And Now She's Gone

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “Nat Grayson?”

  Stones and whiskey. She turned to that familiar voice.

  He wore all black, and his hair was slicked back. He looked more Asian tonight, like a member of the yakuza. He was bigger than before, with muscles like a racehorse.

  “Dom!” Mrs. Dixon’s spirit shimmied, seeing him in the snacks aisle. She ran up to him and threw herself into his arms. “What are you doing here? Really—what are you doing here, off the Strip, in a freaking Target?”

  He squeezed her tight, kissed her neck and cheeks. “Visited a client and now I’m buying provisions for tonight.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Prophylactics?”

  He tapped her nose stud. “No love without the glove.”

  She gave him a playful shove. “You still a G-man?” She could still feel the heat of his body on her palms and wanted to wrap her body with her hands.

  Dominick Rader shook his head. “Last year, I got shot in the shoulder. Right here.” He tapped the space near the end of his collarbone. “Damn near collapsed a lung, but…” He grinned, shrugged. “Here I am.”

  “Glad you pulled through.”

  “Still married?” His smile combined dismay and amusement, She can’t be this stupid with Oh my, I think she is.

  She said, “Yeah,” and then, “So, if you’re not in the Bureau, what are you doing all day?”

  “I’m back home in L.A. Started a consulting firm. Locates, surveillance, background checks, that kind of thing. What are you doing all day? Last time I saw you, you were working at the museum in Oakland, right?”

  “Ha. Yeah. Well … I’m living here.”

  Ducking. Dodging. Squeezing into a protective ball.

  Sean had hit her five times and shoved her more times than that. He’d eaten most of the food on her plate, but instead of her losing ten pounds, stress, drinking, and popping pain pills had made her gain twenty. Her dream house had turned into a prison and she now lay awake almost every night, eyes on the ceiling, heart banging in her chest, more scared than she’d been at Mom Twyla’s crummy duplex with the knocking pipes, the stinking alleys, and the gnawing rats.

  She said, “I’m … just living. Helping out with my husband’s business sometimes.” And saving every coin and dollar I can find. Her mad money, jump-started by that Texan’s $250 blackjack score, had grown to almost a grand. And those secret rent checks from her house in Monterey—twenty-five hundred dollars a month over the last seven years—had added up.

  Dominick’s eyes darkened. “You getting over the flu or something?”

  “Huh? No. I’m fine.”

  His gaze kept pecking over her and what she now saw as her normal. Like that extra weight around her stomach and hips. Deep, dark pockets beneath her eyes. Great hair, though. Sean loved her long hair.

  “You look incredible.” She poked him in the abdomen. “But then you’ve always been, dare I say, hot. And when you wore that badge around your neck?” She flapped at her face and pretended to get the vapors.

  “Didn’t think you noticed.”

  “I may be stupid, but I’m not blind.”

  He kissed her left hand, then peered at her rings. “Can’t believe you’re married.”

  “Two years now.”

  “That long?”

  Her skin tingled even as she said, “Yeah. That long.”

  “Happily?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yeah, it matters.”

  She pulled her hands back, then tucked the hand heavy with diamonds into her hoodie pocket. “It’s fine. We’re okay. I’m just … getting used to being married.” Her head ached with that lie, told so many times now, mostly to herself. She swallowed the lie again and it pinched at her throat and it rappelled down her esophagus, glowing like the poison it was. Yes, her lies were going to kill her one day.

  She and Dominick Rader didn’t speak as moms passed them, pushing toddlers in carts and strollers. As couples wandered hand in hand down the snack aisle, snatching bags of Tostitos and Doritos off shelves. As normal people did normal things.

  “Let’s have a drink,” he said. “Dinner, if you have the time.”

  “I’m not dressed for that.”

  “I can change. I have jeans and a T-shirt—”

  “That’s okay.”

  “It’s still early. I wanna catch up. See what you’ve been doing all this time. We can do that over a good meal. I know a guy.”

  She laughed. “My tale would only stretch through appetizers.” She did nothing all day. Sean required that of her. Look pretty, talk pretty, only be interesting if his business clients required interesting conversation. Wit and intelligence were fetishes in this town. More to be ashamed of than sucking noses and fucking chickens. Which, she’d learned, were things.

  Dominick tried to smile. “Fine. Let’s grab a bag of Target popcorn, sit on the hood of your car, and just talk.”

  “Dom … Shit.”

  A large, bald white dude who worked security at one of Sean’s clubs was carrying a basket filled with a roll of paper towels and a liter of Squirt. His eyes had shifted to the shelf in front of him—vacuum cleaners—but slid back to her once he thought she’d looked away. Mr. Hook, that’s what they called him. Because of his hook head. He’d followed her once before, and later that night Sean had made her see colors.

  Dominick Rader was also looking at Mr. Hook. He turned back to her and asked, “That guy following you?”

  “It’s fine. I know him.” Tears were now stinging her eyes. “It’s because of the business my husband’s in—gangsters and gamblers and gamers, oh my.” She tried on a smile. Her mouth lifted—it worked. “I should go.”

  Dominick moved closer to her and, in a low voice, said, “I’m gonna put my business card over in the aisle with the tampons. Bottom shelf, beneath the first box of Tampax. You take it, okay? Call me any time, Natalie. For anything. You understand?”

  She nodded.

  He squeezed her arm, and that made her sad, because she’d looked forward to his hug again, to his lips against her skin. But he knew better than to kiss and hug her again—he’d done it too much already. He didn’t want to complicate her life any more than he already had.

  So they said their good-byes. Then he trundled off to feminine hygiene and she (and Mr. Hook) wandered over to cleaning supplies. She dropped laundry detergent into the cart.

  Mr. Hook grabbed dishwasher soap.

  I don’t need the card. I know his number. Her father had made her memorize it.

  In the next aisle, she pulled a pack of toilet paper into her cart.

  I should get the card but …

  Mr. Hook studied trash bags.

  How will I get the card and then hide it?

  After wandering and debating about whether she should pluck the card from its spot or not, she headed over to feminine hygiene.

  That aisle was kryptonite for men like Mr. Hook.

  There, on the bottom shelf, was the first box of Tampax. She grabbed that box—not that she needed tampons, after peeing on a stick yesterday, not that she’d need any type of … rescue? Not with that stick’s plus sign. It would be better now with that plus sign. Still, she plucked Nick’s card from the shelf.

  Nick Rader

  RADER CONSULTING

  Good decision. He’d changed his phone number from the one she knew backwards and forward. Beneath these new phone and pager numbers, he had written her a note.

  Anytime, Nat, and I’ll be there.

  SHE FOUND NEW DIRECTION

  33

  As she left Isabel’s unit, Gray saw that the English bulldog with the cauliflower ear had returned and that he had parked his black Chevy Malibu two cars ahead of Gray’s Camry. He sat behind the steering wheel and took pictures of Gray exiting the security gate.

  Gray froze in her spot and let the gate slam behind her. With drums banging in her head, she stomped across Don Lorenzo Drive to the Malibu and said, “Hi.”

  “How ya doin’?
”

  The interior of his car was a mess. Cups—from tiny, watercooler size to gigantic megasips—had been crammed into every holder and free space, alongside crumpled balls of foil and wax paper. The stained seats and the torn-off wedges of burger buns asserted that this car belonged to, yes, a slob, but to a slob cop, slob private investigator, or a slob thug. The man himself smelled of weak soap and sadness.

  “Why are you stalking Isabel Lincoln?” Gray asked.

  “I’m not.” He smiled, and Gray thought of the silver-toothed man in Moonraker.

  Gray snorted. “Every time I come here, you’re here. Just like a stalker. And now I think I’m gonna call the police.”

  “Waste of time. I’m a P.I. and I’m working right now. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m a P.I. and I’m working right now.”

  He gave her the up-and-down, smirking at her lemony linen. “Your boss didn’t tell you to avoid bright colors? You wanna get made? I mean, you already stand out. Cute face, a bit chubby, black, and now you’re wearing freakin’ yellow?

  “Come on, sunshine. They can see you from Calcutta. Some advice. If you are a P.I.? Wear black. It’s slimming and invisible.”

  Gray’s cheeks warmed. “Says the ugly man parked right in front of the apartment he’s surveilling and holding a big-ass 1910 Eastman Kodak in front of his face.”

  “Ha. Touché.”

  “What are you P.I.-ing, not that I believe you?”

  “Just trying to check on some things, but she hasn’t been around. Know where she is?” When Gray didn’t respond, he gave her that glinty smile again, then he fished in his trash and found a business card. “This is me. Your turn.”

  “Stuart Ardizzone … JCI Insurance?” She went rigid—that envelope Mrs. Tompkins had handed her last week … Supposed to give this to you.… Gray handed him a business card.

  He whistled, and said, “Rader,” with a lifted eyebrow. “That’s some fancy shit right there. Me and Nick work together a lot of times—insurance cheats, worker’s comp cheats, you name it. Does he know you’re wearing yellow on a stakeout?”

  “I’m not on a stakeout. And why does JCI have you out here, Stuart Ardizzone?”

  “Can’t say, but I’m thinking it’s related.” He tossed her card into the pile of seat trash. “So, when was the last time you saw Miss Lincoln?”

  “I haven’t seen her.”

  “But you just left her condo.” Ardizzone scratched his scalp, sending white flakes to join the bank of dandruff on his polo-shirted shoulders. “You know when she’s coming back?”

  “Has to be soon. It’s not like she has a lot of money to just be gone forever.”

  “Do me a favor. Lemme know either when she’s back or if you find out where she is. I’ll give you five hundred dollars for your trouble.”

  “You think I trust you to pay me?”

  “Look at this face.” He smiled big and wide and silver. “Would I lie?”

  “Yes. That’s what we do in this business—lie.”

  “C’mon, Miss Sykes. I’m with a big outfit. I don’t need to lie to you. Ask your boss if I’m a straight arrow and he’ll tell you ‘Hell yeah.’”

  “Fine. I will.” She called Nick. “So, Stuart Ardizzone?”

  Nick laughed. “Went to UCLA with him. I owe him twenty bucks. Why?”

  She studied the investigator. That ear, that strained belt buckle, those gorgeous Gucci loafers. “He’s sitting right in front of me. Working with JCI on the Lincoln case.”

  “He being a problem?”

  “Just making sure he’s being honest.”

  “Honest? Who do you think we are? Captain freakin’ America?”

  After she ended the call, Stuart Ardizzone grinned. “I check out?”

  “Yeah. So, Isabel Lincoln. You think she’s scamming you guys?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Fine.” She stepped away from the Malibu. “Later, dude.”

  “Okay, okay. Yeah, she’s scamming again. You tell me something and I’ll tell you something else.”

  “Deal. I have a few questions first. Easy ones. She have an insurance policy?”

  “Of course—that’s why I’m here.”

  “What kind?”

  “The whole enchilada—health, life, car.”

  “Who’s the beneficiary?”

  Stuart Ardizzone grabbed his iPad from the passenger seat and sent soy sauce and ketchup packets spilling to the mat. He tapped around the screen. “Tea Christopher.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  “Isabel use medical insurance to pay for emergency room visits in the last six months?”

  “So, that would be January until now? Lemme see…” He tapped on his iPad. “Nothing here except a few checkups with her general practitioner.”

  “She could’ve paid cash, though. Or visited some random clinic.” Like Gray had.

  “Yeah, she could’ve,” Ardizzone admitted. “I can tell you this, though: She filed a claim for a car accident last year. Says the guy who hit her didn’t have insurance. We paid that. Then there were the medical bills from her doctor—some quack who signed forms for kickbacks. He’s in jail for being a kickback king.”

  “You’re gonna love this, then. That guy with no car insurance?”

  “Yeah?”

  Gray told him about meeting Mitch Pravin, who drove that allegedly uninsured Maserati.

  Stuart Ardizzone grinned as he typed into his notes app. “This is good, real good.”

  “You said ‘scamming again.’ She has a history of this?”

  “Last year, she filed a worker’s comp claim. Says she slipped over at UCLA—”

  “That’s true. Her boyfriend—he’s a doctor over there—he witnessed it. That’s actually how they met.”

  “She says she broke her ankle on the clock that day, on her way to a meeting.”

  “But?”

  “There wasn’t no break in her ankle. He signed off on it, though, and said that she had broken it, even though the X-rays were suspect. Didn’t matter—she got disability payments.”

  “She would’ve had to go to medical appointments to collect disability.”

  “She saw him—I guess the doctor boyfriend—and he examined her.”

  “But he’s a cardiologist.”

  “Yep.”

  Gray froze. Isabel’s text message. This is all about insurance. TRUST ME.

  Ian O’Donnell’s hands were dirty. He had committed insurance fraud. That was the Big Secret. The liaison in the treatment room with Hot Nurse Pfeiffer was simply gravy.

  Everything about Ian is a lie. Tea Christopher had been right about that, and yet Gray had believed his tears.

  Blame the Viognier. Blame his beauty. Blame her willingness to believe a crying, beautiful man plying her with delicious wine.

  Gray asked, “How long have you been investigating?”

  “Started right before the holiday.”

  “There’s an envelope from JCI on her breakfast bar.”

  “That’s the check for the stolen car.”

  “Is this the same car wrecked by the accident with the Maserati last year or is this a different car?”

  He tapped around the iPad again. “We totaled a 2015 Honda Accord in the accident with the Maserati—gave her eight grand for it. Then she bought a pre-owned 2017 BMW 428 last August, and it got stolen May eleventh, just a few months ago, and we gave her Blue Book for it—thirty-three thousand. That’s the check we just sent. That’s the check on her breakfast bar.”

  Gray’s belly felt loose and hot and she wanted to sit in the middle of Don Lorenzo Drive.

  “So she ain’t cashed it yet,” Ardizzone was saying. “It won’t go through now anyway, cuz we put a hold on the funds. She doesn’t know that yet, and I’ve been coming to see if she’s gonna pick it up. How the hell did you get it?”

  “The neighbor gave it to me.”

  “Why would the neighbor give it to you?”
>
  “She thinks I’m one of Isabel’s friends, and Isabel gave her a key a while ago to take care of a pet. Anyway, the neighbor gave me the house key. And the doctor boyfriend is my client—his name’s actually on the lease. He gave me his key. So, basically, Miss Lincoln can’t enter this condo unless she breaks in or comes through me.”

  Then, Gray told him about the boxes of L’Oréal hair color, the memo pad with flight numbers, and the stolen Labradoodle.

  Stuart Ardizzone said, “Jeez.”

  “Yeah. How much is the life insurance policy for?”

  “Half a mil.”

  “When did she take it out?”

  “April.”

  “For who?”

  The silver-toothed man pecked at the iPad, then glared at the sky. “Crap. Connection’s gone. Lemme get back to you on that.”

  “Why would she take out a policy for five hundred thousand dollars and then leave the city?”

  “Don’t know,” Stuart Ardizzone said. “She also upped an older life insurance policy on her, for another five hundred K. That’s when the number crunchers sent me out.”

  Isabel Lincoln could be dead, but not by Ian O’Donnell’s hand. Tea, the sole beneficiary on Isabel’s life insurance policy, could have killed her friend and was now impersonating the dead woman through text messages. Tea would also have received the insurance payout for the BMW—that check now sitting on the breakfast counter. Which is why she was juggling those two cell phones. Hers and Isabel’s.

  Grifter. A red-blooded American grifter.

  And Gray had thirty-three thousand dollars’ worth of bait.

  34

  Stuart Ardizzone raced to talk with Mitch Pravin at Shalimar Furniture.

  Gray returned to Isabel Lincoln’s condo and opened the envelope from JCI Insurance Services. She held her breath as she pulled out the now-voided check for thirty-three thousand dollars. She laid the check on the breakfast bar, then took a picture of the check and the envelope. She texted the picture to the missing woman and her best friend, along with a message.