Cristina woke me a little after seven, and half-coaxed, half-ordered me out of the bed so we could go out to dinner. She rummaged through my suitcase and pulled out a deep purple dress and the only pair of heels I own. Within ten minutes, we were on our way to Tamára, the Cuban restaurant managed by her newest boyfriend, Miguel.
Cristina valet-parked the BMW on Sunset and we walked—or wobbled, in my case—through the front door, where Cristina was immediately besieged by the gushing hostess. Suppressing one last yawn, I rolled my eyes and looked around. It was pretty obvious that Tamára was meant to be a slice of Miami, with its indoor palm trees, neon-colored spotlights, and vibrant Cuban music. Cristina, with her dark exotic looks and inherent confidence, was a perfect fit with the decor and atmosphere. I felt like a thirteen-year-old at a cocktail party.
We were shown to a prime table near the windows, and the waiter immediately ran over and fussed over both of us, fetching napkins and water. As I sat down and reached for my glass, I whispered to Cristina, “Do these people know that you’re a humble civil servant?”
She snorted. “Baby Girl,” she said airily. “They know that I am sleeping with their boss.”
I chortled into my water, and perused the menu for a little while before realizing that Cristina was probably just going to order for both of us. Which was the kind of thing that would piss me off if I was with a man, but this was Cristina, and that’s how she is. She knew what I would like better than I did, anyway.
I know it’s a double standard, but she’s like a force of nature.
“So,” I said, flipping the menu down on the table in front of me and looking dramatically around the room. “Where is this mystery man, anyway? Are we meeting him?”
Cristina frowned, for the first time since we’d arrived. “Actually, he cannot make it this evening. He has promised his time to help his sister with some drywalling. I was hoping you could meet him but,” she shrugged artfully, “it is nice that you can see where he works.”
“You know someone who does their own drywalling? That’s amazing.”
She grinned her well-bred grin at me. The petite Hispanic waitress arrived at our table, and chattered with Cristina in Spanish for a moment. I speak pretty decent Spanish, but they were going a little too fast for me to keep up. Then Cristina turned to me. “I have ordered us some delicious Cuban wine, which you will love, and two of their very best dishes.”
“Great.” Crap. I was going to have to fake drinking wine. I peeked around for a handy potted plant, but no such luck. Maybe I could take up mouthfuls and then spit them into my water glass. I took a few huge swallows of water, just to get the water line down in preparation.
Cristina and I talked for awhile about her current caseload and Miguel, before the topic switched over to my own case. I filled her in on my day, and her eyebrows rose as I told her about Jason Anderson’s new new name.
“This man, he is like a fish,” she wrinkled her nose at me. “So slippery, and there is a bad smell covering everything he touches.”
I laughed. “That sounds about right. But I’m a lot closer than I was this morning. At least I’ve spoken to someone who’s seen him in the last five years.”
“True.” The little waitress staggered up, and set two huge plates of food in front of us. “Ah, good,” Cristina continued, looking pleased. She switched to Spanish again, but slowed it way down so I could follow. “All right, Lena, this one in front of me is boliche, which you may try, and I ordered you ropa vieja, which is just-” And then, in English, “Sweetheart, what is the matter?”
The blood had drained from my face, and I gasped, trying to hold my breath while simultaneously exhaling the huge whiff I had gotten off the dishes. “Cristina,” I choked out, “bathroom?”
Shocked, she pointed towards the back end of the room, and I kicked off my strappy heels under the table to run barefoot across the dining room to the bathroom. I barely registered the brass fixtures and warm lighting before I crashed into the first stall and threw up violently into the toilet. The first wave passed, but it was like my body had flipped the pull of gravity, and I couldn’t stop heaving. It’s a terrible feeling, when you realize your body can do anything it wants without your permission, including turn itself inside out.
“Lena?” Cristina barreled into the bathroom behind me. “I brought your shoes and purse. Are you okay? Were you allergic to something or...” she trailed off. When I could breathe again, I looked up to see her staring into the little black clutch I’d brought in lieu of my giant work bag. Finally she reached in and pulled out the little bottle I’d stuffed in there marked “prenatal vitamins.”
Oh, shit.
“Lena, what are you thinking?” she hissed, rattling the pills at me like they were tiny capsules of sin.
I wiped my mouth with some toilet paper. “Um, you’re supposed to take them with food?” I offered.
“Lena, Lena.” Cristina paced a few steps back, into the main part of the bathroom. I flushed the toilet and crawled out towards her, still shaky. My dress was not long enough to also cover my ass, but I just couldn’t work up the effort to care. I leaned my head against the wall and focused on breathing. It’s just in and out, it’s not that complicated, I reminded myself.
“Baby Girl, I just don’t understand this. You had such a bright future ahead of you, and first you quit the cops-”
“That had nothing to do with-” I began, but she overrode me.
“And now this! I had hoped in a few years you would go back to the police, or apply to the FBI, or at least grow your company. Instead you’re popping out babies?” Pacing in short, tight circles, she started muttering in lightning-quick, heavily-on-the-slang Spanish. I only caught a few words, but I believe it ended with “wasting your life.”
Then she turned back to me. “He put you up to this, didn’t he?”
“No,” I said defensively. “Toby doesn’t even know yet.”
“He doesn’t?” Her eyes lit up. “Then, Baby Girl, he never has to! You could have this taken care of now, while you’re here, and Toby would never-”
Like aborting the baby was as easy as getting a fucking haircut. “That’s not happening, Cristina,” I said flatly.
“Why not?”
I padded over to the sink and splashed some water on my face, rinsing out my mouth. When I’d spat it out I met her eyes in the mirror and said quietly, “I can’t do that. Toby’s talked about having kids as long as I’ve known him. It’s one thing to put him off, and another thing entirely to kill the fetus that’s already there. He would divorce me, and I wouldn’t blame him.”
“Oh, Toby.” She waved her hand dismissively, as though I’d said I had too much homework to go out dancing that night.
“I mean it, Cristina. I’m keeping it. Big time.” I don’t put my foot down against Cristina very often, but she’s enough of a cop to know when there’s no bargaining with someone. She sighed dramatically and leaned back against a wall. We stood there on the cold tile, looking at each other.
“Baby Girl...I wanted more than this for you. You were such a brilliant cop. You had such promise.”
The ‘had’ was the part that really stung. Just like that, Cristina had officially written me off as professionally dead. I could fight my dad, I could fight Rory, hell, I could fight Toby, no problem, but I never could fight Cristina. It’s like fighting the little voice in the back of your mind, the one that tells you all your own guilty, horrible feelings. Strong, feminist Lena should have been arguing that I could do it all, have it all. Really, though, there was a part of me that thought she was probably right.
I couldn’t exactly say that, though, could I? Instead I gathered up my purse and shoes, walked past her through the bathroom door, and kept going until I hit sidewalk.
17. Don’t Just Disappear
I considered taking the bus back to Cristina’s, but one thing I know for sure about Los Angeles is that the Metro Transit System leaves just so much to be desired, especial
ly for a woman traveling alone after dark.
I decided to splurge on a cab, out of my own pocket, but realized it might be best not to go straight back to Cristina’s. I figured we could both use some time to cool off. Instead I started walking west on Sunset. I stopped at a Coffee Bean, putting my shoes on in the doorway, and ordered myself some decaf. Then I pulled out my cell phone. Might as well update the client.
The phone rang just before midnight, and Nate rushed to grab it before Tom could hear. “Hello?” he whispered, clutching the receiver to his ear.
“Nate? It’s Lena.”
“Hey, Lena. Hang on a second, I have to switch rooms.” He crept out of Tom’s bedroom, where his stepfather was sleeping laboriously, and turned into his own bedroom, scrunching down comfortably on the floor next to the bed. “Okay, I’m back.”
“Oh, God, Nate, I just remembered about the time difference. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have called so late.”
“That’s okay, I was up. What time is it there?”
“Just before ten. Which makes it midnight your time. What are you doing still up on a school night?”
“Oh, I was just...” Nate hesitated, searching for a reason why any high schooler would be up so late. Then he gave up—she wasn’t going to turn him in. “I was watching Tom sleep. I worry sometimes...you know.”
There was a long pause on the other end. “I’m sorry, Nate,” Lena said finally. “But I’m working on it. I found someone who might be able to help.”
“Really?” Nate’s spirits lifted, just a little. “Who?”
“I found someone your father used to, um, date. I’m going to see her tomorrow to see if she has any idea where he is.”
“Do you think...do you think they’re still together?” Nate heard the excitement in his voice and cleared his throat, toning it done. “I mean, um, that maybe you can find him?”
“I don’t know, Nate. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, this is just one step. But I think it’s a step in the right direction.”
“Okay, cool.” Nate ordered himself to calm down. It was probably nothing.
“Nate, I have to ask you something,” Lena went on. “When I talk to Starla—that’s her name—do you want me to tell her who I’m working for, or not?”
“Like, you could keep it a secret?”
“If you want me to, yes.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Well, what do you think?”
“I think it might be better to just tell the truth. You haven’t done anything wrong, you don’t have anything to hide. And she might be more willing to help me find Jason if she understood the reason we’re looking for him.”
“That makes sense.” Nate absently stacked the books on his floor into a pile, school books on the bottom. “It’s okay with me, I guess.”
There was a long pause, and Nate, reluctant to give up the human contact, tried to think of something else to say. But Lena spoke first.
“Listen, Nate,” she began, “I wanted to ask you a little favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. My dad is used to me visiting a lot, and even though my sister’s around I worry about him. He doesn’t get out of the store much. Would you mind stopping by the store tomorrow after school to say hi for me?”
Nate, no fool, suspected she was just trying to get him out in the world more, but he was pathetically grateful anyway. “Sure, I can do that. I’ve been reading some of the books he gave me, we can talk about that.”
“Oh? Which ones?”
They chatted for a little while about Fables, and finally Lena said, “Well, I should let you go to bed. I don’t want to be responsible for keeping a minor up so late on a school night.”
“Liar. You’re tired.”
She laughed at him, surprised, and said, “There’s that, too. Goodnight, Nate. I’ll call you tomorrow after I meet with Starla.”
The reason for the call came back to him, and Nate felt subdued. “Okay, cool. I’ll stop by Great Dane tomorrow and I can let you know how your dad is.”
“Thanks, Nate.”
“You, too. Bye.” They hung up, and Nate was filled once more with isolation, as though a light had gone off. Rubbing his eyes, he headed for bed.
I finally snuck into Cristina’s around midnight, but she wasn’t there – I figured she’d gone to her boyfriend’s to cool off, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved. She didn’t reappear in the morning, so I just dressed in an outfit that was almost identical to the one I’d worn the day before and went out to the car, heading towards nearby Culver City. I’d looked up the address for the restaurant where Starla worked earlier that morning, but I hadn’t realized just how close it was until I left Cristina’s. Between the proximity and some surprisingly light mid-morning traffic, I was parking Cristina’s car by 11:00 AM, a little earlier than I had planned.
The Cheesecake Company wasn’t as shady as Tomás had made it sound—the building itself was just down the block from a fairly upscale movie theater and one of the many self-contained shopping/eating/entertainment complexes that are sprinkled around LA like polka dots of easy commerce. Inside, the resemblance to the real Cheesecake Factory chain was obvious: the decor was all deep, exotic tones and swirling gold trim. I asked to sit in Starla’s section, and an unexpectedly glamorous hostess in four-inch heels led me down a long hallway to the huge main dining area, where I was seated in a booth that was set up with velvet couches. I sighed happily as I relaxed into the couch side of the booth.
“Hard morning?”
I opened my eyes, a little embarrassed, to see the owner of the bubbly, friendly voice. It was a young woman in her mid-twenties, with blonde curls and bright eyes and a very impressive bust. A big professional smile was shellacked on her face. This must be Starla.
“Not really. Just a little tired.”
“Well, can I start you off with a drink or an appetizer?” she asked, puppy-hopeful. “Maybe something to perk you up?”
“Actually, Starla, I’m not here to eat. Could I talk to you for a second?”
Looking surprised, she glanced around to check on her tables. “Um, what is this about?” she said cautiously.
I introduced myself and pulled out the picture of Jason Anderson. “Do you know this man?”
A look of recognition and horror spread over Starla’s face as she sank into the booth across from me. Her eyes were fixed on the photo. “It’s old, but...that’s my Jason,” she breathed. Her hand reached out and, snake-quick, grabbed my wrist. “Where is he? Have you found him?”
Her voice was urgent and desperate, and now it was my turn to be surprised. I handed her my PI license. “Starla, I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to find Jason on behalf of his biological son.”
She dropped my wrist. “His son?” she repeated, her forehand wrinkling with confusion. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“His name is Nate, and he’s fourteen.” I pulled out a school portrait of Nate Christianti and passed it across the table to her. She picked it up automatically and studied it, a confused expression still on her face. Her poker face was worse than mine, and I felt a stab of pity for her. This girl would have a hard time as an actress.
“I don’t know who this is.” She put the picture down, turning Nate’s face to the table. She was shaking her head slightly, like she didn’t want Nate or me to be real.
“Miss?” a balding, fiftyish man in a business suit called across the table to Starla, and she looked up, remembering where she was.
“Oh, crap,” she said under her breath. She scrabbled to pull a little notepad out of her apron, and wrote something hurriedly on the top page. Holding it out to me, she whispered, “I can’t talk about this right now. This is my home address, I’m done at four. Can you come by?” she asked urgently, “Please? Please don’t just disappear?” She looked desperately at me, eyes begging.
“Of course,” I said, taking the slip of paper, an address in Hollywood. “I’ll meet you there
at four-thirty.”
The relief on her face was almost overwhelming as she rose and turned her body reluctantly toward the balding man. “Four-thirty,” she repeated to herself. “Okay.”
Starla turned away then, and I sat alone at the table, newly confused myself. Had Jason Anderson left Starla, the way he’d left Nate and Sarah? Or had something happened to him?
I felt a twinge of genuine fear. For Nate’s sake, if nothing else, I hoped he was okay.
18. He Struck Gold
I had time to kill, so I spent a few hours trying to track down Luna, the girlfriend of the pot-smoking cat lover from Jason’s old building. She wasn’t home when I called their apartment, but Tomás directed me to her workplace in Brentwood, where I had to wait for her to get back from a delivery (Luna was a florist’s assistant), and when I finally did get to talk to her, she had no new information for me. She just knew that Starla seemed really nice, they’d spoken a few times, and every time she’d run into Jason he’d seemed like “kind of a douche” who had flirted with her in the laundry room. I thought that sounded about right.
Afterward I spent a couple more hours working on the screenplay angle, but if Jason had ever actually finished a script, he hadn’t registered it with the WGA. It looked like Starla was my last lead on finding the guy.
At four I started the trek back across town towards Hollywood. Starla’s apartment building had probably once been majestic and glamorous, but fifty years after its heyday, shabbiness and age had worn away its grandeur. The inside matched the outside, with worn red velvet carpets in the lobby and once-beautiful tarnished brass railings in the elevator.
The Big Keep: A Lena Dane Mystery (Lena Dane Mysteries) Page 11
