Maybe it wouldn’t matter.
Maybe she’d find Isabel Lincoln before having to rely on a timeline.
She winced, a little cranky, plenty sore, then plucked a small bottle of sanitizer from her battered handbag. As she rubbed gel into her hands, her phone buzzed.
A text message from Ian O’Donnell.
Just making sure you’re not lost.
“Seriously?” Gray texted back I’m good, and she started her trek to the Alumni Center.
Was Ian O’Donnell always this … asshole-y?
Sure, he wanted to know that his girlfriend was okay—but was that out of love and concern? Or was it because she’d made him look bad? Because how dare she dump him? And how dare she steal his dog?
Gray remembered how Ian O’Donnell had strolled back into the hospital. Lady nurses had waved at him. Men in scrubs had nodded at him. He was the Man.
But did any of them know about Isabel?
5
The Alumni Center’s executive director, Farrah Tarrino, was a plump, round-faced, freckled beauty with big blonde hair. She offered Gray a doughnut as they passed the center’s kitchen. Gray spotted a half a glazed in a pink box, along with a half purple-frosted and a half strawberry-filled with its guts seeping out like blood from a stuck pig.
“Help yourself,” Farrah said, plucking a halved cinnamon-crumbly from the box. “Workday is almost over; they’re just gonna be thrown away.”
Stomach growling, Gray selected the halved chocolate-glazed and immediately regretted her decision—chocolate and white linen slacks went together like canned ham and lobster.
Farrah pinched at her doughnut’s crumbly top, then squinted at Gray. “I’m sorry. Who are you working for again?”
Somehow, chocolate had already flecked the cuff of Gray’s shirt. She licked her thumb, then remembered, Damn it. I just came from a hospital. She then finished the doughnut in one hurried bite, wiping her fingers and mouth with the napkin. “I’m with Rader Consulting. I can’t say more than that. Client confidentiality.”
Farrah nibbled at crumbles. “Guess it doesn’t matter. We all want Izzy home safe and sound. Ab-so-lutely. I’ll take you to her desk. It’s quiet right now—summer hours. And lots of folks are on vacation.” Her panty-hosed thighs swooshed against each other as Gray’s mules slapped at the brown-tiled floor. Together, they weaved through the nearly empty cubicle farm and stopped at a double-wide cubby with two workstations.
One workstation’s wall was bare. At the other station, sheets of paper covered in sticky notes had been left on the chair, waiting for Isabel’s return and review. There were no desktop pictures of Kenny G. with Isabel, nor pictures of Isabel with Ian O’Donnell. A framed picture of the missing woman cuddling an orange tabby sat next to a photo of the same missing woman standing between Clair Huxtable and Lou Rawls look-alikes.
Isabel Lincoln’s parents?
Couldn’t be. This couple looked like they knew all the lyrics to “Lift Every Voice and Sing.” They looked like the couple who hoarded petrified copies of Jet in the attic and had watched Soul Train every Saturday morning and had attended wedding receptions that ended with the Hustle or the Electric Slide. There was a pressing comb in a drawer somewhere in their house. Because this couple? They were black black.
Gray reached into her purse. “Do you mind if I record our conversation? Just so that I have everything?” Because of course she thought of recording an interview now.
Farrah said, “Sure,” and Gray pressed Record on her phone’s voice memo app.
“Okay,” Gray said. “So, Isabel’s job?”
“She organizes events for our scholars to meet their benefactors. She organizes board meetings, hosts alumni trips.… She’s been here for, oh, two years now. But she recently applied for a student life advisor position to work directly with incoming freshmen. Though I’d hate to lose her, I gave her a glowing recommendation.”
“Did she ever leave for days at a time?”
“Yes, but she always cleared time off with me first.”
“Do you have a list of her days off?”
Back in her office, Farrah tapped at the computer keyboard. “Here we go.” She clicked Print and, seven seconds later, Gray had a list of dates that Isabel Lincoln had requested.
December 5–7
March 13–15
May 22–24
The March and May dates … Since Gray hadn’t been able to take notes, she wasn’t sure if those dates matched the dates Ian O’Donnell had mentioned.
Farrah allowed Gray to conduct interviews in a small conference room that reeked of ranch salad dressing and jalapeños. She offered the P.I. a Diet Coke—Gray needed a caffeine boost to power through her third and fourth interviews of the day.
“At first, we didn’t think anything was wrong.” This was from Beth Sharpe, a tall brunette who wore a silver nose stud. “Isabel told me that she and Ian were heading to Palm Springs for the Memorial Day weekend.”
“Really?” Gray’s eyebrows lifted. The good doctor hadn’t mentioned a trip to the desert.
Gray liked Secret Santa, secret sauce.… Secret plans, though, were the best secrets!
Down on the conference room table, her phone blinked, then the screen went dark. She pressed the Home button, then got the Empty Battery icon. Dead phone.
“Uh-oh,” Beth Sharpe said. “Need a pen?”
“I have one.” Gray searched through her bag for that stupid, sticky pen. Wallet, ibuprofen, hand sanitizer, chewing gum, coins … no pen. “Sorry. We can keep talking,” she said, face warm again. “If I need to clarify anything—”
“We can email,” Beth Sharpe said, nodding. “So, anyway, Izzy thought Ian was gonna finally propose. Not that she would’ve said yes. Can I tell you something?” She jiggled her knees, then stopped jiggling her knees, then jiggled her knees again. “This is gonna sound crazy, and I’m kinda glad that your phone died, because I don’t know if I want this recorded, but … I think Ian took Izzy out to Palm Springs and killed her. I think he buried her near one of those giant wind turbines.”
“That’s a rather … extreme thing to say.”
“She told me that Ian had a temper and that she’d discovered his big secret. She was really nervous the last time I saw her. She said it could ruin his career.”
“And so…”
“He knew that she knew…”
“And?”
“He killed her.”
“And?”
“He buried her body—”
“Beneath a giant wind turbine,” the women said together.
Nan Keaton, an older redhead wearing a prairie skirt and cowboy boots, stomped into the conference room before Gray could find another pen. Nan sat with an “Oomph,” crossed her arms against her doughy breasts, and kept her jaw clamped like a crocodile on a wildebeest’s leg. That kind of defensive body language was known as “She knows something but ain’t sayin’.”
Gray was already exhausted. “Ian said that he and Isabel ate lunch together every day.”
Nan barked, “Ha! She was lucky if it was twice a week. He always had to work, he always had to save lives, to literally hold people’s hearts in his hands. He always told her that if she ever wanted to be a doctor’s wife, she’d have to share him with his patients.”
“And what was Isabel’s response to that?”
“What do you expect it to be?”
“Did she ever think he was cheating on her when he was supposed to be seeing patients?”
Nan didn’t respond. She was the type of woman who prayed hard, drank harder, and kept the lights on for her trucker lover or her small-town-sheriff lover or her prodigal son. Tears cried for those men always disappeared into the folds of her weathered skin, but They still counted, you hear? They still counted.
“Did you know that Isabel took Dr. O’Donnell’s dog?” Gray asked.
Nan snorted. “Does it look like I give a fuck?”
“Looks like you’re a dues-paying
member of Gives No Fucks Sorority Incorporated, but you should probably know that she kidnapped the man’s dog.”
Nan harrumphed. “Serves him right.”
“Okay, screw the dog, screw Ian. What can you tell me about Isabel’s state of mind?”
“She was upset a few days before we all left for Memorial Day weekend.”
“You know why?”
Tight jaw and crossed arms again for Nan.
Squinty eyes and acid stomach for Gray. Her neck tensed as she tried to wait Nan out. But she wouldn’t win this waiting game, not against a woman who kept the lights on for truckers and prodigal sons.
“I’m sure,” Gray said, forcing patience into her words, “that you want us to find—”
“Us?” The old redhead scowled. “You ain’t the police, and if I’m gonna tell anybody anything about what was going on, it’s gonna be them, when they come to talk to me.”
“But the police aren’t interested. She’s been gone for about seven weeks, right? They’re not looking for her because they don’t think she’s missing. But if you know something, if you know the truth, you have to tell me so that I can alert—”
“You think I’m an idiot?” Nan whispered. “You think I’m one of those young things with barely a thought in my head?”
“I think you have millions of thoughts in your head, and that’s why I need your help.”
Nan plucked lint from her cotton blouse and let the fibers float to the carpet. “I don’t know who you’re working for, young lady, but I do know that I ain’t gotta say shit to you.” The old woman chewed on her tongue—she wanted to say something else, because old gals like Nan Keaton liked saying plenty of things.
But just as Gray was about to give up …
“Problem is,” Nan said, “Isabel ain’t all that innocent in this, either. But she did what she had to do, cuz that’s us women. Doing what we gotta do to survive. And sometimes? That ain’t nice. Sometimes, that ain’t easy. But we get to be aboveground for one more day.”
TEN YEARS AGO
A FAIRY TALE AWAITS
Girls’ trip!
Las Vegas with Zoe, Jay, and Avery!
Tonight, Natalie thought, the town looked showgirl gorgeous. Fake everything, uh-huh, but shiny and clean and impossibly slick and painted. At noon, thermometers had hit 110 degrees, but once the sun had dipped, temperatures dropped to one hundred. Two hours before midnight, the sky was still bright as the afternoon—neon signs and car headlights, digital billboards and the glint of chrome and brass everything.
That night, the girls partied at TRUE in Caesars Palace. After five blowjob shots—delicious concoctions of Baileys, Kahlúa, amaretto, and whipped cream—Natalie stumbled onto the club’s VIP deck and right into Sean Dixon, the club’s promoter and the most gorgeous man she’d ever met. With close-cut wavy hair and skin the color of Southern pecans, he was a big man who moved like a dancer. Smooth like Cab, smooth like Fred. Slick. Yeah, Sean Dixon was slick.
He said, “I like your smile, Shorty.”
Yeah, okay. Her smile, and not the hot-pink dress wrapped tight as sausage skin around her hips and ass?
She said, “Thank you. I like your eyes.” Hazel to brown on cue, those eyes cut her open, right there on the spot, they were that sharp.
He bought her another drink and they talked about everything and nothing. The first black president. The dangers versus the rewards of eating raw cookie dough. Her job at the Oakland Museum of California.
She liked his confidence.
He liked her reference to Marlon Brando hiding in the shadows in Apocalypse Now.
Later, the couple escaped to his suite on the eighth floor. He touched her, and she shimmered like silver dust on a butterfly’s wings, like golden sunbeams through crystal raindrops. She held her breath as she straddled his waist. Not wanting to burst. Not wanting to release any of the crazy excitement that ricocheted through her veins. Her joy was fragile—a new thing, a rare thing, the finest china dangling from a cliffside.
She was twenty-nine years old and nothing had ever gone her way—why would this?
So she held her breath.
“Stay the night?” Sean asked, after they made love.
Worried, Natalie glanced at the window and imagined her friends wandering the Strip in search of her. And then, in that same window, she saw everything shining like gemstones. The world was so … alive.
“My girls,” she said. “They’re probably freaking out.”
“It’s damn near three o’clock in the morning. They’re finished freaking out and now they’re in bed with curlers in their hair.” Sean laughed and rubbed her arm. “Stay, babe.”
She tried to laugh. “You’re probably right.”
“If you’re gonna stress out, though, just call them. Where are you guys staying?”
She grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand. “Circus Circus.”
He snorted. “Seriously? That place is ghetto as fuck.”
Natalie tapped Avery’s number. “Sixty dollars a night—can’t beat it when you still have student loans to pay.” She didn’t have loans—her parents hadn’t needed to borrow—but Sean didn’t need to know that.
Avery didn’t answer. Neither did Jay or Zoe. So Natalie left a message and then sent a group text. I’m safe. With Sean at Caesars. See u in the morning!
That night, Natalie stopped holding her breath.
That night, Natalie shimmered like silver dust and golden sunbeams.
The next morning, she called Avery again.
This time, Avery answered. “Oh, so you decided to let us know you’re not dead.”
Avery’s words slithered from the receiver and coiled around Natalie’s neck. But she ignored that tightening and the anger rolling around her gut. “I’ll see you guys soon.”
After a fifteen-minute cab ride, Natalie slipped into the smoky casino of Circus Circus. Up in the hotel room, her friends said nothing to her, and so she retreated to the bathroom to change into shorts, a tank top, and a pair of Vans. She twisted her long hair into a ponytail while talking herself into confronting her friends.
Just go. Just … get it over with.
She stomped out of the bathroom and into the room. Arms crossed, she stood in front of the television. “Are y’all gonna say something?”
Avery, on the carpet, kept flipping through Cosmopolitan.
Zoe, on the couch, kept painting her toenails.
Jay, in one of the queen-size beds, pretended to sleep.
Not feeling her feet or her face, Natalie said, “Fine. What-the-fuck-ever. I’ll check in with you guys later.”
After she and Sean ate breakfast, they played slots and then walked along the Strip. Later, they held hands as they caught a magic show over at Excalibur. He bought her a Gucci handbag, kissed her again, and then, with a pat on her ass, he sent her back to her friends.
At dinnertime, she returned to Circus Circus.
Thick eyebrow cocked, Avery said, “You just met the man and he bought you a Gucci?”
Zoe’s fuchsia lips twisted into a grin. “In exchange for ridin’ that dick all night.”
“Ouch, Zee.” Jay’s eyes burned into their wayward friend, who was now standing before them with tears in her eyes.
Being called a whore by her best friends? Damn, that hurt. “Can’t you be happy that I finally met someone?”
He’s an asshole.
He’s possessive.
Can’t you tell that he’s crazy as fuck?
None of this was true. They hated that Sean had taken her away from them for one night. One. Night. That he hadn’t included them in her magical evening. Jealousy. Like onions and sweat, jealousy stunk up a room.
On Monday’s flight back to Oakland, Jay, Avery, and Zoe didn’t speak to Natalie.
The quartet reached their apartment across the street from Lake Merritt. A crystal vase of lavender roses for Natalie sat on the porch. On the card, Sean had written, “Let me show you the world,” and
had promised to buy her a return ticket to Las Vegas.
Couldn’t the girls see? Wasn’t it obvious?
Natalie and Sean were meant to be together.
6
The cardiologist was performing some sort of magic trick, and Gray gave Farrah, Beth, and Nan her phone number in case they had more clues to offer on how to uncover that trick.
Ultimately, though, her job was simple: obtain proof that Isabel and Kenny G. were alive.
But now she stood before the Alumni Center’s full-length bathroom mirror, disgusted with her reflection. Chocolate-stained. Wrinkled. Swollen feet. Numb legs. Dead phone. Lost pen. No drugs. Distracting pain. What the fuck?
“And I probably have hepatitis from licking my freakin’ fingers.” She washed her hands and watched as brown grime—hepatitis?—swirled into the drain.
It was minutes before four o’clock as Gray tromped back through the tiled lobby and back out into the sticky air. She reached into her bag for car keys and heard the purse’s inside lining rip.
She hated this purse and longed for the bags she’d carried back in the good old days. Buttery Givenchy satchels big enough to carry a book, a pair of shoes and a set of keys, plane tickets to somewhere else. Bags like that, though, caught people’s attention, and she didn’t need women remembering, Oh yeah, she was carrying that limited-edition Fendi and I remember cuz I had a salad that day with cranberries and I was wearing my red jeans, the ones with the tear in the left knee. And so, cheap, forgettable purses. The one with her now was a Liz Claiborne shoulder bag, camel-colored, with a black strap, faux leather outside, and (ripped) polyester lining inside. A five-star bag on the Macy’s website, now at two stars because it couldn’t handle Gray’s life just after two years of hard labor.
Back in the car, she connected her phone to the charger—power again!—then she texted Ian O’Donnell: What were the dates she left for no reason?
Immediate ellipses. Shouldn’t he have been staring at chest X-rays? Providing comfort and care to another Mary Ann, this one with a bad ticker instead of a broken ankle? Didn’t he have a body hidden beneath a windmill to relocate?
And Now She's Gone Page 3
