Ugh no!! Did he say that??
He hinted more than said straight out
No!! He’s DISGUSTING!
This wasn’t Kevin.
You said you can help me
But I don’t want a male detective helping.
I don’t trust men anymore.
Gray said, “Gurl,” then texted, Got it but you have to confirm that you are you.
This time, no ellipses. This time, no response.
Gray had nearly reached Playa Vista and Rader Consulting when her phone buzzed again.
An email with two attachments from [email protected]. The first attachment was a scanned letter dated Friday, July 12.
Ian, I meant what I told you back in May. I don’t want to be with you anymore. I’m tired of screaming. I’m tired of crying. Tired of your hands on my body. I don’t want to be there anymore. I don’t want you to find me. I AM OKAY. I AM ALIVE. It is now 12:47 p.m. PST on Friday afternoon. Here are the answers to your questions:
Hyundai Sonata
Black lace lingerie
The truth and shellfish.
Here is a picture of me holding today’s USA Today. Please call her off. You and I have secrets—let’s keep them that way. Go in peace.
Izzy
Gray parked in the first space available, then tapped the second attachment.
It was a picture of Isabel standing in a tiled entryway with a USA Today to her chest. She was somewhere tropical—there were palm trees and a ribbon of blue water behind her.
In the background, there was a digital sign. The words … The Westin … Princeville … Isabel Lincoln was in Kauai, Hawaii.
During one of their better months, Gray and Sean had stayed at that resort.
Gray tried to zoom in to read the paper’s headline but couldn’t. Then she compared the answers in Isabel’s email to the answers Ian had provided. All correct. Isabel wasn’t dead. Kevin Tompkins hadn’t killed her—he wouldn’t have said Ian had been allergic to “the truth.” That answer could only come from a pissed-off ex-lover.
Proof of life was now in Gray’s hands. She could now report to the doctor that his ex-girlfriend was alive and okay. Her job was done.
But Isabel hadn’t sent a picture of Kenny G. She hadn’t sent a picture of her butterfly-tattooed left thigh. In this picture, Isabel’s hair was still golden brown, not the black of that L’Oréal box. And it was now one o’clock in Los Angeles. In Isabel’s email, she’d stated that it had been 12:47 p.m. PST on Friday afternoon. Even the email’s time stamp in the header said “12:49 p.m. PST.”
But it couldn’t have been 12:49 p.m. in Hawaii on this Friday afternoon. On the island, it was only 9:47 a.m. on Friday morning Hawaii Standard Time.
And she’d said, “12:47 p.m. PST” and “afternoon.”
This picture was a lie.
SHE WOULDN’T STOP
24
Yes. This picture that Isabel Lincoln had just sent was a lie.
Bits of disinformation or …
Gray stared at Isabel Lincoln’s email—that time stamp, especially. The answers were correct, answers only the missing woman would have known. But where the hell was the dog? And if she were truly in Kauai, why wasn’t the time stamp in Hawaii Standard Time?
No, Gray couldn’t help this woman disappear. Not until she knew the truth.
This case was far from over.
At this time of day, all of Rader Consulting was chewing on something. The hallways smelled of luscious ripe strawberries, char-grilled hamburgers, and French fries drowned in vinegary-sweet ketchup.
Gray popped her head into Jennifer’s office. “Hey, ladies.”
The blonde and Clarissa were pulling California Pizza Kitchen boxes out of a bag. “I told you she was coming in,” Clarissa said to Jennifer. To Gray: “We got you lunch.”
Gray shouted, “Ohmigod, you are the best.” She pulled one of the last items from the bag. “A salad.” She gaped at her coworkers, then reached into the bag again for a packet of … “What the hell is this?”
“Light balsamic dressing,” Jennifer said.
“No!”
“We’re being strong for you,” Clarissa said. “You made us promise, remember?”
Gray groaned as she settled in a guest chair.
Jennifer had switched from botanical oils in her diffuser to sugar-and-spices-scented oils, and now her office smelled like a 3 Musketeers candy bar. Pictures of her and her slick-haired third husband, Reynaldo, crammed the credenza alongside faux Tiffany lamps, scented sachets, and dishes filled with powders, pearls, and gems.
“Since it’s too early for margaritas…” The blonde grabbed cans of LaCroix from her mini fridge and handed one to Gray. “Day’s almost over. You got tired of spooning with your hot soldier and decided to earn a living?”
“He’s a hot marine,” Gray corrected, mouth filled with romaine lettuce.
“Get your swerve on, dude,” Clarissa chirped.
Jennifer sliced her Hawaiian pie with a fork and knife. “So? Details?”
Clarissa plopped down to the rug. “And use lots of adjectives.”
“And strong verbs,” Jennifer said with a wink.
Between bites of lettuce and sips of carbonated water, Gray offered highlights of her late night with Hank. Playing connect-the-dots with her tongue on his scars. How every part of him had been engineered for her hands, for her mouth, for every part of her, and how tears had rolled back into her ears so many times, she was either drowning or going deaf. How she’d shivered and sweated so much that she believed that she’d either caught the flu or was going through the change. He was like the El Niño rains and she was a forest after a ten-year drought.
Jennifer shook her head. “I hate you.”
“Dude,” Clarissa said, “you always have the best sex.”
“He is so hot,” Jennifer said.
Clarissa sighed. “My Irving is … rich. Not just rich, but Irving’s family was one of the richest in Macao. They’ll have money forever.”
Jennifer said, “You don’t think he’s sexy?”
Clarissa said, “The struggle is real.” She pulled out her cell phone from her shorts pocket. “Wanna see my American dress? I tried it on this morning.” It was cigarette-smoke white with enough tulle for six wedding gowns.
Gray gasped. “Gorgeous.”
“And the red one for your Chinese wedding?” Jennifer scrutinized the photo, looking for something, anything, to criticize.
Clarissa said, “Still in pins.”
“Oh,” Jennifer said. “I booked our rooms at the Cosmopolitan.”
The scar near Gray’s navel throbbed—either the oxycodone was wearing off or her body was preparing to revolt. Because was she really gonna step foot in that city again?
Clarissa shoved Gray’s leg. “Stop. Don’t do that.”
Gray blinked at her. “Don’t do what?”
“Like, you’re literally clenching your teeth and staring into space. You’re thinking of skipping my weekend, and you can’t do that.” Clarissa’s eyes filled with tears. “C’mon, Gray.”
“Don’t you have ten other girls going?”
“Five. But I, like, want you there, too. Come. On.”
Gray forced herself to smile. “I’ll be there. Cross my heart, hope to die. Time to work.”
With that, the women finished their lunches, then Jennifer and Gray grabbed legal pads as Clarissa grabbed her iPad.
“First of all,” Gray said, “today is this poor woman’s birthday and she’s spending it how? Either running around the world or being dead.”
“Sucks to be her,” Clarissa said.
“Worst birthday ever,” Jennifer said. “Eating gas station hot dogs. I’m talking about me, not this Isabel chick. But that’s another story—”
“For another time, yes.” Gray told them about Rebekah Lawrence (Not the momma) and Kevin Tompkins (Mega perv). She showed them a shot of the note she’d taken from Isabel’s kitchen counter (BZE), the h
air and nail bag (Ew!), and pictures of the pictures of a battered Isabel Lincoln (Shit). There was the envelope from JCI Insurance Services that Gray hadn’t opened—a federal crime to open other people’s mail—and the possibly fictional suicide attempt (Tylenol? Lightweight). Why? And there was this sketchy picture of the missing woman in Hawaii, but not a picture of the missing Labradoodle. Where’s Kenny G.? She didn’t tell them about Isabel’s request to be disappeared—not everyone at Rader Consulting knew about that off-menu item.
“But I don’t need you to tell me the whys and how-comes,” Gray said to Clarissa. “I need you to get me any data that will help lead me there.”
“Basically, do Gray’s job for her,” Jennifer snarked, eyebrow cocked.
Gray said, “Isn’t data mining her job?”
“I don’t mind,” Clarissa said, shaking her head at Gray, then nodding at Jennifer.
Gray held up her hand. “No. Wait. I’m sorry. If I’m being—”
“It’s okay,” Clarissa said.
Jennifer smirked. “Poor girl. She’ll say anything to get you to Vegas.”
Gray frowned. “Seriously—”
“No.” Clarissa pointed at Jennifer. “Stop. Now. For real.” To Gray, she smiled. “I’ll find as much information as I can. No problem. I swear. Oh—Omar Neville. I got an address. He lives close. I’ll email it to you. And that second number you asked about…”
Sean’s number. “Uh-huh?”
“Came from a burner phone. Sorry.”
“Thanks, Clarissa,” Gray said. “And I won’t flake. I’m going, okay?” Shit. Crap. No.
Back in her office, the red voice mail light on her desk phone glowed. “Hi, Gray. It’s Liz Jankowski, over in H.R. I have a quick question about your—”
Gray hit seven—message deleted.
What was she gonna do about Isabel Lincoln’s proof of life picture?
Gray dialed Sanjay’s extension. The resident graphic designer didn’t pick up, so she left a message asking that he call her back as soon as possible. Then she stored Kevin Tompkins’s discarded Target bag and Isabel’s baggie of hair in a banker’s box she’d labeled “I.L. stuff.” She kept Isabel’s keys in her purse and wondered about the lock belonging to that third key.
“Omar Neville…” According to Google Maps, he lived in Leimert Park. Not far. She’d stop by his apartment on her way home.
Gray logged into another people-finding database to do some more digging.
“Natalie Dixon” now lived in Chicago, somewhere on the East Side. She’d donated three hundred dollars to a food bank and had been thanked in the charity’s annual report.
She was also registered at Bed Bath & Beyond for a December 7 wedding.
She’d just been buried alongside her dear husband, Raymond, of fifty years.
A “Natalie Dixon” also lived in thirty cities throughout California—and none of them lived in downtown Los Angeles or worked in Playa Vista.
She was still a ghost—digitally. So how had Sean found her number?
Her office was cool, and so quiet that the rattle of Vicodin in the emergency vial she kept in her desk drawer startled her. She shoved one capsule into her mouth and chased it with the rest of her LaCroix. Soon the drug would yank her, and the wet ache near her navel would dull and the world would be as good as it could be until the drug wore off.
“Soon” came, and her cheeks felt like a wool skirt with a silk lining. She was ready to feel nothing, just that fuzzy smoothness, and she closed her eyes and ignored the busy quiet of Rader Consulting. Her breath slowed and soon her abdomen numbed, and she heard herself softly snoring. For a perfect moment, she existed in a perfect, peaceful place.
But then her desk phone rang, and the abrupt noise ended this delicious respite.
She offered a groggy, “Hello.”
“Miss Sykes, I need to talk to you,” the woman on the other end of the call said. “It’s important … I’m Dr. O’Donnell’s big secret.”
25
Victoria Avenue was lined with apartment buildings and Spanish-style duplexes and houses built before World War II. The scent of trimmed rosebushes and honeysuckle mixed with marijuana and fried chicken. A soft breeze rustled the boughs of the magnolia and pine trees, and Gray could hear both the echoes of African drums coming from the drum circle at the park and the laugh track from The King of Queens coming from behind Omar Neville’s roommate, now standing in the doorway of the duplex.
“Yeah, Omar ain’t here.” She was a caramel-colored woman with an acne-scarred face. Her fuchsia workout clothes were dark with perspiration.
“Do you know what time he usually gets home?” Gray asked.
“No idea. Not his secretary. Just his roommate.”
“What’s your name?” Gray asked, smiling. “I’m Maya. Hi.”
“Toyia.” She had the biceps of a weight lifter and the high ass of a stripper.
“Sorry that I’m bothering you, but Omar is dating my friend.” Why not? “And she was in a car accident just a few hours ago. We’ve been trying to call him, but his voice mail is full.”
“Yeah…” The front door creaked wider, and a Yorkie poked her beribboned head around Toyia’s ankle. “He’s working out of state right now, and he’s not taking anybody’s calls. Believe me, I’ve been trying to get him—rent’s coming up in two weeks.”
“Yikes. That’s a little stressful. Maybe I can call his boss? I wouldn’t insist except that she’s not … doing well and I’d hate for him to find out on social media. Who does he work for?”
Toyia squinted at her.
“It’s really important. She may actually…” Gray made her eyes fill with tears and she made her smile crumple and, eventually, one teardrop gained enough mass to tumble out of her right eye and down her cheek. “I can’t even say the word. I’m not ready to let her go.”
Toyia pulled her phone from a pocket in her leggings.
Gray swiped at her manufactured tear—a great tip from Jennifer. “I really appreciate it. I wouldn’t ask, but … And I’ll give you my number, too, just in case he calls.”
“Allan Construction,” Toyia said, finding the number on her phone. “They’re building houses in this little town three hours south of Vegas. They’re behind schedule, so Oz is ignoring everything except work. But if his girl is hurt … What’s her name again?”
“Isabel Lincoln. I think they met at the Cork.” Why not?
Toyia shrugged. “He meets everybody at the Cork. Omar is knee-deep in women, no offense to your friend.”
* * *
Ian O’Donnell was also knee-deep in women.
And women like Trinity Bianchi were rarely nurses. No, women like Trinity Bianchi sent men to the emergency room—and to the grave. Gray had thought of her as Hot Nurse Pfeiffer because of her smoky blue eyes and lips stung from telling toxic lies. She had the kind of body that didn’t need double Ds or a big ass to stun. She had the walk of a woman who had tromped over broken hearts and had never slipped, not even once.
Trinity Bianchi grinned at Gray, now seated on the bench outside of Café Fletcher. “I knew it was just a matter of time before we chatted. So I just figured … Get it over with, right? Rip that bandage off and deal with the truth.”
Gray said, “Sure.”
“Wise of me, huh?” Those smoky blue eyes twinkled with self-satisfaction, the only setting for eyes like hers.
Gray said, “Sure,” again, and then, “Shall we?”
Café Fletcher had a resident cat named Michonne. The male bartenders wore man buns and the women wore flannel shirts and jeans shorts. The cocktails were twelve dollars and none of the appetizers on the menu cast shadows.
Gray’s first thought: What the fuck kinda place is this hipster bullshit?
Patio diners vaped, and massive plumes of their alt-smoke billowed from mouths too sensitive for meat and peanuts.
She and Trinity snagged a table out on the patio.
The nurse ordered a vegan pass
ion fruit mojito.
Gray ordered Pellegrino with lime and spotted the revolver inside the nurse’s handbag.
“This is my favorite spot.” Trinity plucked a kale chip from the basket left by a waitress.
Tiny knives plunged into Gray’s heart. What the fuck kinda place … She avoided kale chips—there wasn’t enough cheese or salt or butter or oil or cocaine in the world to convince her to enjoy alt-chips. “So … you and Ian O’Donnell.”
Trinity crunched the kale chip. “That one’s easy: we’re lovers.”
Gray cocked an eyebrow.
Trinity watched for more reaction. When Gray didn’t give her any, the nurse rolled her eyes. “If you knew that, then why are we here?”
“Why are you lovers?” Gray asked. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Same old, same old. She doesn’t understand me and We’ve grown apart.” Trinity hid a smirk in the pink iciness of her cocktail. “Also, Isabel’s a gold digger. An Olympic champion of gold diggers.”
“Says Ian?”
“Says Ian, says me.” She leaned across the table. “Look, I get it. Every woman wants to land a doctor, for obvious reasons, right? Well, Isabel was more obvious than the rest of us.”
“How?”
“She’d make him buy her expensive clothes. She’d open credit lines under his name, like the Nordstrom card and the Best Buy card. They’d eat at expensive restaurants on Wednesdays. Who eats at Providence or Mastro’s or JiRaffe on a Wednesday? And her little getaways? She’d pay for them with his card. Or her card on his account. When he’d catch her, she’d turn it around and tell him that it was his fault that she needed to leave and so it was only right that he pays.”
“Is that how he knew where she’d go? Cuz it would show up on his statements?”
Had Ian paid for the trip to Kauai … or wherever Isabel was hiding?
“And she’s dangerous,” Trinity said. “She’s unpredictable. Like a wounded dog.”
Isabel was also a black woman dating a white man, and just yesterday evening Gray had overheard Ian’s conversation about the “chubby transgender P.I. with a man’s name”—the conversation during which Trinity, presumably, accused Ian of dipping into the “chocolate factory.”
And Now She's Gone Page 14