Focus Lost

by Doug Cooper

  At the computer she swipes her hand across the touchpad. A dialog box prompting a security password appears. She enters Gabe’s password, which she knows from using his computer for homework, and logs in. With several finger movements and button clicks, she maneuvers the pointer to the menu and emails copies of the first five pictures to herself. A notification dings from the phone in her pocket. She pulls it out and confirms the pictures were received, then deletes the record of the transmission on the computer to erase the trail.

  Chapter 4

  Marcus Ambrose, a deputy district attorney for Los Angeles, stands in the middle of the empty spare bedroom of his eight-hundred-square-foot Lake View Mansion apartment in Westlake. There’s no lake, and it’s no mansion. His apartment is on the backside and doesn’t even overlook Lake Street. Marcus has called it home for over thirteen years, dating back to the five years he attended Golden Gate University, the three years at Loyola Law School, and the five years he needed to work his way up to deputy district attorney from his starting clerk position. The rootedness was never planned. It was more just coincidence and good fortune that his undergrad, law school, and first job were all within a few miles of one another. He considered moving with each new beginning—thought he would have to at some point—but he really couldn’t afford much more until his deputy DA promotion. But each time it came to deciding, he concluded it would’ve been more of a distraction than a benefit. At first it was his schooling and now it was work, but most of all it would’ve taken away from what was taped and spread across the wall and the floor.

  Looking down at his phone, Marcus watches the video of Levi and the photographer outside the Polo Lounge. He switches back to the article and sends it to the printer, which immed-iately whirs and shakes, churning out the content. Walking to the printer, he slides the phone into his pocket. His high fade haircut accents his long face and narrow, angular head. His eyes sag from not sleeping and his midsection swells on all sides, pushing over his belt. The page in the printer tray has a still image of Levi stomping the camera embedded in the text.

  A headshot of Levi occupies the center of the beige-painted wall to his left. Three strings of blue, red, and green yarn extend from the picture, each end pinned with a tack. The blue thread is labeled alcohol/drugs; the red, women; the green, violence. An assortment of photos and articles branch off from each of the colored strings. Marcus bends over and removes a green tack from a plastic container on the floor and walks over to the same-colored string and pins the new article to the wall, adding another leaf to the densely populated violence branch.

  Marcus has been following Levi’s career for almost twelve years at this point, well before anyone knew who Levi was. But it wasn’t until Marcus got the job in the district attorney’s office after law school that he delved into the level of detail spread on the wall before him. Over the years, his focus has changed from patient observation to comprehensive tracking to hunting. Every one of Levi’s missteps found its way to the media hangs on the wall. Marcus is just waiting for the right opportunity to nail Levi and get himself out of the endless cycle of pornography cases he has been prosecuting in the valley.

  Looking at the wall, Marcus knows the time will come and is approaching rapidly. The frequency of Levi’s public solecisms has been increasing. Marcus steps closer to the wall, starts at the center and reads the string of events, looking for a pattern or anything he can use to expedite his pursuit. He releases a stunted sigh, reaffirming that soon he can finally do something about what happened to his big sister, Tamara, and fulfill the entire reason he became an attorney.

  Growing up, Marcus had always looked up to Tamara, who had been more of a mother to him than his own. Not that his mother was a bad mother. She, like their dad, was just always working. They really didn’t have much choice. They had gotten pregnant during her senior year, and they were parents the following October, never able to catch up, let alone get ahead. They both worked multiple jobs, which collectively, barely covered the cost of their three-bedroom apartment. When their father died of a heart attack at forty-two, it only put more pressure on their mom, and she was around even less.

  What Marcus idolized about Tamara more than anything was that she was always out pursuing some dream. At first, she wanted to be a singer, then a dancer, then a painter, and eventually a makeup artist. It wasn’t like she was unsuccessful at what she tried. She was actually quite good at everything. She would just lose interest. But as one ambition faded, another one would always spring forward and take her in a new direction.

  The makeup gig seemed like it was going to stick when she worked her way into a job on a popular TV show. Marcus, then all of fifteen, used to wait up until she got home to hear about whom she had worked on and what had happened on the set each day. But as she settled into the job, the stories transitioned from work to more about her drama-filled dating life than anything else. The boys had always been fond of Tamara. She had thick, coily hair flowing out and down to her shoulders like a halo. Her full lips always seemed seductively pursed, drawing people in, while her penetrating stare kept them at bay.

  Every dating story followed the same script. The relationship started strong and fast. An immediate, intense emotional attachment led to a deeply felt, although usually superficial attraction that too often was centered on sex. After a few weeks, she would start to feel trapped or bored or smothered, or something, and would focus on the new guy’s shortcomings and disengage. The guy would then pursue, which would turn her off even more. Eventually she would either sabotage the relationship beyond repair or push the guy away enough that he gave up. If he did get frustrated and end the relationship, it would usually reinvigorate her for a few more weeks until the cycle repeated enough that there was nothing left worth saving. Once it finally ended, she would swear off men for a while until the next emotionally unavailable guy came along, and she would jump right back in.

  It didn’t take long for Marcus to hate hearing the stories and seeing her go from one ill-fated relationship to the next. But she had done so much for him, he felt that listening and comforting her was the least he could do to support her. Every time she came home all excited about some guy, he held out hope that it would be different, that the new guy would be the guy, and they could go back to talking about what was happening around her rather than to her.

  Levi Combs was supposed to be that guy. At the time, he was relatively new to Hollywood, which meant polite and full of hope. It didn’t take long for the shallow, self-serving environment he was dropped into to change that. Before being cast on Tamara’s show, he had only done modeling and a few bit parts here and there. But it didn’t take long for the offers to start outnumbering the rejections. He was quickly becoming the new, shiny toy.

  Once cast on Tamara’s show, she and Levi hit it off from the second he first sat in her chair. Different from the other guys, he jumped into the relationship with the same intensity as her. For once, neither person blinked nor pulled back. Passion met passion and exploded into an all-consuming blaze. For weeks, everything was Levi said this, and Levi did that. He even came over to the apartment, something none of the other boyfriends had ever done. Levi was the first one Marcus had even met, and was his first TV star.

  From their first interaction, Marcus was as charmed with Levi as Tamara was. If their father hadn’t died suddenly, meeting Levi might have done it anyway. Not because Levi was a TV star, but because he was white, and not just white, but pretty-boy white. He had Hollywood everything: hair, nose, teeth, body. It was like Tamara had opened up a magazine and pulled him out of a fashion advertisement. And Levi’s actions matched his flawless looks. During one of his visits, he had turned to Marcus and said, “Do you like surfing?”

  Marcus shrugged. He had never even really thought about surfing. It sounded cool, but despite living close to the beach, he had been there only a few times and didn’t even know how to swim. He said, “Like in the ocean?”
/>
  “Of course, my man.” Levi flashed the smile that was garnering so much attention. “Where else do people surf?”

  “I know,” Marcus stuttered. “I’m not stupid. I guess I just never really had the opportunity.”

  “Let’s go one of these Saturdays,” Levi said. “I can show you. Actually, maybe I shouldn’t. I’m pretty horrible. But I know some people who can give you some lessons.”

  Marcus just shrugged again. “Okay. Sounds pretty cool, I guess.” Levi always invited Marcus to whatever Levi and Tamara had planned: to the movies, restaurants, or drives along the coast. It was one of the reasons Marcus liked him from the beginning. This time, just like the others, Marcus glanced at Tamara when Levi offered, and her glare communicated there would be no surfing, just like all the other events, in his future. He didn’t care though. He just liked being included and seeing his sister so happy.

  Then, just like everything else, it changed as quickly as it had started. Levi stopped responding to her texts and taking her calls. At work, he would tell her that he would meet her after, then would not show and have an excuse the next day for what happened. He had been sick, had fallen asleep, had to meet his agent, it was always something. The more Levi resisted, the more Tamara launched into full-on stalker mode. Eventually Levi requested that she be reassigned from the show. When that didn’t deter her, she was let go.

  After losing her job—the best job she had ever had—Tamara didn’t leave the house. She would be in bed when Marcus left for school, and in the same place when he got home. Then, just like her relationships, everything suddenly changed. She went from being a shut-in to always being out, except to shower and change her clothes. Something was different about her too. Marcus picked up on it right away. The previously perennial possibility in her lips plunged into a perpetual frown. Her arresting gaze waned to a lifeless stare. The kindness and comfort she had always treated Marcus with were gone as well. Her behavior was erratic. She would be angry one minute and in a dream-like stupor the next.

  One morning Marcus got up for school to find the bathroom door locked. He pressed his ear to the door and could hear the shower running. Marcus knew it had to be Tamara. Their mom was never home before her night shift at the diner ended at nine. He was hopeful that things were changing for Tamara again, that she was up early and heading out to find a new job, or better yet, maybe she already had one and hadn’t told him yet. He waited fifteen minutes, then twenty, and thirty. The only sound from inside was the steady stream spraying against the back of the tub. He finally knocked on the door. “Mar, you in there? I’m going to be late for school.” No response. Just the consistent spray against the hard surface of the tub. Steam floated out from underneath the door. He banged harder. “Mar, is everything okay in there? I have to brush my teeth.”

  After another five minutes of no response, he got a paperclip and straightened it like she had taught him in order to pick the lock. When he opened the door, through the thick steam, he could see her lying on the floor curled around the toilet. He dropped down, rolling her on her back. The rubber tubing tied around her right bicep flopped across her body. A needle with a half-full plunger of blood-clouded liquid stuck out from her forearm. A corroded spoon, a lighter, and an empty sandwich baggie were next to a makeup bag containing additional needles on the back of the toilet.

  Marcus tapped the side of her face. “Mar, come on. Can you hear me?” She didn’t respond. He lifted her eyelids. Her eyes were fixed in a blank stare. Shaking her, he yelled, “Mar! Don’t do this.” He felt for a pulse, then pressed his ear to her chest. Both revealed nothing. He propped her up against the tub. Her head lolled back into the fanning stream. He shut off the water and rummaged through her purse for her phone. Minutes later, paramedics arrived confirming what he already knew. Tamara had died of an overdose.

  Initially after her death, Marcus, as expected, was quiet and despondent. He moped around the house, moving from the couch to her bed, then overwhelmed with emotion, back to the couch. But at the funeral, it all ruptured into anger. He expected the day to be difficult and probably the worst day of his life. He had always thought the day of his father’s funeral was the worst day he could remember, or maybe he had just heard his mom and sister say it enough that he believed it. Actually, though, he really didn’t remember much of his father’s death. It was just a blur of his mom and sister crying and standing by the door shaking the hands of a bunch of people Marcus didn’t know as they came and left.

  For Tamara’s funeral, Marcus expected to know a lot of the people, or at least be able to finally put faces with the names of the people who he had heard so many stories about over the years. But none of those people came. Not one single one. Most visibly absent was Levi. Marcus knew they were all aware of the services because he had texted everyone in Tamara’s phone the details. A few had responded with curt condolences, but no one came. He never understood that, and he most certainly never forgave it. Typical Hollywood bullshit was what he would learn it to be. Not really that uncommon at all. Just selfish acts from people concerned only with promoting themselves rather than helping anyone else. Time has done little to change or heal how he felt.

  Standing in front of the article from today, Marcus taps the picture of Levi with his index finger. “Come on. We’re so close. Just a little farther. I only need a bit more, and I can do the rest.”

  Chapter 5

  Well-dressed attendees crowd the Art on Traction Gallery in a repurposed auto repair shop downtown on Traction Street. The two in-ground lifts from the previous tenant extend six feet above the floor. The silver hydraulic pistons shine and glisten like decorative columns. Framed photographic prints hang on all four sides of the lift-decks and on the surrounding walls. The old automotive customer counter in the left corner has been repurposed into a bar. Visitors float in and out through the open garage doors.

  Just to the left of the bar, Gabe views a picture on the wall of an elderly couple. In the shot, the sun peeks above the mountains, which descend into a pasture. The thick, wild grass transforms to a beach that disappears into an active ocean. Surfers frolic in the water while cows wander on the beach.

  Gabe says, “This is one of my favorites. I think it captures the essence of California—the mountains to the east giving way to a pasture that turns to a beach and fades into the ocean.”

  An elderly man admires the picture. His left arm crosses over his body, holding his right at the elbow and extending up to his chin. He taps his index finger across his lips while he speaks. “I love the cows on the beach watching the surfers.”

  “Cultures colliding,” the elderly woman says.

  The gallery owner, a lean woman in her mid-forties with round, white, oversized eyeglass frames and long, curly red hair falling on both sides of her shoulders walks over. “Excuse me, but may I steal him for a moment?”

  “Absolutely,” the elderly woman says. “We’ve monopolized enough of his time.”

  The man continues staring at the picture, taking a step back then forward for a closer look. “Consider this one sold.”

  “Thank you so much,” Gabe says, shaking the hand of the elderly woman while the man’s focus remains on the picture.

  The gallery owner affixes a small, round yellow sold-sticker to the placard underneath the picture and plucks a card from the corner of the frame. “Just take this to the cashier, and she’ll ring you up and set up delivery.”

  The woman snags the card and tugs the man by the arm toward the cashier. “Come on. You’ll have plenty of time to obsess over this at home.”

  After the couple leaves, the gallery owner speaks in a whisper to Gabe. “We have a bit of a situation with one of the waterfall pictures.”

  “I don’t understand,” Gabe says. “What’s the problem?”

  “Two people want it,” she says with a smile.

  Gabe relaxes. “That’s easy. Just give it to who
mever made the first offer.”

  The gallery owner removes her glasses. Bags circle under her eyes and deep creases angle along the side. Using loose fabric around the middle of her green silk maxi dress, she cleans her lenses. “But the other person is offering a fifty percent markup on the asking price.”

  Gabe shakes his head. “First offer, first sold. I’m not bumping someone just for more money.”

  Eva, wearing the same charcoal suit she had on at the Polo Lounge with Levi, strolls up drinking a glass of champagne. Her jacket drapes over her forearm, revealing lean brown arms through the sleeveless black blouse. She studies the picture the elderly couple just committed to buying.

  Putting her glasses back on, the gallery owner sizes up Eva then nods at Gabe, acknowledging his decision and offering her approval for Eva at the same time. “Very well, then. I’ll let you get back to the guests.”

  Gabe slides alongside Eva. “That was taken just outside of San Simeon.”

  Eva scans the placard for the information, pretending she doesn’t know who Gabe is. “How can you tell? Have you been there?”

  Gabe turns toward her. “Because I’m the one who took it.”

  Eva’s eyes remain on the picture. “Beautiful. How much is it?”

  “Unfortunately, it just sold.” Gabe points to the sticker on the corner of the frame. “But I can show you some others that I think you might like.”

  Eva turns, redirecting her gaze on him. She assumes the pictures haven’t been released yet since she hasn’t heard anything. Either he doesn’t know what he has, is in negotiations, or doesn’t plan to do anything. Not wanting to push him in any direction, she decides to feel him out. “That’s all right. I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure I can manage.” She sips her champagne, her eyes never wandering from him.