Slipping Into Darkness Read online

  “I left you a message. I’ve been working all night too. How about if I come by there after I go to the doctor?”

  “What doctor? Are you okay?”

  “Long story. I can’t tell you.”

  “When are you ever going to trust me?” Romero implored.

  I changed the subject. “Did you settle your case?”

  “Not quite. Just some leads we had to follow up. We’ve busted a big methamphetamine lab in a white collar neighborhood. We got a lot of suspects in custody. Be surprised the people committing crimes these days. But y’know with plea bargaining how things are.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. Even Orange County is having a series of bank robberies committed by white dudes. People are desperate with this unemployment. Well, I’ll be over there.”

  “Say no more. I’ll have the tub ready when you get here.”

  I passed Pink’s, the famous hot dog stand in Hollywood near Melrose, and stopped and picked up a chili dog. The hot dog stand was on my way to the doctor’s office, which was located near Westwood. The doctor, who was supposed to be an epidemiologist of sorts, seemed a little shady, but judging from all the actors’ pictures on his wall, everyone uses these types of doctors to get out of work and on sick leaves to pursue their acting dreams. After getting inoculated with my ten-year tetanus shot and yellow fever shots, I got the prescription for Lariam.

  An hour later, I picked up the prescription, then drove to Silver Lake to see Romero. I didn’t want to tell him anything. I just wanted to fall into the flannel warmth of his embrace. Within his arms, I always felt comfort. Maybe I could feel normal again, a sense of safety.

  When I arrived, I found Romero asleep on his sofa. His mouth was wide open and he sounded like he was sawing logs his snores were so loud. “Poor baby,” I whispered, kissing his forehead.

  To keep from waking Romero, I tiptoed to the bathroom. He had already run my bubble bath and the water was sitting in his old-fashioned tub with the lion claw feet. I tested the water with my index finger, and it had grown cool. I let some of the tepid water out, then put in fresh hot water. I climbed in the tub and before I knew it I was out like a light.

  I woke up to Romero gently soaping my back, and I smiled. I was surprised at how much time had passed. I could see through his bathroom window that it was dark outside.

  “You were zonked out, mamacita. Bad case?”

  I nodded. “Wound up working all night.”

  “Me, too.” I could see Romero’s five o’clock shadow. I guessed he hadn’t slept until he dropped down for his nap on his sofa. He usually stayed clean shaven.

  My mind was on my brother and I wasn’t really feeling the lovemaking like I usually would. My mind kept spinning as Romero kissed me up in bed.

  “What’s wrong, baby? Not in the mood?” he asked, raising his torso from between my legs and scooting over. I could tell he was disappointed, but he was not the type to push the issue.

  I shook my head. My mind was spinning. I was torn. Should I tell him about my brother’s kidnapping? How could I tell him I was going to go out the country? I guess Romero sensed my withdrawal and he just scooted behind me, spooning me, his arms wrapped around my waist. I fell asleep, and so did he. We’d both had a long night.

  It was after ten-thirty when I woke up. I jackknifed up, determined to make my escape. I wanted to get back out to the street before I left the country.

  I slid out from under Romero’s arm and leg he had thrown over me. He must have already been awake, because he grabbed my left hand as soon as I placed one foot on the floorboard. He didn’t say anything, but in his touch I felt his strong need and desire. I paused. I wanted him, but I also wanted to see if I could find out any leads on my brother’s kidnapping. Feeling conflicted, I thought about what Shirley had said. Listen to your heart.

  Suddenly it hit me. I didn’t know when I’d hold my man in my arms again. Without giving it another thought, I slid back under the covers.

  I laced my fingers into Romero’s, then climbed on top of him and began deep kissing him. I loved to kiss Romero because it always reminded me of our first kiss at a Starbucks and because he was such a good kisser. His hands slid up and down my body, and I just surrendered to the moment. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to worry about my problems. I just wanted to feel and enjoy the golden pleasure my man was giving me.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, referring to the fact he didn’t have on a condom. “Do you want me to pull out?”

  I don’t know what I was thinking; my mind was a blank and I didn’t answer. My periods were irregular, so I assumed I wasn’t that fertile. I was thirty-five and had never been pregnant before. I generally took birth control pills, and used condoms, but I’d gotten relaxed with Romero and only used the condoms. Plus, our relationship was exclusive. How did I know? When Romero wasn’t at work, or with his daughter, he was with me, and vice versa. Totally the opposite of the one I’d had with the late undercover cop, whoremonger Flag.

  I continued riding on a crest, a hot wave sweeping into my belly. All I knew was I had to leave my man satisfied. I felt like I was on a magical sea, being buoyed and tossed about by a wave. I was drowning in such sweet pleasure, nothing seemed to bother me. I had only intended to satisfy Romero, not myself. It was going to be a testament to all the kindness he’d shown me, to all the good times we’d had over the past year. I wanted to thank him with my body and soul for showing me that love was still a possibility.

  Instead of my just pleasing Romero, as the pressure mounted, I exploded in cauldron of sheer ecstasy myself. I wound up crying and screaming out his name at the same time of our mutual orgasms. Afterward, I clung to him, my toes curling up, as if he were the Holy Grail. I burst into tears.

  “I love you, mamí,” Romero said, kissing my lips, then my shoulder as we both panted, spent. He kissed my tears as they rolled down my face. “Baby, I’m sorry I didn’t pull out. I’m so sorry. You just felt so good. I couldn’t ...”

  “Shush.” I put my finger to his lips. I wasn’t worried about anything. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I just thought of what my life would be like without you.”

  I continued crying into Romero’s shoulder and he patted my shoulder. “It’s okay, mamacita. Everything is going to be okay.”

  I felt like I was drowning and these would be my last words. I tried to imagine my life without Romero and it made me sob even more. When I met him, I didn’t believe love even existed anymore. Now I knew what it was like to see the light shine on a man’s shoulder and know love. I knew what early spring flowers looked like when you saw them through the prism of love.

  I loved the way Romero loved his daughter, Bianca, from his first marriage. I loved how he was born poor in El Barrio, was part of a crime family, but refused to let that define him. I loved the way he left his leader status as a gang member behind when he was young and put himself through college. I loved how he was a straight cop, who was liked by his peers and even respected by a lot of the hoods on the street.

  Romero was the first man who pointed out the Big Dipper to me. I didn’t know when I first knew I loved him, but he always said he loved me from the first time he met me, during the L.A. riots, when he rescued me from a hostage situation. For the first time, I answered, “I love you, Romero.”

  Romero kissed me passionately in return. “I know I once said I’d never do this again, but Z”–he paused–“will you marry me?” He reached under the pillow.

  I was shocked. “What did you say?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “Will you marry me?”

  I let out an “ahh” breath as if I’d been hit in my solar plexus. Finally, I spoke up. “Baby, it’s too soon.” I didn’t say anything, but I liked how things were between us. Comfortable, warm, and happy. Why did he have to go ruin everything with this marriage talk? I told him I was not marriage material. My previous marriage and annulment had been hell.

  “Soon?” Romero protested. “I’v
e loved you since the first time I saw you, standing up to those three thugs, like, ‘Hey, bring it on.’ I knew back then there was something special about you. Since we hooked back up, you’ve been more than I could imagine. I’m so proud of the way you’ve rebuilt your life and remained sober. I saw you go through hell last year after Trayvon’s death and yet you landed on your feet. You’re a good friend to me and to others. You’re a good detective. A good lover.

  “When you’re in something, you’ll see it through all the way. I’ve seen you put your life on the line for your dead nephew. I just love how you love with all your heart and soul. And I’d be proud to have you as my wife.”

  “Wow!” I didn’t see this coming.

  “Reach under the pillow, babe,” Romero said.

  I reached under the pillow and searched until my fingers felt a box. Puzzled, I opened the box. Inside was a beautiful platinum Marquise diamond ring.

  I gasped. “Oh, Romero, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  I heaved a deep sigh. I couldn’t answer him, I was so overcome. I said a resounding yes in my heart, but I couldn’t commit now. Now I was even more conflicted since I had this issue to deal with my brother.

  “I’ll keep the ring on the dresser for you. It’s your call.”

  “Let’s just go back to sleep,” I said, pulling the duvet covers up over us. Romero wrapped his arms around me and snuggled up. I lay still and listened to his breath until I felt him dozing off into sleep. Afterward, I untangled my limbs from his, then took a quick shower. I found a dressy black leather pants set and tall boots which folded at the knees that I’d left at his house and slipped into them. I was on a mission. If I didn’t get away from the comfort of Romero’s love, I’d never be able to go through with what I had to do. I grabbed my purse, which had my Glock in it.

  Romero’s eyes flew open just as I tried to creep past his bed. “Where are you going, mija?”

  I paused. “I’ve got to leave, baby.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you. This is family business.”

  “Sure you’ve got to go? Why don’t you spend the night?”

  “I’ve got to go.” I was insistent.

  “We’ve gotten so close. Don’t you trust me?”

  “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

  “That’s cold. Didn’t you just tell me you loved me?”

  “I meant it.”

  “Well, tell me something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “We’ve been together over a year and you still don’t trust me?”

  “Talking about trust. Do you ever tell me about that family of yours?”

  “I told you that’s my past.”

  “What is the name of your family’s gang?”

  “Out of family loyalty, I can’t tell you.”

  I thought about his crime family. Were they a part of Mayhem’s kidnapping? What was his family’s name? It really didn’t matter. All I cared about was whether they were the ones who had Mayhem. Would blood be thicker than mud, in this case? I didn’t know. But one thing I knew for sure. I had to do this by myself.

  Chapter Twelve

  I hated to part on bad terms with Romero. We seldom fought or even disagreed. We gave each other our space and our freedom to work our individual cases and it seemed to work for us. But now he was talking about marriage. He was serious, but I had doubts. Would a marriage end our happy relationship?

  It was after midnight as I drove through the underbelly of Hollywood where Mayhem’s strip club called the Kitty Kat Koliseum was located. I decided I need to snoop around and see if anyone knew anything. I really didn’t exactly know what I was looking for. I parked my car a block away and strode past the hookers of all races strolling the Hollywood strip to enter into the more legal form of prostitution. Walking the streets or having sex with a lap dance partner–what was the difference?

  I could hear the beat of the music from the outside. Even the ground was vibrating because the noise was so loud. I was surprised to see a line at this time of morning, but there was one. Once I got inside, I scanned the room. The club was not what I expected. It was decorated like a Roman coliseum with different levels of sofas in a circle. A stage was nestled in the center.

  I put the trip to Brazil in the back of my mind. If I could find Mayhem, then I wouldn’t even have to go out the country, was what I was reasoning. But, they still wanted the money and planned to kill him without it. Also, his wifey was the one who had access to the money. She was in Brazil and I was going to have to go there to find her. So backing out was not going to be an option.

  Just considering the complexity of my case, for a fleeting moment, I thought about ordering a drink, but then I decided to get a 7 Up.

  I didn’t know the bartender, the bouncer, or the lead dancer, but I decided I needed to talk to them. They would be a good place to start as sources of information. They may have had information or not, but it was worth a shot. I started with the bartender. I just had to make him feel important.

  Even if I found out where Mayhem was, how could I get him released without the money? I just wanted to find out if there was anything I could do before I caught a plane to Brazil. I hadn’t flown since 9/11. I still had nightmares about those two planes going into the two Trade Center buildings. To say I had a fear of flying would be an understatement.

  I adjusted my eyes to the blue strobe nightlights, and for a moment, I used my hands as binoculars. Tonight the club was packed with thugs, gangsters, Crips, and wannabes. I thought I even saw a Compton rapper. I observed several local rapper groups, Revelations, Hitch, and Apocalypse, and the groupies were out six deep to a man.

  The room was overflowing with women who could be poster children for steatopygia or the “big butt club.” Broke or not, from the looks of things, most of these dancers had gone out and bought big booty transplants. Now you can’t tell me everybody had back like this before. Second to the butt transplants were breast implants, but they didn’t seem as prominent in this strip club. The trend had changed and now big bottoms were in style.

  The place reeked of cigarette smoke, chronic, alcohol, cheap perfume, fish, and unwashed behind. Obviously, strip joints were still an ongoing diversion for men–in spite of the recession. Money was still available for sex and fantasies.

  I weaved my way through the crowd of lounging men at tables, making “it rain,” as they tossed dollar bills on the stage. Women wearing thongs and bikini tops, giving lap dances, doing booty pops, and clapping their cheeks swarmed around the club or sat with clients.

  My purpose was to talk to the bartender, so I made a beeline for the bar. Bartenders were like street corner psychiatrists. They knew everybody’s business. Who ran the club in Mayhem’s absence was what I wanted to know. Everything seemed like business as usual, and it was what appeared to be a lucrative business.

  As I approached the bar, my hands began to tremble. Being in this bar setting was by no means an easy feat for me. Like many newly recovering alcoholics, it was almost a knee-jerk reaction for me to want to take a drink. In spite of all the trouble that alcohol caused me in the past, for a fleeting moment, I entertained the idea of a drink. Yes, I just wanted one drink.

  My palate watered like Pavlov’s dog just being near the bar, and I could already taste a cool beer guzzling down my throat. Let me be honest about something. I loved how alcohol smelled, and how it tasted. I also liked how I felt when I took that first drink. Unfortunately, that one drink was never enough for me, and it had derailed my career as a police.

  I hadn’t been to my AA meetings in over twenty-four hours and I was already getting tempted. I had to stop walking toward the bar and catch a hold of myself. Just for a mental refresher’s course, just in case, in a lapse of sanity, I had to be brutal with myself.

  Just in case I wanted to entertain any illusions I could handle a drink again, I had to mentally shake myself up. Even if I wanted to delude myself i
nto thinking I could afford to slip and take just an itsy-bitsy thimble of alcohol, I needed to kick myself in my own butt. I treaded my mind back down memory lane.

  What I saw was an ugly picture. The blackouts, the hangovers, the vomiting, the hotboxes, the detox, the shame, and the degradation. I reminded myself of these past two years of struggle to remain sober, one day at a time, and, once again, I knew I could not afford to give in to that momentary pleasure. I could never get lulled into a false sense of security and think I was cured. There was no cure for alcoholism.

  I didn’t want to lose two years of hard-won sobriety so I repeated my mantra. I cannot take a drink. I cannot take a drink. I will remain sober, one day at a time.

  As I got closer, I noticed the bartender wore a name tag on his pink shirt. He was a ripped, muscular dude but was very effeminate acting. He also had great interpersonal skills and was warm with all the customers. “Hey, honey,” he called out to men and women alike.

  “Hey, Tyrone. What’chu know good?”

  “It’s all good.”

  I said a quick prayer, and the moment for lusting after a drink passed. I sighed in relief. I decided to just focus on the matter on hand. Who had taken Mayhem? Did his business associates have anything to do with his disappearance?

  Resolutely, I ordered a 7 Up. “Hello, Tyrone. My name is Z. I’m David’s–I mean, Mayhem’s–sister. Have you seen him?” I smiled, and shook his hand.

  He started looking uncomfortable. “No, but you might ask the manager. He’s been looking for him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “There he go over there.” He pointed with his eyes slanted in a flat line. My eyes followed over to the VIP area. The area was raised high above the rest of the club, and was cordoned off with a golden braided rope. The person in question was a tall brother with cornrows who wore shades that had reflective mirrors in them. He was dressed in an expensive white Armani suit, which glistened under the nightlights.

  “What’s his name?”

  “G-Man.”