A Name in the Dark Read online

  On my corner of the table sits a stack of books and a single laptop that I use for streaming and online shopping. I have a constant rotation from the library and can read up to four at a time—though not in the same genre. I usually have one fiction, one nonfiction, one reference, and a wild card.

  My phone chirps with a text from Father Ramon: I have a new client for you. Available?

  I don’t have to bother checking my schedule. I quickly type back: My calendar just opened up.

  Finally, a new gig. Maybe I will be able to afford a new lamp. I dig into my oatmeal before heading out to my day job.

  Chapter 4

  ____◊____

  LOS ANGELES CENTRAL LIBRARY is a short fifteen-minute bike ride from home. It’s chilly on this March morning, probably in the midfifties, so I’m thankful I have my jacket to shield me against the subarctic temperatures.

  When I hit the homeless camps outside the series of rescue missions, I pedal as fast as I can until I reach the stretch of secondhand and knockoff stores that make up the first floor of old masonry skyscrapers built one hundred years ago. I twist and turn through bike lanes until I can see the purple rectangular bell tower rising above Pershing Square.

  In ten city blocks, the population transforms from homeless people dressed in fatigues and living out of shopping carts to everyone wearing Hugo Boss and Donna Karen.

  I lock up my bike at the rack outside the Central Library entrance. A wolf whistle sounds behind me, followed by, “What’s a fine girl like you hanging around the library for?”

  I smile and turn. Terrell Jenkins, one of the security guards, stands by the entrance with his arms folded. An African American with wiry frame and years of experience in his face and eyes, Terrell is a notorious flirt. But at sixty, he’s harmless and the only man I know who can still pull off that whistle and not offend anyone.

  “Just trying to make an honest living and keep myself off the streets,” I say, offering him a wink as I approach the door.

  Terrell holds the door open as I walk in. Most guys come across as creepy when they flirt and catcall. Not Terrell. Maybe it’s because of his age, or maybe he’s refined his skill over the years, but whatever his secret is, it works.

  “Oh, look, another beautiful angel coming to work!” I hear over my shoulder. Terrell holds the door for another librarian. Meg is in her late fifties and looks like a grandmother from any Norman Rockwell painting. Terrell is just as sincere and charismatic when he flirts with her as he is with me. She can’t help smiling either.

  So begins my day at the Los Angeles Central Library. Until my job as a private investigator can pay the bills, I’m stuck working here part-time. I started as a volunteer here so I could gain access to Los Angeles County special collections. My research into the occult and biblical references required access to rare and out-of-print books. If I were ever going to learn Dudley’s true name, I had to study everything from the ancient Sumerians to modern Satanism. Eventually, the city hired me part-time to cultivate their Californiana collection, an archive of books, maps, photos, and art relating to the history of California—and especially Los Angeles—from the Spanish and Mexican periods to the present.

  This morning, I cover a shift for a coworker, putting away books in the children’s department. The room’s 1920s design is virtually unchanged, with its wrought-iron grillwork that separates it from the main rotunda underneath the pyramid of illumination. The pyramid is decorated with Egyptian-inspired iconography—in particular, the sun symbol. Topping the pyramid is a golden arm holding a torch.

  Some argue this is a symbol of enlightenment. Others argue it’s a symbol for Luciferianism, a belief system that identifies Lucifer as a figure of enlightenment not unlike the Greek Titan Prometheus. Lucifer literally means “light bringer.”

  These are the thoughts that run through my scattered mind as I’m putting away copies of Dr. Seuss under the pyramid: symbolism in the library, my never-ending research into religion and evil, the socioeconomic differences I see on my bike ride to work… and the enormous Latino eyeballing me from the picture-books aisle.

  He’s been watching me for about ten minutes and absentmindedly holding a copy of Where the Wild Things Are. While I admit it’s a great book, it shouldn’t take him that long to get through it. This must be the potential new client.

  I’m not about to ask him. I could be wrong. He could just be a huge fan of Maurice Sendak. I am. But in case he is a client, I push my book cart down a vacant aisle away from everyone else so we might have some privacy.

  It doesn’t take long for him to appear at the end of the row of books. He approaches slowly. I keep my eyes down—I don’t want to spook him.

  “Darcy Caine?” he asks in a thick Hispanic accent.

  “You looking for a book recommendation?”

  He doesn’t seem to appreciate my sense of humor. Few people do. “I was told you could help us.”

  Us, he said. Curious. “Who sent you?”

  “Father Ramon.”

  Bingo. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s not me. It’s my boss. Her daughter is missing.”

  “You call the police?” I ask.

  “We can’t call the cops.”

  This raises red flags. Even though he found me through Father Ramon, whom I trust implicitly, something is telling me that if this guy doesn’t want the police involved, then I probably don’t want to be involved either.

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s go talk to her. She can tell you.”

  Another red flag. Where is his boss, and why isn’t she here? Where is this guy trying to lure me? He isn’t a typical errand boy. This guy is six feet tall, wears cowboy boots, and has rough hands. Even though I’m a woman, he positions his body square to mine with his hands ready at the hip. I can tell whether a man knows how to handle himself by the way he stands, and this guy has seen his fair share of fights.

  I decide to push. I continue putting away books, looking anywhere but at him. “This isn’t how this works. If she needs my help, she can come see me.”

  “Father Ramon said you could help her.”

  “God helps those who help themselves.”

  He’s getting pissed now. I can tell he’s not used to being denied. I’m not worried, though. What’s he going to do, punch a girl in the middle of a library?

  He slaps the books out of my hands and onto the floor. “Listen, bitch…”

  Maybe.

  He grabs my arm and pushes me against a wall. He’s strong, with the beefy biceps a person gets from manual labor or beating people to a pulp. I glimpse the bottom part of a tattoo on his right shoulder peeking from under his short sleeve—a crudely drawn arrow pointed down.

  “My boss wants your help. Father Ramon gave us your name and where to find you. Are you going to help us, or am I wasting my time?”

  I finally look up. My yellow eyes stare deep into his soul. He rips his hand away, not expecting this. I feint a move forward, and he rocks on his heels. I smile to see I intimidated him for just a moment. He sneers.

  Someone whisper-screams, “You there!”

  At the end of the aisle stands a mousy Hispanic woman. She’s stern, with her hair tied in a tight ponytail and dark eyes piercing through horn-rimmed glasses. Her petite figure and porcelain skin make her appear much younger than her forty-five years would suggest. Some of our coworkers have even remarked that we look like sisters, which makes me question how old I must look.

  “What’s going on here?” she reprimands as she comes closer.

  “Everything’s fine, Lupe.” I return my attention to the man, locking my eyes on his. “Tell your boss I’ll think about it.”

  He straightens his shirt before turning away. Lupe presses herself flush against the book stacks as he trudges past her and disappears into the rotunda. We listen to the receding echo of his cowboy boots clacking on the hard marble floor.

  Lupe hurries to
me and looks me over. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Was this another one of your customers?” She bends down to pick up the books from the floor. “I told you I don’t want them coming around here.”

  Guadalupe Navarro is my supervisor at the library. She knows about my side gig as a private detective. Since I only work part-time for the library, she can’t prohibit me from working elsewhere. That doesn’t stop her from judging me for it, though.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  She rises, carefully putting the books away, then turns to look at me. In heels, she’s roughly my height, but I always feel an inch or two shorter than she. With a gentle sweep, Lupe brushes the fallen hair away from my face. “Such a pretty girl. I don’t know why you don’t spend more time looking for a nice man to take care of you. Then you wouldn’t have to bother with that terrible business.”

  I turn away, embarrassed by the compliment and overwhelmed by the kindness. Dating has always been a challenge with my condition. Whenever I find myself getting into a serious relationship, I end up sabotaging it. Most guys already think girls are crazy, so I dread having to explain that I have a literal demon inside me.

  “Men aren’t interested in girls like me.” I try to make it sound tough, but I reveal more pain than I intended.

  Lupe shakes her head. “Be careful. You’ll be thirty sooner than you think, then men will wonder what is wrong with you.”

  Even though Lupe is trying to offer helpful advice, the words irk me more than I’d care to admit. I bite my tongue out of respect, but I can already anticipate this moment replaying itself in my mind over the next twenty-four hours as I think of the laundry list of things I should have said.

  I return to putting away the rest of the books and change the subject. “Sorry about that.” I nod in the direction of the recently departed trespasser. “It won’t happen again.”

  Lupe takes the hint and turns to walk away. She hesitates then looks back at me. “You’re not going to work for him, are you?” she says with tinge of concern.

  “A girl’s gotta make a living.”

  She scowls, finding no humor in my remark. “He seemed very dangerous,” she says before disappearing around the bookshelf.

  She’s right. Before I take the case, I need to learn more. I decide to go to church after work.

  * * *

  A bike ride to Pasadena is out of the question, so I pedal home to swap my mode of transportation. I lock my bike in our building’s underground parking structure before settling into my trusted Mini Cooper.

  A friend in the police department tipped me off two years ago to an upcoming police auction, so I was able to get the car for cheap. It’s a black 1990 Mark V—mini even by Mini standards—with yellow racing stripes that stretch from bumper to bumper. As a British import, it has a manual transmission and the driver’s side on the right. Parking next to high curbs is a constant battle in this city.

  The engine is a work in progress that has been cobbled together using parts from a Honda Civic, a moped, and even a lawnmower. I credit my father for teaching me how to keep the engine running and make the most of duct tape. If I had the money, I could restore the heck out of it.

  With a turn of a key, the engine sputters to life, and I embark on the half-hour journey through the Arroyo Seco watershed to Father Ramon. Five years ago, I read an article in Vanity Fair about a priest in Los Angeles, Father Ramon Castillo, who was making a name for himself as one of the most accomplished exorcists in America. Since his ordination, he’d conducted over twenty exorcisms throughout Southern California. The Vatican had even summoned him to lead a training session from around the world at a yearly conference for other exorcists. I like to pretend they call the event Ex-Con.

  I was living in New Orleans at the time, searching for help from the priests and faith healers in the area. Since that had turned up nothing, and because I was still desperate for answers, I packed my things and moved to Los Angeles. I spent a few weeks stalking him outside the church until one day I caught him walking alone. I accosted him in the park, and I explained my situation. Since the article had been published, he’d received many inquiries from people who were convinced they were possessed, so he was naturally skeptical about my situation. I encouraged him to get in touch with the Vatican—they had a whole file on me. After confirming my story, and with permission from the Los Angeles bishop, he agreed to help me in any way he could. We’ve been friends ever since.

  Our search to uncover Dudley’s real name began in the libraries throughout Los Angeles and in every special collection resource we could find. We have spent countless hours digging through volumes of books. Father Ramon leveraged every connection he had to get us into museums and personal collections to study artifacts and materials not available to the general public. The Vatican had even sent him some rare and valuable texts as additional resources. For five years, we have been searching for the name of the demonic entity inside me.

  Despite our best efforts, we’re not any closer than we were on day one of our search. There are a lot of demon names. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever figure it out.

  Father Ramon was quick to notice I had a talent for research, an eye for detail, and an exceptional memory. I credit this to the years of research I had already conducted on my own. He used his connections to help me land work with a private investigation agency. We mostly handled workers’ compensation claims for insurance companies, and I would perform sub-rosa investigations—secret surveillance of individuals, such as filming a forklift operator waterskiing a week after he’d filed a claim for a back injury.

  I was good at my job. Damn good. In no time, I was the number-one surveillance investigator on the team.

  When I considered starting my own business, it was Father Ramon who encouraged me. After completing my required field hours and acquiring the finest online bachelor’s degree in criminology that money could buy, I became a certified, licensed private investigator and started my own business. Father Ramon connected me with my first client, and he continues to send work my way. He has a good relationship with his flock, and they have no reservations about going to him with their troubles, both in the confession booth and outside of it.

  * * *

  Once I’ve parked in Old Town Pasadena, I send Father Ramon a text letting him know I have arrived then stand across the street from the church. The sun sits low on the horizon, backlighting the old Romanesque church with its hundred-forty-foot campanile overlooking all of Pasadena. The redbrick structure is modeled after the bell tower at the Santa Maria Church in Trastevere and looks like something right out of medieval Italy. This tour of Los Angeles history is courtesy of my experience working in the Central Library.

  Father Ramon emerges from the church. It’s probably blasphemous to say, but Ramon is a good-looking man. He keeps fit, not just for the health benefits but also to keep himself ready for the next marathon exorcism. He’s not yet forty, but his thick black hair is already showing signs of gray.

  This evening, he’s wearing his civvies—blue jeans and a gray polo shirt—and not his usual clerical shirt and collar. He crosses the street and smiles as he approaches. “Hello, Darcy. It’s good to see you.”

  He knows better than to hug me or even to venture a handshake. That’s another result of demonic possession—I can’t have physical contact with religious leaders. Instead, he raises his hand in greeting, and I wave back.

  “Hello, Father Ramon,” I say.

  I’ve met a lot of priests in my time, and there’s no consistent convention for how they wish to be addressed. Ramon Castillo is probably the friendliest priest I’ve ever met. He likes people to call him Father Ramon.

  We walk into Old Town and find our little coffee shop down a redbrick pedestrian alley. He’s friendly with everyone in the neighborhood, saying hello to shop owners and locals by name. The café sits deep in the alley, with an external counter under a red-and-white a
wning. He orders in Spanish, pays for my coffee as well as his, and tips generously.

  We find a small table and enjoy our coffee over some casual chitchat. He asks about my life and work at the library. I update him on Paige and her recent breakup.

  Eventually, we talk about the strange visitor to the library. Father Ramon identifies him as Hugo Escalante, an employee of a woman named Carmen Viramontes. “I knew her husband very well. Marcos. He came to church every Sunday and was a generous supporter of the parish.”

  Generous supporter. That means he’s a rich guy who donates bunches of money.

  “Marcos passed away two years ago.”

  Don’t I feel like an a-hole.

  “He always spoke of his wife with great love and affection.”

  “You’ve never met her?” I ask.

  “Marcos and his wife immigrated from Mexico years ago. Neither of them ever gained legal residency. Before he passed away, he confided in me that she suffered from a crippling fear that if she ever left the house, she would be caught and arrested.”

  “That would explain why she hasn’t called the cops.” It makes sense. A woman whose residency is in question would probably have a greater chance of being deported than having her missing child found.

  Ramon continues. “Carmen’s housekeeper, Leona, is her go-between to the outside world. Leona came to me after services on Sunday and asked to speak with me privately. She told me Elizabeth, Carmen’s daughter, had gone missing. Vanished without a trace.”

  “A runaway?”

  “They don’t think so. Elizabeth is a freshman at USC and, by all accounts, an A student. Her mother called the school, and it seems she stopped attending classes with no notice.”

  “That doesn’t mean she didn’t run away,” I say.

  “Carmen may not be a legal resident, but she’s a wealthy woman. Elizabeth has a bank account at her disposal. She hasn’t touched it since she disappeared.”

  “How does Carmen make her money?”

  Ramon answers my questions. They may seem random, but by now, he’s used to my zigzagging thought processes. “Marcos ran a very successful chain of electronics stores. Super Tech.”