She’d been at it for five hours, and her eyes were beginning to sting. She blinked several times, but it was no good, and decided it was time for a break. Leah rose and went for coffee, and was brewing a fresh pot when Margaret cornered her.
“What are you working on?” she asked.
“My story. I need to at least have a theory about who’s behind the recent rash of disappearances or there’s no follow-up to the first one,” Leah explained.
“I see. I know it must seem fascinating to you, but there’s a limit to how much time you can afford to spend on this, Leah. Did you get my email about the other things I want you to work on?”
Leah nodded. “Yes, I did. A spate of carjackings near the slums. A white supremacist group that wants all Latinos stopped and ID’d without probable cause. A woman who’s protesting bullying in her daughter’s school. All gripping content that readers are dying to know more about, I’m sure.”
Margaret stiffened. “Save the attitude, Leah. Those are the stories that came out of our editorial meeting this morning. You don’t get to blow them off. I need them written, and if you won’t do it, there are plenty of other reporters who would kill for the opportunity.”
Leah fought to maintain her composure. “Yes, Margaret, I get it – I’m lucky to be working here. I’ll write those articles, but I’m not about to stop working on the story that generated the most interest from readers in the last ten years.”
Margaret’s mouth tightened. “I need you to prioritize the assignments I give you, not whatever tangent you’re pursuing. Do I make myself clear?”
Leah turned to the coffee machine. “Sure, Margaret. Perfectly clear.”
Leah could sense Margaret staring at her, but calmly slipped the pot from the brewer and poured her cup to the brim. Margaret had no grounds to forbid her to pursue her story now that she’d agreed to do what she’d asked, and Leah’s hope was that she would go micromanage someone else’s life and let her get back to work.
The fussy click of Margaret’s heels departing drew a smile from Leah, and she took her time loading up her drink with sweetener and cream, every second at the coffee station a petty victory over her supervisor’s control. It was silly, she knew, but it still made her happy, and she took a satisfied sip before heading back to her desk and resuming her research.
A glance at her email, which she’d only skimmed while engrossed in the missing girls, confirmed that exactly none of the assignments Margaret had issued even vaguely interested Leah or had the potential to go anywhere. She estimated it would take at most a few hours to grind out the articles, and resolved to start on them after making a few telephone calls. There was no reason she couldn’t handle what amounted to busywork and research her real story at the same time.
The first was to the mayor of Juárez’s office – where she encountered her first hurdle. The woman who answered spoke no English, which required Leah to grapple with her imperfect grasp of the language and try to communicate in Spanish.
“I need speak to mayor,” Leah managed after racking her brain for the correct words.
“Who’s calling?”
Leah gave her name and explained that she was from the El Paso Examiner. The woman seemed unimpressed.
“The mayor is very busy,” she countered.
“Please check with him.”
“What is the subject?”
“Crime in Juárez.”
“Please hold.”
A minute dragged by, and then another, and then the line went dead and she found herself listening to a dial tone. Leah frowned and pressed redial. After five rings, the same woman answered.
“I got disconnected.”
“One moment, please.”
This time the wait was five minutes, during which Leah continued scanning the web for news. She was in the middle of a recent article on the shifting cartel sands when the woman came back on the line.
“I’m afraid the mayor is unavailable to speak to you today,” she said in machine-gun Spanish.
Leah sighed. “Tomorrow? Maybe talk then?”
“Try back tomorrow.”
The woman hung up, leaving Leah to stare at the handset in frustration. Her border Spanglish was more a mangling of the language than an aid to communication, and she belatedly regretted not paying more attention in school.
Her eyes drifted to the screen and an article about the missing girls, penned by a Juárez journalist who covered the cartel beat. It was in Spanish, and for a Mexican paper, which had to tread lightly where the cartels were concerned lest the journalist wind up hanging dead from an overpass as a message to others, reasonably hard hitting. She cut and pasted the article into her translation engine and read it with interest.
Leah did a quick Internet search and found the number for the paper. She dialed, and a male receptionist answered.
“Need speak Hector Saldaño,” Leah said in Spanish.
“I can put you through to his voicemail. He’s not in,” the receptionist answered in perfect English.
“Oh. Um, sure. Thanks. Does he speak English?”
“Yes.”
An automated attendant advised her to speak after the tone, and she left a message. “Hector Saldaño, this is Leah Mason with the El Paso Examiner. I’m working on a story about the recent Juárez disappearances, and I saw your piece…Anyway, I’d appreciate a call back.” She recited her phone number with the area code and hung up, her frustration at getting nowhere building at the thought of terminating her research and beginning the grunt work Margaret had assigned her.
“Okay. Time to earn the rent,” she whispered to herself, and pulled up Margaret’s email. Which would be the first of her challenges? Calling to talk to the woman with the precious snowflake of a daughter who had been bullied by some other students, or going for the meat at the heart of the carjacking story – because meth heads needed money to support their habits, and guns were more plentiful than stoplights in the city? She jotted down the phone number for the bullying case and tried to imagine an interesting angle from which to approach the tired narrative, her heart sinking at the thought of wasting the rest of her day on trivialities nobody in their right mind would want to read about.
Chapter 8
There were no parking spots in front of Leah’s apartment complex when she arrived home after work, and she had to hoof it a block on the dimly lit street, past a clique of youths hanging out by a dumpster, the smell of marijuana in the air. When she reached the Whispering Pines gate, she was relieved to see her aunt’s door closed, so at least she could avoid another joyful interaction.
Her boots thumped on the cement path from the courtyard to her apartment, and she was making a list of possible dinner options when she reached her door and stopped, key in hand, eyes drawn to the handset by a bronze glint. Her forehead creased as she peered in the gloom at the knob – the mechanism had a scratch on it that had marred the layer of grime that had accumulated over the years.
Leah’s frown deepened as she inserted her key and twisted the lock open. Had someone tried to break in? She found it hard to believe and smiled to herself at the idea of someone choosing her place to burgle. They’d come away pretty disappointed, with little cash, a five-year-old laptop, and nothing else of any value.
She flipped on the light and moved to the breakfast bar – a tired stretch of faux granite chipped and worn from eons of abuse by low-rent tenants – and set her purse and messenger bag down. She then walked to her bedroom and stopped at the threshold, her heart beating faster as she stared at her bed. Her alarm clock on the nightstand was a couple of inches closer to the bedside lamp than normal. She spotted the difference immediately, because the glow of the LED display kept her awake unless it was turned partially away from the bed.
Now it was straight. She never, ever positioned it that way.
Leah backed away from the doorway, stomach churning, and glanced at her cheap dining room table.
Her laptop was there.
Mayb
e her aunt had been in the apartment, snooping around?
That made no sense. The first thing Leah had done upon moving in had been to have the lock rekeyed.
So what was this?
Leah retraced her steps to the bedroom and turned on the light. Other than the clock, nothing looked out of place.
Maybe she’d knocked the clock aside without knowing it while going about her morning ablutions?
Leah walked to the ratty dresser where she kept her cash beneath her underwear and opened the top drawer. She reached into the back and withdrew a slim stack of fifty-dollar bills – seven hundred dollars, her entire savings that wasn’t allocated to gas, food, and rent – and quickly counted it. Everything was there.
She replaced the money and shook her head. She needed sleep; paranoia was obviously messing with her mind. Leah continued to the bathroom and over to the toilet, and then stopped at the sight of her beauty products on the counter.
They had been moved.
Leah grabbed her keys and marched to the end of the complex. Aunt Connie responded to the pounding on her door with an alarmed expression.
“What is it?” she asked Leah.
“Were you in my apartment?”
“What? My dear, of course not.” Her brow wrinkled. “Have you been drinking? Your poor mother had the same problem, God rest her soul. I hope it doesn’t run in the family. Your great-uncle Richard, though, he–”
“Someone’s been in my place. My stuff has been moved.”
Aunt Connie sniffed the air and then shrugged apologetically. “I don’t see how, dear. I didn’t see anyone, and I’ve been here all day. I think I would have heard something if there had been a break-in.”
After a few more minutes of similar back and forth, Leah decided her aunt was telling the truth. “I’m calling the police.”
She returned to her apartment and dialed 911. The dispatcher took her address, listened to her complaint, and promised to send a squad car as soon as possible, in a tone that said she was unimpressed by a B&E with nothing missing.
An hour of pacing in her tiny living room later, the squawk of a radio sounded from outside the apartment and a knock sounded at the door. Leah opened it to a pair of uniformed police, both about her age but with faces lined from experience beyond their years.
“You reported a break-in, ma’am?” one of them said. “I’m Officer Winslow, and this is Officer Bentley.”
“Yes, that’s right.” She pointed at the doorknob. “You can see a scratch there where it’s been jimmied. And some of my things were moved around.”
Winslow and Bentley exchanged a glance, their faces impassive.
“Anything missing?” Winslow asked.
“Not that I can tell.”
“Do you keep any prescription medications? Have you checked to make sure they’re still there?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t have anything.”
“Money? Stereo? Computers? Any weapons?”
“I don’t own a gun. Nothing obvious is missing.”
Winslow looked over her shoulder at the interior of the apartment. “Any roommates? Ex-boyfriend who might have made a key or something?”
“No. Just me. But you can see the scratch. Maybe you should dust it for prints?”
“How did you get inside? Did you use the knob?”
She glanced down at it. “Yes.”
“Then it’s doubtful there’s going to be anything useful on it now.” Winslow turned the volume on his radio down. “Mind if we come in and look around?”
She nodded and stepped aside. “If you think it will help. I don’t want to contaminate the scene or anything.”
Winslow smiled at his partner and they entered the apartment, which suddenly felt crowded with three people in it. They looked over the kitchen, and Winslow poked his head into the bedroom, and then he turned to her, his expression fatigued.
“We can take your statement, but there’s nothing we can really do if nothing’s been stolen.”
“But…someone’s been in here.”
He nodded. “And it feels like a violation. I know. But reality is that standard procedure in a case like this is to file a report, and that’s it. CSI isn’t going to descend on your place and spend the night dusting for prints and scouring the scene for a hair follicle or DNA. If nothing’s missing, it’s a nonstarter. Sorry. Wish I had better news for you.”
“So someone can break in, rifle through my stuff, do God knows what while I’m not here, and the cops can’t do anything?”
Winslow walked to the front door and examined the lock. “Might want to get a better lockset than this. I could open it with a jam knife. They don’t cost that much at Home Depot. That would be the first thing I’d do. And maybe block your window sliders with something like a cut broom handle.”
Leah flushed. “How is that going to do anything about whoever was in here already?”
Winslow shrugged. “You want to file a report? It’ll take about fifteen minutes to take your statement.”
“What’s the point?”
“It’s your call.” Winslow paused. “I’d change the lock to something decent and chalk it up to experience. If nothing’s missing, you got lucky. Maybe whoever was in here got scared off.”
Leah eyed the two cops. “I’m not imagining this.”
“Of course not. So, report, or no?”
Leah shook her head. “If you’re not going to do anything, why bother?”
Winslow gave the room another once-over before stepping across the threshold, followed by Bentley. “Sorry there isn’t anything we can do. Home Depot’s open until nine.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Leah responded glumly, and closed the door, feeling stupid for calling the cops. She could see by the officers’ expressions this was a nuisance on a slow evening, and knew they were probably joking about it on the way back to their car. Crazy chick seeks attention, invents drama, wastes their time. Film at eleven.
Leah checked her watch and glanced around. One thing the cop had been right about was the feeling that she’d been violated. Imagining a stranger in her private place, going through her things…but to what end? If you were going to break in, why do so and then not take anything?
It made no sense.
She opened the fridge, inspected the paltry contents, and exhaled loudly. No way was she going to make dinner for herself. She’d take the cop’s advice and get a new lock, pick up some Chinese takeout on the way back, and spend the evening installing her purchase and fortifying her windows.
Leah sniffed and grimaced. The garbage needed to go out. She removed the trash bag from the garbage cabinet, tied it off, and collected her purse and keys. After closing the door behind her, she checked the lock with a twist and then made for the dumpster behind Aunt Connie’s unit.
“So? What did they say?” her aunt asked as she neared.
“Nothing they can do. I’m going to get a new lock.”
Aunt Connie wrung her hands. “Oh, Leah, I can’t pay for anything like that, just at the moment. What with property taxes going up next year, and…”
“That’s okay, Aunt Connie. I’m not asking you to. I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, thank you, dear. If you really feel it’s necessary. If you just imagined it, then it’s a lot of work for nothing, don’t you think?”
Leah managed a tired smile. “Good night, Aunt Connie.”
“Let me know if you need any tools. I might have a screwdriver or something. Although I don’t remember where. I’m not very good with tools, I’m afraid, but I’ll help out if I can. Just please don’t damage the door, or I’ll have to charge you for it. Do you think you’ll–”
Leah interrupted the woman’s nervous dithering. “Thank you, Aunt Connie. I’ll call if I need anything. But I’m sure I can take care of it myself.”
The service alley behind the apartments was darker than usual, and Leah realized as she approached the dumpster that the light had burned out. She let out a small
cry and jumped back as a furry form darted from the corner and tore off, her pulse thudding in her ears. The cat disappeared over the wall and Leah resumed breathing. She was jumpy, her nerves shot, and needed to calm the hell down or she’d be scaring herself all night.
She dropped the bag into the dumpster and spun at a sound from the mouth of the alley. A rustle.
Another cat?
Leah took timid steps back toward the street, regretting her decision not to wait until morning to take out the garbage, the darkness suddenly more ominous on the starless night. She gripped her purse closer to her and peered into the gloom, and gasped when a figure materialized from the shadows and blocked her way.
Chapter 9
A man’s form stood facing Leah at the alley mouth, silhouetted by the streetlight at the front of the apartment complex.
“Leah? Are you okay?” Bill called out.
Leah shuddered involuntarily. “Damn. You scared the crap out of me,” she said, her voice tight. “Don’t ever do that again, Bill.”
“Sorry. Your aunt said you were back here.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked as she approached him.
“I…I tried your cell, but it went to voicemail. Wanted to see if you were up for dinner or something.”
She shook her head. “I’ve got to get a new lock. Thanks anyway.”
“Your aunt said you think someone broke in?”
“The cops were here.”
“Have you ever installed a lock? I can help. I mean, you’re not the most…mechanically inclined.”
“Is that a dig?”
“No. I mean, I can do it for you. No charge.”
She eyed him skeptically. “You were just in the neighborhood?”
“Well, it isn’t that far from my place, and I was hoping to catch you at home.”
“Kind of like a stalker.”
Bill tried a grin. “Is it my fault you’re irresistible?” He hesitated. “Come on. You don’t know anything about locks. Let me help. I won’t even expect sex or anything.”
A Girl Apart Page 5