She turned on to Holly Oak Drive and wound her way up to Sarah’s house. There was no car in the driveway, but that didn’t mean her car wasn’t in the garage. Chris parked on the street and hushed Abel when he barked, telling her that he wanted to come with her.
As she approached the front door, she saw only one light on inside the house. She rang the doorbell, unnerved by the awkward shaking of her legs. Listening for footsteps, she didn’t hear any. No radio or television noise either. She rang again and strained to hear any signs of Sarah approaching the door. Her radio suddenly squawked and she abruptly sucked in her breath.
“Shit,” she said as she turned the volume down.
She waited a minute or two longer and walked back down to the driveway. She checked both sides of the house and found nothing.
Abel barked again when she climbed back into her car.
“Nobody home, boy.” She looked toward the front windows, hoping for movement from the drapes and then for Sarah’s face to peek out, see her, and smile that sexy smile of hers. She laughed out loud. “Jesus, Bergstrom, this isn’t a movie.”
Chris’s spirit, dampened by the disappointment, slumped inside her chest as she logged in to the computer and began prioritizing the calls that were waiting for her.
*
At half past seven p.m., Chris pulled up to a coffee stand on Santa Monica Boulevard. The diminutive shack was on the corner of a strip-mall parking lot. It was a run-down, tired-looking building whose paint constantly peeled, showing more scrapings of color than a peacock who’d just lost a fight. The place served as a local hangout for prostitutes. It was also a good place for a reliable cup of joe and even more reliable information.
“Officer Bergy.” A tall woman in blue hot pants and a red halter-top sashayed up to her as Chris exited the car. Her wig was made up into a chocolate-sundae-looking bouffant that took only partial attention away from the substantial volume of costume jewelry hanging from her arms and the overbearing aroma of perfume that evoked a mix of Juicy Fruit gum and Play-Doh.
“Foxy Turf,” Chris said. She was one of her best informants. “How’s my favorite Girl Scout?”
“Oh, darlin’, that was weeks ago.”
“Well, don’t let me catch you trying to get a date in that get-up again. I almost hooked you up and took you to Child Protective Services.”
Foxy’s mouth opened to a wide smile that revealed an orifice of hit-or-miss teeth. “Ha! You funny. But that get-up is worth at least twenny dollas mo than normal.”
“The old men like that, huh?”
“Does the tin man have a metal cock, honey?”
Chris pondered a moment. “Well, you’ve got a real good point there.”
“You gonna buy me a coffee tonight, Officer Bergy?”
Chris felt her phone vibrate. She quickly reached into her shirt pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to her. “Gotta take this call.”
She walked back to her car and almost dropped her phone trying to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Chris. What the hell’s going on?”
It was her father. And though she knew exactly why he was calling, she said, “What do you mean?”
“I was informed that you got out of line with a suspect.”
She stopped next to her car. “Father, I was—”
“You were what? What excuse do you have? That’s not how Bergstroms handle calls, Chris. What were you thinking?”
I’m thinking this is the last fucking thing I need right now. “You never lost it with some idiot?”
“Not in the way you did. And I’m also aware of your lack of judgment in failing to deploy your K9.”
She tensed as a flash of hot anger raced up her body. She now knew who had called him. What a fucking asshole. “I’m not even going to have this conversation with you, Father. If Shaffer had actually been there, he would have seen that I made the correct decision.”
“Are you calling him a liar?”
Chris almost doubled over from the sharp pain of those words. Her own father wouldn’t even give her the benefit of the doubt. She wanted to wail as loud as she could. She wanted to kick the shit out of the door. But she wouldn’t allow him to hear the agony in her voice. “I’m getting a call. I have to go.”
“Don’t disappoint me again, Chris.”
She ended the call and leaned into her car, transported back to when she was five years old and he was telling her that good little girls don’t whistle. And then to the time when she was ten and he berated her for leaving a shirt on the floor. And then to the million other times she strayed off the straight and narrow, until she learned how to walk on the edge of a razor. And even after she’d beaten herself into his impossible mold, she still wasn’t good enough.
*
Chris parked at the apex of the circular driveway. Bel Air was out of her area, but she had to make the trip. Since it was a little before eight, they might be having dinner, but if she waited until after her shift, it would be close to ten thirty at night, when a ring at the doorbell would not be as well received.
Mrs. Pullman answered the door and didn’t recognize her. “Oh, my. What’s wrong, Officer?”
“I’m Chris, Mrs. Pullman. Sarah’s girlfriend. From Father’s Day.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not really,” Chris said, glancing down at her uniform. “I’m on duty and this was the best time for me to come by. I was hoping you’d talked with her recently.”
Mrs. Pullman paused in the way a suspect did when asked of their recent whereabouts. “I haven’t. But that’s not unusual.”
“Do you know where she might be?”
“If she’s not at home or at the refuge, then, no.”
Mrs. Pullman didn’t seem to be lying. Sarah had said that she wasn’t a fixture at the parental house anymore. So why did Mrs. Pullman delay for a moment before she answered?
“I haven’t seen Sarah for a number of days, and I’m worried about her.”
Chris almost cringed when Mrs. Pullman’s face turned into the frozen smile of a scarecrow. Something behind her expression gave Chris the willies. “Sarah doesn’t inform me of her excursions. And she’s an adult now.”
What the fuck did “excursions” mean? Chris pulled out a card and handed it to her. “If you do see her, would you have her call me, please?”
Again, she hesitated. “I will.”
Chris had heard that neighborly response many times before. It was meant to convey a simultaneous impression of both a confidence and innocence.
But of what?
Chris got back in her car wondering, now what am I going to do? The waiting was excruciating. She hadn’t seen Sarah since last Tuesday, and her anxiety had grown from a trickle to a deluge.
With each hour that passed, bad things had to be developing. At worst, Sarah was hurt somewhere. That notion frightened her. Without any way to reach her, Chris was impotent. At best, Sarah was okay and pissed at her, but without being able to talk, Chris imagined the last words she’d spat at her had to be growing more and more vile in Sarah’s mind. The longer they were apart, the worse things would get. The true comprehension of that vile behavior weighed her down as heavily as a solid-oak oxen bow.
Maybe Sarah had already written her off. That was a definite possibility, but Chris had to see her, face-to-face, to know for sure.
And the other reason she had to see her, the foremost motivation that drove her, was that she did love her. The heaviness in her chest was her heart swelling with desire.
She fingered her radio call button, contemplating an act that was prohibited. Officers weren’t supposed to commit unlawful exploits under color of authority. She’d never crossed that line. Residing ardently on the north side of those principles had been an easy practice and a steadfast tradition.
But the line had recently begun to blur, the significance becoming as distorted as a child’s sidewalk chalk drawing after a rainstorm. Desire was not a simple emotion. It l
ived on both sides of the line. Its hold on her felt both right and wrong and irrepressibly forceful. Chris couldn’t control her aching for Sarah any more than she could hold back from cursing that drunken, swearing woman.
No longer was the world so black and white. The circumstances between Sarah and her made up the complicated part, but the feelings and emotions were raw and simple. Sarah was gone and she had to find her.
All she had to do was push the button.
Push the button.
Finally, she keyed her radio.
“Frank K9, are you clear to run a plate?”
“Go ahead.”
The speaker sounded like Lee, one of their oldest and best dispatchers.
She remembered her first date with Sarah, up in Laurel Canyon, when she had seen Sarah’s Tesla during her endearing ruse to get a kiss. “Five-Robert-Tom-Adam-One-Two-Seven.”
Throughout the five or so seconds of dead air, sweat filtered through her skin and left a moist spot above her lip.
“Negative 29, it’s a current 2014 Tesla,” Lee said. It wasn’t stolen. “10-28,” she said, “is current to a last of Pullman, first of Sarah, out of Hollywood.”
“Copy, thank you.”
A rush of contrition washed through her. And to make it worse, she’d gotten nothing useful from her wrongful request. What was she thinking, that she’d hear from the dispatcher that the car was registered to a secret address where Sarah was hiding out or that it was currently sitting at a McDonald’s in West Hollywood?
Yes, she rationalized, if it were stolen, she would have cause to conduct an official search, but even then, she’d have no legitimate reason to have called it in.
She’d simply reached out, to anything that was connected to Sarah, to be as close as possible.
“Frank K9, clear to respond to past call?”
“Frank K9, clear.”
“Are you available to assist unit Three-Lincoln-Nine with a vehicle search?”
“Affirmative. En route.”
The address, including a cross street, appeared on her computer screen.
As she turned her car around toward the location, the cop in her wondered how else she could find connections to Sarah.
She turned north and Abel whined, knowing why she increased her speed.
There was one way. But she’d have to go back to Sarah’s.
Chapter Fifteen
Thirty minutes after her shift was over, Chris had changed into jeans and a dark-green T-shirt, jumped into her civilian car, and was pulling up to Sarah’s street. A few cars were still driving around her neighborhood at half past ten, and Chris checked each one in case it was Sarah’s.
She pulled up to the house and got out. The driveway was still empty and the house looked just as unoccupied as it did earlier. She walked up to the front door and rang the bell again, just in case. When no one answered, she peered through the front window and waited until her eyes adjusted to the unlit room. She wasn’t expecting to find out much. Sure enough, nothing looked out of place or disturbed in a way that would indicate a struggle. Pillows sat neatly on the couch and a darkened lamp sat on a side table. Light drifted in from the hallway, giving few details of anything else.
She turned away and paused. What had been on the side table, just under the lamp? She pulled a small flashlight from her pocket and shined it through the window.
It was Sarah’s cell phone. Chris called the number and watched as it came to life, its LED light casting a bluish glow on the underside of the lamp’s shade.
As Sarah’s voice mail came on, Chris hung up and turned off the flashlight. She was gone and didn’t have her cell. Why?
She walked off the porch and to the right side of the house. Large bushes sealed the house to the dividing wall, so she went over to the other side. There she found a pathway, so she followed it. The gate she encountered was wooden, about six feet high, with a white coat of paint. She tried the handle but it wouldn’t open, so she reached over the top and was able to unfasten the latch.
She went around the perimeter of Sarah’s house, shining a flashlight in every window. Chris wanted to find her but was fearful she’d see her slumped over a chair or motionless on the floor. Each room she checked was empty. She stopped at Sarah’s bedroom and looked in. Her bed was made and some clothes were folded on her dresser, but that was it. She just wasn’t there.
Chris made her way back to the side gate and stopped at a trash can and a recycling bin. She retrieved her flashlight again, held it in her mouth, and removed the trash can lid.
It was less than one-quarter full of old food, a dead plant, some broken glass, and some juice and milk cartons. Sarah was good at separating her non-recyclables.
Chris closed the lid and opened the recycling bin. In it were the usual bottles and cans, and as quietly as she could, Chris moved them aside to pull out the items of paper—mostly unopened envelopes of what looked like junk mail. She separated those from the rest of the paper and put them back into the can.
She then inspected what she had left—a couple of notes that looked like self-reminders and grocery lists that she divided from the rest and put at the bottom of her stack. Various credit-card receipts were left.
The grocery receipts joined the junk mail, and she read through the rest as quickly as she could. She stopped when she got to the last one.
“Fuck,” she whispered. She had no idea what might help her, but whatever it was, it wasn’t here. What a stupid chance she was taking going through Sarah’s trash like a crazy person.
She flipped through each one again, shaking her head in frustration and muttering, “Ralph’s grocery. The dry cleaners. An ATM receipt. Shell gas station. A restaurant…”
The signature caught her eye. It wasn’t like the rest and she looked closer. The printed name under the signature was Natalie Crowden.
She was Sarah’s best friend, the one she went to China with, the cricket-fighting girl. Even the receipt was an example of Sarah’s exciting spirit. The name of the place was Nyala Ethiopian Cuisine. Chris had no idea there even was an African restaurant in Los Angeles.
She thought about Sarah’s adventurous life, envying her daring nature. Sarah wasn’t afraid to try new things or make mistakes. She lived in refreshing contrast to Chris’s stiffness, her obsession with procedure and rules. Sarah did live in the grays, the places where Chris would never venture, but Sarah’s experiences weren’t that extreme, really. It wasn’t like she lived a life of petty crime. She was just brave enough to step out of her own way.
In retrospect, Chris had never done that. And maybe it was time she did.
As she looked down at the receipt, reading that they’d ordered eccentric things called Yabesha Gommen, Yawaze Tibs, and Yebere Wet, it became apparent that if Chris wanted to stay within the strict world of black and white, she’d never get any closer to Sarah.
She turned the receipt over and squinted at the pen scratches. It looked like the private part of a woman, but it also looked like some kind of diagram.
She stuffed the receipt in her pocket, returned the rest of the paper items to the recycle bin, and walked out the gate.
*
The only Natalie Crowden that came up on the Internet was a Facebook account. Luckily, Natalie had set her viewing preferences to public and Chris searched her photo albums. It didn’t take long to find pictures of her with Sarah, and Chris laughed out of relief.
She checked her “about” information, and it listed her employment as The Gal’s Bar and Grill. Another quick search gave her the address, and she started her car to head down, out of the Hollywood Hills.
Just after eleven thirty that night, Chris walked into The Gal’s Bar and Grill, a small, trendy establishment just off Santa Monica Boulevard. The place was fairly full of people, mostly businesswomen, drinking at the mahogany bar and small tables, eating what looked like tapas.
All Chris had to go by were the photographs she’d seen on Natalie’s Facebook page, but no one loo
ked like her. She stepped up to the bar and got the bartender’s attention.
“I’m looking for Natalie Crowden.”
The tall blond woman raised her eyebrows and then said, “Friend or foe?”
That was a bit peculiar. “Neither.”
“Cop?”
“No.” She didn’t need to know everything.
The bartender looked her over as if trying to decide whether she was going to cause trouble or not. “In the back,” she finally said, “through that door.” She jerked her head toward the far wall and then turned to a customer that waved a twenty-dollar bill at her.
The sound of the bar’s music faded just slightly as Chris closed the back door behind her. A woman sat in a tiny office, going over some kind of paperwork. Without lifting her head, she said, “Out of wine already?”
“No.” Chris stepped into the office.
It was definitely Natalie.
“May I help you?”
“I’m Chris Bergstrom. I was wondering—”
“Sarah’s Chris?”
“Yes.”
“You’re the police officer?”
“I am.”
Natalie studied her. “She likes you.”
“That’s really good to hear.” Chris shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Have you seen her lately?”
“No. I talked to her a few days ago, but she hasn’t returned my calls since then.”
“I can’t seem to reach her either.”
Again, Natalie scrutinized her. This was a mildly paranoid place, Chris thought.
“Close the door,” Natalie said, “and sit down.”
The only chair was so close, they could have shared a TV dinner without having to pass it back and forth.
“Sarah,” Natalie said, “has had a rough time.”
“Is she okay?”
“Her grandmother passed away Wednesday.”
“Momo…”
“You met her? She was a kick in the pants.”
“Oh, that’s horrible,” Chris said. “It seemed she was the only family member she was close to.”
The Heat of Angels Page 18
