by Joe Ide
They went down the hallway and looked into Tyler’s office. Isaiah had a penlight. He shined it around knowing there would be no open laptops, iPads, cell phones, diaries, answering machines, calendars or balled-up letters in the wastebasket like TV cops always found. Dodson stayed near the windows where he could see the street.
“Find anything?” Dodson said, wryly.
“Be quiet, will you?” Isaiah said.
“Spoiling your concentration?”
“Be quiet, goddammit!”
They went upstairs to the master bedroom. There were numerous suits in the closet, many of them made by Christiana. One of them looked familiar but Isaiah didn’t know why. He stopped a moment. It was the same charcoal gray pin-striped material as the vest he found in Marlene’s room. Were Tyler and Marlene having an affair?
The dresser drawers held lots of zany socks and Tommy John underwear. “I had a pair of those,” Dodson said. At thirty-two dollars each they should come with a pair of pants and a hoodie.
A ring box from Tiffany revealed an engagement ring, the rock the size of cat’s-eye marble. Marlene and Tyler were getting married? That made no sense at all. There was a small silver box on the bed table containing bindles of cocaine. There were two shopping bags from Saks Fifth Avenue on the bed. Swim trunks, plush beach towel, white linen shirt, and, according to the receipt, two-hundred-dollar flip-flops.
Dodson said, “Did you find anything you can’t recognize because you don’t know what you’re looking for?”
“Will you please shut up,” Isaiah said. He was embarrassed. He’d come here to do something fruitless and brought along an audience to watch. There was a framed photo of a woman on the dresser. She was at the beach, looking out at the ocean. It was sunset, a glow of heaven’s light on her beautiful face; a breeze fanned her hair, pins of green shining from her earrings. Her smile was optimistic, a hint of mischief too. A different look for Marlene.
“Security patrol,” Dodson said, peeking through the blinds. “False alarm my ass.” A security guard had arrived in a new Ford Escort, green and white with the Assured Response logo on the doors. It looked like it was delivering a pizza. Three seconds later a police car pulled up. Dodson said, “Neighborhoods like this, they don’t fuck around, do they?”
The security guard stayed outside and talked importantly on his radio, probably wishing he’d lost twenty pounds and gotten into the academy. The cop went around the side of the house, hand on his gun, looking for the entry point. Isaiah and Dodson took off, racing down the stairs, through the hallway toward the back door, but they heard the cop come in. They turned around, retraced their route, went through the foyer, and darted back up the stairs to the landing. Moments later, the cop entered the foyer, muttering unintelligibly on his radio the way cops do.
“He’s calling for backup,” Isaiah whispered. The jammer doesn’t block radio signals.
“Will he come up here?” Dodson said.
“Not yet.”
A police officer never clears a house by himself. The cop left to block the back door and secure the scene, the security guard still out front. Isaiah and Dodson jogged from room to room, but there were no secondary roofs or convenient drainpipes or ceiling hatches or loose tiles so they could hide in the air-conditioning vents. How the hell did Tom Cruise find those things? That left bashing the cop or the security guard over the head with a blunt instrument. That wasn’t going to happen. And even if they somehow got past them, they’d have to run across the yard, get over the fence and climb down the hill in what was now complete darkness. Dodson was looking at him. “Well, what do we do now, IQ?” he said. No more funny business. He was serious.
Isaiah was panicked and hoped it didn’t show. Fuck, we’re fucking trapped! We’re fucking trapped! Okay, okay, calm down. Three more cops arrived. They huddled in the foyer, talking in that deliberate way cops do. Isaiah hoped they’d follow procedure and clear the first floor first.
“I’m getting a little upset here,” Dodson said. “I have a criminal record and if I get busted I’ll be back in Vacaville eating baloney sandwiches with no mustard and explaining to my serial killer cellmate why I can’t give him some head.”
The cops were making a lot of noise, radios crackling, doors opening, calling to each other. “Clear! Clear!”
“Well?” Dodson said, his voice rising. “I ain’t playing. Isaiah. What’s the goddamn plan?” Isaiah smiled. “What the fuck you smiling for?” Dodson said.
He followed Isaiah into the bedroom. Isaiah picked up the silver box and dumped out the bindles of cocaine.
“This ain’t Antiques Roadshow,” Dodson said. “The hell you gonna do with that?”
“Stay behind me,” Isaiah said.
The security guard was leaning against his car, poking at his phone. Isaiah came out of the house, double time, holding the silver box straight out in front of him. “Detective Martin, major crimes,” he said like he was pissed. “Have you called HQ?” The guard was startled, and before he realized the silver box wasn’t a badge, Isaiah punched him in the stomach. The guard wheezed and fell to the ground. Isaiah took his keys just as Dodson came running out. They got in the Escort and drove away, a cop in the rearview mirror yelling at them.
They were not home free. The entrances to the neighborhood might already be blocked and there was only one road leading up to the neighborhood itself. Were those sirens Isaiah was hearing or the adrenaline screaming through his veins? I told you this was stupid! Didn’t I tell you this was stupid? Isaiah had consulted Google Earth before they’d left and had memorized the layout of the roads. He made a turn, then another, heading back in the direction of Tyler’s house.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Dodson said. They reached Tyler’s street but on the opposite end from where they’d departed. Isaiah saw a house with its lights off and pulled into the driveway. Tyler’s place was maybe fifty yards away, two cops on the sidewalk, talking on their radios, the rest of them had left to pick up the chase.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Dodson said. “The fuck are we doing?”
“Let’s go,” Isaiah said.
“Let’s go where?” Dodson said. “Don’t think two niggas dressed up like bank robbers might be a little suspicious?”
They got out of the car. The neighbors were coming out onto their lawn to gawk. They saw the security company’s car and didn’t panic. Isaiah flashed the silver box again. “Undercover!” he said gruffly. “Go back inside.” They obeyed. Isaiah and Dodson raced around the side of the dark house. The gate was two feet shorter than Tyler’s and they clambered over it. They ran across the yard, climbed over a chain-link fence. They scrambled and stumbled down the hill, the thorns shredding their clothes. They reached the Kia and drove off just as a helicopter arrived and hovered over the development.
They left the windows open so the sweat would dry. They didn’t speak until their heart rates had dropped to something near normal. Isaiah could feel Dodson getting ready to unload. Isaiah said, “I got us out of it, didn’t I?”
“That’s your defense for doing something stupid?” Dodson retorted. “You got us out of it? You the one who got us into it in the first damn place. I can’t believe you dragged us in there when you didn’t know what you was looking for. That’s like trying to see the North Star but you don’t know what a star is. And by the way, did you find anything that’s gonna break the case?”
“No.”
“No? You mean nothing? No clues? No ideas.”
“No.”
“And you say you don’t need a partner,” Dodson huffed. “Son, you need two partners. One to help you out and the other to keep you out of jail.” Isaiah didn’t have an answer. Dodson said, “What am I gonna tell Cherise about all these rips in my clothes?”
“Tell her you found a stray cat and tried to bring it home,” Isaiah said.
Dodson glared. “Was that your idea of a joke? Please don’t do that anymore. You are the unfunniest motherfucker in the hoo
d and if you don’t believe me, ask anybody who knows you.” They arrived at Dodson’s apartment. He got out of the car, stooped to look back inside and said, “You owe me a new pair of Pumas.”
Isaiah drove home and thought about Christiana, the long colorful dresses in her closet and the travel brochures to Fiji and the picture of the house at the edge of the sea. He thought about the pin-striped vest he found in Marlene’s room. He thought about the Saks Fifth Avenue bag and the Tiffany engagement ring he found in Tyler’s bedroom and the photo of Marlene on the bed table. He thought about her earrings like pinpoints of green. He thought about her saying, Oh I knew him, all right. He was like every other man I’ve ever met. Like every other man who wanted sex. He thought about the suit Christiana was making for Tyler the night he was killed. He thought about Gia saying Christiana didn’t like to be touched. He thought about the alters and how every one of them disdained Tyler.
The next day he found Christiana at the shop, hand-sewing contentedly.
“You and Tyler were going to get married,” Isaiah said. She stopped what she was doing but didn’t look at him and didn’t put the needle down.
“That’s not true.”
“That’s why Tyler grabbed Pearl in the shop and kissed her neck,” he said. “He thought it was you. You didn’t want Pearl to talk to me because she’s weak and might have said something she shouldn’t have. You don’t like to be touched. That’s why Marlene was having sex with Tyler instead of you and that’s why she hates you both. The picture on his bed table was of you. I could tell because of the jade earrings. Those long dresses in your closet? They’re for warm weather, someplace like Fiji, for instance, and so was the linen suit you were making for Tyler. That’s why you got emotional, isn’t it?” Christiana didn’t look up.
Isaiah went on. “Tyler had bought some things from Saks. Beach clothes, and there was luggage under your bed that should have been in storage, and Tyler’s luggage was in his hallway. He had a diamond ring from Tiffany, your engagement ring. You were eloping.”
She shook her head adamantly but he continued. “That photo in your room, the one of the house on the beach with the forest behind it. That’s your dream house, isn’t it? On the Oregon coast? That’s where Tyler was from.” Christiana’s hands were over her face. She was crying. Isaiah didn’t let up. “You kept it a secret because if Angus found out there’d be no telling what he’d do. Tyler, the trusted one, was taking his little girl away.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she sobbed. “Tyler is dead.”
“It does matter,” Isaiah said. “Because you’re thinking what I’m thinking. That one of the alters, or maybe all of them together, hired the killers.”
“It wasn’t them, I know it wasn’t!” she sobbed.
“They all despised Tyler, even Pearl. Why should that be? He was a nice guy, nice enough for you to marry him. They didn’t like him because if you married Tyler, they’d all be marrying Tyler.” Isaiah considered what he’d say next. The guilty might go unpunished but a moral compass at this point wouldn’t save Stella.
He lowered his voice. “Now here’s what you have to do, Christiana,” he said. “I need more information. You have to convince the others to tell me everything they know about that night. Maybe they were involved, maybe not, but if I know for certain, I’ll know what I’m working with. I can figure out what the police have and if I know that, maybe I can come up with a way to divert them. Do you understand?” She was trembling. She nodded. “Will you try?” he asked. He was as desperate as she was.
“Yes,” she said. “I will try.”
Grace was at Cherokee’s place, wearing rubber gloves and cleaning the stove. Once again, she was imposing on her friend so it was the least she could do. Grace thought about Isaiah’s invitation. Was she really going to move in with him? She wanted to. Home was not a word she used or had thought about much but the urge to create one was tempting and powerful. She’d talked it over with Cherokee before she left and almost regretted it. Nothing like a spoilsport and the voice of reason to mess up your day. She told Grace she was nuts.
“Maybe wait another week,” Cherokee said, “until you really get to know him.”
The doorbell rang. Grace peered through the peephole. Her first reaction was alarm. What the hell is he doing here? Then she remembered the goddamn stupid fucking duffel bag. She took a deep breath and gathered herself. She paused. For some reason she wanted him to wait. He rang the bell again. She put on her calm face and opened the door.
“Hi,” Noah said. He smiled warmly. “I’m really glad to see you.”
“Hi,” Grace said. “I’m glad to see you too.”
Noah DeMarco moved easily, smoothly, like his joints were oiled, surprising for a tall man. He was blue-eyed, legitimately rugged, sun-streaked hair touching his shoulders. He had a deep tan but it was different from the bronzed surfers in Malibu; less like a uniform, more like he’d earned it riding a horse, rounding up cattle all day. He reminded her of a young Sam Shepard.
“This is your friend’s place?” he said.
“Cherokee. She’s great.”
“I’d like to meet her,” he said. She didn’t answer. She got him a bottle of water and they sat on the green velvet couch. Conflicting emotions swirled around her like fireflies. She was surprisingly glad to see him. Tamp it down, girl. Get him out of here.
“How are you?” he said.
“I’m good. You?” she said.
“I’m fine. I had a good trip.” He talked about driving here from New Mexico on his bike. The vistas he’d seen, the people he’d met. It was a pleasant travelogue, nothing showy, no death-defying adventures. His voice was calm and self-deprecating, so different from before. She was suddenly afraid Isaiah would walk in.
Grace had been in New Mexico almost a year, lonely and pining for Isaiah. One of her friends hosted a dinner party. The guests were a mix of local artists, normal people, dedicated narcissists and your garden-variety flakes.
Everybody brought wine. Noah brought a big bouquet of desert flowers in an old ceramic vase. Beaming, the host set them down as a centerpiece and pronounced Noah a sweetheart. Grace was on the other side of the table, the flowers between them. When Noah stood up to greet someone she took a good look at him. Wow. He’s good looking. She felt guilty just for thinking it.
Between the desert marigolds and red chuparosa and the feathery apache plumes, she caught brief glimpses of him—an amused blue eye, a forelock brushed away, a smile brilliant against his tan. Somehow, the puzzle pieces made him more intriguing.
She heard snippets of what he said. Hardly anything about himself, freakish in this crowd. He sounded hyper but charming. He made the people beside him laugh and she wished she could laugh too. It had been a while and she’d almost forgotten how. She looked at him through the leaves and stems. He was looking back at her. She smiled, embarrassed, and he was too. They both stood up, reached over the foliage, and shook hands.
“Noah,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Grace. Nice to meet you too.” It was the kind of connection people noticed.
Later they talked, mostly about their work. He was intense, knowledgeable and a little full of himself but tolerably so. She asked to see pictures of his work. He was talented. Really talented. She showed him what she’d been doing and he was impressed too, but his work was clearly better. It was nice talking to another artist. He understood what she was getting at and the references to other artists. He listened too, not waiting to top her anecdote with a better one. Rare in a man. Rare in anybody. It reminded her of Isaiah but she shut that out.
A mild evening in New Mexico was romantic all by itself. But with the moon close enough to kiss and the stars gathering to greet one another and the breeze smelling of damp earth and sage, you either fell in love or wished that you could. Segovia played under Chinese lanterns and she danced with him, feeling guilty the whole time. She imagined Isaiah longing for her while she flirted with a handsome arti
st who thankfully, wore no beads, didn’t have a man bun or talk about his trips to Paris. The wine made it okay to be dancing with him. At one point, her face touched his chest and she quickly withdrew it. She did that with Isaiah. She said an abrupt goodbye and left, Noah not saying anything stupid like When will I see you again?
She regretted leaving. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Noah was a nice guy and she was attracted to him. So what was the problem? She repeated her mantra. I have issues to resolve. A relationship is not a good idea. That was one of the reasons she’d left Isaiah, wasn’t it? To get her head straight? Resolve her terrible past? Why move eight hundred miles away only to be entangled with someone you didn’t love?
Two days later Noah called and asked her to coffee. Nothing wrong with that; she had coffee with friends all the time. She almost put on something prettier than her usual chambray shirt over a T-shirt but caught herself and wore what she wore. Don’t be an idiot, she thought. It’s fucking coffee.
They met at Lucinda’s in the afternoon. They both worked mornings to catch the early light and they both smelled of turpentine and had paint on their hands. It was like a membership card. As artists, they had the same central issue: how to capture and illuminate human nature; the nuance in a glance, the feeling between the feelings, the words being said when nobody was saying anything. Joy and pain and isolation without being maudlin.
“It’s so frustrating,” he said. “I feel like I paint around it, behind it, or I overpaint because I’m trying too hard.”
“And when you’re done,” Grace added, “you feel like you quit the race five yards from the finish line.”
“Exactly,” he said, and they smiled.
He invited her to go for a ride in the desert on his motorcycle but she declined. Too much like a Julia Roberts movie. They’d need a soundtrack. He was cool about it, didn’t ask for a reason or a consolation prize like dinner. He was either a gifted romantic or a genuinely nice guy. She casually asked around about him. Girlfriend? No. Bad habits? Nothing anybody knew about it. Drugs? Recreational like everybody else. She was surprised when he didn’t call.