by Ava Barry
“About his innocence?”
“We have a very narrow portrait of what actually happened in the months leading up to Eleanor’s death,” I said. “We know what the news has told us. We know the urban legends, all the myths that have been mutated over the years. What if Theo’s not guilty?”
“Slow down. What did you just read?”
There were voices outside the greenhouse. I turned to look through the window and saw the roofing men entering the house through the back door.
“I don’t think we should talk about this here,” I said. “Let’s go see Alexa.”
I gathered up my things and shoved them into my satchel. As I stepped out through the greenhouse, I heard another voice.
“He must be here somewhere; he’s not at work.”
Heather.
“Isn’t that his car in the driveway? He has to be here.” It took me a moment to identify the other voice, and then I realized that it must have been Barney, her assistant.
I put a hand on Petra’s shoulder to stop her, then considered my options.
“What’s wrong?” Petra asked.
“Shhh!” I motioned for her to be quiet.
“We haven’t seen him today,” said a male’s voice, which I thought must have been one of the builders.
“Has anyone checked out back yet?”
“We have to go,” I told Petra. “We’ll cut through the neighbor’s yard.”
I led her around the back of the greenhouse. The fence in the back of my yard was weak and rotting, and it had started to slope down at the back. My neighbor and I had exchanged a few emails about banding together to fix it, but he was a travel photographer who was frequently out of town, and we hadn’t gotten around to doing it yet.
Petra gave me a strange look as I climbed over the fence and then motioned for her to follow me.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Look, I’ll explain later,” I said. “Did you park on the street?”
“Yeah, a few blocks from here,” she said.
“Thank God for that,” I said. “Let’s go to the office and give Alexa an update on what we’ve learned.”
SEVENTEEN
Once we were out of Laurel Canyon and heading toward the office, I turned to Petra.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Thanks for what?”
“I know I sound like I’m being paranoid,” I said. “But I think she’s spying on me.”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” she said. “Didn’t you hire those men to fix your roof?”
“Look, forget I said anything,” I said. “I’m probably just imagining things.”
Petra was quiet as we drove up to the office and parked out front. We walked up the stairs together, and I tried to think of something to say.
“I’m really glad to have your help, you know,” I said.
She didn’t respond.
“It’s a lot more work than I thought,” I added.
Still no response.
“Hey, is everything all right?”
We reached our floor, and Petra stepped into the office. It was late Sunday afternoon, so the office wasn’t completely full, but a few writers lingered by their computers.
I followed Petra down the hall, confused at her sudden mood. She knocked on Alexa’s door without looking at me, and Alexa called, “Come in.”
Petra stepped inside, and I followed her.
“Max, Petra,” Alexa said. “Have a seat.”
“I’m not staying,” Petra said. “I’d like a different assignment. I wanted to tell you in person.”
Alexa looked stunned. “Did something happen?”
“Petra, what’s going on?” I asked. “I thought we made a breakthrough today.”
Still not meeting my eye, Petra addressed Alexa. “I know that interns are treated pretty badly in Los Angeles,” she said. “There are so many aspiring writers, actors, models that there simply isn’t room enough for everyone. I thought that the Lens would be different, but I can see that I was wrong.”
“Petra, please, have a seat,” Alexa said. “Max, what’s going on?”
“I have no idea! Petra, what are you doing?”
“Can you find me a different assignment?” Petra asked Alexa.
“I’ll have to check with Melissa,” Alexa said. “She’s taken over the interns. Do you want something on the culture desk, or do you want something different?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Petra said.
“Can I ask why you’d like to leave, halfway through an assignment?”
Petra turned to look at me for the first time since we entered the office. “Hailey, you make me run around, doing errands for you, and you keep me in the dark most of the time. I’m done.”
“Petra, please.”
“Who was the woman in your yard?” she asked. “Why did you want to sneak out the back?”
I faltered. “It doesn’t matter.”
“See what I mean?” Petra turned back to Alexa. “He wants my help, but he won’t tell me anything.”
“She’s not important!” I said. “She has nothing to do with the article.”
Alexa frowned. “Have you two been sleeping together?”
“No!” Petra and I said as one. Petra gave a slight shudder.
Alexa focused on me and asked, “Max, what’s going on?”
“This was supposed to be my article,” I said. “I appreciate her help, but I can choose what information I share.”
Petra threw her hands up in the air. “I’m going home,” she said. “Alexa, please let me know if you find something that I can work on. Otherwise, I guess I’m done here.”
She turned and walked out of the office. After a second’s hesitation, I followed her.
“Petra, wait!”
She had reached the stairs. With a sigh, she turned to face me.
“Please don’t do this,” I said. “We’re doing great work together.”
“I know, Hailey,” she said. “I know that was Heather Engel-Feeny in your yard. Why was she there, and why were you avoiding her?”
“She’s… a friend.”
“You’re lying to me!”
“It’s not relevant,” I said, my tone pleading. “Why do you need to know?”
She opened the door.
“You remember what I said this morning, about catering a lot of fundraisers?” she said. “Heather was at the Heritage Square fundraiser last year. I’ve seen her all over town.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you know what she’s working on?”
“Some conservation projects.” I shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“Have you ever heard of someone named Linus Warren?”
It took me a moment to remember who he was. The man from the Vanity Fair article, and the one I had seen at Heather’s house.
“I’ve seen him once or twice,” I said. “Why?”
“I’d take a closer look,” she said. “I’m not sure you realize who you’re dealing with.” She stepped into the stairs, closing the door behind her.
* * *
The articles that came up with a Google search for Heather were mostly pages that I had already seen. There were charity events and philanthropic fundraisers, cases of Heather visiting underprivileged families in South Central and bestowing her famous smile upon them. And then I started digging into Linus Warren, and I realized what Petra had meant when she said that I should be careful.
The article was about a suspicious double homicide that had happened on some land that Linus Warren was trying to develop. According to the article, Linus had been in the process of buying an apartment complex when an old couple had put their feet down and refused to sell the apartment they had lived in for thirty years. A month later, they turned up dead.
The police and medical examiner determined that the deaths were the result of a botched home invasion, but the local community wasn’t satisfied. Six months after their bodies were foun
d, Linus bought their apartment and went ahead with his plans to raze the entire complex. The murderer was never apprehended, and if Linus was questioned, the articles weren’t very conclusive.
And then I found the article about Highland Park.
Highland Park was a neighborhood in East Los Angeles, tucked underneath Pasadena. Madeleine and I used to spend a lot of time there, before we both started working full-time. We would drive over on a weekday afternoon, when we knew that things would be quiet, then walk through the sloping streets, pausing to stare up at the slender palms. Afterward, we’d stop at one of the little bodegas and buy mango sodas, tamarind candy, salted plums, and dried apricots. I loved that Highland Park felt like the last vestige of a civilization before the unruly desert, with all the old Victorian homes sighing against the shifting landscape.
Highland Park wasn’t a wealthy neighborhood, and even though most of the houses were either done in a Victorian or a Craftsman style, most of them were unrestored, rambling homes. Most of the houses around North Figueroa were owned by Latinx families, and despite the slow gentrification that had started to creep in during the last few years, the area still had a charming, unrefined feeling. There had been a lot of talk of historic conservation in the last decade, and that’s why I wasn’t surprised to read in the article that Heather was interested in developing an entire street of Craftsman houses.
When I saw Linus Warren’s name mentioned, I paused, and then I realized that the article’s focus wasn’t about the development. It was about two more unsolved deaths, both Latina protesters. Magda Flores and Linda Echevaria, I read, scanning the article for more detail. A third man had been injured, but his family requested that his name be kept out of the article, for fear of repercussions.
The details of the women’s deaths were unclear, and it seemed that the publication wasn’t willing to speculate on whether or not they had been murders or accidents. The deaths had occurred earlier that year.
I tried calling Madeleine, but her office told me that she was busy. Without any other leads, I decided to head over to Highland Park and visit the local city council.
* * *
The address that I found led me to a rambling Craftsman behind North Figueroa Street. I parked and went up to the door, which read SE HABLA ESPAÑOL, followed by COME IN. I opened the door and stepped inside.
The house had been converted into an office, and it was crammed with file cabinets, mismatched furniture, and stacks of boxes. Handmade posters and flyers were pinned to the walls, and the sound of someone typing on an old computer filled the air. A young man with a starched collar and gray slacks stood behind a table in the corner of the room. He spoke into a cell phone and jotted things down on a sheet of paper.
I waited until he was finished with his call, then approached.
“Welcome to the Highland Park Neighborhood Council,” he said. He looked harried and distracted. “Can I help you?”
“Do you live around here?”
“Yes.”
“What is this place?”
“Well, we’re the neighborhood council,” he repeated. “We do a lot of things for the community, including lobbying for Latinx council members.”
“You do any kind of conservation work?”
“Not really,” he said. “Are you looking to buy an old house?”
“I’m new to the area,” I said.
“Buying or renting?”
“Visiting. Can you tell me a bit about the neighborhood?”
“I’m pretty busy,” he said. “If you want, I can set you up with someone who can give you a tour. You can also visit the library. They have some resources there.”
“Does the name Heather Engel-Feeny mean anything to you?”
All traces of politeness disappeared from the young man’s face.
“I know who she is, yes,” he said. “Please, excuse me. I have a mountain of work ahead of me.”
“Who is she?”
“A gold-plated cunt,” a new voice said. I turned around to see a Latina woman of ample proportions. She wore a tight-fitting USC sweatshirt over wool slacks, and her makeup was flawless. The typing had stopped, and I realized that she must have been the one working at the computer in the other room. “Anything else you want to know?”
“What do you have against her?”
“Excuse me, who are you?” This was from the young man. “Do you work with Heather?”
“I need to know what her involvement in Highland Park is,” I said.
“We don’t want to talk to you.”
I sighed. “I’m a journalist,” I said. “I know who Heather is, we’ve met face-to-face, but I have no allegiance to her. If you have something you want to say, you’re safe.”
“She’s a terrible person,” the young man said. The color rose in his face. “She ruins lives.”
“Manny can be extreme when he’s emotional,” the woman said, walking over to pat him on the shoulder. “Heather is trying to buy up tracts in Highland Park, but the offers haven’t been approved yet.”
“They’ll get approved,” Manny said bitterly. “She’s got the whole council in her pocket.”
“Is this about her conservation project?”
The woman started laughing. “Boy, you’re so far off-base that you don’t even realize it,” she said. “Conservation has nothing to do with it.”
“She’s evicting families,” Manny said. “She’s bought up leases and lapsed mortgages. It’s a slow process, but she’s evicting one Latinx family after another.”
“People can’t afford to pay rent anymore,” the woman added. “In a few years, this whole neighborhood will be white and upper middle class.”
“I thought she was trying to preserve old homes,” I said lamely. Both of them stared at me.
“You’re the perfect consumer,” the woman said. “You believe exactly what they tell you to believe. Heather’s counting on people like you, people who don’t know how to think for themselves.”
“I almost hate to ask,” I said. “But have you heard of someone named Linus Warren?”
They both stared at me.
“He’s a white dude, probably a bit shorter than me,” I said.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m working on a story.”
“If you’re a journalist, you should know all about Linus Warren,” the woman said. “Unless, of course, you’ve been living under a rock.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You ever hear of someone named Cesar Gavaria?” the woman said.
“Sure. Political activist who bombed a building downtown.”
“Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “He was a peaceful protester. Linus and his cronies set up those bombs. Three men got killed, but that was all pinned on Cesar. What about Magda Flores? Linda Echevaria?”
I felt a slight chill. “They died a few months ago,” I said. “I just read about them.”
“Same thing happened with them. Unlike you white people, Latinos believe in a sense of culture and community. We believe in self-sacrifice and longevity. Our communities are more like coral reefs, thriving and building upon themselves. Linus and Heather want to tear these communities to the ground and replace them with shiny, single-family homes.”
My phone rang. Aware that I was being rude, I slipped it out of my pocket and glanced at the screen, hoping it might be Petra. Unknown caller.
“Sorry,” I muttered, hitting ignore and slipping my phone back in my pocket. “What were you saying about Heather?”
“Who do you work for?”
“I’m a writer with the Los Angeles Lens,” I said. I pulled out my press pass and handed it to Manny. “I’m working on a different story, but this might be worth writing about.”
“I’ve heard of the Lens,” the woman said. “You just got purchased by Time, didn’t you? As part of a big media package?”
“Yes,” I said, perplexed. “How did you know that?”
“You’re not going
to write about this,” she said. “It’ll never get past your editor. Who do you think Time Inc. is owned by?”
“Let me guess, Heather?”
“This isn’t a Hollywood movie, genius. No neat ends like that. But you’re not far off base—your news conglomerate is run by the same wealthy taxpayers who will vote to allow Heather to buy up all these homes. She’s got dozens of influential investors, and she thinks nothing of killing off a few protesters to advance her cause.”
My phone rang again. I took it out and saw that the same blocked number was calling again.
“I have to take this,” I said. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I picked up the phone and stepped outside. “Max Hailey,” I said.
“Max, this is Isabel Perkins,” came the reply. “I work for Marcus Loew.”
It took a moment for the name to register. “Marcus Loew.”
Isabel sounded irritated. “You called to speak to him about Theodore Langley,” she said. “His father was Bernard Loew. Does any of this sound familiar?”
“Marcus, of course! Is he still out of town?”
“No, he’s back,” she replied. “He’s filming over in Griffith Park today. His schedule is a little bit tight, but he said that he could probably slot you in this afternoon.”
“He wants to meet today?”
“Otherwise it’ll have to be next month.”
“No, no, today’s fine,” I said. “Look, I probably won’t get over there for another hour, but I’m definitely coming. Where should I find him?”
“Do you know where the abandoned zoo is in Griffith Park?”
I dug into the recesses of my memory. “I think so,” I said. “I’ve been there before.”
“Drive past the train tracks, you can’t miss it,” she said. “I’ll let him know to expect you this afternoon.”
* * *
My head was spinning as I drove toward Griffith Park. I was having trouble keeping track of all the new information I had learned about Heather and Linus, but I knew that I was in over my head. It was clear that Heather’s father had been responsible for Eleanor’s death, to one degree or another, but I wasn’t sure how that fit in with all the recent deaths that had happened near Windhall. I hadn’t figured out who Connie was, either, and I had no idea how she fit in with the whole crooked picture.