“And you what?”
“I drove to the cabin and left it there. And then I drove back home.”
“Are there any pictures of you hanging on Isabel’s walls?” Gray asked.
Tea cocked her head, thrown by the sudden change in topic. “Huh?”
“Are there any pictures of you on her Facebook or Instagram—”
“Yes,” she said, chin high. “I have pictures of us.”
“On her pages. That you didn’t share.”
Tea called up Facebook on her phone. She didn’t say anything as she tapped and swiped up and up and up, but by the way her shoulders slumped and her face darkened, it was clear she knew … and she didn’t like the answer.
Gray leaned forward and touched Tea’s arm. “She only became your friend to get what she wanted. She wanted that condo and you introduced her to the couple who owned it. She wanted to destroy Ian, so she has you as a witness to episodes of abuse that never happened. She’s a liar, and she also tried to pull me into her lies.”
“No,” Tea snarled. “You don’t know anything about me or about her.”
Gray stared at the young woman. “Did she take out any insurance policies recently?”
Tea’s eyes skirted to look past Gray’s head. “Why would I know that?”
“You’re the beneficiary, aren’t you?”
Tea didn’t speak.
“Did you know that she has a separate policy on you?”
Tea’s nostrils flared and she furrowed her eyebrows.
“When you die, she’s getting paid.”
“But I’m healthy. I’m not dying.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Gray sipped from her cup. “She’s not your friend, Tea.”
“Yes, she is,” the woman hissed. “She misses me. That’s why—” Her lips clamped.
Gray’s belly jumped. “That’s why what?”
Tea dropped her head.
“When was the last time you saw Isabel?”
“The last Sunday in May.”
“And the last time you talked to her? Not a text or a phone call. Talked to her in person?”
“The last Sunday in May.”
“So you don’t know one hundred percent that it was Isabel who answered the questions or even told you to send those pictures? You’ve only communicated with her via text message?”
Tea said, “Yes,” then dropped her head. Her hands were shaking now, and tears plopped from her cheeks and pebbled on the table.
“And the dog?”
“I don’t know.”
“She ever mention him in the text messages?”
“No, but she’d never hurt that stupid dog.”
“Where did she go back in December?”
Tea shook her head.
“Okay, I’m calling the po—”
“Las Vegas.”
“And in March?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Why?”
Tea waited and waited—minutes, hours, days, it seemed. Finally: “Don’t know.” She dabbed a napkin at her wet nose.
Softer now, Gray asked, “What else do you know?”
Tea dabbed the napkin at her eyes. “She told me that she needed a safe place to set up her new life away from Ian. She’s going to Belize.… That’s how she’s going to use Ian’s money, to start a new life away from him.”
Clarissa had confirmed that Isabel hadn’t flown down yet, at least under her name.
Tea glared at Gray. “And she’s buying a ticket for me, too.”
“I wouldn’t go. She has a policy on you, which means she may be planning to—”
“He was beating her.” There was fight in those words. Heat, too. All in. Last stand.
“No, Tea,” Gray said. “She was blackmailing him about him and Trinity Bianchi having sex at the hospital, about him falsifying her worker’s comp papers at UCLA about—”
“I saw the bruises. Ian knew where to hit her so that it wouldn’t—”
“No. She faked those to make you believe—”
“No. He beat her, and she begged me to help her escape. So, that Monday, I drove her to the bus station in my friend’s truck, cuz my car wouldn’t start, and now she’s safe.”
The young woman stood from the table. “I don’t care what you say. I saved my best friend from dying. And now she’s never coming back.”
41
Gray retreated to the parking lot as Tea shuffled to the women’s restroom.
Not only had the young woman lied, she’d shown herself as gullible.
Did she believe that Isabel was a victim in every situation she’d found herself in?
Isabel had picked a ripe one, and the word “palooka” again floated in Gray’s mind, although …
Could Isabel be innocent in some of this?
Which parts, though?
The living dead part? Caught up in a whirlwind of cons and fraud, the missing woman just might have found herself buried beneath the shadow of a windmill or beneath a soft mound of cedar shavings and pine needles.
Maybe.
It was fifteen minutes after five o’clock, and Gray secretly followed Tea Christopher out of the mall parking lot. The city had been roasted alive; there was not a single drop of moisture in the air. Everything—cars, people, buildings—had been baked until their colors had faded. Los Angeles smelled like tar, fire, barbecue ribs, and weed. Gray stayed four cars behind the young woman as they drove south on Crenshaw Boulevard, crowded now with vendors hawking T-shirts and bundles of incense, crowded with winos on bikes, on foot, weaving in and out of traffic while clutching brown paper bags.
After passing blue landmark signs with “Inglewood” in vertical white letters, Tea—and then Gray—turned left onto Seventy-Seventh Street and into a neighborhood of Spanish-style bungalows with pristine lawns.
Tea zoomed through a traffic circle in the middle of the neighborhood, nearly clipping a teenager on his skateboard.
“What’s the hurry, Tea?” Gray asked. But then, in her giant truck, she took that circle at half the speed and nearly hit a jogger.
Up ahead, the green Altima rolled past a stop sign and kept speeding east on Seventy-Seventh. Black folks, standing on lawns glistening with sprinkler water, talked to neighbors, tended to rosebushes, stopped to shake their heads as Tea Christopher raced past.
Another traffic circle, but this time the green Altima navigated through it as though it were made of ice and TNT. The car slowed until it U-turned and parked on the opposite side of the street, in front of a white house with a red ceramic-tile roof.
Gray passed that house as Tea bustled from the curb and past its gates. Gray also made a U-turn but parked two houses back. The old man watering the lawn of that house waved at Gray as though he knew her. She waved back at him and ached with the memories of Summerlin.
Mr. Anthony—he owned a candy store in downtown Vegas and always brought her bags of sweets. Lorraine and Phil always wore matching tracksuits and were always drinking glasses of rosé and bringing over leftover sandwiches from parties they regularly hosted. Chris, Maud, and Shannon—their houses looked exactly alike except for Maud’s plastic flamingoes, Shannon’s bird feeders, and Chris’s UNLV Rebels flag hanging over his front door.
Everyone on that part of Trail Spring Court knew each other’s names. But the neighbors didn’t know what Natalie and Sean Dixon had been doing before they answered the front door. Or maybe the neighbors had known and decided to keep quiet. Just bring the sandwiches and the bottles of rosé and the jokes and pray secret prayers that Sean wouldn’t kill his wife.
Mayberry: the most dangerous neighborhood in America.
Back over at the white house with the red roof, the front door opened. An older, vibrant-looking black woman with a short gray bob greeted Tea. Blind, she held a white cane and wore dark glasses. With that nicely tailored lilac skirt set and those sensible black shoes, she could have been a high school principal or the wife of a civil rights leader. She spoke, and whatever she said m
ade Tea laugh.
A black Ford F-10 roared up Seventy-Seventh Street and into the driveway of the white house. It was the black Ford F-10, with those wheels and that metal bar and the engine that went bup-bup-bup. The bass boom of that new kind of rap that Gray knew nothing about rumbled from the truck’s speakers. Big Man, aka Bobby the Blood, climbed out from behind the steering wheel, clutching his phone along with two bags from In-N-Out and a large drink.
“Boy, you gon’ make me go deaf,” Coretta Scott King shouted. “Turn that down. I already can’t see for nothing.”
Bobby still wore the red jeans and red Clippers baseball cap from earlier that morning. This man, this Blood, lived with a woman who probably hung good African American art on her walls and knew people who were the first black everything.
He nodded “Wassup” to Tea.
The older woman slipped back into the house while Tea and Bobby stayed on the porch.
An ice cream truck playing “Three Blind Mice” rolled past Gray’s truck and she thought of chasing it down and buying every rocket pop in its freezer. Maybe the cold would numb the pain now sizzling around her navel.
The ice cream truck stopped at the end of the block. Kids poured out from every yard and rushed to the truck’s window.
Three blind mice,
Three blind mice,
See how they run.
And this case had proven that Gray had been as blind as those mice, even though she knew the answer sat inches away. She’d been looking for Isabel Lincoln and Kenny G. for a week now and had gone in circles … unless she’d been going in spirals, which meant she’d be soon coming to some kind of an end.
With the nursery rhyme playing and the whoosh of water from the old man’s garden hose, Gray couldn’t hear a word Tea and Bobby spoke. After three minutes of this, the old man dropped his hose and turned off the water. By now, though, Tea had climbed back into the green Altima and had raced toward the sun.
All of it—the heat, the driving, the noise—had jabbed at Gray’s nerves, and she wanted to pop. Instead, she muttered, “Fuck it,” then grabbed her binder and hopped out of the truck.
Last night, she’d been blonde and green-eyed, and Bobby had been high as hell. Today, she had short brown hair and big brown eyes. A different woman.
She knocked on the dusty screen door.
The clunk of a lock, the twist of a doorknob, and the creak of hinges, and from behind the screen door Bobby said, “You here to pick up Miss Robertson?”
From the house, the older woman shouted, “Is that my car?”
Gray said, “No,” and Bobby shouted, “No, Miss Robertson.”
He looked bigger than last night, more menacing in the shadows. He wouldn’t hurt Gray with Coretta Scott King floating between her journaling space and the altar to her ancestors.
Gray could smell onions and meat, Thousand Island dressing and mustard. And now she craved an In-N-Out Double Double, Animal Style. She showed her identification card. “I’m Gray Sykes and I’m hoping you can help me.”
Bobby took a bite from his burger. “You a cop?”
“No. A private investigator.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I will never be able to shoot you and get away with it.”
He laughed, and burger bits flecked the screen door. “I’m eating. Come back later.”
Ignoring his request, Gray said, “I’m looking for this woman.” She held up Isabel Lincoln’s picture, far from the door.
Bobby pushed open the screen door to peer closer at the photograph. There was a flash of recognition—an eyebrow lifted—but then that flame died and his poker face returned. His knuckles were bruised purple and swollen like sausages.
Had they been this way last night?
Bobby said, “I don’t know her.”
“You sure? Look closer. Take as long as you need.”
He didn’t. “Nope. Never seen her before in my life. Why you asking me, anyway?”
Gray slipped the picture back into the binder. “Someone told me that you were the last person to see her. And now she’s missing. Been missing since late May, early June. And again, according to my source, you saw her last.”
He sucked his teeth. “That’s impossible. I don’t let nobody borrow my truck.”
Blood rushed to her face—she hadn’t said anything about anyone borrowing his truck.
Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Who told you that? That I drove her somewhere?”
“Can’t say.” Didn’t say.
He stepped back into the house and let the screen door slam close. “Can’t help you.”
Too late, Bobby.
You’ve helped plenty.
42
As Gray stepped off Bobby’s porch, her phone buzzed with a text.
You there?
Isabel.
Gray veered into the Big Lots! parking lot. Yes I’m glad you reached out. The smell of grease from the Rally’s burger place next door wafted through the car vents, and Gray’s stomach growled. I have A LOT of concerns right now. Some things are not making sense! The picture that you sent for instance.
I know. Been thinking all night. I’ll meet you F2F I’ll explain everything.
When?
Only if you agree to not talk me into getting back with Ian.
I’d NEVER ask that!
DON’T TELL HIM THAT I’M COMING TO SEE YOU
Isabel sent Gray the address to Verve Coffee on Third Street. Twenty minutes later, she found herself seated at an outdoor table, one hand wrapped around an iced coffee and the other hand wrapped around her phone. A june bug, bumbly and green, bumbled through the thick air, and the aromas of fresh-brewed coffee and just-baked cinnamon buns made Gray giddy. She was moments away from solving this case, moments away from knowing the truth, moments—
“What are you doing here?”
She knew the man’s voice, and every organ in her body shattered.
Ian O’Donnell stood at the café entrance. He wore green scrubs today and his golden hair was still wet around his ears.
Gray opened her mouth to say, “Isabel asked,” but closed it. She scanned the patio, hoping not to spot the missing woman. “I’m meeting someone here.”
“For my case?”
She gave a curt nod, and the phone buzzed in her hand.
“Who?” Ian asked.
She cleared her throat. “One of Isabel’s family members. But she doesn’t want to see you.” She paused, then put glaze on the lie. “For obvious reasons.”
The man’s eyes softened, and his head dropped. “I understand.”
“I’ll tell you about it in my report. You should go now.”
Ian O’Donnell looked through the shop’s glass doors, then looked back at the parking lot. “Yeah. I’ll head somewhere else. Good luck.” He spun on his heel and hurried back to his car.
Gray watched him, and that earlier excitement had now turned to heavy dread in her belly. She held her breath, then looked at the phone.
HE’S THERE! YOU PROMISED!!
Gray’s head pounded as her fingers raced across the phone’s keyboard. I didn’t tell him, Isabel! Please believe me!!
But if she could see that Ian was at the coffee shop, that meant …
“She’s here, too!” Gray’s eyes popped from the white Volkswagen parked at the corner to the yellow cab pulling away from the curb. Dog walker … jogger … cyclist … Where was she? Where was Isabel?
Gray’s phone vibrated.
No. deal’s off
I have nothing to say to you!
The text exploded like a depth charge, and Gray groaned as she sent a last desperate message. I swear I didn’t tell him!
But no more words, no more ellipses from the missing woman.
Of all the coffeehouses in the city, Ian O’Donnell had to strut into that one.
Ian came.
Isabel saw.
And now she was gone.
And Noelle Lawrence—she was gone, too, and h
er mother didn’t seem surprised by that. Nor did it seem as though Rebekah Lawrence would hire an investigator to find her daughter. People like Noelle were like herpes—around until they weren’t, but never really gone.
And Isabel … Was it really coincidence that Ian had showed up at that particular coffee shop at that particular time, just when Isabel had agreed to meet?
What were the odds of that happening?
Her phone vibrated again with another text message.
Hey.
Hank. Really? How many days had passed since their night together?
She climbed into the Yukon.
Guess where I am?
Tight-hearted, Gray typed, Hell? Cuz that’s where you can go. She was over him. Over him like an eighteen-year-old over New Kids on the Block and Impulse body spray, rainbow scrunchies and Beanie Babies.
Don’t be like that.
She turned the ignition and jabbed the stereo button. Angie Stone sang about not eating and not sleeping anymore.
Guess where I am?
Hank was now a pebble in her shoe, and he wouldn’t go away until she shook him out.
Ok you’re behind the bar, making my favorite margarita. She let her head fall back on the headrest and closed her eyes, recalled Bobby’s claim about not letting a woman he didn’t even know drive his car. What would he do next? Call Tea? Call Isabel? And who had he beaten so bad that his knuckles—
Her phone vibrated.
A selfie of Hank standing in front of the Beaudry Towers sign. He held a bouquet of red roses and a bottle of premium tequila. His eyes glistened like Arctic ice.
See you soon.
“What the fuck is he doing at my…”
The phone shook in her trembling hands and she hated herself more than she hated him. She’d invited him to her home; they’d slept together in her home; he had stayed overnight in her home. Of course he’d “surprise” her like this.
She was burning on the inside, and that fire was creeping up her chest and down her thighs. She’d burn until the fire consumed her, and then the car would catch and she’d blow up and all of her problems would finally be solved.
And Now She's Gone Page 23
