And Now She's Gone(11)
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, bu?uelos 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.
She found Isabel Lincoln’s Facebook profile. The missing woman liked “Keep Calm” memes, Grumpy Cat and UCLA Bruins, Friends and Sprinkles cupcakes. The last picture, posted on May 20, had been a tribe photo—Isabel and her friends in a selfie huddle. The missing woman stood in the back of the pack with her eyes hidden by shades. The toughest days are easier with your girls in front of you.
May 17. The orange tabby, Morris, lounged in a laundry basket. The responses to this post were all sad-face emojis, RIPs, and “So sorry, Izzy.” No condolences, though, from Ian O’Donnell.
April 6. A group of friends, wine tasting. Glasses of reds, whites, and sparklings. Isabel, not in the shot, had probably taken the picture. When life gives you lemons, drink wine.
Relationship status … There was no relationship status. Hell, there were no pictures of Ian O’Donnell anywhere.
Ian O’Donnell’s Facebook page, on the other hand, captured a full-blown romance, mostly with himself and, in second place, with Kenny G. His most recent post: a picture of himself speaking at the California Endowment about building healthy communities. Other posts included shots of him and Isabel at an Adele concert. He and Kenny G. on a sailboat, in a convertible Porsche, and sharing an ice cream cone. There was a picture of a UCLA Medical Center billboard that featured Ian.