by Lutz, Lisa
“How are things with you and Daniel Castillo, DDS?”
“Fine.”
“When can we have a real conversation, Izzy?”
“As soon as you stop gathering intelligence.”
“Okay, I’ll start. There’s a chance Ray will go into rehab.”
“What kind of chance?”
“I’d say ten percent or so.”
“What are the chances it will stick?”
“About ten percent.”
“So there’s a one percent chance that Uncle Ray will get clean,” I said.
“That sounds about right,” Dad replied, his words finally starting to slur.
“Has anyone explained the odds to Rae? I mean, if she’s going to be a walking after-school special, someone should discuss the cost-benefit ratio with her.”
“We’ve had the cost-benefit talk.”
“Still, it’s impressive that he’s considering it.”
“We know you faked the drug deal.”
“What gave it away?”
“The dentist can’t act, for one thing, and I sat Rae down with a batch of Rice Krispies Treats midweek. Told her she could eat them all if she talked. She talked.”
“Is there no low you won’t sink to?”
“I gave my kid Rice Krispies Treats. You pretended to snort cocaine in front of her.”
“I pretended to snort cocaine because you bugged my apartment.”
“We bugged your apartment because you were becoming obsessed with a case. A case that is over, by the way.”
“A case that you gave me.”
“It was a mistake.”
“What?”
“Giving you the case.”
“It wasn’t your only mistake.”
My dad picked up another basket of pretzels from the bar and returned to the table.
“The first few times I found you passed out on the front lawn, I thought you were dead.”
“That was a long time ago, Dad. I haven’t passed out in years.”
“So Old Isabel isn’t making a comeback?”
“If Old Isabel were back, she wouldn’t be having drinks with her dad.”
“What would she be doing?”
“Picking up one of those nice Irish boys at the bar or trying to score a dime bag in Dolores Park.”
“So where do we go from here?” he asked.
“I leave. You don’t follow me.”
“Not going to happen.”
“I think it is,” I said as I slowly put on my coat and left a tip on the table.
“What makes you so confident?” he asked.
“You’re too drunk to drive and I can outrun you,” I replied, grinning wildly. I’d had very few knock-’em-out-of-the-park wins in the past few weeks and I was enjoying this moment. I slowly backed away to the exit. Then I swung the door open and booked out of the bar.
I could hear the rattling from the door as my father made his clumsy exit. There was no point in turning back to see his location. I just ran as fast and as hard as I could. Three blocks later I made a right turn on Fillmore Street and caught a cab. I ducked down in the backseat just in case. The driver found me suspicious and was more than happy when he dropped me off and received payment for his services. I ducked into an overdone tourist-trap café in the Marina. Amid wealthy Midwesterners and their furs on vacation, I drank coffee and sobered up.
A few hours later, as I simultaneously walked off the beer buzz and the coffee jitters, I got another phone call.
“Isabel?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Meet me at the West Oakland BART station in one hour,” said an unrecognizable voice on the other end. It could have been a man or a woman, impossible to say.
“Nah, I’m busy.”
“Don’t you want some answers, Isabel?”
“Yes. For instance, I’d like to know who I’m talking to.”
“Not over the phone.”
“I’m not crossing the bridge without a good reason. You know what traffic is like at this hour?”
“I can answer all of your questions about Andrew Snow.”
“Who is this?”
“Like I said, meet me and you’ll find out.”
“I’ll think about it. Which BART station, did you say?”
“West Oakland. Southeast exit. Two hours.”
“Make it three. I’m still drunk.”
I couldn’t return to my car; my father would have removed a vital part of the engine, like the carburetor. I hopped on the Fillmore bus and phoned Daniel at his office. It took some persuading to get Mrs. Sanchez to release the phone to Daniel, but eventually she did.
“I need to borrow your car.”
“Who is this?”
“Isabel.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Isabel.”
“Please.”
This negotiation was ultimately an unspoken one. I needed something from Daniel—a car—and Daniel needed something from me—an easy breakup. To assuage his guilt, he agreed to lend me his BMW. I waited on the street outside the Folsom and Third Street parking structure. The streetlight flickered for five minutes and went out. Daniel had agreed to meet me after his tennis game. He was late. I grew edgy as I sobered up. Every sound, from footsteps in the distance to aluminum cans traveling with the breeze, made my heart stop.
Then Daniel turned the corner. When he saw me, he averted his gaze. I had seen that look before. It was always followed by “We need to talk.” I knew what was about to happen, but I still tried to postpone the inevitable.
“Did you make sure you weren’t followed?” I asked.
“Who would follow me?” Daniel replied.
“My mother or my father.”
“I don’t believe I was followed.”
I held out my hand, hoping for a silent gift of the keys.
“This will never work,” he said.
“What?”
“You and me.”
“Why not?”
“What would we tell our kids?”
“What kids?”
“If we had kids, how would we explain how Mommy and Daddy met?”
“We’d lie, of course.”
“It’s over. I can’t do this.”
I won’t bore you with the rest of the conversation. I’ll simply provide Daniel’s epitaph.
…The Ford screeches to a halt about ten feet behind the BMW. I turn off the ignition and take a few deep breaths. I casually get out of the car and walk over to the sedan. I knock on the driver’s-side window. A moment passes and the window rolls down. I put my hand on the hood of the car and lean in just a bit.
“Mom. Dad. This has to stop.”
Before they can compose a sentence that would properly convey their disappointment in me, I slip my hand behind my back, pull out my pocketknife, and slash their front left tire. They gave me no choice. It was the only way to end the chase. They’re not as shocked as you might expect. My father whispers my name, shaking his head. My mother turns away, hiding her rage. I stick the knife in my pocket and back away, shrugging my shoulders.
“It doesn’t have to be like this.”
I drive away, satisfied that I’ve bought myself some time. I turn onto Mission Street, heading for the entrance to the Bay Bridge. An accident on South Van Ness has stalled traffic to a standstill and the rush of elation from my newfound freedom is dulled by the blasting of horns and the ticking of the clock on the dashboard. The chance of me making it across the bridge and to the West Oakland BART station within the next twenty minutes is a near-impossible task.
I’m about to veer onto the Thirteenth Street on-ramp when my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Izzy, Milo here.”
“What can I do for you?”
“You can get your sister out of my bar before the cops shut me down.”
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“Milo, I’m busy. Have you tried Uncle Ray?”
“Yeah, he doesn’t answer. And I just called your dad and he told me you slashed his tire. I’m not even going to ask. All I’m saying is that it’s Saturday night and I got a fourteen-year-old girl in my bar and I want her out of here.”
“Let me talk to her.”
Rae took the phone and said, “I wouldn’t have a drinking problem if things were better at home.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Stay put.”
My phone rings again just after I disconnect the call.
“Isabel.”
“Yes.”
“You’re late,” says the unidentifiable voice.
“Seriously, who is this?”
“I thought you wanted to solve this case.”
“I need another hour. My sister’s drinking again.”
“You’ve got forty-five minutes and then I’m gone.”
I’m two blocks from the Philosopher’s Club and the phone rings one more time.
“Izzy, it’s Milo. Tell Rae she left her scarf here.”
“Tell her yourself.”
“Didn’t you pick her up already?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But she’s gone.”
GONE
My foot was on the floor all the way to Milo’s. I slammed on the brakes and double-parked in front of the bar. I threw open the door and raced inside. It was the look on Milo’s face that shook me. Fear is more a lack of expression than an expression. Fear pulls all the blood from the extremities to concentrate on the activities that sustain life, like keeping your heart pumping. Milo visibly paled. I could see his lips moving, but could not make out the words over the hum of the bar crowd and the sound of my own breath. I walked through to the back of the bar, pushing aside patrons blocking my path. I checked the restroom and the exit into the alley.
Milo pointed toward the front of the bar and led me outside. He showed me the spot on the stoop where she’d been waiting. We circled the block and questioned all the sidewalk traffic. We got in my car and covered every side street within a three-mile radius. We phoned the house three times and her cell phone twice. We returned to the bar and I tried her cell phone again as we circled the perimeter. And then I heard it. Her phone ringing. Milo pulled the lid off the trash can and the phone was sitting on top. I picked up the phone and turned to Milo.
“There has to be some explanation, Izzy. Maybe she lost the phone and somebody else tossed it.”
I drove home breaking every traffic law in the book. I drove home knowing that something horrible had happened that could not be undone. I drove home trying to remember the last time I saw my sister, wondering whether it would be the last time.
Rae had been gone only an hour and yet I was certain her absence was much more than a miscommunication. Rae doesn’t disappear. That’s not her MO. She telephones. She communicates. She prefers chauffeuring to public transportation. She lets you know everything that is going on in her mind. She doesn’t run off when you’ve told her to stay put. She doesn’t do that.
It seemed like minutes had passed before I could steady my hand enough to open the front door of my family’s home. So long, it briefly occurred to me, that the locks might have been changed. When the door finally flew open, I ran through the house shouting my sister’s name.
I banged on every closed door in the hallway until I came upon Rae’s bedroom door. I tried the knob, but it was locked. My hands were too shaky to attempt a pick. I kicked it twice, but it wouldn’t budge. You can’t kick open locked doors; that is a myth. I ran down to the storage room, grabbed an axe, and returned upstairs. I swung the axe against the lock until the wood around the deadbolt was splintered to pieces. Then I laid one final kick and the door swung open.
Uncle Ray watched me from the other end of the hallway.
“I had a spare key,” he said, then picked up the phone and called my parents.
The stillness of her room felt unnatural, but the chill I felt was very real. Her bed was unmade—as usual. Clothes were strewn across the floor in her typical adolescent nonchalance. It was a room waiting for someone to return to it, and yet she hadn’t returned.
I searched her desk until I came across her address book. I phoned all two of her friends, neither of whom knew where she was or where she could be. Uncle Ray telephoned his buddies at the police station, who agreed to file an early report.
I passed my parents in the hallway as I exited the room. Avoiding eye contact, I told them that I would comb the neighborhood. I said that so I could leave. I had hoped that the misty air outside would cure my nausea, but once I exited the house, I began vomiting in my mother’s flower bed (not for the first time, I might add). In between violent heaving, my phone rang again.
“Isabel, where are you?” said that goddamn voice.
“Did you take her?” I asked. My breath was so weak I could barely get the question out.
“Take who?”
“My sister. Do you have her?”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you’ve done something to her, your life is over. It’s over. Do you understand? They will kill you.”
“Who?”
“My father will kill you. Or my mother, maybe. Or they might have a little competition to see who can do it first. Do you have her?”
“Who?”
“If you have her, give her back,” I said and the line went dead.
THE INTERVIEW
CHAPTER 6
Stone gathers his file, aligning each sheet in a perfect stack. He smacks the pages against the wood table to square the edges. He then slides his finger along the side, searching for the flat line. His finger touches on an errant edge and he smacks the stack again and then again. He slides the papers into a crisp file folder and dusts off the top, smoothing the already flat cover.
“They’ve got medication for that sort of thing,” I say.
“I think that is all, Isabel. If you think of anything else, please call me.”
“You need to speak to the Snow family.”
“As I told you before, we don’t think it’s related to this case.”
“But there’s nothing else.”
“There are countless possibilities.”
“She’s not a runaway. She knows how to fight.”
“It could be a random abduction.”
“Is that what you think? Because I know the statistics.”
“That’s all I need. Why don’t you get some sleep now, Isabel.”
Inspector Stone stands. I grab his arm and he freezes uncomfortably.
“Tell me the truth. Is she dead? Do you think she’s dead?”
Just saying those words flattened me. Suddenly I wished he wouldn’t answer. But he did.
“I hope not.”
MISSING
Rae’s disappearance was too impossible to explain. No family member could conjure a happily-ever-after scenario. There was an unsettling quiet to the house, a mixture of Rae’s absent chatter mingled with stunned silence. An inability to speak that bordered on pathology. At times it seemed that we could not look at one another. Our war was too fresh to offer a soft shoulder to cry on. There was still the us-versus-them mentality. I returned home, sleeping in Rae’s bedroom to catch any phone calls that might come her way. But my presence was hardly a consolation prize.
Within the first six hours of my sister’s disappearance, her bedroom was searched by the police and then ransacked by every single member of the Spellman family. No relevant evidence was discovered, but the police did find a hollowed-out algebra book holding almost two thousand dollars in cash, which led to further questions and a lengthy discussion between David and my parents.
Within twelve hours of Rae’s disappearance, Milo and Jake Hand had plastered the city with missing-person signs. My mother and I spent four hours each on the road, just looking for that blue-striped shirt. As
always, we remembered such things. My father called in favors with every PI he ever swapped cards with. The police, despite my father’s protests, insisted on investigating every family member, and followed up with schoolmates and any other known acquaintances. Each quest was met with a dead end. David offered a two-hundred-thousand-dollar reward. Uncle Ray made a deal with God. If his niece came back home alive, he would go into rehab.
By day three, I had been awake for eighty-two straight hours. I managed a catnap or two, but nothing significant, nothing that could transform me into anything more than a jumbled set of nerves in two-day-old clothes.
When my interview with Inspector Stone was finished, I drove to the Philosopher’s Club and sat down at the bar. Milo poured me a cup of coffee. When he wasn’t looking, I added a shot of whiskey. I could tell from his own sallow coloring that he hadn’t slept much himself. I could tell that he blamed himself for Rae’s disappearance and the guilt was hitting him hard.
“Go home, Izzy,” he said. “You look like shit.”
“I look better than you do,” I said.
“That’s just ’cause you’re prettier than me.”
One hour and three stolen Irish whiskies later, Daniel entered the bar.
“Let’s go, Isabel.”
I noticed the conspiratorial head nod that transpired between the two men. I turned on Milo.
“You called him?”
“I was worried.”
Daniel took my arm. “Time to sleep, Isabel.”
Daniel took me back to his place, gave me a sleeping pill, and prepared the bed in the guest room. As I was about to fall asleep, I heard him on the phone to my mother, telling her I was okay.
I slept eight hours straight and awoke in an empty apartment. Daniel had left me a series of notes—arrows mostly—which directed me into the kitchen, where a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast was waiting for me. I ate the toast and shoved the rest of the food down the disposal. The narcotics-induced full night’s rest had the agreeable effect of clearing my mind. It had been weeks since I had been able to confidently operate a motor vehicle. It was time to go back to work. It had now been four days since my sister disappeared.
THE SNOW CASE
CHAPTER 9
I needed to impose logic on Rae’s disappearance. So far all I had was coincidence. A phone call from someone claiming to have the answers to the Snow case happened at the same time Rae vanished from the Philosopher’s Club. The link was tenuous at best, but it was the only link, and my instincts insisted that it was the answer.