And Now She's Gone(65)

“So she ain’t cashed it yet,” Ardizzone was saying. “It won’t go through now anyway, cuz we put a hold on the funds. She doesn’t know that yet, and I’ve been coming to see if she’s gonna pick it up. How the hell did you get it?”

“The neighbor gave it to me.”

“Why would the neighbor give it to you?”

“She thinks I’m one of Isabel’s friends, and Isabel gave her a key a while ago to take care of a pet. Anyway, the neighbor gave me the house key. And the doctor boyfriend is my client—his name’s actually on the lease. He gave me his key. So, basically, Miss Lincoln can’t enter this condo unless she breaks in or comes through me.”

Then, Gray told him about the boxes of L’Oréal hair color, the memo pad with flight numbers, and the stolen Labradoodle.

Stuart Ardizzone said, “Jeez.”

“Yeah. How much is the life insurance policy for?”

“Half a mil.”

“When did she take it out?”

“April.”

“For who?”

The silver-toothed man pecked at the iPad, then glared at the sky. “Crap. Connection’s gone. Lemme get back to you on that.”

“Why would she take out a policy for five hundred thousand dollars and then leave the city?”

“Don’t know,” Stuart Ardizzone said. “She also upped an older life insurance policy on her, for another five hundred K. That’s when the number crunchers sent me out.”

Isabel Lincoln could be dead, but not by Ian O’Donnell’s hand. Tea, the sole beneficiary on Isabel’s life insurance policy, could have killed her friend and was now impersonating the dead woman through text messages. Tea would also have received the insurance payout for the BMW—that check now sitting on the breakfast counter. Which is why she was juggling those two cell phones. Hers and Isabel’s.

Grifter. A red-blooded American grifter.

And Gray had thirty-three thousand dollars’ worth of bait.





34


Stuart Ardizzone raced to talk with Mitch Pravin at Shalimar Furniture.

Gray returned to Isabel Lincoln’s condo and opened the envelope from JCI Insurance Services. She held her breath as she pulled out the now-voided check for thirty-three thousand dollars. She laid the check on the breakfast bar, then took a picture of the check and the envelope. She texted the picture to the missing woman and her best friend, along with a message.

Look what I have.

Bait.

I need to meet with one of you so that I can give this to you. I won’t leave it just sitting. I won’t release it until I get that picture of Isabel’s thigh.

Until then, she’d keep the check in Rader’s safe.

Gray retreated to the Camry and willed her pulse to slow. Wouldn’t be good to have a coronary event while on surveillance. As she sat, she gazed down at her bright lemon pants. Stuart Ardizzone was right—she needed to reconsider her sartorial choices while working a case. Because she was staking out. Just like he said.

Too late.

Two hours after she’d left Isabel’s condo to sit in the Camry, no one had come or gone. Just sitting there, her head dropped, and once she heard herself snore. She blinked awake—not much time had passed in between these snatches of sleep.

“Do better, girl,” she muttered to herself. She could buy cans of Mountain Dew or Red Bull, but then she’d have to pee. Male P.I.s could urinate into a bottle. What did women do?

A text message from Clarissa.

I think this is your guy.



She had included an attachment.

LOS ANGELES MAN FOUND DEAD IN DESERT AREA OF ADELANTO

Gray tapped the link to the short news article. The first image was the driver’s license picture of a young, bearded black man.

Omar Neville, 33, was found in an unattended vehicle on Saturday. A person riding an ATV discovered the car and occupant … Sheriff Department is investigating …



“Oh no, oh no, no—”

The phone vibrated again, but she stared out the windshield instead.

Omar Neville was dead? Why? And who …

Elyse Miller. She had to find—

Another vibration. Clarissa again.

U there?



Yeah I’m thinking. I’ll contact the sheriff later. Thanks C!

For now, she’d stay planted in the front seat of the Camry, steps away from the janky security gate. She’d wait to hear from Tea Christopher or Isabel Lincoln, wait for that battered green Altima with the troll dolls in the back window to swerve into a space at the curb. Or, better yet, that big black truck Mrs. Tompkins saw on the morning Isabel Lincoln disappeared.

As she sat and waited and expected, sweat poured down Gray’s face and back. It was a Sunday in July, and her white silk shirt was nearly transparent with perspiration. The surgery scars in her abdomen throbbed, and she was almost certain that the liquid around them that was making her wound stick to silk wasn’t sweat. She found a half-full bottle of water on the car floor, then guzzled it.

Her phone buzzed.

What are you doing right now?



A 310 area code. Los Angeles. Who wants to know?

You need to be careful.



Gray’s mouth went dry. She glanced at the condos across the street and then glanced in the rearview and side mirrors. No one stood on the sidewalks or in the courtyard. Not many cars were parked at the curb—everyone was still at church or brunch, except for the owners of a white Tesla, a copper Kia, two blue American sedans, Gray’s Camry … and a black Range Rover.