And Now She's Gone(34)

Wrecked her in places that couldn’t be seen on an X-ray.

A message from Clarissa.

Found 702 number. emailing you a profile of the person paying for the phone.



Isabel’s mother, Rebekah Lawrence. Lived on Fifth Avenue in Inglewood. No social network accounts. One email account.

Not a lot of information, but at least Gray now had an address to visit.

Even though there was something sinister and nasty lingering beneath his request to find his girlfriend, Ian O’Donnell expected results by today, and all Gray had was a text message plea to be left alone, sent from someone else’s phone.

“One last thing.” She dialed Omar’s number again.

And again the man didn’t answer, and his voice mail box was still full.

She emailed Clarissa. Could you find anything on this phone number? Thanks! She paused, then added: this one, too. She sent the number possibly belonging to Sean Dixon.

Get going. She grabbed from the kitchen utility drawer a pair of disposable latex gloves that she used to touch chicken, and then she banged out the door.

The city was alive now. The sun and the sky were a crisp, ashy blue, and there’d been only one car accident on her drive down Crenshaw Boulevard. More than that, there were no ORO alerts, nor were there Range Rovers and Jaguars in her rearview mirror. Gray’s phone stayed dark—still no texts from Tea, Isabel … or Hank. By now, he should’ve sent a Damn, last night was da bomb text, but he hadn’t. That stung her ego some. Morning-after texts were simple courtesy.

Even though he left just three hours ago?

Yes, the Skipper determined, even then.





18


As Oleta Adams sang about life being a long, flat road, Gray split her attention between making a right turn off Arbor Vitae onto Fifth Avenue and eyeing any car that followed her. Sean Dixon’s Rise and shine message had kick-started her day of paranoia, and although no ORO alerts had scrolled down her screen, that didn’t mean he hadn’t come to Los Angeles to confront her. See you soon. A threat and a promise, and the day would be long with over-the-shoulder checks. And wondering, How did he get my number?

Inglewood was home to Rebekah and Joseph Lawrence as well as the fabulous Forum, the Los Angeles Chargers, and an under-construction football stadium. For now, it remained an affordable middle-class neighborhood with Toyotas and Hondas in some driveways and beat-up Regals and Eldorados in others. Kids enjoying their summer break tossed footballs or performed wheelies on their bikes. Their parents, dressed in suits, nurse’s scrubs, or bus uniforms, brushed ashes off their cars’ windshields or sipped from travel mugs while gossiping with neighbors. Full steam ahead for the American Dream.

And there were witnesses—Sean wouldn’t pull something with so many eyes.

Right?

Gray craved simpler living, like how she sometimes craved Twyla Tatum’s meatloaf. Another one of Gray’s foster mothers, Mom Twyla had the cheekbones of a gazelle and wore bright fuchsia lipstick that always stained her teeth. She could cook, with meatloaf being her specialty. But then, Gray remembered, that meatloaf had always given her the shits afterward.

Gray slowed, the closer she got to the middle of the block, and she parked a few feet away from the Lawrences’ driveway.

A quick glance in the rearview mirror. No Sean and no English luxury cars.

Rebekah Lawrence was beautiful—that was Gray’s first thought, as the older woman opened the passenger door of a gold Cadillac. A dead ringer for Clair Huxtable, with that feathered hair and those wise eyes. Rebekah Lawrence didn’t deal in nonsense, not wearing that no-nonsense lilac pantsuit. She was the type of woman who could spot a lie coming from a mile away and would not hesitate to drag anyone in her driveway—for truth, justice, and the American Way—for all the neighbors to see.

Gray nestled her leather binder in the crook of her arm and walked toward the army-green ranch-style home with its brown shingled roof and neat white trim. She smiled.

Rebekah Lawrence said, “May I help you?” as Gray had opened her mouth to say, “Good morning.” The older woman’s voice was low and slow, the kind that asked you to fill out the form, correctly this time, and to come back prepared, or else she would make you do it again, all day if need be, and I ain’t got nothing but time, sweetheart.

She reminded Gray of her forever-mother, Faye. Nothing but time, sweetheart.

“You’re Rebekah Lawrence, yes?” Gray asked, closing in on her. “How are you today?”

“Depends on the next ten seconds.”

Gray smiled wider. “It’s no big deal. I’m just here to check on your daughter. To make sure she’s okay.”

Rebekah Lawrence cocked her head. “I need you to say more than that. You are…?”

Gray handed the woman one of her new business cards.

Rebekah’s eyebrows furrowed as she read aloud: “‘Grayson Sykes, Private Investigator, Rader Consulting.’ My daughter is fine. I just saw her on Sunday.”

“That’s good to hear. Has she been living with you?”

“Yes, for the last month.” She squinted. “Who hired you?”

“Can’t say, Mrs. Lawrence.”

“I’m just confused, is all. I don’t like being confused.”

“Understandable. My client seems to think that your daughter has run away.”