by James Calder
“It’s just a circuit breaker,” Rita replied calmly.
Rod threw his arms in the air. “You don’t get it! Now I’m going to have to reset all my embedded technology. I don’t have time for this!”
Rita stared at him. Rod was supposed to be the electronic genius.
“Take it easy, Rod,” I said. “We can help. Right now we need you to put on your most charming personality for the camera.”
Rod’s mustache twitched. “Wysiwyg,” he declared, spreading his arms. It was engineer-speak for What You See Is What You Get.
“All right,” I announced. I slapped the lens cap back on the camera. “I’m calling it a day. We’ve got enough to put together the piece. If you’re in a better frame of mind, we can pick up some shots tomorrow. Maybe Alissa will show.”
Rod turned without a word and walked in the direction of the basement. His lips were sealed shut, like two lines of tape. His limbs moved in robotic jerks.
Jimmy waited until he was out of earshot. “He’ll be better in a few minutes.”
“No, something’s thrown him off. He’s not coming across well. You don’t want to see that look he’s got on his face splashed across the screen.”
“Just fifteen minutes,” he pleaded.
I glanced at Rita. “No,” I decided. “Our schedule is too tight. Look, I meant it about coming back tomorrow, if he wants to try again. If not, we’ll be fine with what we’ve got. Believe me, it’s the best way.”
I nodded to Alan to proceed with the breakdown. Rita had already begun on the lights. She’d shown admirable restraint. But I could tell by the crisp way she snapped the equipment cases shut that she appreciated my decision. Her camerawork would not have been kind to Rod after that outburst.
We hauled the gear back to my car. I waited an extra minute or two, but Rod did not reappear. I said good-bye to Jimmy. He promised to have Rod ready first thing in the morning.
» » » » »
An eruption happened at least once on every shoot. We knew not to take it personally. Usually the anger was meant for someone else and you were a convenient target. You tried to work through it, but in this case Rod’s bad mood would have taken over the screen.
By the time we finished dinner and settled into our editing chairs to review the footage in San Francisco, Rita’s ire and my irritation at Rod’s outburst had melted away. Rita transferred whatever leftover offense she had to Alissa, whom she referred to as the Wayward Princess.
“You didn’t see the photograph,” I said. “I’ve always wanted someone to give me the look she was giving him.”
Rita gave me a look of her own, one that included her eyes rolling around like lost marbles. My cell phone rang. I flipped it open and checked the caller ID. “Rod,” I said.
“His ears are burning.”
Rod dispensed with greetings. “Bill,” he said, “you’ve got to come down here right now. I can’t—I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Stand what, Rod?”
“We have to find Alissa. I’m afraid something has happened to her.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was quivering. “I just know that she would have called me if she was all right. She’s not all right.”
“Have you called the police?”
“The police, the hospitals. Nothing. We’ve got to find her.”
“Let’s give it till morning. I’ll be there early.”
“No!” He was on the verge of tears. “Just believe me. We’ve got to check her apartment tonight. I’ll pay you for your time. This has nothing to do with the film.”
“Okay, Rod. Take it easy.”
He gave me an address in Palo Alto. I told him I’d be there in fifty minutes. Rita frowned at me as I closed the phone. “Don’t tell me you’re going. It’s ten at night. He’s not your boss, you know.”
“He wasn’t exactly ordering me. More like begging.”
“Did he say anything about this afternoon?”
“No. He’s worried and he’s lost in his own world. He’s got no one else to call, Rita.”
“What about Mike Riley?”
“I’m sure Mike would help, but you know how shy Rod is. He won’t talk to Mike about it. For some reason he trusts me.”
“Not that you’re not worthy of it, Bill, but—couldn’t it just be this week’s new-best-friend syndrome?”
I knew what she meant. Film sets fostered a kind of hothouse intimacy. You spent twelve or eighteen hours a day working on a shoot and you developed intense relationships. I was in the middle of Rod’s world right now. I felt a certain closeness, a protectiveness. His blind devotion to his work was endearing.
“Maybe so, Rita. I just can’t leave the guy hanging.”
“He went a little off his rocker today, if you ask me.”
“It can’t be easy, sitting alone in that house, wondering what’s happened to your girlfriend. But he’s rational to a fault. You saw that, too.”
“There’s the problem. Too much rationality can drive anyone crazy.”
I shook my head. “Something else is going on. It started when that young guy visited—”
“Young James Dean?”
“Exactly. That’s what set him off. Maybe the guy’s related to Alissa. Maybe he’s her new boyfriend.”
“Oh, this sounds like a great thing to put yourself in the middle of, Bill.”
I shrugged on my jacket. “He found my weak point. Curiosity.”
“Nosiness,” Rita corrected. But then her mouth twisted into one of her wry smiles. “I know you’d do the same for me. It’s nice to have someone you can count on. As long as it doesn’t get you hurt someday.”
2
A man was moving in the bushes to my right. My fists tightened. I was in a dark spot on the street, between two lights, on my way down the sidewalk to Alissa’s apartment. I stopped and checked around me to see if I’d walked into some kind of trap.
The man’s shape loomed, then I recognized the sloped shoulders and splayfooted gait. “Rod, why are you hiding in there?” I said.
He shrugged and whispered, “I thought it would be safer.”
We were in an old Palo Alto neighborhood. The trees were tall and their leaves rustled in the breeze. A black iron fence ran along the sidewalk. Rod and I followed it to the gate to Alissa’s apartment building, the Granada. It was designed in a hacienda style, three stories with overhanging tile roofs. Through the wrought-iron gate we could see a fountain and a thick oak tree. Beyond it was the building itself, split into two L-shaped halves by a single story in the center.
“Pretty swank, for someone her age,” I said. “Whatever she does, she must be good at it.”
Rod didn’t answer. His shoulders, his arms, his whole body shrank into itself. He hesitated in front of the intercom telephone, which was set in a pillar beside the gate.
“Have you tried her yet?”
He shook his head and peered at the phone as if it would bite him. I couldn’t fathom why he should be so frightened. “What apartment number?” I asked, picking up the receiver.
He told me and I punched in the numbers for 304. A woman’s recorded voice picked up after two rings. It had a mellow, buttery tone, but withheld her name. I handed Rod the phone. He stared at it, then slammed it into the cradle.
“Was that Alissa?” I asked.
“Yes. We have to get in. Her light’s on.”
A few windows twinkled through the iron bars. “You want to climb the gate?”
“Let’s go around back,” he said, already walking along the wall.
I followed him around the corner to an alley that led to the rear of the building. Several cars were parked in a narrow lot. A Dumpster was pushed up against the single story, probably a utility room, between the building’s two halves. We stood under a large elm, which provided cover of darkness. Rod pointed to a small balcony on the third floor, above and to the right of the Dumpster. A faint light glowed through a sliding glass door
.
“That one’s hers,” he whispered. “You can get in, can’t you?”
“What, break in? Forget it. We’ll ring the manager.”
“No! Absolutely not!” Rod clasped his hands in my direction. “Please. Just believe me. She may be in trouble. The manager’s not the person to try.”
I refrained from asking how often he spied on her from this spot. But I did ask if he’d seen something happen through that window.
“I’m—I’m not sure. I wanted the police to check on her, but they said she can’t be reported missing until twenty-four hours go by. It might be too late by then.”
“Too late for what?”
Rod spun, looking to his left, then his right, as if an invisible fiend lurked in the dark. “I don’t know. That’s what I mean. I’m afraid she’s in there, I’m afraid she’s . . .” His lower lip trembled. Again his hands clasped. “I want to hire you, Bill. I have to find out what happened. Wes told me you had some experience. I’ll pay you the same rate as the film, plus expenses. I’m serious about this.”
That got my attention. Film work had been very, very slow lately. I wasn’t turning down jobs of any kind. “You’re that worried about her?”
“Worried sick,” he said miserably.
The climb looked feasible. The Dumpster could get me to the single-story roof. A combination of drainpipes, wisteria vines, and balcony railings could get me to Alissa’s balcony. The sliding glass door would be open, if I was lucky, or could be pried open.
“Does she live alone?” I asked.
“Yes. That’s why the light concerns me.”
I fixed my gaze on him as well as I could in the dark. “I might do it. But I want to know what’s going on here. Who was that young guy who came to your house today?”
“He’s—” Rod faltered. “He gave me reason to believe some-thing’s happened to Alissa.”
“Yeah, but who is he? I’m not going up there until you spell this out.”
“I will,” Rod promised. “Afterward. Please just find out for me if she’s there. If she’s alive. Then I’ll explain.”
“Explain first. Then I’ll tell you if she’s alive.”
A wild look leaped into Rod’s face, as if the fiend was closing in. He grimaced, made a run for the Dumpster, and managed to swing his legs over the edge. But the lid was open and he promptly toppled into the bin, disappearing with a soft thump. The Dumpster wasn’t empty. He emerged a moment later with a vexed whimper.
“Let me help you out, Rod.”
“I’m going up there!”
“Come on out of the Dumpster.”
“Go to hell, Bill.” He gained a precarious knee-perch on the lip.
“Rod . . . Rod, listen to me. I’ll go. Now calm down.”
He came all at once, pitching forward. I caught him and lowered him to the pavement. “I’ll go,” I repeated, “assuming you haven’t woken half the neighborhood.”
Rod brushed himself off. “I’ll take full responsibility. You’re in my employ.”
Rod had done nothing in the past week to make me think he wouldn’t keep his word. And I hated to say it, but in addition to the pay I was drawn by that sense of not wanting to see what I might find, yet feeling a compulsion to look. Alissa’s smile lingered in my memory.
We waited a few more minutes to make sure we hadn’t attracted attention. Then Rod gave me a boost up on the Dumpster. I balanced on the lip for a moment, hands pressed to the windowless wall, trying not to inhale too deeply. A sideways jump allowed me to grip a drainpipe that ran down the wall. Climbing it hand over hand brought me to the roof of the utility room.
If I spent more of my free time rock climbing or lifting weights, I might have been able to pull myself up the drainpipe to the third floor by arm strength alone. Being a mere camera jock, I needed footholds. The Granada was a vintage forties building: The wisteria twining up the drainpipe to the balconies had been there for decades and the vines had grown thick as cords. I hoped they were strong enough to hold 175 pounds.
My arms still did most of the work. Using the wisteria cords for toeholds, I made it to the first balcony and rested, bending over the iron rail, my feet wedged between the bars. The sliding glass doors here were dark. At the second-floor balcony, a murmur of voices came from inside the apartment. I leaned forward and saw the blue flicker of a TV. The curtains were open. I couldn’t rest here.
I let the vines take more of my weight as I climbed to the third floor. They twined vertically around the drainpipe, making the toeholds slippery. My right foot slid and suddenly I was dangling from the pipe. I looked down to see where I would splatter. If I could propel myself out and to the left, there was a chance I’d land in the Dumpster. I hoped my landing would be as soft as Rod’s.
My arms were feeling the burn when my feet finally found a bit of leverage. I wedged my hands under the pipe to give my arms a second of rest, then ordered them to pull me the final yards to the third floor. I thrust a foot between the bars of Alissa’s balcony and threw myself around the corner and over the top of the railing, gulping air. Once I was on the balcony, I stood up and gave Rod a wave.
“Are you okay?” he whisper-yelled.
I shushed him and made my way past some planters and a plastic chair to the door. The white curtains were drawn, illuminated by a weak light inside. I gave the sliding glass door a pull. Locked. I waited a minute, gathering my strength, then took the handle in both hands. Simultaneously lifting and shaking as if to rip it from its track, I popped open the door.
I stepped back and waited. No sound came from inside. By now I was focused simply on the job and not on what I might find in there. Crawling was the way to go, I decided, in case someone was waiting to take a swing at me.
The floor was cool tile. A single table lamp lit the room and its brass-riveted, Mission-style furniture. The plaster ceiling curved in the direction of a Moorish arch. A large TV sat across from the couch and a desk stood against the opposite wall beneath a leaded glass window. My hand slid under something soft and silky. I lifted it to discover that my wrist had been lassoed by a black lace bra. I decided to stand up.
The apartment had a galley kitchen, a darkened bedroom, a spacious tiled bathroom, and no dead bodies. The closets stood open. Clothes were littered in the bedroom and living room, on furniture and on the floor, as if they’d been considered and abandoned in a marathon dress-up session. The bed was unmade. The medicine cabinet was empty save for a few fallen vials. A leather purse sat by the front door. It was empty.
I went back to a small message board attached to the side of the refrigerator and turned on a light. The name Erika was scrawled on the board, as if owed a return call. Below it were letters and numbers that had been erased. I leaned in to decipher and memorize them.
The wall phone next to my ear rang, jolting me upright as if I’d been caught.
I shut off the light and made for the balcony. Then the phone machine on the desk picked up. I heard Alissa’s answer message again. Another woman was on the line, her voice young and throaty, but strained.
“Alissa, it’s me. Are you back? I’ve been worried about you, I wanted to check up.” She paused and said, “Are you back? The thing is, when I was parking, I think I saw someone in your apartment, and I was afraid it could be an intruder or something.” A longer silence followed. The voice turned shivery. “Oh my God . . .” she said as it dawned on her that that someone was probably listening to her.
This was bad news for two reasons. First, it meant the woman had seen me break in. Second, it meant she was close by. I considered exiting by the normal route. Then I considered witnesses in the hallway and the manager about whom Rod had warned me. I left everything as it was and went back out the sliding door.
Going down was easier than coming up. I kept a grip on the drainpipe and shimmied down. The balcony railings gave me points of balance. From the roof of the utility room I slid straight down the pipe. I grabbed Rod and told him we had to get out o
f there.
“And Alissa?” he asked, dreading the answer.
“She’s not dead.” At least not in there.
» » » » »
I’d fulfilled my end of the deal. Now I was looking forward to Rod fulfilling his. We were in the doughy embrace of his brown leather living-room couch. Rod had commanded fire in the brick brass-plated fireplace. A glass of apple juice sat in front of him. I’d requested a stronger beverage and he’d produced a light beer. After I’d explained to him why I had to make such a quick exit from Alissa’s apartment, he wanted only to talk about the interior. It was as if he heard none of my insistent questions about why he’d wanted me to go in. He was particularly interested in her clothes.
“Surely you’ve seen what she wears,” I said.
“She dresses very nicely. But was there anything more, uh, like what she’d wear to a nightclub? Kind of racy?”
“I didn’t seen any spangles. But she has nice underwear.”
Rod’s face went red. I saw my opportunity. “It’s your turn now, Rod. Clearly you’ve never been inside her apartment. I don’t think you’ve even been to the front door. You’ve only spied on her from the back.”
Rod jumped to his feet and began to pace in front of the fire, arms folded. “It’s not like that,” he said. “I was just worried about her safety.”
“You never even called her to ask, did you?”
“I didn’t want to intrude.” He’d circled around behind me, and for a moment I thought he’d left the room altogether. It was unsettling, but I’d seen him do this before when he was working on a particularly difficult problem. “I didn’t want to frighten her. Did you—you didn’t see blood anywhere, did you?”
“No. And the clothes didn’t look like they’d been flung around violently. It was more like they’d been laid in place.”
“It seems like she’d be neater.”
“The apartment looked nothing like your desk. But then, neither does mine.” Rod’s desk was spotless every morning and it was returned to that state by the end of each day. His idea of organization was having everything put away. Mine was having everything out where I could see it. “Tell me what you know about this. An email address was written on her message board.” I spelled it out: [email protected].
