by Alan Russell
“I wonder why it is in that house-building description there’s no mention of the seven dwarfs,” I said. “It seems as if they got shortchanged.”
“I am sure there were plenty of jokes back then,” she said, “just as there are now. I know it sounds awful, but some employees like to say they work for Mauschwitz or Mickey Mauschwitz.”
I nodded; most in L.A. had heard that job description.
“Heather wasn’t that way, though. She loved her job. In real life she was sort of like the Hayley Mills character in Pollyanna. You ever see that film?”
“My dog Sirius loves sappy films,” I said, giving him a head rub. “He’s made me watch it more than once.”
“I imagine your dog,” she said, “would like Heather.” Katie reached down and stroked Angie. “Do you know one of the main reasons for her picking out Angie at the shelter when no one else would?”
I shook my head.
“Heather said Angie reminded her of Pluto. But I know it was more than that. Angie was on death row. She’d been returned a few times, and her number was almost up. I think Angie’s life reminded Heather of her own. The two of them were abused and unloved. Heather found a way to a better life, and she was determined to give Angie that same chance. It was a real challenge for her. I don’t think Heather could have picked a more difficult dog. Anyone besides Heather would have given up on Angie Arrow.”
“She should have named her Angie Lucky,” I said.
“Lucky?” asked Katie.
“It’s an old joke. There’s an advertisement for a Lost Dog. Under the description it says: Blind in one eye, mange-ridden, only has three legs, recently neutered, has a mean disposition, answers to the name of ‘Lucky.’”
Katie started laughing. “That pretty much describes how Angie was at first. But Heather turned her around. I’m not sure which of them loves the other more.”
“How long have you known Heather?”
“About five years. She joined Disney about six months after I did.”
“How old is she?”
“I think she’s twenty-nine. She got an entry-level position right out of college.”
“How long has she been married?”
“Six years, I think, although she’s been separated for most of the last two years.”
“What does Emilio do?”
“When he’s not drinking, hitting Heather, or chasing other women, he works in an auto-body shop.”
“Do you happen to remember the name of his employer?”
Katie gave me a name and location, which I wrote down, and then the two of us talked more about Heather. From what Katie said, she was too good to be true. It wasn’t until the age of seventeen that Heather was diagnosed with dyslexia. And then beginning at age eighteen she was all alone in the world. Somehow she managed to work her way through college while still getting perfect grades. With each achievement, she got a little more self-esteem, even though her boyfriend and then husband, Emilio, had been anything but helpful in that regard.
“The unbelievable thing is that Emilio is now acting like he’s the victim,” said Katie. “It wasn’t until Heather left him that the idiot realized what a gem he’d had. He even tried to win her back by agreeing to take anger-management courses, but Heather knew better than to trust him. It was too little and too late.”
Our sandwiches arrived. Both of us conceded half of our meals to the hairy muzzles begging under the table.
“Lucky,” said Katie, remembering the punch line to my joke and laughing once more.
She scratched at Angie’s ear.
“I really don’t know how Heather was able to have such a good attitude after all she went through. She was like a real-life ugly duckling. She told me that growing up she had bad teeth and was afraid to talk to people. And she was anything but a natural student because of her dyslexia. But her circumstances never stopped her. And despite everything, she thought of herself as lucky. That’s why people always like being around her. In her presence you feel better. All morning I’ve been praying that she’s all right.”
“Keep praying,” I said, “and I’ll keep looking.”
CHAPTER 11
THE RED EYE
When Heather came to, she tried not to panic. If Emilio was holding her here, she was sure he would listen to reason.
Still, if it was Emilio, how had he managed to secure this space? Of the two of them, Heather had always been the saver. That’s how they’d been able to buy their condo, and that was how she’d bought her house.
I’m alive, Heather thought. That’s what convinced her Emilio was behind this. If she’d been taken by a serial murderer or some crazed abductor, she’d already be dead, wouldn’t she?
Nearby Heather could see a bucket and a pitcher of water. Suddenly she realized how thirsty she was and reached for the pitcher, forgetting her shackles; her chains were just long enough for her to grasp it. She took several long gulps, came up for air, and then drank more. The movements made her feel lightheaded, and she carefully placed the pitcher on the cement floor. It wouldn’t do to drink all the water, so she left some for later.
She sat down with her back to the dank concrete wall and took deep breaths to try and clear her head. The room looked like some kind of torture chamber, but she knew there were couples who engaged in bondage. In fact, on one or two occasions, Emilio had suggested they try it. When he’d shown her what he wanted her to wear, Heather had been unable to hide her distaste. He’d wanted to bind her with wrist-and-ankle restraints and a spiked dog collar. The idea of a dog having to wear such a collar seemed horrific enough. And what she would never put around a dog’s neck, she would never put around her own.
“What about a chastity belt?” he’d asked her.
“I am not your property,” she had told him. “I am no one’s property.”
Emilio had sulked. He’d told Heather she was no fun. He’d tried to make her feel guilty, saying he was only trying to add some spice to their marriage. There had been a time when she might have agreed to some of his demands, but she’d matured. There had been a time when she hadn’t believed she was worthy of being loved.
She shifted against the wall, and the movement drew her eyes to a red light on the far wall. She moved her head again; no, she wasn’t imagining it. The light was mostly hidden within a recess, but in the darkness its glow stood out. Demons supposedly had eyes that color. But Heather was convinced the unblinking red light came from another source. She was being recorded.
Goddamn Emilio, she thought. That was another thing he’d wanted to do. He’d pestered her about filming their lovemaking. Thank heavens she’d had the sense to tell him no. But was he filming her now?
She reached out and felt her chains, confirming the substance of the metal links. It was important to be sure her observations were grounded in reality. One of her greatest fears was that she might end up like her mother, bedeviled by demons, imagined and real. Heather’s father had been demon enough without the other creatures her mother only imagined she saw.
After she survived foster care, Heather had lived with the worry that one day she too might end up as a schizophrenic. The fear was still there, even though she was almost thirty, and statistically, the disease usually struck by now.
As dire as her condition appeared, she felt relieved that she wasn’t imagining her imprisonment. Her captivity was real, and she would have to deal with that, but at least she’d do so with her faculties intact.
She thought of Angie, and remembered hearing her howling just as she was attacked. What had her dog thought? Her third-chance dog had already gone through so much pain and abandonment.
“I didn’t abandon you,” Heather whispered, softly enough so the camera couldn’t pick up her words. “I tried to save you. I hope you’re all right.”
And then she remembered one of the last things she’d done just before being attacked. She’d taken the tracker from Angie’s collar and clipped it beneath her nightgown. She wanted to che
ck and see if the tracker was still there, but she was afraid the camera might pick up her inspection. The tracker was designed to work with the GPS on her cell phone—insurance, in addition to Angie’s microchip. There had been a few close calls, but Angie had never escaped, and because of that, Heather had never needed to locate her with the tracker.
She tried to think back to when she’d last charged the tracker. At a minimum, it had been several days, but it might have been as much as a week. The device would do her no good if it ran out of juice.
Of course it was a long shot that anyone would even realize she’d taken the tracker from Angie’s collar. Even more unlikely was the possibility of anyone noticing the tracking app on her phone.
Heather suspected she’d have to rely upon herself to find a way out of this mess. But that wasn’t anything new.
CHAPTER 12
A SNAKE IN THE GAS
There are certain neighborhoods around L.A. that don’t stand out. Most people describe Van Nuys as being in the middle of the San Fernando Valley, and then are hard-pressed to say anything else about it other than that it has more than its share of gangbangers. Gertrude Stein once said of Oakland, “There is no there there.” If Stein had lived in Van Nuys, she might have said the same thing. The area does have a nice Japanese garden, and you could do a lot worse than sitting down to a serene cup of tea in its teahouse. Like all scenic locations around L.A., the Japanese garden has been featured as a setting in film and television. It was the location of Starfleet Academy in several episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Of course, there’s a Star Trek bumper sticker that essentially takes Stein’s observation and applies it to our entire planet: “Beam Me Up, Scotty: There’s No Intelligent Life on This Planet.”
Emilio Cruz’s employer had carved out a busy business along Sepulveda Boulevard, but I’ve always thought any car-repair shop operating in the L.A. area is bound to succeed. With so many cars and so many accidents, it seems like shooting fish in a barrel.
The shop’s lobby belied the nature of its business. You couldn’t hear the banging and clanging going on in the repair lot, and the music was classical and calming. The customer-service manager greeted me with a smile and “May I help you, sir?”
It seemed almost rude to flash my badge, so I merely said, “I’m Michael Gideon, and I need to talk to Emilio.”
I would have bet the manager knew the general nature of my business and that I wasn’t with the Welcome Wagon. Nodding, he spoke into an intercom, asking Emilio to come to the front desk. The extensive soundproofing spared waiting customers from hearing his voice broadcasting out to the lot.
I took a seat in a comfortable padded chair. Half a dozen people were seated in the lobby awaiting their restored vehicles. Most of them were working on their laptops, tablets, or phones. There was a mixture of ethnicities similar to what I’d seen at the 187 Club, and I realized I’d found something other than homicides that brought L.A. together: car crashes.
A medium-size thirtyish male appeared behind the desk. With a little costuming he could have been an Elvis impersonator. He had the slicked dark hair and the muttonchops. There was also that curl on the left side of his lip that wasn’t quite a smirk. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing a coiled rattlesnake tattoo on his right arm. The rattlesnake’s fangs were bared. Along with the snake I could make out the words, “Don’t tread on me.”
I wasn’t sure what I disliked more: the inked snake or the threat that came with it. During the Revolutionary War, the so-called Gadsden flag had been an American banner warning the British. Since that time the Tea Party has adopted a once-great historical symbol for its own devices.
As Emilio wiped his hands with a rag, the service manager pointed me out with a tilt of his head. When Emilio looked my way and saw what was awaiting him, he rolled his eyes. He knew I wasn’t there to present him with a check from Publisher’s Clearinghouse.
With his finger, he pointed to the door. I stood up and followed him out. He led me around the corner out of potential earshot of those in the lobby.
“What now?” he asked.
I showed him my wallet badge and offered my name. “When was the last time you saw Heather?” I asked.
“Why do you want to know?” he said.
“I’m the one asking questions.”
“What’s she claiming now?”
“When?” I repeated.
I was guessing Emilio was a second- or third-generation American. He spoke without an accent and sounded like just another millennial. Of course in L.A., more than half the millennials are bilingual.
“It was maybe a month ago. She came here and had me sign some papers.”
“What kind of papers?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
I let the silence build until he said, “They were real estate papers. We sold our condo. Of course she wanted me to believe that one day we would be cohabitating in the Burbank home.”
“And that was the last time you communicated with her?”
He shook his head. “She called a few days ago.”
“What day?”
“Friday morning. That was when she announced it was fucking D-Day, as in divorce.”
“You sound surprised. Weren’t the two of you separated for some time?”
“News flash, dude: being separated isn’t the same thing as being divorced. The bitch pulled a bait and switch on me. She said the only way we’d get back together was if I changed my ways. And that meant jumping through all her hoops. But even after doing everything she asked of me, that wasn’t enough. She told me she was going through with the divorce.”
“And how did you respond to that?”
He clenched his fists as he spoke. “How do you think I responded? For the last eighteen months I’ve done every goddamn thing she wanted, and then I’m told that’s the way the fucking cookie crumbles.”
From what I’d observed, he would have been justified in asking for a refund from his anger-management sessions.
“Did you threaten Heather during that conversation?”
He studied my expression, and appeared to catch on that there was an underlying reason for our chat. Of course he might have been acting as well.
“Did something happen?” he asked.
I shrugged. “When the two of you talked on the phone, did you say anything that might have upset Heather?”
“I already told you I got hit with her D-bomb. So whatever I said wasn’t exactly pleasantries. Heather knew I didn’t want a divorce, so I doubt she was shocked.”
“Where were you on Sunday night?”
“In my crappy studio apartment on Vanowen in Lake Balboa.”
“Any witnesses to your being there?”
“Do cockroaches count? The apartment has plenty of those.”
He challenged me with his look. I tried waiting him out again, but he wasn’t going to volunteer anything else without my revealing the purpose of my visit.
“From what I’ve been able to determine,” I said, “Heather has been missing since Sunday night.”
Emilio’s surprise looked real. As he took in the implications of Heather’s disappearance, he began nodding.
“I left a lot of messages for her over the past few days,” he said, “but I suppose you already know that.”
I didn’t comment. It was possible he’d made the calls to establish an alibi.
He seemed to consider those phone calls. “I guess I said a few things to her that don’t sound very nice. Like anyone in my position wouldn’t be pissed, though. All this time she had me believing we were getting back together.”
I pretended to be privy to the messages he’d left. “Those calls sounded like threats.”
“Like I said, she provoked me.”
“I thought part of anger management was taking responsibility for what you say and do, instead of pointing the finger at someone else.”
“You do the drill I did for eighteen months and then
get told to go eat shit, and let’s see if you’re smiling.”
“They say a leopard can’t change its spots.”
“I’m glad I’m not a leopard, then. Like my doctor says, ‘We know what we are, but not what we may be.’ I’ve been working on that ‘may be’ part.”
“Who’s your therapist?”
“Why? You need help with anger management?”
I didn’t say anything, but let my clicking pen speak for me.
“Dr. Alec Barron,” he said.
“Do you have his telephone number?”
Emilio sighed and then reluctantly pulled out his cell phone, looked through his contacts, and gave me the number.
“I’m going to be contacting Dr. Barron today,” I said. “If you’ve been working through your issues like you say you have and if you’re the poster child for good patients, then I would suggest you call Dr. Barron and give him permission to discuss your particulars with me. If you don’t do that, he won’t be able to vouch for you. Doctor/patient privilege. You can certainly go that route, but I wouldn’t, because right now you’re the number one suspect in your wife’s disappearance.”
“How do you know Heather just didn’t go off on some getaway?”
“I found her dog on the streets more than ten miles from where she lives.”
“You found Angie?”
I nodded.
“Good luck,” he said. “That dog is a nutcase.”
“She doesn’t like you?”
“She doesn’t like men. Maybe that’s Heather’s problem as well.”
“Yeah, that must be it,” I said.
He reddened at my sarcasm. Why is it that every insecure man who’s been dumped by a woman goes around questioning her sexual orientation?
“When Heather turns up from wherever she is, are you going to come back here and apologize for hassling me?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll even bring flowers. But first let’s deal with her being a missing person. From what I could determine, Heather’s been away from her house for the last two days. And she hasn’t shown up to work this week, or called to explain her absence. I’m told that’s not like her.”
