The quartet reached their apartment across the street from Lake Merritt. A crystal vase of lavender roses for Natalie sat on the porch. On the card, Sean had written, “Let me show you the world,” and had promised to buy her a return ticket to Las Vegas.
Couldn’t the girls see? Wasn’t it obvious?
Natalie and Sean were meant to be together.
6
The cardiologist was performing some sort of magic trick, and Gray gave Farrah, Beth, and Nan her phone number in case they had more clues to offer on how to uncover that trick.
Ultimately, though, her job was simple: obtain proof that Isabel and Kenny G. were alive.
But now she stood before the Alumni Center’s full-length bathroom mirror, disgusted with her reflection. Chocolate-stained. Wrinkled. Swollen feet. Numb legs. Dead phone. Lost pen. No drugs. Distracting pain. What the fuck?
“And I probably have hepatitis from licking my freakin’ fingers.” She washed her hands and watched as brown grime—hepatitis?—swirled into the drain.
It was minutes before four o’clock as Gray tromped back through the tiled lobby and back out into the sticky air. She reached into her bag for car keys and heard the purse’s inside lining rip.
She hated this purse and longed for the bags she’d carried back in the good old days. Buttery Givenchy satchels big enough to carry a book, a pair of shoes and a set of keys, plane tickets to somewhere else. Bags like that, though, caught people’s attention, and she didn’t need women remembering, Oh yeah, she was carrying that limited-edition Fendi and I remember cuz I had a salad that day with cranberries and I was wearing my red jeans, the ones with the tear in the left knee. And so, cheap, forgettable purses. The one with her now was a Liz Claiborne shoulder bag, camel-colored, with a black strap, faux leather outside, and (ripped) polyester lining inside. A five-star bag on the Macy’s website, now at two stars because it couldn’t handle Gray’s life just after two years of hard labor.
Back in the car, she connected her phone to the charger—power again!—then she texted Ian O’Donnell: What were the dates she left for no reason?
Immediate ellipses. Shouldn’t he have been staring at chest X-rays? Providing comfort and care to another Mary Ann, this one with a bad ticker instead of a broken ankle? Didn’t he have a body hidden beneath a windmill to relocate?
Waiting for his response, Gray found a ballpoint pen in the glove compartment. She consulted Isabel Lincoln’s intake form again.
LAST SEEN: May 27
Ian O’Donnell responded.
Gone mid-March and end of May
Gray updated her blank notepad.
Isabel had been gone for four days before Ian had … realized it? Or had he realized it but just hadn’t called the cops? According to Farrah Tarrino, Isabel had requested three days off in December—but Ian, just now, hadn’t mentioned her leaving then. And they’d been together in December. Maybe those were just times spent at home?
Gray listened to her interview with Farrah Tarrino and Beth Sharpe—but her phone had died just before the executive director had started to speak in specifics. Flummoxed, Gray flipped through her two pages of scribbles. “What am I supposed to do now?”
Omar.
She found Ian O’Donnell’s text message that had listed contact numbers.
Had Isabel been stepping out on the nice guy doctor with this Omar dude?
Or was Omar just a cousin, maybe, or the service advisor at the neighborhood Jiffy Lube?
Gray dialed the mystery man’s number.
Ringing …
“Hey…” A man’s voice. “This is Oz.” Were Oz and Omar the same person? “Leave a message.” Silence, and then: “This mailbox is full. Good-bye.”
Gray swiped at her limp bangs, then swiped at her phone’s screen until she found the ORO app, from Rader Consulting’s automatic license plate reader contractor.
Anytime. Anywhere. We see you.
Their tagline creeped Gray out, but not enough for her to stop using their technology. She’d set up an automatic tracker on a black Range Rover with personalized Nevada plates (VGSKING), and a red Jaguar, also Nevada personalized plates (CAQTINLV). If either car was spotted by an automated license plate reader in Greater Los Angeles, she’d receive an alert and an image of the car.
Three weeks ago, she’d wondered if ORO’s technology was flawed or if those cars had been sold to new owners—but then her phone had buzzed. A rear license plate from an SUV had been captured near the train station in the middle of the day. And for three days, notifications filled her phone’s screen—Santa Monica, Westwood Village, Culver City.
Soon, no alerts filled the ORO app’s dashboard. But that Range Rover had roamed the streets of Los Angeles for three days.
Looking for Natalie Dixon.
7
At every intersection she crossed, at every traffic light she heeded, Gray sent her eyes searching for English luxury cars. Sometimes she rolled down the Camry’s window and listened for the boom of a bass line, for the slurred delivery of a lyric. There was Cardi B. There was Jay-Z. And her heavy breathing—there was that, too. But there was no Notorious B.I.G.
As usual, she made sudden right turns as she drove, pissing off the drivers behind her and forcing the Camry to be more agile than its original design allowed. Gray didn’t care, didn’t want anyone tailing her. What had Nan said? That’s us women: doing what we gotta do to survive. Anything to stay aboveground for one more day.
Ian’s “love” … It was nice to look at, it could resist some damage, but too many rainy days had caused mold to grow and had caused it to warp. Ian and Isabel had a bamboo kind of love.
Gray drove south on La Brea Avenue to Baldwin Hills. The fancy black neighborhood at the top enjoyed views of downtown Los Angeles or the Pacific Ocean. The neighborhood at the bottom, originally nicknamed “the Jungle,” but not for Grandpa’s racist reasons, also enjoyed some of those views—that is, if the windows hadn’t been boarded up or covered in aluminum foil.
There was less congestion in this part of town than the Westside. More brown faces. More Bantu knots and Brazilian blowouts. Barbecue, Baptists, buñuelos y bebidas. More Mickie D’s and Del Tacos tag-teaming in the Diabetes Hypertension Die-Off.
Isabel Lincoln lived closer to the fancier neighborhood. Here, gray-and-white condominiums on Don Lorenzo Drive sat across from the Stocker Corridor hillside trail. For a so-called white girl, Isabel Lincoln had chosen one of the most colored places to live.
Gray parked south of the security gate.
She was fifteen minutes early.
Her phone chirped: Ian.
You meet her co-workers?
Yes, but I won’t have anything to report if I tell you everything now.
He sent a smile emoji.
See you at Iz’s condo at five. It’s a little hard to find.
Be careful it’s rough over there.
Gray had dated “woke” white boys who thought all black neighborhoods were “rough.” Dealing with this kind of muted racism—“Essence magazine is reverse discrimination,” wah-wah-wah—had been an exhausting journey of tight-lipped hostility mixed with astounding sex.…
Yeah, she’d do it again.