by Jason Starr
“Did they figure out how the burglars got in yet?” Marissa asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said, like he really didn’t care one way or the other. “But the lock guy was here already, and we have brand-new locks for the back door, Medecos. There’re new keys. The alarm guy should be here at around—” He checked the time on his cell phone. “Actually, they should’ve been here a half hour ago.”
Marissa took another sip of the gross coffee, then said, “I’ll talk to you later,” and started to leave the kitchen.
“I was thinking,” her dad said, “maybe we could all go out to dinner tonight.
You know, as a family.”
“I’m supposed to hang out with some friends,” she said.
This wasn’t really true. She had no set plans with her friends; she just didn’t feel like spending a whole night with her parents.
“Oh, then maybe we should do something over the weekend, just the three of us. Maybe go into the city to see a movie or a show. When was the last time we went to a Broadway show? It’s been ages.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Dad?”
“Fine,” he said, smiling unusually widely. “What do you mean?” “The way you’re acting. It’s . . . I don’t know . . . not normal.”
“What do you mean?” he said. “I had a phone session with a patient. I’m taking care of stuff around the house. I think I’m acting very normal.”
“Yeah, but it’s not normal to act normal. I mean, you’re allowed to be upset.” “Upset about what?”
“You shot somebody,” Marissa said. “If that happened to me, I mean, if I was the one who shot him, I’d be a total mess right now. I mean, you wouldn’t even be able to talk to me.”
“Everybody handles things differently,” he said. “Anybody would be upset,” she said.
“Look, I was upset at first, okay? I mean, you saw me last night, right? I was expressing my anger then, but I’m okay with it now, I really am. I mean, I’m not going to beat myself up over it. I was in a difficult situation, and I did the best I could under the circumstances. I wish it hadn’t happened, but it did happen, and it could’ve happened to anybody—that’s the important thing. You know how many people in this neighborhood have guns? The Zimmermans have a gun, the Stenatos have a gun, the Silvermans have a gun, the Coles have a gun. I bet there’s a gun in every other house on this block, if not in every house, and I think any other father would’ve done what I did. I protected my family, that’s all. It’s not something to feel bad about, it’s something to feel good about.”
God, he was so deep in denial it was hopeless.
“Look, Dad, if I were you, I’d talk to somebody. Your therapist, some other counselor, whoever. I really think you’re still in shock right now but you don’t realize it.”
“Shock?” he said, like he’d never heard the word before. “Why do you—” “Hello?” her mom shouted. It sounded like she was in the foyer, near the front
door. She sounded totally panicked, like something horrible had happened. “Who’s home?”
Marissa and her dad looked at each other with concerned expressions, then left the kitchen together and met her mom in the living room. Her mom looked frantic and went right up to Marissa and wrapped her arms around her and wouldn’t let go.
“What is it, Mom? What’s wrong?”
Her mother was crying now, but it was worse than the way she’d been crying last night. Last night she was just upset. Now she looked devastated.
“Yeah, what’s going on?” her dad asked, concerned yet calm.
Marissa’s mom let go of her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, leaving smudges of mascara, and her lips were trembling.
“I-I just spoke w–w-w-with that d-d-detective . . . C-c-c-clements.” She had to catch her breath. “I c-c-alled him about the paper . . . He called back and . . . and . . . she’s d-d-dead.”
Marissa was lost. “Who’s dead?”
“G-g-gabriela,” her mom said. “Somebody shot her. She’s dead.”
Marissa was confused. The only Gabriela she knew was their maid, but that was impossible. Marissa must’ve misunderstood something. Her mother must’ve meant some other Gabriela. Maybe someone from the neighborhood or a friend of a friend. Something like that.
“Gabriela?” Marissa asked. “Gabriela who?”
Her mom couldn’t speak for several seconds, then blurted out, “Our Gabriela.” The room seemed like it was spinning, and then Marissa wasn’t sure where she was anymore. Her father had to actually grab her to keep her from falling.
Somehow they all wound up on the living room couch, Marissa sitting between her mom and her dad.
Her mom was asking her if she was okay, and Marissa, crying, was saying, “It’s not true. Please tell me it’s not true.”
“It’s true,” her mom sobbed. “It’s true, it’s true, it’s true.”
“How do you know it’s true?” her father asked. “Maybe there’s some mistake.”
Her dad wasn’t crying at all, and he didn’t even seem very upset. He sounded weirdly calm, in control.
“He told me,” her mom said. “The detective. He said she was shot this morning in... in her apartment.”
“Maybe there was a screwup,” her dad said. “Maybe it was some other Gabriela.”
“No, I asked,” her mom said emphatically. “He said it was Gabriela Moreno, and he gave me her address in Jackson Heights. It’s not a mistake. She’s dead. Somebody shot her.”
Marissa was still sobbing. Last night had been one of the scariest times of her life, but this was like a total nightmare. Gabriela had been so young, so happy, so healthy. How could she be dead? This wasn’t possible.
Then it hit Marissa, and she said, “Oh my God. You don’t think it has something to do with last night, do you?”
“It has nothing to do with last night,” her dad cut in quickly. “Okay, come on, let’s not get all hysterical before we know all the facts. I want to talk to Clements, find out exactly what’s going on here.”
He was trying so hard to sound in control. Like people were getting shot left and right, but of course he could handle it, it was no big deal.
“He said he’ll be over,” her mom said, “later.”
“Good,” her dad said. “I’m sure there’s a lot we don’t know right now.” “Didn’t Clements say he was gonna go talk to Gabriela?” Marissa asked. “Isn’t
that what he said last night?”
“He didn’t have a chance to talk to her,” her mom said. “He said he was planning to talk to her today when—”
“Then it has to have something to do with it,” Marissa said. “It’s too coincidental.”
Her father stood up and started making a call on his BlackBerry. “Let’s just see one thing, okay?” he said.
“What’re you doing?” her mom asked. “Let’s see if she picks up her phone.”
“What’s wrong with you?” her mom said. “I’m telling you, she’s dead.”
Her dad ignored her, with the phone to his ear. Then after several seconds he clicked off and said, “Voice mail.”
“Of course her voice mail picked up,” her mom screamed. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Can you guys please just stop fighting?” Marissa asked.
“What’s Gabriela’s cell?” her dad asked, and her mom leaned over her lap, grabbed fistfuls of her hair as if she were trying to pull it all out in total frustration, then made an infuriated gravelly sound in the back of her throat.
“What were you saying before about a paper?” Marissa asked.
Still looking down, her hands still clutching her hair, her mom said, “I had the code to the alarm written on a piece of paper. I realized it was missing this morning, that’s why I called Clements.”
“Okay, think about what you’re saying,” her dad said. He was standing in front of them, looking down at them. “Just think about it for a second without getting hysterical. You know Gab
riela, right? You know how wonderful she is, how loyal she is, how trustworthy she is. How many times has she been in this house alone? How many times did she babysit for us, or pick up Marissa from school? She’s worked for us for how many years? Twelve? Thirteen? And in all that time she’s never stolen anything from us. I’m talking not even a dollar bill from on top of my dresser. I mean, there’s probably been hundreds of times that she had total access to my wallet, your pocketbook, your jewelry, and she’s never stolen a cent from us. But now you’re positive, there’s no doubt in your mind, that she conspired with that criminal Sanchez to rob our house? Why? Because they’re both Spanish? I mean, just think about how absurd that is before you start screaming your head off at me, okay?”
Her father ended his speech, seeming proud of himself, as if he’d just delivered a Shakespearean soliloquy or something. But, Marissa had to admit, the idea that Gabriela was part of the robbery did sound ridiculous. She couldn’t imagine any scenario where Gabriela would do something to hurt Marissa’s family.
“He’s right, it does sound pretty crazy,” Marissa said. Then she said to her dad, “So what do you think it was, a big coincidence? She gets shot the morning after our house is robbed, right before the detective has a chance to talk to her?”
“Look, there’s a lot we don’t know right now,” her dad said. “Maybe it has something to do with her daughter, some guy she was dating.”
“Manuela’s eleven,” Marissa said.
“What I’m trying to say,” her dad said, “is let’s just confirm she’s actually dead.”
“It’s confirmed!” her mom suddenly shouted. Her face was red, and her eyes were very big. “How many times do I have to tell you before it gets through your thick skull? She’s dead! She’s fucking dead!”
Her dad shook his head in frustration and exited to the kitchen.
“You’re so goddamn impossible,” her mom said and left, going toward the front of the house.
“Ma,” Marissa called and followed her.
She watched her mother head up the main staircase, hesitate for a moment as if suddenly remembering what had happened there, and then rush upstairs.
Marissa couldn’t believe how absolutely screwed up everything suddenly was. Gabriela had always been so warm, so friendly, and had probably been one of the kindest people Marissa had ever met. Marissa remembered all the times Gabriela played with her and took her places when she was growing up. In high school when she had boyfriend problems, she never felt comfortable talking to her parents, and Gabriela was always there to give advice. Marissa had helped Gabriela learn English, and Gabriela had helped her with her Spanish. She had been a combination big sister and close friend, and Marissa just couldn’t accept the idea that she was gone, as dead as the guy on the stairs last night, that she’d never see her face or hear her voice again.
Standing in the foyer, Marissa started to cry again. Then her dad came in and put an arm around her and in that pseudo calm voice said, “It’s gonna be okay, sweetie. I promise.”
Marissa couldn’t take it anymore. If he was in denial before, now he was hopeless.
She broke away and said, “Please, Dad, just stop it already,” and went upstairs, not even realizing she’d passed the spot where the body had been until she was in her room.
She checked her phone and saw that she’d received a bunch of e-mails and texts from her friends as news of the robbery had been getting around. She felt like she really needed to vent, let out her anger, so instead of replying individually she went online and posted a long entry on her Artist Girl blog, which most of her friends—her closest friends, anyway—read every day. She described the robbery as dramatically as possible, focusing on how terrified she’d been when she woke up and heard the intruders in the house and everything that had happened with the shooting and how the police had questioned her and her family for most of the night. She left out the part about how Clements had questioned her about her drug use in the house, paranoid that this would somehow incriminate her. Although she didn’t mention anything about Gabriela specifically, she hinted at it, ending with “Now things seem to be getting even more fucked up. This is the craziest day of my life.”
After she posted the blog, she searched Google News for “Gabriela Moreno,” hoping to find nothing, but there were two news items about the shooting. Marissa read them, feeling devastated and numb. The items gave pretty much the same minimal information that Marissa’s mother had already reported: Gabriela had been shot to death in her Jackson Heights apartment this morning by an unknown assailment. The motive for the shooting was also unknown.
“Goddamn it,” Marissa said, and she picked up the keyboard and banged it against the desk. It sounded like something cracked, but she didn’t care.
She hoped that whoever killed Gabriela rotted in hell for it, but she still couldn’t believe that Gabriela had actually been involved in the robbery. Maybe her dad was right about it being a coincidence. Maybe Gabriela was shot for some crazy random reason. It seemed far-fetched but not any more far-fetched than her having anything to do with that dead guy, Sanchez.
“Marissa.” Her father knocked on the door. “Marissa, can you come downstairs for a sec, please? Detective Clements is here.”
Great, just what Marissa needed. “Coming,” she said, nearly whispering. “What?”
“I said I’ll be right there!” she shouted.
She took her time, answering a few more e-mails, then went downstairs. Her mom, her face still smeared with mascara, was at the dining room table with Clements. Her dad looked more serious than he had before.
“What’s going on?” Marissa asked. “Please . . . join us,” Clements said.
Marissa sat in the empty chair, noticing that her mom and dad were avoiding eye contact with each other.
“I guess you heard the news,” Clements said.
“About Gabriela, yeah,” Marissa said.“Why? Nobody else died, right?” She was only half joking.
“No one else died,” her dad said in a monotone.
“I was just filling your parents in on a few of the latest developments,” Clements said.
“Oh, no, what now?”
“She was involved in the robbery,” her mom said. “You know that for sure?” Marissa asked.
“It’s very likely she was involved,” Clements said. “We’ve established a connection, a very definite connection, between her and Carlos Sanchez.”
“What kind of connection?” Marissa asked.
“They had a history,” Clements said. “They dated for several years and there was a history of domestic violence. She’d even gotten a restraining order against him.”
Marissa looked at her mom, then her dad, in disbelief. “Did you guys know about this?”
Her mom shook her head. Her dad didn’t have any reaction.
“She’d been in contact with him by cell phone numerous times in the days prior to the robbery,” Clements said. “A neighbor also thinks he saw Sanchez at her building one day last week, but that hasn’t been confirmed yet.”
“Wait, that doesn’t make any sense,” Marissa said. “If she had a restraining order against him, why would he’ve been at her building?”
“We’re not sure,” Clements said. “Her sister said their father in Ecuador is ill and needs money for an operation, so that may’ve been the motive.”
“Tell her about the AIDS,” Dana said. “Her father had AIDS?” Marissa asked.
“Not her father—Sanchez,” Clements said. “And he didn’t have full-blown AIDS. He was HIV positive.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Marissa’s dad said. “We all have to get tested now,” her mom announced.
“That’s ridiculous,” her dad said.
“His blood was all over the staircase,” her mom said, suddenly looking and sounding maniacal. “It could’ve splattered on you.”
“Oh, stop it,” her dad said, waving a hand at her dismissively.
Mar
issa couldn’t believe her parents were actually arguing about HIV transmission. They’d officially hit a new low.
“The risk for HIV transmission in this type of situation is minimal if not nonexistent,” Clements said. “The virus dies almost immediately when it’s exposed to air.”
“See?” her dad said to her mom, like he was so proud of himself.
“I don’t care,” her mom said. “The blood was everywhere, I want to get tested.” “If you want to get tested, get tested,” her dad said. “I can’t stop you.”
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Marissa said to Clements. “You think Gabriela took the code to the alarm so she and her ex-boyfriend could rob our house?”
“It seems logical,” Clements said. “Your mother says she believes Gabriela had access to the code.”
“What about the keys?” Marissa asked.
“She could’ve copied them at some point,” Clements said. “We’re talking to area locksmiths, and my guess is we’ll find out that she copied the keys to the back door.”
“I don’t believe it,” Marissa’s mom said. “If Gabriela robbed the house, then who killed her? Explain that.”
“It’s too early to speculate,” Clements said.
As Marissa’s mom rolled her eyes, Marissa said to her dad, “I thought you heard another guy in the house.”
“I’m not sure about that,” he said. “It could’ve been a woman.”
“According to your parents,” Clements continued to Marissa, “Gabriela wasn’t aware that you’d canceled your trip to Florida, so she may have believed the house would be empty. Did you tell her you weren’t going to Florida?”
Marissa didn’t say anything, she just shook her head.
It was starting to set in—Gabriela had been involved in the robbery of their house. She’d actually been involved.
“Oh my God,” Marissa said, “I don’t think I can handle any more of this.”
Her dad, suddenly all protective, said, “If you don’t have any more questions for her, why does she have to be here?”
