The Janes

by Louisa Luna

  Vega waved too. Then she crossed the street. The China Buffet was low on charm, the fake stucco exterior punctuated by streaks of water damage and bird shit. CHINA BUFFET was in red block letters that looked like they might glow at night, if the bulbs worked. She walked to the back of the restaurant through the empty parking strip.

  There were overgrown weeds and grass back there, still patches of green fluff left over from the spring rain but plenty of brown too. Beyond it was a chain-link fence about ten feet tall. Directly in front of the fence was a steel orange dumpster with a rusted bar.

  Vega crossed the dirt to the dumpster. Next to it on the ground was a flattened box under a sheet with a red bandanna print. Vega squatted, peered under the dumpster, and saw nothing, then looked up and realized with the dumpster lid flipped open, there would be a nice bit of shelter against rain or bird shit.

  She stood up, gripped the lid, and pushed it up, glanced inside at a cluster of stuffed black garbage bags, circling flies, and slowly composting food. She set the lid down and wiped her hands on her pants.

  Her phone rang.

  She pulled it from her pocket and saw the name. She felt the muscles around her mouth surge into a smile, and then she answered.

  * * *

  —

  Cap took the car key from the desk agent in a daze. He noticed her healthy tan, turquoise earrings with matching necklace, white-stripped teeth.

  “Enjoy your stay in San Diego, Mr. Caplan.”

  As he drove away from the airport, the glare was so bright off the bay, he had to flip the sun guard down and put on sunglasses so his eyes wouldn’t water. He headed east and saw three pelicans on a street corner. He reached for his phone, tried to get a picture for Nell, but the light turned green before he had a chance, and the Tesla behind him gave a quick, polite honk.

  Then he was on the freeway, trying to read signage and focus on the GPS instructions, but it was proving difficult. He’d never been west of Chicago and was easily distracted by the sky, the palm trees, matching up what he was seeing with the imagery he’d been fed from TV and movies about the West Coast for forty-three years. So far, there didn’t seem to be much of a gap. He started whistling “California Girls.” Beach Boys, not Katy Perry. Wish they all could be.

  Soon he was at the exit he needed, and the GPS told him which streets to take, until he got to the four-lane road a half mile out from the clinic where he was supposed to meet Vega. As he turned in to the small lot, he took off his sunglasses, glancing quickly from one end of the lot to the other, looking for Vega, but she wasn’t there. There were a handful of other cars parked, but no one appeared to be inside them.

  Cap parked and got out. It was hot but not humid, and it was glorious. Hot but not humid. Did everyone on the East Coast know about this? He wasn’t even sweating. Only the back of his shirt stuck a little to his skin but that was just from driving and sitting on a plane for six hours. He ran his hands through his hair and turned toward the sun, closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  * * *

  —

  Vega sat in her car at the curb and watched him for a minute or two. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the side mirror and didn’t recognize her own expression. Her mouth was closed but she could see the outline of her teeth through the skin. She straightened her face out, rubbed her mouth hard with her fingertips like there was a mark she was trying to wipe away, and got out.

  * * *

  —

  Cap opened his eyes at the sound of a car door shutting. And there was Vega, walking toward him. She was exactly the same except her skin was tanner, and she had a look on her face that was now familiar to him—pleased but not showing off about it.

  “Alice Vega,” he called to her, not attempting to hide how happy he felt. In fact, he let the smile take over his face like he was in an advertisement for the health benefits of smiling.

  As she came closer, he saw some lines at the edges of her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Even you get older, he thought.

  “Hey, Caplan,” she said, glancing up and down at his face, body. “You’re thinner.”

  Cap patted his stomach gently.

  “Well, I’ve been running,” he said.

  “How much do you run?”

  “About four miles,” he said, picturing his route around Calhoun Park. “Every other day. More or less.”

  Vega nodded and kept staring at him, like she was expecting more.

  “I, uh, hate it,” he said.

  She laughed. It was quick but it took over her face like a sneeze.

  Cap went on: “I really fucking hate it. Every second.”

  They both laughed now a little bit, and then Vega began to walk out of the parking lot toward the front door of the building.

  “Did you get a chance to read what I sent you?” she asked.

  “The highlights,” said Cap. “You want to tell me why we’re here?” he said, pointing to the BAY FREE HEALTH CLINIC sign.

  “Not really,” she said. “You’ll understand as soon as we get in there.”

  “So I’m talking first, right?” Cap said, deadpan.

  Vega raised her eyebrows at him. He felt soon she would shift into eye rolling. He grinned, so happy that he’d successfully teased her, that she didn’t land an upward elbow jab into his neck, that they were in the same place at the same time and that she still had a few stubborn strands of hair that would not stay in the short ponytail she always wore and that he still, more than anything, wanted to reach out and slip them behind her ear.

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth Palomino seemed in a rush, her dark eyes large and intense. She shook hands with Vega and Cap briskly and sat behind her small desk in a small office. She wore nurse’s scrubs, and there was a poster on the wall behind her that read KNOW YOUR CHOICES.

  “You’re police, is that right?” she said, looking at a printed email in front of her. “And you have questions about the staff here?”

  “We’re not police,” said Vega, handing her a card. “But we’re working with them on a case.”

  “Ah, okay,” said Palomino, glancing at the card. “So what can I do for you?”

  “Have you had any staff leave within the past year?” said Vega.

  “Sure, there’s always turnover,” said Palomino. She looked at Cap then and said, “It’s not for everyone.”

  Cap nodded politely.

  “Anyone stand out?” said Vega.

  Palomino paused.

  “How so?”

  “In a way that might justify having us here asking you questions,” said Vega, adding a little smile.

  Palomino smiled too, but it was tense.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, brushing a spot on her blouse, as if there were crumbs there. “No one comes to mind.”

  Vega nodded again, slower.

  “Would we be able to take a look at their personnel files?” she asked.

  Now Palomino stiffened up in her chair and said, “I don’t think so.”

  She breathed heavily in the silence that followed. Vega met Cap’s eye and gave a near-invisible nod toward the door.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” he said to Palomino, and then he left, shutting the door very quietly.

  His departure seemed to galvanize Palomino even more, as if now she could really say what was on her mind. She leaned across the desk and planted her fingertip on the surface, tapping it hard.

  “Let me tell you something,” she said sternly. “The people who work here get their tires slashed, houses vandalized, death threats, you name it. I’m not about to give away their contact information.”

  Vega had the feeling if she didn’t say anything, Palomino would keep talking, so she let her.

  “You said you’re working with the police, but you’re not polic
e—I don’t know what that means,” she said, incredulous. “I’m not giving you a thing, not a goddamn postage stamp, without a warrant or a subpoena.”

  Palomino paused and sat back in her chair. The corner of her mouth puckered, chewing her lip on the inside.

  “I’ve been doing this a long time,” she added, sounding tired and somewhat apologetic.

  Now Vega leaned forward and perched on the very edge of her chair.

  “I understand,” she said. “You’ve logged twenty IUDs missing from your inventory within the past year, right?”

  “We didn’t report that. How do you know about our inventory?” said Palomino, angry again.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Vega.

  “Don’t tell me not to worry about it,” snapped Palomino. “We have a great deal of sensitive—”

  “Information,” said Vega, finishing her sentence. “Got it. I don’t care about it. I’m not interested in harassing your former employees. I’m interested in finding the guy who took your IUDs and put them inside underage girls for the purpose of sex work.”

  Everything on Palomino’s face got bigger—eyes, nostrils, mouth, which she covered with her hand.

  “Sonofabitch,” she muttered into her palm.

  “Yeah, that,” said Vega. “Now, please tell me, anyone stand out?”

  * * *

  —

  Cap followed Vega out, a ream’s worth of personnel file copies under his arm. As soon as the doors sealed shut behind them, Cap sped up so he was next to her.

  “Anything come up?” he said.

  “Two guys,” said Vega, keeping the pace quick. “One was fired four months back—an X-ray tech. The other was an MD, left about three months ago.”

  They came to Vega’s car. She turned to face Cap.

  “You going to tell the Bastard to go fishing?” he said.

  She nodded. She seemed to be examining all the parts of his face except his eyes, quizzical. Cap surfed a small wave of panic internally, worried about errant nose hairs.

  “How’s your ear?” she said finally, nodding up at it.

  Cap touched it, felt the spiny ridges on the top of his disfigured helix. It was numb there, where a bullet had skinned him while he’d been working the Brandt case. Cap tapped it like a roadie testing a microphone.

  “Not too pretty but still works,” he said.

  Vega nodded, kept looking at it.

  “How’s Nell?” she said.

  Cap paused and then said, “Good. She’s good.”

  Vega reared back, concerned.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Nell’s fine.”

  “You’re lying,” said Vega. “What’s wrong with Nell?”

  Cap rubbed his eyebrows and sighed hotly.

  “She’s fine, ultimately. She’s just exhibiting typical behaviors of having undergone a traumatic event.”

  “Drugs?” said Vega.

  “No, not drugs.”

  “Boys?” said Vega with a hint of aggression, as if she wanted to locate these boys immediately.

  “No,” said Cap. “She…dresses differently, wears a lot of eye makeup. Dyed her hair black. She got pulled over for speeding, by Ralz, no less.”

  Vega stared at him.

  “So eyeliner and a speeding ticket,” she said.

  Cap laughed a little.

  “Actually, she didn’t even get a ticket.”

  Vega narrowed her eyes and said, “She’ll be okay then.”

  “Yeah, she will,” Cap said, exhaling.

  It was nice to hear it from her and nice to believe it.

  Vega put on her sunglasses, and Cap sensed that was it for the small talk.

  “We going to look through these for the two candidates?” he said, holding out the stack of paper Palomino had given them.

  “No, it’s Wednesday,” Vega said, heading for her car at the curb.

  “What’s Wednesday?” said Cap, feeling like he was missing something.

  Vega opened her driver’s side door.

  “Comes before Thursday,” she called over the street traffic.

  “Right,” said Cap, raising his voice. “And what’s Thursday?”

  “Recycling day,” she called back to him. “Follow me, okay?”

  Cap said okay.

  They drove for about two hours east, away from the water and the airport. Cap watched as the buildings disappeared and the land surrounding the interstate got brown with bursts of desert shrubbery. On the East Coast you could go from New York to Jersey to Pennsylvania, see the same kind of ash trees, drive two hundred miles without any discernible change in the landscape. Here the progression happened so quickly, he thought: ocean, city, desert.

  Cap followed her as she took the exit for a town called El Centro. As he got to street level, it felt a little more like Denville than San Diego had—more run down block by block, more vape pipes, fewer macchiatos. But still palm trees, glass blue sky, the mild heat that rested on the surface of his skin.

  Vega led him to the parking lot of a strip mall that appeared abandoned, or getting there. She pulled into a row of spaces facing a two-way roadway and, past that, a residential street. He parked alongside her, and they both got out.

  “Late lunch?” he said, eyeing the China Buffet.

  “Looking for a witness,” said Vega, locking her door. “Evidence suggests Jane One was killed and then dumped in a car, stolen from the street over there.”

  Vega pointed.

  “Apple Street, right?” Cap said, remembering.

  “Right.”

  “PD said no witnesses,” said Cap.

  Vega ignored that and started to walk away, toward the China Buffet.

  “We’re going back here,” she said.

  Cap followed, around the restaurant, where there was some wild grass and a dumpster. Vega cut through the grass on a diagonal and stopped on the far side of the dumpster, where there was a blanket on the ground and a stuffed black garbage bag. Vega tapped the bag with her foot. Cans.

  “Let’s get in my car,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  Vega’s car was a gray Honda, and nothing about it gave Cap any further clues to her inner workings. Nothing hanging from the rearview, no bumper stickers, no noticeable dents, no debris from pets. It was moderately clean, the paint scratched here and there, dirt and gravel scrapes on the tires and wheel wells.

  She pulled out of the lot and drove across the divide to Apple Street. She slowed to ten miles an hour and turned the corner onto another residential block. Cap read all the houses as lower middle class, one floor with front yards and hacienda-style details.

  “Who are we looking for?” he said.

  Vega peered over the wheel to the sidewalk.

  “The Can Man,” she said.

  “The Can Man,” Cap repeated.

  Around and around they went. Not a lot of people on the street. A couple of kids on bicycles, a couple people flipping through mail. After about twenty minutes, Cap saw who he assumed to be the Can Man. The guy was short, dark-skinned, and Asian, a bandanna over his head pirate-style and jeans rolled up to his knees like he’d been wading in a lake. He was sifting through a blue recycle bin on the side of a driveway and picking out cans and bottles, placing them in a wheeled cart lined with a black garbage bag.

  “That him?” said Cap.

  “Think so.”

  Vega parked at the curb, and they got out and watched the Can Man work. He glanced at them.

  “They know me,” he said, not looking up from the cart. “People who live here. Not trespassing.”

  “We’re not handing out tickets,” said Cap.

  The Can Man ignored them then. Cap caught Vega’s eye. How do you want to do this?
/>   “You know anything about a blue Ford Focus?” Vega said to him.

  The Can Man continued to sort and said, “Nope.”

  “You didn’t see a car like that get stolen last week?” said Vega. “From Apple Street?”

  He leaned over his cart and pressed the cans down with open palms. It sounded like little keys scraping little car doors.

  “The fat kid tell you?” he said, not looking up.

  “He wasn’t that fat,” said Vega, a little protective. “But yeah.”

  The Can Man tied the top of the bag up in a loose knot.

  “He’s got an imagination,” he said.

  Then he started to roll out of the driveway, pushing the cart past Cap and Vega to the next driveway.

  “Do you want some money?” said Vega.

  The Can Man stopped.

  “Sure,” he said.

  He flipped the lid on the recycle bin and opened the bag inside. Vega pulled out her wallet, counted five twenties. She folded them in half and walked a few steps, held it out to him.

  He peered at the money in her hand and said, “Got any more?”

  Vega didn’t move, stood right there with her arm extended.

  “No.”

  The Can Man wiped his eyebrows with his forearm, pinched and tugged the edge of the bandanna down.

  “Okay,” he said, taking the money.

  He tucked the bills into the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Driver door was unlocked. Big Mexican. He just got in and drove away.”

  The Can Man stopped talking, turned back to the recycle bin.

  Cap glanced at Vega. She was staring at a point past the Can Man’s head and waved her hand at Cap like she was directing traffic. Telling him to talk now because she needed to think.

  “Do you remember what he was wearing?” said Cap.

  The Can Man shook his head.

  “Nah. I only noticed him ’cause I know the guy who owns the car and that wasn’t him.”

  “You tell the owner?” said Cap.

  “I thought he knew Duffy. ’Cause he opened the door. Thought Duffy knew him.”