And Now She's Gone

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “Sorry about that.” Ian’s face was flushed. “I’ll need to leave soon.”

  Gray stood, then asked, “Would you mind if I…” She pointed to the bathroom.

  Ian made a face. “Do you really have to? I mean … Sure.”

  She flushed but quickstepped to the bathroom anyway. Completing her chore in less than two minutes, she returned to Isabel’s bedroom.

  Ian, arms folded, was waiting for her.

  “So,” Gray said, “quick question: Was Isabel married before? Engaged previously?”

  “No. But she’s been in bad relationships. She’s done far worse than me.”

  With a shark’s smile, Gray said, “The ladies at the Alumni Center said you were bad.”

  He flicked his hand. “I don’t care what they think. I have more important shit to do in life than worry about bitter bitches.”

  “Those past relationships. With the guys far worse than you. Know any of their names?”

  He snorted. “Why would I ask for names?”

  “You were never curious? She never complained to you about Michael, who used to shave and never clean the sink afterward? Or Paul, who’d clip his toenails in bed?”

  Another snort from Ian. “Sorry. Not interested.”

  Gray and Ian clomped back down the steps and wandered to the kitchen. This time, she noticed a half-filled mug sitting near the range—the inside was stained from evaporated coffee. On a saucer, there was a bagel schmeared with cemented cream cheese.

  Had Isabel left suddenly on that Monday morning?

  Couldn’t have. Mrs. Tompkins had mentioned that Isabel was carrying a suitcase. She’d had enough time to pack. And to dye her hair.

  There was a blank notepad on the breakfast counter. There were no specks of dried blood on the oven door. No shards of broken glass or ceramic on the tile floor. No tufts of pulled-out hair beneath the refrigerator vent.

  “Morris,” Gray said. “How did he die?”

  “He ate something.”

  “Poison?”

  “No idea.”

  Gray squinted at him.

  Ian gaped at Gray. “Seriously? Now I kill cats? To be honest, I never saw Morris. He was always hiding anytime I came over. Iz never asked me to watch him, not once.” With a trembling finger, he pointed in the direction of Mrs. Tompkins’s condo. “You talk to that old busybody and not tell me?”

  Before she could respond, he whirled away from her. “Fucking remarkable. And now I’m a cat killer. She steals my dog, but I’m the villain. She never cared about Kenny G.”

  “Did she take care of him at all? Because of your schedule?”

  “Please. Kenny G. had a dog sitter most times. Isabel was a flake and she’d forget to come over. I couldn’t rely on her. Yes, she’d help out every now and then. That’s why she had him on that Monday—she picked him up from the sitter that morning, around ten.

  “And Tea is a liar—you should know that before you talk to her again. She’s so caught up in the Saint Isabel myth, she can’t even think straight. Take my advice: only believe ten percent of what she says.” He shook his head, then added, “I didn’t kill the fucking cat, okay?”

  “Okay. I may need to come back here to look at some things.”

  Ian blanched. “Nick said we were gonna be done by tomorrow or Saturday at the latest.”

  “Maybe. I’m moving as quickly as I can.”

  He ran his hands over his face. “I’ll try to let you in again, but I do have patients.”

  Down at the security gate, he said, “And yes: it is Isabel’s birthday tomorrow. I know that. You just mentioned it at a random time. But, of course, you take that the wrong way.”

  Once again, Gray pushed that synthetic smile to her lips. “Thank you for taking time out of your day to walk me through. I know you’re incredibly busy. Is there anything else I should know? Any relevant secrets that could help explain her disappearance? Is there another woman in the picture? Or another man?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Other than that guy Omar? No. Nothing. No one.”

  Gray kept her eyes locked on his.

  What about the Big Secret? Or the Hot Nurse? What did you really do on the Friday night of Memorial Day weekend?

  Ian O’Donnell dropped back into his Porsche. He zoomed down the hill without tossing her a wave or a nod.

  As Gray returned to the Camry, she knew that she’d need to take a closer look around Isabel Lincoln’s condo. There was something about that blank notepad on the breakfast counter. And there was something about that tiny key hidden beneath the missing woman’s lingerie. And that hard metal box on the floor in the darkest reaches of Isabel’s closet …

  There were big secrets everywhere.

  11

  Before partaking of tacos, margaritas, and hot Jewish bartenders, Gray needed to stop one more time at the office. And just as she plopped back at her desk, Dominick Rader strolled into her office with slices of pepperoni pizza on a paper plate.

  “Finally,” she said, “a visit from the big boss.” She pushed her glasses to the top of her head, then tugged at her shirt, caring now about the small gaps between the buttonholes and the roll of … her bulging over the waistband of her wrinkled linen slacks.

  Nick’s tanned skin gleamed with pizza grease, but even with oil smears he was a gently handsome, forty-six-year-old man who checked every box to describe his ethnicity—his ancestors’ ethos of “Love the one you’re with” showed in his slanted gray eyes, his full lips, and those sharp, freckled cheekbones.

  “I see you’ve settled in,” he said. “Glad you could get an office.”

  “Let’s just say that I know a guy.” Seeing him sit there in her guest chair—her chair, her office—anyway, seeing him there made Gray’s breath tumble in her chest.

  Outside her office, skip tracers and administrative assistants, data analysts and random consultants huddled at the island in the large kitchen around boxes of pizza. And now the irresistible aromas of Italian meats and oregano-kissed tomato sauce tickled Gray’s nose.

  Nick adjusted the leather shoulder holster beneath his blazer. “You know, there’s pizza out there. My treat.” He paused, then added, “You’re not on those shakes again, are you?”

  “Maybe?” Right now there was a can of strawberry-flavored with her name on it, chilling in the office fridge. “The newsletter said that there would also be beer.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “On my dime?”

  “Yep. Good beer, too.”

  “You guys are worth it,” Nick said with a full mouth. “The best for the best.”

  “The new H.R. lady’s all about employee happiness. It’s no secret that we care about you. That’s the signature line on her emails.”

  “We do care.”

  “You sent me roses after my surgery. In your official capacity as founder and CEO.”

  “I did?”

  “Cuz you care. It’s no secret.”

  “You should have some pizza. One slice won’t hurt. You’re recovering. You should eat.”

  “Pizza isn’t penicillin.” Not that she’d finished that course of penicillin after surgery.

  “I can have them order salad. Rice cakes or—”

  “Nick.”

  He held up a hand. “All right. Chill. Just wanna make sure that … you know, we’re being all inclusive or whatever. Meeting dietary … things.”

  In March, Gray had been mentally ready for her promotion to baby P.I., but her body? Not so much. And two months later, she’d needed that appendectomy. Before then, she had worked from home but had tired of reporting the findings of investigations—she wanted to lead them. Especially cases that helped women get away from dangerous men. But she couldn’t be an investigator, Nick had told her, if she wasn’t in the building.

  She now had an office with a window overlooking tree-lined walkways, and access to a game room with a Ping-Pong table. Throw in the best coffee in the building, free pizza, and alcohol—she had gained another t
en pounds from all that, and from skipping her daily three-mile runs. Dr. Messamer had said that she could restart her routine in June, but it was now July, and since then, she’d only run to the bathroom.

  Nick started on his second slice of pizza. “You look good now.”

  Gray laughed. “Not like a busted can of biscuits, which is how I usually look?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I worry, okay? You’ve been sick, and this job … No set schedule. No regular mealtimes … You going to your follow-up appointments?”

  “When needed.”

  “Gray—”

  “I don’t want to give away more information than necessary. You taught me that. I’m taking my meds and the doctor said that I’d have pain, that it’s normal, that I’m healing.” She gave a thumbs-up. “So, what’s up? You checking to see if Ian O’Donnell is still alive?”

  “Can’t two old friends just talk for a minute?” Nick and Gray had known each other for twenty-four years, since she was fifteen years old. Back then, they were like brother and sister. They grew up, though, and now Gray loved Nick like that. But he had told her that she wasn’t ready for him. Pissed at his assessment of her, she’d put their friendship on pause, talking to him only as her employer. Yes, sir. No, sir. Thank you, sir. And he had avoided her—no chance meetings in the hallways, no bumping into each other in the kitchen or down in the parking lot.

  Back in May, though, they had picked up their friendship like a yellowed newspaper on a battered porch. Just in time for her appendix to burst.

  And now, her old friend grinned at her. “I was surprised you wanted to be a P.I., working with people paid to be nosy.”

  “Yes, and nosy people tell me that you’re seeing a biochemist. I’m surprised. I mean, all those brains and random equations in her head. With you?”

  His smile widened. “And I’m surprised that you care. With you actively ignoring me ninety-eight percent of the time, I mean. So, your case?”

  “A doozy.”

  “Yeah?” Nick crossed his long legs and pinched the crease of his Italian wool trousers.

  “He’s…”

  “A jerk? But he’s not like the regular jerks who’re searching for runaway girlfriends.”

  “No? Cuz he certainly smells like that kind.”

  “Well, he’s a friend,” Nick said. “He patched me up a long time ago. I was thinking of taking his case for old times’ sake, but I’m going out of town with … with…”

  “With the biochemist,” she said with a slow grin.

  He wiped his fingers on a tired napkin. “She’s always complaining that I don’t take her anywhere. I guess I just don’t get it. All beaches look the same. The ocean is blue and wet or green and wet. Every mai tai has that Malibu shit in ’em, and mosquitos are evil fuckers here and everywhere else. Save your money. Stay at home.”

  Gray placed her chin in her hand. “You’re such a romantic.”

  “Whatever. I’m going out of town, so I can’t work the case, and I thought it would be easy enough for you to handle without a lot of supervision.”

  “He mentioned that he never met Isabel’s parents. Do you know why?”

  “You ask him?” When she didn’t nod, he said, “You should’ve—that’s your job.”

  Over in the kitchen, glass bottles clanked against other glass bottles.

  Nick looked back over his shoulder—more staff had joined the others around the island. “Is that the beer?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Want a bottle?”

  “Nope. I don’t drink beer, remember?”

  He glanced again at his camped-out employees. “I remember. I just don’t believe it.”

  “May I … say something, now that I have some context? I know this is our job,” she said, “but since the beginning of the world, every day begins and ends with a woman dumping a man. This happens on seven continents in over one hundred ninety countries around the world. Also on Pluto.”

  “Women don’t dump this guy.”

  “Yeah, that’s part of my problem with your friend. And why I’d asked not to be assigned male clients.”

  “You hate him cuz his ego’s the size of my dick.”

  Gray rolled her eyes. “Low-hanging fruit, Nick.”

  “Hanging all the way down to my knees, baby. To my knees.” He hopped up from his chair. “How can you sit there when free fucking beers are, like, six feet away?”

  “They aren’t free,” she said, speaking to his back. “You’re paying for them.”

  He darted out of her office to join the mob at the breakfast bar.

  How was she gonna say this? That Ian O’Donnell—Nick’s friend—was a wife beater?

  She pulled the beaded cord on the window blinds until only a slice of sunlight cut across her notepad. She rubbed her temples, pushing at the new headache pinging behind her eyes. Came from not wearing her glasses around Dominick Rader. Came from old injuries that worsened in air-conditioning and high humidity.

  Nick returned to her office, clutching two bottles of Flat Tire.

  “What part of ‘I don’t drink beer’ don’t you understand?” she asked.

  He snorted. “These aren’t for you, sweetheart. This one”—he held up one bottle—“is my To Go. You been to Kauai before?”

  “Not recently.” She hadn’t left the continental U.S. since 2008.

  “That’s where I’m taking her. Booked us a suite, and I even got a rental car.” He flicked off the cap of his Right Now beer and guzzled half the bottle.

  “She must be a genius in the lab and in the sack to get you to rent a car.”

  “So, your first big case. Cool, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Thought you’d be happier, being sent out into the field, looking for people.”

  She blinked at him. “This is my happy resting bitch face.”

  “You can handle this, right?” No cockiness in his question. “And yeah, you told me that you didn’t want to help jerks find women…”

  Gray smiled. “It’s fine. I help jerks all the time. How many times have I helped you?”

  “I’m being serious.”

  Gray’s eyes skipped around her office—the crimson orchid, the Ruscha prints of “Idea,” floating in gray, and “The Absolute End,” floating in blue. “What if…” She found Isabel Lincoln’s text message on her phone, then read it to Nick.

  He grunted.

  She blinked at him. “That’s it?”

  “Ian isn’t that guy.”

  Her nostrils flared. “Because he’s one of your homies, he can’t be an asshole?”

  “An asshole and a wife beater are two different creatures.”

  “I know that.”

  “I thought you did, which is why I gave you this case.” He pointed at her. “You need to take two steps back, all right? In this business? Everyone lies. Everyone leaves something out of the narrative.”

  “Our job—”

  “Is to do what we’re being paid to do, and in this case, our job is to what?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “To what?”

  “To find Isabel Lincoln. To have her sign a statement saying that she’s okay. To have her answer three security questions. To take a picture of the tattoo on her left thigh and of her holding USA Today, then hand the picture and statement—”

  “And the dog,” Nick interrupted. “You’re finding the dog, too.”

  “And if she’s scared of him? What, then?”

  “Maybe this case is too much for you.” He said this more to himself than to Gray. “Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe—”

  “I can handle it,” Gray said, her words hard. They stared at each other until she sighed and said, “I think he wants the dog back more than he wants the girl.”

  “I think you’re right. Just … listen to your gut. Get her to sign the damned statement.”

  “And if she needs our help?” Gray prodded.

  He pushed out a frustrated breath.
“Then we’ll help her.”

  She scowled. “You sound so dismissive.”

  He drained his beer. “And you’re making this more dramatic than necessary.”

  “Dramatic,” she said, drawing out that one word dramatically.

  Like when “missing” turned into “she’s hiding and doesn’t want to be found”? And if Isabel Lincoln didn’t want to be found, it may have been because the searcher—Ian O’Donnell—had hit her, kicked her, or strangled her. If she didn’t want to be found, it was because maybe he would kill her. Dramatic? Indeed. Possible? Indeed as fuck.

  Gray and Nick strolled to his black Yukon. Her eyes burned—the mountains surrounding the Basin were still on fire. That white sun was now the top layer on the City of Angels’s five-layer dip of sun, ashes, smog, humidity, and cracked earth.

  A Jeep Patriot trailed them to snag Nick’s soon-to-be-abandoned parking space. Nick and Gray eyed the woman driving the Jeep, who was now rolling on their heels. The driver saw something dangerous in their faces, and she sped ahead to find another parking space.

  “If you can’t reach me for whatever reason,” Nick said, “call Portia. She’ll get you what you need. And Jen can help. She knows things. Zadie, if you don’t wanna deal with Jen.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll bring you back a pineapple or a snow globe.”

  “I can’t have both?” As she hugged him, she closed her eyes and inhaled. He smelled like oranges and clean laundry.

  “I told you: the biochemist is expensive. And you all are cutting into my bottom line with free pizza and beer.” His gun brushed against her arm, and he kissed her cheek with lips still cool from the beer.

  Once they pulled apart, she said, “You’re gonna come back one of these days married to some random chick with blonde highlights and teeth whiter than all of Maine.”

  He faked a shudder.

  Gray faked a chuckle.

  This conversation had been one big lie. Yes, there was a biochemist. But Nick’s trip was not vacation. He knew how to find people, and he also knew how to hide them.

  The biochemist was going away.

  But Gray didn’t know that, officially. She didn’t dare ask. None of this was in the books she’d read or the courses she’d taken. She’d seen other women go away. Hell, she’d researched new places for these women to start a new life.