind their desks, as if I was a piece of shit. She signals over to a cubicle divider near the back of the room. A big cop stands, picks up a file and waddles over. At least 6'3" and built. He says.

Come this way...Sir.

I could read from the delayed Sir that I was in his shit-book too. I follow him to a corridor then along to a side room, he pushes open the door allowing me through then closes it behind me. I am alone with a table, 4 plastic chairs and a 2-way mirror.

I take a seat and light a cigarette. Within 30 seconds the door opens and a suited cop walks in, young, blond straight hair. A badge on his belt. No firearm. He says.

You can't smoke in here.

Where? California?

In the station. Pretty much California too.

I ignore him. He waits then speaks.

You identified your sister?

My mom did that. I mean, Darlene, my mother.

He flicks through a folder. Tells me.

Not officially though. She was there at the scene. She hasn't been to the mortuary.

She...hasn't been well, I hear she's in the hospital.

Back to the folder. Flicking an internal stapled page forward and backward as if looking for something.

I see.

Your witness tells me she saw the killer and you know who it is.

We have some leads. Yes.

He keeps his gaze on the folder.

Door opens. Another suited detective enters. Older. Grey hair. Tanned. Golfer type. Square. He tells me.

You can't smoke in here.

I told him that.

Then put the fucker out.

I stare back at him. Take a last deep draw then stub it out on the table. Old cop looks at the butt and blackened perfect circle then slaps me in the face real hard. The young cop sucks air and steps back with the folder pressed against his chest. Old cop speaks.

We don't want you here. None of you or your sort. Nothing. Sons of bitches, come here from that shit hole in Illinois and stamp all over our crime scene, all our work goes to shit.

I rub the place he hit me and smile. I ask him.

You got a name?

Why? Gonna file a complaint?

Not your name. I know