After image, p.22
After Image, page 22
That Halloween weekend—that’s what had pushed Allie to see a therapist.
“And she kept her promise,” Marisol insists. “I know she did.” Suddenly, she looks very tired. “But it wasn’t enough,” she says. “In the end.” She presses her hands to her lips. “I think about it all the time. That day. If I’d done something different, maybe I could’ve stopped . . .”
She starts to cry in earnest, and I put an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder.
And I realize: In Marisol’s mind, what happened to Allie wasn’t murder. It wasn’t some terrible conspiracy. The day she went missing, Marisol thinks, Allie simply managed to successfully do what she hadn’t the two times before.
Third time’s a charm, Allie murmurs in my ear.
When I return to the party, the sun is simmering over the ocean, turning the sky a brilliant shade of purple. I need to say my goodbyes to Matthew and Chloe before I go. First, though, I walk into the foyer, find my bag hanging on a coat hook, and tuck the Western civ book inside. When I have more time, I want to look through all of Allie’s doodles, the notes she scribbled in the margins.
When I return to the living room, the atmosphere has loosened. Several people are dancing near the fireplace, Isabel among them. Near the sofas, Matthew chats to Giles and a few other men. As I move toward him, I see him take a sip from a bottle of beer. He catches sight of me and waves, stepping aside from the group to talk to me.
“Where have you been?” he asks. “I thought you might have left.”
I try not to stare at the bottle in his hand. Matthew doesn’t drink, not anymore.
“I’m not feeling that great,” I say. “I’m going to go home.”
He looks disappointed. “Oh. I’m sorry we didn’t get more time to catch up.” He leans closer, studying my face. “What is it? Is everything all right?”
I pause. “You’re drinking?” I ask. I can’t pretend I haven’t noticed.
He looks down at the drink in his hand as if surprised to realize it’s there. Then he laughs. “Oh, this? It’s just a beer. A light beer. God, look at your face! Don’t worry so much, Natasha. Trust me, one beer is not going to send me back to rehab. It was the hard stuff that was my problem.”
He sounds so reassuring. Is this really nothing to be concerned about? Certainly, no one here looks bothered. Now I feel like I used to around Allie and Greg—like a worrywart, a killjoy. After all, Matthew seems perfectly sober—far more sober, for instance, than Isabel, who is now dancing with a red-haired woman by the fireplace, leaning her head on the woman’s shoulder.
“Hey. We good?” Matthew asks, squeezing my shoulder. He seems concerned that he’s upset me.
I nod. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory bubbles up: Allie sitting cross-legged on my bed, holding a cluster of airline liquor bottles in her hand. Trust me, alcohol was never my problem.
“Good,” he says, smiling. “And you should stay. Have a good time. Cut loose for once.”
This, also, is something Allie would say. And it strikes me again, how similar the two of them are. In the end, Matthew had stopped drinking, stopped short of full-blown self-destruction. But Allie—maybe, despite her best efforts, she’d been unable to save herself.
CHAPTER 47
At home, I sit in bed with my back against the headboard, the Western civ book propped on my knees. I slip the strip of negatives out from the book and lay it on my bedside table, where it gleams in the lamplight. Then I leaf through the textbook pages, studying Allie’s scribbled notes in the margins. Some are scraps of poetry. Others are little comments on the text that make me laugh.
Even in these little pencil marks, Allie’s so alive. I try not to think of her at the house in Malibu, lying in her old bedroom, waiting to die.
After chapter 3 in the book, there are no more scribbles in the margins. That must be where Allie stopped reading. I flip through the remaining pages, then stop when I glimpse something wedged in the pages of the final chapter. Thumbing my way back, I find what’s tucked between the pages. A business card. QUALITY AUTO, it says, followed by an address and two phone numbers. Then, beneath that, a name: MIA ROSSI.
I sit up straight, holding the card by its crisp edges. What the hell is this?
In the morning, Ruiz drives over before I go into work so he can collect the card from me. I’d texted him a photo of it last night and explained where I found it, what I now know about Allie’s Halloween.
I jog down the front stairs of the apartment building, meet him at the curb, and climb into the passenger seat of the Jeep. Then I hand him the card.
He studies it for a long moment. “Mia. That was the name Allie wanted Macnamara to call her, wasn’t it?”
I nod. “It’s from this book we used to read when we were kids. Mia Rossi is the name she chose when Greg made us our fake IDs.” I’m wired, running on only three hours of sleep. “I called the numbers on the card last night. The first goes to a body shop in Van Nuys. The other one is out of service.”
Ruiz taps the card against his steering wheel. “Shit,” he says under his breath. Then: “Give me a second.” He pulls out his phone and makes a call. After a moment, he says, “Jerry, hey. Can you run an address for me?”
As he reads out the street name and number, I sip coffee from my travel mug.
“Uh-huh. Yup.”
My phone buzzes, startling me. I pull it out of my pocket and look at the text alert. It’s my doorbell camera. The motion sensor outside my apartment has been activated. Quickly, I tap on the link and watch the video through the app. But it’s only the building manager, sticking a flyer by my door, seeming not to notice that the sheet covers the doorbell lens. The video now shows me only the back side of a white piece of paper.
I let out a slow sigh. So much for technology.
When Ruiz finally hangs up the phone, his eyes are shining. “So, guess who owns Quality Auto?” He sets the business card down on the dashboard in front of us. “Manny Ocampo.”
“Ocampo? As in . . .”
“Jairo Ocampo’s uncle. Apparently Jairo manages the place now.” He frowns. “On the face of it, the business is legit,” Ruiz says. “They repair cars, pay their taxes . . . everything’s aboveboard. But in the past, Manny Ocampo’s been busted for running a chop shop.”
“So, Allie was involved with that somehow?”
Ruiz spreads his hands wide. “Maybe. It would explain her sudden source of income that semester. I need to talk to Jairo.”
“Well, let’s go,” I say quickly. “We can go today.” Forget work. Work doesn’t matter.
Ruiz shakes his head. “No. Natasha, from here on out, it’s got to be official. This card—it needs to be logged in to evidence. I need to go down to Quality Auto with my partner and talk to Jairo myself.”
I feel a flash of panic. If Ruiz decides to go through official routes, that means the investigation will do what it’s always done, which is plod along, hitting all the inevitable walls until it comes to a standstill. “Ruiz, you know Jairo won’t say anything to you, to the cops. We’re better off going there ourselves . . .”
He’s shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t risk it. We’ve got to play by the rules now.” He gestures to the card. “This? This is a real break in the case. A solid reason to reinterview Jairo.”
I want to shout at him, but with great effort I keep my voice calm. “And he’ll tell you what? The business card isn’t worth anything unless we can actually get him to talk about it.” I remember Jairo from Greg’s parties, the way his voice used to reverberate across the room. Once he started talking, you couldn’t get him to shut up. But he wouldn’t say one word about his relationship with Allie to the police.
Ruiz hesitates, and I can see him struggling with his decision. There is a part of him, I think, that knows I’m right. But he only shakes his head. “I’m sorry. No. Jairo’s a whole different ball game than Macnamara. If he’s mixed up with his uncle now, that means he has a lot more to hide, a lot more to protect. He could be dangerous.”
“Please.” This could be our only shot, our one shot at finding out the truth.
Ruiz won’t look me in the eye. “I’m sorry. I know how much this means to you. But you have to trust us with this now. The police have to handle it from now on. I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can.”
But I know what that means. I’ll be on the outside of the investigation again, getting by on scraps of information, having my phone calls transferred to Family Liaison.
I can’t believe he’s doing this. Not now. Not when we’re so close.
“This is the best way,” he says. “Believe me.”
I grab the door handle and shove the door open, stepping out of the Jeep. I can’t believe I’d been stupid enough to trust him with the card.
“Natasha,” Ruiz calls after me.
For a moment, I feel a flash of hope. He’s changed his mind. But when I turn around, he’s just leaning across the passenger seat, holding my purse out to me.
“I’ll be in touch as soon as we know something,” he says. “I promise.”
“All right.” I’m trying not to show my fury.
A text comes through on his phone. “Shit,” he murmurs as he checks the screen. “They need me down at the station.” He glances at me. “You sure you’re okay?”
Of course not. He’s shown me now how it’s going to be. How I’m on my own from now on. I lift my chin. “Yes. Yes. I’m fine.”
CHAPTER 48
When I see his Jeep turn the corner at the end of the street, I pull my camera out of my purse and pull up the shot I took this morning. The business card. I zoom in on the name Mia Rossi and stare at it for a long time. Then I turn the camera off, put it back in my bag, and call work to tell them I can’t come in today.
Trust us, Ruiz said. But the police aren’t going to be able to get the information they need from Jairo. I know it.
I walk back into the apartment building and make my way through the lobby, down the corridor to the parking garage. When I push open the heavy door, I wait for the motion-sensor lights to flicker on, but nothing happens. The garage is still in shadow. Swearing under my breath, I feel along the wall until I find the switch and flip it. With a groan, the lights snap on throughout the garage, casting a sickly light over the cars. In the middle row, my old Honda Civic sits, covered in dust.
I grip my keys in my hand. I know it’s risky to drive. Foolish, even. But I can’t take an Uber to Jairo’s auto shop. I don’t know how long I’ll be there or how quickly I’ll need to leave.
For a moment, I chew on my lower lip. Then I pull up the route to Quality Auto on my phone. It’s not far. I tell myself I’ll take the side streets. I won’t get on the highway. I’ll be as cautious as I can.
When I click the key fob to unlock the car, the beep reverberates through the parking garage, loud and jarring, like a warning.
I park on the far end of the street from Quality Auto, where I have a clear view of the place but my car won’t be noticed. The auto shop occupies the corner of a flat, unremarkable block in Van Nuys, across the street from an empty storefront and a place offering payday loans. It’s a low-slung building with four garage bays. Through two of the open doors, I see a car hoisted up on a lift and two men working underneath.
My heart is still beating rapidly from the drive. A part of me felt exhilarated to drive again, to be in charge, in control. But my hands are still trembling, from the risk I’ve just taken and the one I’m about to take. Am I really going to go in there? This isn’t like visiting Greg and Macnamara. I barely know Jairo, and I can’t predict how he’ll react to me dropping in on him.
I lift my face up, feeling the bright sunlight blazing through the windshield. I think of Allie in her old bedroom in Isabel’s house, of how alone she must’ve felt that day. So alone she didn’t believe she could talk to anyone. Not even me.
With a yank, I pull the key out of the ignition, open the car door, and step out onto the street.
When I enter the auto shop, the smell of motor oil washes over me. It’s dark in here, and I have to blink a few times before my eyes adjust. There are three lifts in the center of the garage, and the back of the room contains shelves overflowing with auto parts. As I step forward, the two men working under the car turn to look at me, perplexed. The younger one walks over, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth pulled from the back pocket of his jeans.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Jairo Ocampo,” I say, trying to sound sure of myself.
The man glances at his coworker and raises his eyebrows. “You want to talk to Jairo?”
“Yes. Jairo.” Lamely, I add, “I’m an old friend.”
The young man looks at the other guy, says something in Spanish, and they both laugh. I know I don’t look like a friend of Jairo’s.
“Jairo?” I say stubbornly. I’m starting to sweat. My phone is tucked in the outer pocket of my jacket and set to record. Whatever Jairo says to me, I want proof of it. Even if it can never be used in court.
The man waves toward a small office tucked away at the back of the building. “In there.” As I walk past him, he murmurs something to his coworker that I can’t quite hear.
The office is just a small square of space walled off from the rest of the building. As I step up to the door and look inside, I see a metal desk wedged into one corner. An ancient desktop computer sits on top of it, next to stacks of paperwork and an ashtray in the shape of a race car.
A dark-haired man sits at the desk, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt. A large silver watch glints on his wrist. When he hears me step into the office, without looking up from his computer, he says, “Yeah? What?” Then he looks up, and his tone changes. “Oh,” he says, standing up. “What can I do for you, miss?”
It’s Jairo. All the baby fat has disappeared from his face, and his upper body ripples with muscle. Without the shaved head, he looks like a different person—his curly hair is slicked back, carefully styled.
“Hi,” I say. Now that I’m actually standing in front of him, my heart rate ratchets up. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Allie’s sister. Natasha.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just runs his eyes over my body. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I remember you. The girl with the long legs.” He sits back down in his swivel chair and chews on the end of his pen. Then he takes it out of his mouth. “Well, what you need, girl? I’m guessing you’re not here about a car.”
“Um, no. Is it okay if I . . . ?” I gesture to the chair on the other side of his desk.
He shrugs as if it makes no difference to him.
Carefully, I sit down in the chair and set my bag on my lap. The phone in my front pocket wobbles forward, and I hope to God it’s picking up our conversation.
“So, what’s up?” he asks. As if it’s been only a few days since we last saw each other.
“I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about Allie.”
He looks bemused. “Why?”
“It’s just . . . I’ve been going back through some photos of her.” I’ve thought about how I’m going to approach this conversation. And I know I can’t lead with the business card. I’ve got to work up to that. “And I noticed there were some of you in them.”
He looks mildly interested. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” I reach into my bag, pull out my SLR, flick it on, and, leaning forward, show him the picture of him and Allie standing in the hallway of Greg’s apartment.
He studies it for a minute. “Yeah, that’s me. Look at that pudge.” He shakes his head in disgust. “That was before I found out about clean eating.” He pats his flat stomach and grins at me. “Big difference, right?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
He flexes one arm, showing off a massive bicep. “Now I’m in the best shape of my life.” When he laughs, I see straight, white teeth, a gold filling near the back of his mouth. “I work out five, six days a week. Bench 240.” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for my reaction.
“Wow. Impressive.” That’s what he wants to hear, right? I draw his attention back to the picture. “So, do you remember this night?”
He looks at the photo again. “Like, do I remember that night specifically? Hell no. You know what those parties were like.”
I pull the camera back and examine the photo closely. “It’s just . . . when I saw this picture, like how close you guys are talking, I just wondered—were you two ever . . . you know?”
He looks blank for a second; then he realizes what I’m asking and starts laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week. “You mean, were we together? Fuck, no. I mean, no offense. Allie was a good-looking girl. A lot of fun. But she was never my type.” He picks up a framed photo on his desk and flips it around for me to see. It’s him with his arm around a petite Latina girl. She’s holding a chubby baby on one hip.
“Now, this—this is my type,” Jairo said proudly. “That’s Lucy. And my Nando.”
The baby grins at the camera, his gums showing. The woman who holds him has full cheeks, dimpled just like the baby’s.
“So you and Allie were just friends,” I say.
He carefully sets the framed photo back in its original position. “Yeah,” he says. “’Course.”
“But you hung out outside of Greg’s parties.”
This time there’s a pause before he decides to answer. “Sure. She was kind of sick of that whole scene at Greg’s. So a couple times, I took her up to my neighborhood, to hang out with mi familia. And shit if they didn’t love her. My sisters loved her. My abuela loved her, and that’s saying something, let me tell you. ’Course, they had no idea who she was, who her mom was. Allie liked that about them.”
“When was this?”
He shrugs. “I dunno.” He glances at the photo. “Wait. Lucy and me, we had just met, so it would’ve been, like, 2012, I guess.”
“So that was it? You guys just hung out a couple of times?”
