ON THE FLIGHT TO LA, Erica sits in her first-class seat, laptop open, perusing the websites of New York’s best girls’ schools: Chapin, Spence, Brearley. She thinks Jenny would do better without boys around, one less distraction. She also feels strongly that Jenny needs continuity and stability in her life; she’d like to find a school that’s a good match for the long term, a place Jenny can put down some roots and flourish all the way until college.
There’s something intimidating about the schools, with their history and traditions, their impressive alumnae, their websites bursting with positivity, good works, and academic promise. Many of her snootier Yale classmates went to these schools or others just like them. And now—she thinks with no small satisfaction—she’ll be sending her daughter to one. If, of course, she’s able to gain custody. Big if. Big and potentially ugly if. But Erica has been in touch with Morris Ernst, one of the country’s best child-custody lawyers. He told her that with her profile, he believes she can gain custody—that they can reason with Dirk, make it clear to him that with her resources, Erica can provide Jenny with so many advantages that Dirk, with his teacher’s salary, simply can’t.
Erica clicks off the Spence site and onto Stribling real estate. It’s time for a little guilty pleasure—she looks at several apartments on the Upper West Side, which is close to work and schools and bracketed by two beautiful parks. The prices are staggering—a million dollars buys you a nice one-bedroom. She’d love to be in a prewar co-op and lingers over the photos of a two-bedroom on West Eighty-First facing the Museum of Natural History—it has a large living room, lovely views of the museum and the small park that surrounds it, a fireplace, wide hallways, a sense of solidity and space.
She imagines Jenny coming home from school, rushing down the hallway to fill Mom in on her day. The two of them in front of the fireplace on winter Sundays, Jenny doing homework and Erica working her way through the Sunday Times. Tucking Jenny in at night, the twinkling park lights out the window. Both of them in a safe place. A safe place. The apartment is 1.75 million. She can hardly believe she can afford it. But she can.
She’s on an early flight—it lands in LA at nine thirty a.m.—and as the flight attendant brings her a small tray of exquisite breakfast pastries, Erica feels ready for what lies ahead. There’s a lot on her shoulders, but maybe that’s a good thing—there’s no room left for that fiery demon that likes to perch there and hiss in her ear . . . “You can’t ever, ever change where you come from. And deep down, you’ll never be better than any of us.”
Erica picks up her rental car and drives to Moira’s house in Los Feliz. She finds the fake rock tucked under the cactus in the side yard, slides it open and takes out the key, and lets herself into the house. There’s a note on the dining room table that reads Mi casa es su casa and a bouquet of fresh flowers in her bedroom.
Erica unpacks, washes off all traces of makeup, changes into sweat pants, running shoes, and a shapeless top. She tucks all her hair up under an unflattering canvas hat and puts on a pair of clunky sunglasses.
Driving southeast from Los Feliz through Silverlake and Echo Park and into downtown LA is like moving through the layered strata of ancient rock. The large houses and perfect landscaping give way first to modest bungalows, and then to neglected apartment houses and rundown commercial buildings, and finally to teeming Skid Row—down-and-out in LA—thousands of people who are some combination of poor, addicted, struggling, defeated, crazy, or lost. It’s a great sea of humanity and they’re all drowning—in the shadows of the gleaming towers of the city’s revitalized downtown business district.
This is the neighborhood of Miguel Fuentes’s last known address. Erica drives slowly, searching the faces. She’s looking for Fuentes, of course, but she’s also fascinated by this raw underbelly of Los Angeles, in part because she sees her own parents, her own childhood reflected here in an urban mirror. The sidewalks are lined with tents, mattresses, shopping carts, cardboard boxes, clothing, sleeping dogs, and nodding people. She sees a little girl, no more than five, sitting on a garbage bag full of clothing. She’s eating cookies out of a huge package; she and her clothes are filthy, but the little girl looks happy, savoring each bite of her lucky find. Then a man walks by and snatches the package out of her hands, and the girl starts to wail and wail. Nobody comes to comfort her.
Erica finds the address where Fuentes lived. It’s on the far edge of Skid Row; the streets are marginally less chaotic and filthy here. The building itself is a two-story 1950s motel-style apartment house with outdoor walkways, way past whatever prime it may have had. There are lowlifes loitering around, and a sense of malevolence pervades the air. Erica parks in front and heads toward the stairs. Fuentes was in apartment twenty-one.
“Save your time, the cops have been crawling all over the place.” Erica turns to see a skinny old woman sitting in a lawn chair, greedily sucking down an unfiltered cigarette, swimming in a muumuu, her lips painted a florid red. “That kid took a powder weeks ago.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“I’d say ‘to hell’—but he was already there.” She laughs at her witticism, showing perfect movie-star dentures.
“Did he live here alone?”
“That place was a revolving door. I’d say never less than five or six of them were living there at any time.”
“Do you think they were fellow gang members?”
“No, they were the string section of the LA Philharmonic.” She laughs again. “I was assistant prop master on Father Knows Best. I’m Old Hollywood. What do you think of them apples?”
“Are they all out of the apartment?”
“Yeah. The landlord is renovating the unit. Granite, stainless steel, spa tub.” She laughs again. “I am having it fumigated.”
“You own the building?”
“Bought it fifty years ago. I’m a smart cookie, got into real estate. I like renting to gang members. They pay in cash. Or drugs, if I’m in the mood.” She cackles again, then narrows her eyes. “Are you looking for drugs?”
“I’m looking for Miguel Fuentes. Can you help me out? Anything that sticks in your mind? Anyone who might help me find Miguel?”
The woman makes an exaggerated I’m thinking expression. “The air conditioner in unit sixteen is on the fritz. I’d tell them they’re on their own but there’s a baby in there. Poor little tidbit in this heat.”
Erica came prepared. She pulls a wad of cash out of her pocket, peels off a hundred.
“I said air conditioner, not fan,” the woman says.
Erica hands her another hundred.
“He had a sister. She stayed about a week, was right over the border. Pretty girl, classy as hell. Smart. Always carrying books. I think she was a schoolteacher back in Mexico. They were fighting all the time—she was screaming at him to get back in school. She got outta here fast. Like I said, she was smart.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“Samantha.”
“How long ago was this?”
“It’s been awhile, four months, maybe six. Time bleeds at my age.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“They didn’t ask.”
When she gets back to Moira’s, Erica 411.coms Samantha Fuentes. There are seven listed in LA, but the site only lists landlines, and what kid has one of those nowadays? Then she does a Google search, and LinkedIn pulls a Samantha Fuentes who is a twenty-five-year-old tutor in West Los Angeles specializing in Spanish, English, reading, and writing. There’s a phone number and Erica calls.
“This is Samantha Fuentes.”
“Hi, Samantha, this is Erica Sparks, reporter from GNN.”
There’s a chill on the line and then, “Yes?”
“I wanted to talk to you about your brother. I was hoping we could meet for coffee.”
“I have nothing to say about my brother. If he had anything to do with that murder, I hope he’s sent away for many years.”
“You can help make that happen.”
“How?” she asks warily.
“A public plea to him to surrender would be one way. How about that cup of coffee?”
There’s a pause and then, “I would like to help. Okay.”
“Would this afternoon work for you?”
“Yes. I’m out in Pacific Palisades. Meet me at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in an hour.”
“See you then.”
Erica heads out to Pacific Palisades and finds that the California Dream is alive and well—the cushioned enclave is so sparkly, lush, and lovely that you could almost forget that things like deceit, murder, and evil exist.
Erica has changed out of the sweatpants—one of the least flattering garments ever invented—and gone with a cap instead of the canvas hat, but otherwise is covered up enough not to draw many glances of recognition. Of course, in a celebrity-thick neighborhood like this, she’s small potatoes.
She walks into the coffee shop, and a young woman with a lovely, open face waves her over to a table.
“Samantha.”
“Erica.”
“I guess we’re both psychic.”
Samantha has a beautiful smile and an easygoing, endearing manner that almost disguises her wariness.
“Can I get you something?” Erica asks.
“I’ve got my green tea.”
Erica gets a double espresso and joins Samantha. “Thanks so much for agreeing to meet me.”
“I’m an admirer.”
“This all must be very hard on you.”
“It is. But I’m not surprised. My brother has been in trouble before. Even as a kid. But nothing like this. I was a big fan of Kay Barrish. She did a lot for my people.”
“Do you have any idea where your brother might be?”
“I don’t. I would guess that he’s back in Mazatlan, but that’s only a guess.”
“Have you spoken to any family members down there?”
“I have and they haven’t seen any sign of him. The Los Angeles police sent down a detective to talk to my parents.”
“He may not have been able to get out of the country.”
“I’m sad for him, but I have no sympathy. He chose his path. When I first arrived here, I lived with him for several weeks. His life was filled with anger and ugliness. And he did not want to change.”
“Would you be willing to speak on camera?”
“I thought about that, and I would not. You know, Erica, I have ambition. I have come here to make a beautiful life. I have found a good job. I am the live-in tutor for the family of Mort Zimmer.”
“The television producer?”
“Yes. He and his wife are kind, generous people who want to help me. I am living in a nice apartment over their garage. I am enrolled in UCLA extension working towards my master’s degree in education. If I become identified with my brother, it could hurt me. Do you understand?”
“I do, of course, and the admiration is mutual. But if it could help us find justice for Kay Barrish?”
“My brother has never listened to me. He’s not going to start now. And I don’t think I should give you an interview. Kay Barrish is a popular woman, people love her. I don’t want to be connected to her murder.”
Erica sips her espresso. “Fair enough.”
“What I can do is call you if I hear anything. My family will tell me if he shows up down there.”
“I would appreciate that. Do you think there’s any chance he’ll contact you?”
Samantha laughs ruefully. “I doubt that. We haven’t spoken since I moved out of his apartment. And he doesn’t know where I live.”
“Stay in touch.”
On the drive back to Los Feliz, Erica replays her meeting with Samantha. Everything the young woman said made perfect sense. Even the lies.