The Janes

by Louisa Luna

  “You can, uh, come around front, and my mom can let you in.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” said Vega. “I don’t need to bother your mom. If I could just use your phone to call my husband. Then I’ll get out of here.”

  The best lies are the simplest, she thought. When asking for something, just make it sound like the most natural thing in the world and talk fast. This story that I’m selling to you is the only story that makes sense.

  Lucky for her, Graham wasn’t smart enough to think too much about it. His face looked blank, and he turned and jogged over to the couch, where his phone was sitting, then came back, opened the phone app for her, and handed it to her through the open window. She took it and felt his fingers, warm and damp from gripping a game console all day.

  “Oh, this is different from mine,” she said. “Is this a ten?”

  “Yeah, it’s old,” he said, barely interested.

  She clicked out of the keypad and went to his texts, swiped her thumb down and took in the names as quickly as she could: RJ, Thalia, Rea, Nix, Mom, DrFuckface (Vega assumed that was his father).

  “Hey, all you have to do is dial,” he said, letting his arms rest on the sill, his hands in the grass.

  She kept scrolling. Searching.

  “Yeah, it’s just a different look and feel from mine, sorry,” she said.

  She bounced out of the texts and went to Recents on the phone app. A lot of RJ. Home, Mom. She saw about two weeks previous, quite a few numbers without contact names, and below the numbers, locations: San Diego, CA; Escondido, CA. And then three in a row: Salton City, CA.

  “Hey, could you just give me my phone back and go talk to my mom? She’s upstairs like I said.”

  Vega looked straight at him, at his slack jaw and chapped lips, dull heavy-lidded eyes, row of pimples sprouting near the hairline. She found all of his physical features in service to his spoiled, entitled core and had the urge to knock them off his face one by one. She rooted her knees in the grass and leaned forward.

  “You really want me to talk to your mom, Graham? You want me to tell her about Elsie Otero, or just the girls in the house in Salton?”

  That gave him a jolt. His face opened up like someone had lit a pilot light behind his eyes.

  “The fuck are you?” he said, his voice raised but not yelling, still in a sort of shock, his social-media-stoned teenager brain trying to fit the jig around the wood.

  Vega didn’t answer him. She could see him shift from figuring out she wasn’t a lost jogger to realizing he had to stop her. She was hoping he’d do that.

  Graham reached for her Frankenstein-style through the window opening, stiff and without any range of motion from his position. Vega guessed he was on his tiptoes. But the way the house was built and the basement windows were set, she was actually above him.

  He kept swiping his hands at her and managed to grab her hoodie but couldn’t gain any leverage to pull her. Vega tossed both their phones over her shoulder onto the grass and hunched forward. She grabbed the ribbed collar of his T-shirt with one hand and his oily hair with the other and yanked with her whole body like she was in a tug-of-war.

  Graham’s forehead hit the bottom of the tilted window so hard a two-inch gash split open right away, and his hands flew to it. Vega didn’t let him go.

  “The house in Salton,” she said. “How many times did you go?”

  “Once,” he said, the color washing out of his face.

  Then he seemed to gain some balance and tried again to pull Vega, but he couldn’t get a grip on any part of her, the hoodie slipping through his fingers.

  Vega released his hair and clutched his T-shirt with both hands, pulling him under the window glass now, almost through the opening. Seeing him like that, his head sinking down through the neck of his shirt, stunned by the pain, coming to the immediate terms of his own helplessness, Vega understood something. She could hear McTiernan’s voice on replay like he was standing right behind her: What do Boyce and Mackey have over Otero? How are they holding Otero up by the neck of his shirt, she thought.

  “How did you find out about it? Your daddy tell you? Huh?”

  She yanked at his collar as if it were a choke chain.

  “No,” he wheezed. “I saw texts on his phone. He didn’t know I went until after.”

  “You took RJ Otero with you, didn’t you,” she said, gripping even tighter. “Didn’t you.”

  Graham didn’t say yes or no, just reacted to each sensation as it hit him, right now the threat of suffocation paramount as he brought his hands to Vega’s wrists, trying to pry them off.

  But before Vega had the chance to tighten her grip, a woman emerged from a staircase on the opposite side of the room, Cap and McTiernan right behind her.

  Vega opened both hands wide, and Graham began to fall. The woman rushed to him, shouting his name as if her volume and intensity would prevent him from hitting the floor. He landed in a clump, and Vega didn’t wait to see what would happen. She sprang to her feet, grabbed both phones, and was gone.

  * * *

  —

  Cap caught just a flash of the white glow of Vega’s face before she disappeared into the dark on the other side of the window. He watched the teenage boy he assumed to be Graham Miller crumple to the floor, and Mrs. Miller running to him.

  “Graham? Your head, oh my God, are you okay? Graham?” she said, upset but calm. Not crying.

  Graham sat up in a daze, a long bleeding cut in the middle of his forehead.

  “This girl stole my phone,” he said, sounding unconvinced, perhaps thinking he’d imagined it.

  “What girl?” said Mrs. Miller, sitting on the floor with him, placing her hands on either side of his face to examine it. “What happened?”

  “The girl came to the window,” Graham said, and that was all. It seemed to be all he could put together at the moment.

  “I’m calling the police,” Mrs. Miller said, looking to Cap and McTiernan, suddenly suspicious, adding, “Other police.”

  “We can get someone here for you,” said McTiernan, still playing the part.

  Graham grabbed his mother’s arm.

  “She knew about Dad. She knew about everything,” he said, too stunned to worry about who was listening.

  Mrs. Miller stood and looked at Cap and McTiernan, guilty but still incensed.

  “What’s ‘everything,’ Mrs. Miller?” said Cap, even though he already knew.

  “My husband is the one you want,” she said coldly. “Not my son.”

  “That’s really not what it sounds like,” said Cap.

  She fixed her eyes on him, and Cap recognized her expression—it was exactly how she’d looked at her husband the other night in the driveway: disgusted, the stitches of composure just starting to break along the seam.

  “How it sounds to you is of no interest to me,” she said. “Dr. Miller was the one who did those procedures. My son and I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You know that for certain, ma’am?” said McTiernan, not daring to even glance at Cap for fear of interrupting the confession.

  Mrs. Miller glared at him like he was dumb or crazy.

  “Yes, Detective. This was all his idea.”

  “Why would he put his whole family at risk?” asked McTiernan.

  “You’d have to ask him but it likely has something to do with money,” she said glibly. “Not this money,” she said, her hand flitting around in the air, gesturing to her finely appointed house. “Bigger, darker money.”

  “You realize that we can use everything you’re saying to us right now—” began McTiernan.

  “In a court of law,” said Mrs. Miller, unconcerned. “Yes, I watch TV.”

  “And I guess your boy’s just a victim, right?” said Cap spitefully.

  Mrs. Miller didn’t answer, retu
rned to the floor and held her son’s head in her hands.

  “Not another word, Graham,” she said. Then she looked up to Cap and McTiernan and said, “I’d like you both to leave now.”

  “Thanks for your time, ma’am,” said McTiernan as if he were wrapping up a standard interview.

  Mrs. Miller didn’t answer, just took out her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and began to dial, still staring at them. Cap felt his own phone buzz as he and McTiernan backed away. They turned to run up the stairs and out the door as Cap read Vega’s text:

  “Meet at car. Got what we came for.”

  * * *

  —

  Vega jumped her last fence and ran up a driveway, out into the street. She had correctly estimated where McTiernan’s car was parked and now rushed and crouched next to it.

  About a minute later she heard the sounds of two sets of feet coming toward her, distant then loud, and she stood up halfway and saw them running full speed, McTiernan beeping the doors unlocked as he approached.

  Vega got into the backseat, and the men got into the front, McTiernan gasping a little. He didn’t seem to be in the best shape, thought Vega, but he was young, which made up the difference.

  McTiernan started the car and pulled a U so as not to pass the Miller house on the way to the freeway.

  Vega placed both phones on her lap and said, “I know what it is. What Boyce and Mackey have on Otero.” She tapped qwertys on repeat into the Notes on Graham’s phone to keep it unlocked and continued: “It’s the son. Graham saw texts on his dad’s phone about the Salton house and brought RJ there for a frat boy birthday gift.”

  “That’s the everything,” said McTiernan.

  “What’s the everything?” asked Vega.

  “Graham said you knew about Dr. Miller, about ‘everything,’ ” said Cap. “And the wife knows, too, and just threw her husband under a sizable Greyhound coach.”

  “Yeah?” said Vega.

  “Yeah,” said Cap. “Turns out she only cares about her son and thinks he’s still a golden boy even though he dabbles in statutory.”

  “The wife also implied that the doctor did it for cash but not just some bills in a picture frame,” said McTiernan.

  “ ‘Bigger, darker money’ were her exact words,” said Cap, wiping his forehead with his hand, sweating aggressively.

  “Good to know,” said Vega. “So Boyce and Mackey find out, somehow, that RJ went to the Salton house and they have some kind of proof, so a week, two weeks ago, they go to Otero and say, we need to run a case on the DL by our rules only and if you don’t come along—”

  “We’ll turn out your boy,” McTiernan finished the thought.

  They all sat with that for a moment and let the streetlights pass over them as they neared the on-ramp.

  “You got one big narrative problem,” said Cap. “If Boyce and Mackey know RJ went to Salton, it means they know about Salton, full stop. So then why do they hire you?” Cap said to Vega.

  McTiernan drove onto the freeway and immediately hit a patch of stalled traffic.

  “Here,” he said, passing Cap his phone. “Are we lucky enough to think Mackey left me a voice mail telling me?”

  Cap tapped the message, pressed Speaker, and held the phone out so they could all hear.

  Then came Mackey’s voice, full of false friendly professionalism: “Hello, Detective McTiernan. This is Agent Mackey with the DEA. Just wanted to give you a heads-up, one enforcement official to another: Alice Vega and Max Caplan are about to become fugitives under California state law, and if you are harboring or aiding them in any way, you could be pressed with equal or greater charges, being a police officer, and if found guilty, I can make sure you’ll get fast-tracked to Stockton South Penitentiary, where there’s a nice community of white nationalists who’d love to get to know you. I could even talk to a friend about getting you placed in the right block inside.

  “That said, feel free to shoot me or Commander Otero a text any time now. Looking forward to it.”

  The message ended. Cap rubbed his eyebrows and temples, and Vega knew that meant he had a headache. She watched the strip of McTiernan’s face in the rearview; he was not looking back at her or over at Cap, just straight ahead at the car in front of them.

  “McT,” Cap began.

  McTiernan raised his hand, signaling that Cap should shut up. Then he shook his head, lamenting something silently.

  “They don’t have anything on us,” said Vega. “That’s why he’s saying we’re ‘about’ to be fugitives. Right now we’re just wanted for questioning. He won’t be able to pin you for a thing.”

  Cap shot her a look that said, Pull back. Easy on the consolation.

  Vega didn’t want to pull back.

  “They have nothing,” she said again, spitting the words out, leaning forward so much the seatbelt sliced across the bandage on her side.

  “But we both think you need to look out for yourself first,” said Cap, raising his voice, staring at Vega.

  “We don’t think that,” said Vega. “We want your help.”

  “I hate it when you guys fight,” said McTiernan, seemingly genuinely sad. “It makes me feel bad about myself.”

  Cap laughed, and Vega leaned back in the seat. The traffic began to crawl.

  “Vega’s right. Until they charge you, they can’t charge me,” McTiernan added, hunching close to the wheel.

  “But they can fire you,” said Cap.

  McTiernan’s gaze turned toward the shoulder as they slowly passed an accident, two cars with busted fenders, one ambulance, one highway patrol car.

  “Anyone else think it’s weird that Mackey left me that message instead of Boyce?” said McTiernan.

  “Yes,” said Vega. “Boyce is the alpha in that relationship.”

  “When I met Mackey the first time he came off as like a paper pusher,” added Cap. “Desk guy.”

  “He didn’t sound like that just now,” Vega said, reflective.

  “Why’s he got to threaten me anyway?” asked McTiernan, to no one specifically. “I’m nobody.”

  “Maybe he’s just as desperate as Otero,” said Vega, watching a woman, one of the owners of the cars with the busted fenders, shaking her head and texting. She looked frazzled and tired and like this was the last thing she needed.

  “It’s because we’re close to something, and he knows it,” said McTiernan, now meeting Vega’s eye in the mirror.

  Cap gave McTiernan a confused glance.

  “So if Boyce and Mackey have the drop on Otero, who’s got the drop on Boyce and Mackey?” he said.

  “Don’t know. We should get a beer though,” said McTiernan, sighing, his shoulders falling. “And probably swap out this car, just in case.”

  Vega let Cap answer and turned to watch the accident out the rear window, the red lights from the emergency vehicles still flashing, the woman no longer texting and now perched on the crushed metal of her car, face buried in her hands.

  17

  cap couldn’t tell if the bar mCtiernan brought them to was genuinely retro or forcibly retro, with its dark cherrywood interior and red leather booths. He couldn’t put a finger on the clientele either; it seemed to be composed of well-heeled young women in clusters and a man here or there, but no one sloppy, no one appearing to be on the move or make.

  They sat in an L-shape around one of the corners of the bar facing the TV, drinking bottled beers. It was after ten now, and the local nightly news was on with no sound.

  “You got an idea where you can get another car?” said Cap.

  McTiernan nodded. “My girlfriend’s is parked at the airport. I got a key.”

  “Your girlfriend’s a good person to know.”

  “Who’re you telling,” said McTiernan. “She’s the only reason I know about this place. It’s
a flight attendant bar. Figured we couldn’t go to a cop bar.”

  Cap glanced around again, everything making sense now.

  Vega had her hood up, taking small sips of beer. Cap could see the light from the TV screen bouncing off her eyes.

  “We get the car, then, what, we contact Otero?” Cap said.

  “With what?” said McTiernan. “We have to keep moving until we have a theory at least of who has what on Boyce and/or Mackey.”

  McTiernan brought a fist to his mouth to cover a yawn. He excused himself to go to the restroom, and Cap scooted to the edge of his stool to get a little closer to Vega.

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt our argument before. I just wanted McT to know he has options,” he said, his eyes wandering to the TV too.

  “He’s a grown-ass man, Caplan,” said Vega. “And we need him.”

  “I got that. It’s not terrible to think for a minute before we take down a guy’s career, though.”

  Vega kept staring at the screen but shook her head impatiently.

  “You worry too much about other people’s bullshit,” she said. “We’re not all Nell.”

  “Okay, let’s watch it,” he said, turning to her, setting his beer down loudly on the bar. “I’m not getting off on being father of the year here. I am expressing concern about a guy who has our back and could stand to lose a lot.”

  Cap realized he was getting louder, glanced over his shoulder and saw McTiernan chatting with two women in blue suits at a table. He leaned his head over to Vega and said quietly, “And were we to ever be charged with anything, he’d be screwed, just like Mackey said.”

  Vega looked at him for a second and then back to the TV. She wriggled her nose and tightened her lips in frustration.

  Her phone began to buzz and she whipped it out of her pocket and looked at the screen.

  “Goddammit,” she said under her breath and then slapped her phone on the bar, screen down.

  “Who is that?” said Cap.

  Vega took a swig of beer and said, “It’s this guy I slept with a few times. He thinks we’re married or something.”