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downtown | An LA Crime Story

Apr 10
0

Marigold Walls

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The marigold colored walls of the main dining room at Barragan’s on Sunset screamed “sunshine!” Rhea hurried through it and headed for the darkness of the bar. It was “Two Buck Taco Tuesday” – her choice for her first review. The tacos were OK – somewhere between the soulful carne asada ones at the Saturday night pop-ups on York and the fast food addictions of Taco Bell. At two bucks a piece she could meet Manny’s ten buck limit.

Rhea sat at the end of the bar, near a window where she had a sliver of a view of the street outside. The bartender smiled at her, “San Miguel dark, right?” She smiled back, “Yeah Ernie, thanks. And five tacos. Mixed.” He slid her the beer and wrote up her order. She took a swig and took out her phone. She opened her notepad app and wrote a few words: “2 dollar tacos. back room. chorizo. Cacique. poblano.” She looked out the window, straining to see the boys on the street. It was a good spot to check them out – and maybe she’d find one to share a few tacos with. Several potentials strutted up the street, dark wavy hair, fit, strutting, laughing…

A waiter brought Rhea her tacos. She looked back out the window. A scruffy girl about sixteen came into view, carrying an overstuffed blue IKEA bag. Rhea drained half her beer in a single gulp, wrapped the tacos in a few napkins, slapped twenty dollars on the counter, took the tacos and left.

Outside, Rhea looked for the girl. She spotted her at a stoplight half a block up. She approached.

“Sheena?” Rhea said, close now. The girl turned.

“Officer Porter!” she cried out, recognizing Rhea.

Are you OK?” Rhea asked her. The girl seemed shaky.

“Yeah. Yeah…” Sheena answered, unconvincingly then looked at the wrapped tacos.

Rhea offered them to her, “One is oxtail.”

Sheena flashed a brief smile as she took four of the little tacos, leaving the oxtail one. “I was looking for you. Where’ve you been?”

“Sorta on a break.” Rhea admitted then asked again, “Everything OK?”

Sheena, who’d devoured one taco already, shook her head.

“What happened?” Rhea asked, concerned.

“Nothing happened really, it’s just… There’s this smell…”

“Where?” Rhea asked.

“Down by camp.”

Rhea looked at Sheena’s IKEA bag, “So you’re moving?”

She nodded “Just until it goes away… ”

“It’s that bad?”

“Yeah.” Sheena confirmed.

Rhea tried to offer an explanation, “It’s probably just all the trash down there. Or maybe all the piss, soaking the ground.”

“No…” Sheena said, thinking about it. Something was bothering her.

“Could be the muck in the L.A. River.” was Rhea’s next idea.

Sheena looked her in the eye, “It’s kind of a scary smell.”

Apr 10
0

Remains

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Rhea followed Sheena along the top rim of the cement embankment that cradled the LA river. It was a little after nine, daylight was almost gone. As they neared the Chavez Bridge, Sheena hesitated above a clutter of debris lumped under the bridge. Sheena’s camp.

“Stay here.” Rhea told Sheena as she scrambled down the bank where the trickle of river water ambled under the bridge. She walked a few yards to the camp remains: a moldy sleeping bag, some squishy old sweat pants, three empty Cheetos bags and an empty can of Progresso Light Pot Pie soup.

A sudden whoosh of air brushed down on her – a Santa Ana gust – that carried on it the smell. Unmistakable. She looked around for a body but she knew it would be a little farther away. She took another whiff then looked up the opposite embankment toward where it came from. A skinny coyote sauntered across the bridge just above. A woman in her twenties followed it, stopping mid-bridge to gaze out and around. It was the same woman who sat on the stone wall overlooking the reservoir. She was still barefoot. Noticing her, Was she homeless? Rhea wondered. Maybe not… she carried an old 35mm camera and an air of cool. The woman looked back at a building just behind her. Then she looked down at Rhea. A look came over her – a hesitant half-smile that pulled Rhea in like a memory.

“Find anything?” Sheena’s voice broke the spell.

Rhea turned. Sheena was about to skitter down the embankment.

“Stay there!” Rhea called up to her. Rhea glanced back up at the woman on the bridge. She was moving on… just another hipster photog, Rhea figured, looking for a moody downtown LA pic.

Rhea scrambled back up the embankment to where Sheena was waiting. “You have somewhere you can stay for a few nights?” she asked her.

“What is it?” Sheena asked, unsure if she wanted to know.

“Probably just a dead dog or racoon. I’ll get animal control to pick it up in the morning. Is there somewhere else you can crash-”

“I’ll find somewhere–”

“Try the shelter on San Pedro–”

Sheena shook her head. Hard.

“They’ve got better security now–” Rhea half-heartedly tried to convince her but Sheena wasn’t having it. Rhea understood – it would take an army of security and the compassion of masses to stem the violence and troubles of the homeless in LA. Rhea dug around in her pockets and gave Sheena all she had, almost seventeen dollars.

“Get some food. And be careful–”

Sheena took the money. Suddenly she grabbed Rhea and hugged her. “You too.” she cautioned then hurried across the street and headed downtown.

Rhea walked across the Chavez Bridge. Below her was the homeless camp. Behind her was the city skyline. A few yards from the boulevard on the northeast side of the bridge was a sagging, shuttered old bar called Domingos. She went around to the back. She checked in trash cans and knee high weeds, sniffing and honing in on a spot behind an old tire.There it was: a rotting dead possum. She backed away then turned around. She was facing the back of the bar. She sniffed; smelling something else. She walked to the bolted back door and put her nose to the edge of it. She sniffed again. She went around to the front. That door was jammed tight with twenty years of grime and a ten dollar lock. Deciding the smell gave her cause, she jimmied it open. The whiff of charred beans kissed her as it escaped the place. She went inside.

The light of an LA night bled through three small curtained windows. Her eyes adjusted to a hazy dimness. There was a bar against one wall, a pool table in the middle of the small room and a closed door in the back. A page of smoke slid out from under it. The door was locked. Three kicks knocked it open. Smoke veiled the room. Rhea walked through it. A blackened stove stood against a burned wall, splattered with the scorched remains of a pot of food that had exploded.

Rhea slid a finger through a layer of wet soot, pitted by drops of water from the ceiling sprinklers that had put out the fire. But they hadn’t put it out fast enough. There was a spent extinguisher on the floor, still in the hand of a dead girl lying there. The girl looked around eleven. Her other arm reached out to two more dead girls, huddled together by the bolted back door. They looked about six and seven. Their arms were around each other. Their eyes were open. Their bodies were splattered with extinguisher foam. Their nostrils were blackened with smoke.

Rhea checked them for a pulse. The youngest girl was still warm.

She pressed the sides of the girl’s mouth open. Her blue lips puckered like a snapdragon. A poof of air slipped out, shimmered, then fluttered away, as though she’d exhaled one last dream.

It made Rhea jump.

Outside, on the cement bank across the river from Domingos, the young photographer dropped to one knee. She braced her elbow on her thigh to steady her lens and snapped off a half dozen pictures of a faint little puff of shimmering light as it rose up into the night sky just above Domingos.

In the blackened kitchen, Rhea checked again for a pulse on the little girl. Nothing. The girl was dead. Rhea took out her phone and snapped a few pics of the three bodies. Then she called the boss.

Jun 21
0

Ice Cream

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It was Detective Sergeant Matt Strickland’s night off. He’d had Stouffer’s lasagna for dinner, watered the 57 succulents he kept on the screened-in little terrace of his ground-floor one-bedroom Hollywood apartment, watched the nine o’clock news then taken four herbal sleep aids. He woke up fast when his cell phone buzzed. When he heard Rhea’s familiar cadence, “Hey Strickland–” he was fully awake.

“Detective– ” he automatically responded, “Are you ok? Where are you?”

“Fine. Cesar Chavez, a half block up from Pleasant. Place called Domingos.” She said no more. She didn’t need to.

He already had one leg in his pants. He ended the call, stuck his other leg in, gave his balls a sprinkle with Gold Bond, swished a mouthful of Listerine, shrugged on a worn-out short-sleeved shirt, grabbed his badge and gun and was out the door.

Nineteen minutes later he was inside Domingos, standing next to Rhea, looking down at the three small bodies. He took out his phone and called it in. Rhea hung close, listening as he asked dispatch who was available to partner.

“Who’s coming in?” she asked him after he hung up. He ignored her and looked back at the dead.

He knelt down and looked closely at the girls’ sooty mouths. “Smoke.”

He looked around “But no fire called in.”

“Probably a grease fire.” she suggested. “They choke you fast.”

He agreed with the probability. He looked around the room. There were no other exits— “Just these two doors. Locked.” He looked at her. She nodded, pointing to the kitchen door. “I busted that one down.”

“Three girls. Locked in.” he continued his early questions, adding, “Mexican?”

Rhea looked back at them. “I’d say so.”

He looked around the room again; he peered into empty cupboards and into the empty pantry.

“Place has been closed for awhile.” she offered.

He nodded. “Stash joint.”

“Yep.”

He went over to the stove, he studied the burned food that had exploded against the wall, looked again at the bolted door. “No way out.”

Rhea nodded, “So we find who locked them in.”

“We? Have you even gone to therapy?” Strickland asked.

“Yes.” Rhea answered but didn’t elaborate. Something bright pink caught her eye, lying on top of a little trash can, on top of burned, sooty trash and three charred, melted plactic spoons: a burned ice cream cup.

“What?” Strickland asked.

“Baskin Robbins.”

“Yeah?” Strickland asked.

“Yeah. They had some ice cream. There’s one up on Sunset, in that strip mall by Michelotorenia.”

“I’ll tell Dawson when he gets here–”

“Dawson.” Rhea shook her head.

“Dawson is a good cop–” he cut her off.

Rhea looked back at the bodies on the floor; studying them. Powerless.

Outside, across the river the photographer stood on the bank, searching the skyline. Her blonde hair hung down her back. Her t-shirt said “Endeavour”. Her eyes searched the skyline. The moon was full and rising. She held the old zoom on her Pentax and moved it until it reflected caught a beam of moonlight then bounced it over the river bed, pooling its way across the crack in Domingos’ bolted back door.

Inside Domingos’, that reflected moonlight found its way through that crack and crossed over the dead girls like a soft laser. It hit something purple. It shimmered, catching Rhea’s eye. She looked closer. Then closer. Transfixed. A gasp caught in her throat. Strickland turned, followed her gaze, saw what she was looking at. On one of the dead girl’s wrists – barely visible but now glinting in the sliver of reflected moonlight – was a plastic bracelet with a purple tin charm on it that advertised “Boom Boom Carneceria. Ensenada. Mexico.”

Jul 13
0

Cold Tacos by the 101 Freeway

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It was a cheap little tin charm and Strickland knew exactly what it could mean. Everything.

Or… “It could be nothing.” He reminded Rhea.

“Boom Boom is two doors down from Joe’s–!” Rhea let loose, hating the escaped emotion.

“I know where it is.” Strickland reminded her. “But not every kid that goes missing near Boom Boom was snatched—”

“One was.” She reminded him back.

“We’ll follow the evidence.”

“Yes. We.”

“As soon as you’re cleared.”

“Eighteen, Strickland. The guy was eighteen–!”

“He’d been eighteen for four days.”

“Still… Legal.” She pointed out, calming herself. “And this is my case.”

“It’s the Department’s.” he corrected her.

“I’ll stay on unpaid leave and just work this-” Rhea gestured toward the dead girls.

Strickland knew she’d be an asset. He knew he probably should let her back on the squad. But she’d messed up. Finding her in the back seat of her car with that kid pissed him off. It hurt, too. Yeah the kid was eighteen and she’d hadn’t paid him – yet – or officially broken the law but Strickland wanted to make her pay.

They heard cars drive up.

“Go home.” he told her, ushering her out of the room.

“Don’t do this to me. I’ve stopped. OK? I promise.”

“Go home.” He held the door open for her to leave. He meant it. She left.

Outside, Rhea crossed over Chavez and sat on a cement bridge railing.

She watched as three of her colleagues walked into Domingos: The CSI tech, the ME and Detective Dawson. It was hard being outside. This was her case. Man she was hungry. She wondered if nearby Guisados was open. She wondered what young men were hanging out at Tommy’s or Torung or Alegria, eating Dim Sum and Phad Thai and Chili Fries and how nice it would be to eat an onion ring off of one of them. She shook her head to get those thoughts out of it. She forced her mind back to the scene and waited. She looked over the bridge, below it the 101 and the 10 freeways converged. She watched the streaks of red tail lights pouring into LA. This was nearly the exact same spot she was at on her first night in LA., completely alone at seventeen. Twenty plus years later and here she was again, still looking for her sister. What a fucking failure.

She sniffed the air, then sniffed her clothes. She pulled the lone Barragan’s taco out of her pocket. The napkins it was wrapped in were blotched with grease. She ate it. It was cold and flattened but still pretty good. She opened her phone notepad. She typed a few words: beefy, ancho, warm night, two dollars.

Half an hour later, the ME carted three small body bags out. He glanced across the street as he closed the back of the morgue van. He saw Rhea. He raised one hand in a small, inconspicuous wave. She did the same, acknowledging the solidarity. He was the only one who contacted her after her back-seat bust by Vice nine and a half weeks ago and her subsequent temporary expulsion for “indecent behavior”.

Another twenty minutes later, Strickland and Detective Dawson left Domingos and headed four and a half blocks to Headquarters.

Rhea got in her car and followed. She parked her LeBaron outside and waited for Strickland and Dawson to come out. She was impatient. She took out her phone. Using her favorite INFO app, she looked up Domingos’ data, got the name of an owner and found out he also owned a furniture warehouse on Palmetto near Fourth. Just under twelve blocks away. She started her car and took off, heading south, toward Fourth Street.

Inside Headquarters, on the sixth floor, Strickland was online, also finding out who owned Domingos.

Four minutes into his search, he had a name: Leland Hays.

Jun 26
0

Peanut Butter Cups Downtown

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Fifty-four year old Leland Hays felt like he was aging well. After twenty two years of Juvederm, Sculptra, botox, two peels, an eyelid lift and a chin implant, he looked about forty four – still hot enough to get cool girls. Right then on the showroom floor of his furniture warehouse, he was bending a boyish young Thai waitress over the end of an antique platform bed he’d just imported from Mongolia and slamming her from behind. Next he bent her over an Indonesian loveseat, then a Moroccan chaise until he finally came in her over an oversized ottoman sadly re-upholstered in a purple and gold polyester damask. Not his best piece. He loved antiques and though these pieces were almost-antiques, they were mostly still beautiful and people in LA paid a decent price for them.

Hays liked just hearing the sound of his own self at play so he’d told the waitress to keep quiet, if she did, he’d give her a present. She did make some noise unwrapping a peanut butter cup and eating it when she was bent over the chaise but other than that, she was good. He let her pick out a small punched tin Mexican lamp for her apartment before kicking her out.

Rhea was parked outside, across the loading dock, watching a little green door under a nondescript sign that read: H&H Imports. The door opened. A young woman hurried out, carrying a Mexican lamp. She got in her Kia and drove away. Rhea opened her glove box and took out her badge, figuring she had only a few minutes until Strickland and Dawson showed up.

Hays was in his office doing some inventory when someone started banging on the street door. Thinking maybe the waitress had forgotten something, he opened his door, still wearing his bathrobe. A woman cop named Porter who smelled like cilantro thrust a badge in his face and wanted to know if he owned a place called Domingos on Cesar Chavez.

He knew she knew the answer so he told her he did. “Why?” he asked her, “What’s going on?”

Before Rhea could answer, Strickland was beside her. Dawson was right behind.

“There was a fire in the kitchen at Domingos.” Strickland stepped up, shooting Rhea a look and moving in front of her.

Rhea bristled when Dawson added, “We found three bodies. Girls. They died trying to get out.”

“Was it bad?” Hays asked.

“Well.” Rhea commented, jostling for relevance, “There’s three dead girls in there.”

“Know anything about them?” Dawson continued, showing Hays a picture of the dead girls. Hays looked quickly and shoved it away, feeling dirtied.

“No. No – it’s a bar. We don’t let kids in there. Besides, it’s been closed for a couple weeks now–”

“Why’s that?” Strickland asked.

“Business dried up. I opened on weekends for awhile but not recently. I was really never there and frankly, I haven’t even driven by in over a week.” He waved his hand over the warehouse, “Furniture is my main business.”

He stepped aside, allowing them a glance into the warehouse. It was cursory but something caught Rhea’s eye.

“Anyone else have access to Domingo’s, Mr. Hays? A manager, bartender, friend?” Strickland continued.

“I had a bartender but I laid her off when I closed the place. She gave her key back.” Hays told him.

“What’s her name?”

“Ahhh…” he thought for a moment, “Myrna.”

“Last name?”

Hays ran his hand through a shock of sandy blond hair plugs. “I really can’t remember.”

“Want to check your records for us? Give us a name?” Dawson asked. Hays was quiet. “No records?” Dawson pressed.

“She came in, asked for a job. She said she’d work for tips.” Hays smiled, “I’m sure she reported them all. I trust people, Detective… it’s the only way to get through life.”

“Where do you get your furniture from?” Rhea asked, casually.

“China, Indonesia, Thailand, a little from India, even a little from France.” Hays answered, always the salesman. “You looking for something in particular? We have good price on beds right now.”

Rhea ignored him. She pointed to a spot inside, where a rustic Mexican desk stood. “That. What’s that? Indian?”

“Ahh… Mexican.” Hays answered as Strickland looked back at Rhea. “We get a little of that but not much. Hard to compete with La Fuente and Direct From Mexico. I can give you a police discount. Five percent.”

“Thanks. Let me think about it.” Rhea said, then added “You mind if I take a quick picture?”

Hays stepped aside, gesturing for her to go ahead. As Rhea took her phone out and snapped a picture of the desk, Strickland followed her lead and asked:

“How long have you been in the furniture business, Mr. Hays?”

“Too long” Hays laughed, “A little over thirty years.”

Dawson gave Hays his card and told him to call if he remembered anything.

Hays had one last question, “Let me ask you– do you get rid of the bodies or–”

Dawson explained that they’d handle it and let him know when he could have access back to Domingos. “Might be a week. Maybe less.” He told him. Hays nodded.

As the detectives started to leave, Strickland turned back. “One last thing,” he asked, “You have insurance on the bar, right?”

Hays nodded, “As basic as it gets. I’ll be lucky if they pay for a coat of paint. Believe me, I’m the one losing out here.”

“And the dead girls.” Strickland reminded him.

A smile slid onto Hays’s face like a cat’s second eyelid. “Of course, Detective; goes without saying.” He closed the door.

Rhea held back as Strickand and Dawson walked away.

The two men reached Dawson’s car. It was parked next to Rhea’s. They waited for her to catch up.

“That wasn’t cool, Porter.” Dawson started in on her.

Rhea walked to her car, opened her car door, “Say hi to Stacey for me.”

Dawson nodded.

“You’ve been together a long time, yeah?” she asked, lingering; waiting for Strickland to get closer, within earshot.

“Ten years.” Dawson admitted, curious–

“What is she now, almost twenty-six?” Rhea commented. She looked at Strickland, got in her car and drove away.

Apr 05
0

Uncaged

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“Maybe I didn’t love you quite exactly as I should have…” Steve’s favorite CD played as the three Porters headed south down Interstate Five. Aggie had her little pink sunglasses on, looking cool, singing along. By the time they reached the border, the Willie CD had played almost nine times and Aggie had taught Poo to meow along with the chorus, “You were always on my mind. You were always on my mind…” Poo was pretty good. It cracked Steve and Rhea up.

Sprawled lazily around a the Port of Ensenada, the low-rise city neither welcomed nor refused anyone. Steve drove familiar streets into the outskirts of the business district and parked in front of Renaldo’s party supply store… pinatas, plastic wreaths, ornaments and a hundred dolls hung from strings across the open front. The three Porters went in. Poo stayed in the car.

Inside, the wonderland was crammed wall to wall, ceiling to floor with stuff. Boxes and boxes, shelves and shelves of stuff. Dozens of birdcages hung from ceiling fans, door knobs, ladders, water pipes, light fixtures and the branches of a big dead tree stuck in a giant pot in the middle of the room. Each birdcage had one or two or three blue parakeets in it. Sometimes a feather would fall from their cages to the floor.

Rhea went straight for the costume jewelry: bangle bracelets crusted with plastic jewels, giant glass rings and brooches and chokers sporting dragonflies and bees. Steve and Renaldo searched the store for every baby Jesus night light they could find. Aggie stood in the middle of it all, saddened by the birds. They were always quiet; not a peep, not a song. Surely unhappy to be caged inside a party store.

One of the cages hung low on a dead tree branch, about eye level with Aggie. The bird was watching her as it plucked one of its feathers and pushed it between the wire bars so it fluttered to the floor. Aggie picked it up. She looked at the bird; it looked back at her, like they were talking. After a while, Aggie unlatched the bird’s cage door. It nodded at her as it slipped out. But it didn’t fly away. It hopped over to its nearest friends, two parakeets in a cage that was hanging from a coat hook. With its beak it unlatched that cage door and the two birds hopped out. They split up and fluttered over to three other cages, one was sitting on the counter where Rhea was trying on a pair of Freida Kahlo earrings. It caught her eye. She turned and saw Aggie, holding the little blue feather. Rhea figured it out in a flash and hurried over to her.

“What are you doing?!”

“Nothing…”

As the birds stealthily continued their prison break and Steve and Renaldo remained preoccupied, Rhea called out to Steve.

“We’re hungry, Dad. OK if we go over to Joe’s?”

“Yeah, OK. I’ll be there as soon as Renaldo packs all this up. Order me something.”

“OK.”

“Watch your sister.”

“OK.”

Rhea took Aggie’s hand and felt something in it; she was still holding the blue feather. She had an orangeade soda in her other hand. Rhea took the feather and tucked it into Aggie’s pocket.

“C’mon. Let’s fly.” she smiled as she pulled Aggie out of there.

Apr 06
0

Bye Bye Birdie

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A gray mist filled the December sky, saturating the colors of the busy street at Christmastime… saturating the bright blue of the parakeets flying away.

Aggie wove through the throngs of people in the street. She kept her eyes up, on the one bird in the sky who seemed to linger a bit, letting her keep up. She approached Boom Boom Carnerceria just as Panama Jones came outside. He was holding two churros and a soda. He was a little nervous but a couple puffs had calmed him down. He concentrated on following the directions of Leland Hays who had told him to, “Use a churro or anything sweet.” to get a little girl into the new blue van he had lent Panama. “We’re helping them.” Hays had explained, “Taking poor little Mexican girls– who are by themselves. We put them with a nice family in LA – give them a job for life. They get new dresses, plenty of food and a room of their own. They love that, their very own room…” Plus, there was the van. Panama had slept in that van the night before. It was nice. Safe. Warm. And it was his to use if he sometimes got a little girl and drove her across the border to LA. Plus he got paid. Pretty good deal.

A little girl’s voice made him look up.

“Bye bye Tyrone!” Aggie called up to the parakeet in the sky as she hurried past Boom Boom, right past Panama Jones. He watched her as she turned a corner and disappeared down a side street while chasing after a bird.

Panama followed Aggie around that corner. After about a half a block, he called to her softly, in Spanish. “Ninita– Ninita–!”

She was so fixated on the bird in the sky, she didn’t see him until he touched her arm and held a sweet churro out to her, asking her:

“Quieres un churro?”

She didn’t have time to try and understand – Tyrone flew close by and she ran down the street following him, sharing his joy.

Panama saw that she was focused on the birds. He followed her and he called to her, over and over in Spanish,

“Vamos a coger el chirrido. Podemos coger el chirrido. Podemos coger el birdie más rápido en el coche -” (Let’s catch the birdie. We can catch the birdie faster in the car–)

She didn’t understand a word he was saying but it sounded important so she stopped and turned to him.

“Huh?”

They were only inches from where the blue van was parked. Close enough for him to scoop her up and put her inside. Blink of an eye. He strapped her into a seatbelt and pointed up through the sunroof as Tyrone flew by.

“Ahi esta!” He said as he started the car and pulled away. “Lo atraparemos!” (We’ll catch him!)

Exactly four minutes and twenty-eight seconds after Aggie had first run out of Joe’s, Panama drove her north on a two lane road out of town. Into the desert. Easy Money.

Apr 06
0

Gone

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Joe gave Rhea a taste of the Yellowtail straight out of the pan – man that made her smile. For a sixteen year old SoCal girl, she had eclectic taste in food. Sure she liked Taco Town tacquitos and the potato wedges at the Arco am pm mini-mart but she could also taste the distinct edge of sweetness in the lime Joe used and was curious where it came from.

Impressed, he told her it came from a tree in his mother’s backyard. She lived by the sea and the salty air brought out the lime’s sugars. She had goats, too and their milk was tangy and sweet. He’d thought of trying to use it in some desserts.

“Maybe I’ll try and make a cake for your sister the next time you come down–” he told Rhea.

“You hear that, Aggie?” Rhea turned to her sister. The table by the door was empty. The door was open. Aggie was gone.

Rhea dropped her fork and ran.

Outside there was an urgent flow of people shopping, but no little white girls. Rhea stopped dead and looked in every direction. Then she saw her Dad, walking toward Joe’s with a big box full of Jesus night lights. She ran to him. He saw the panic in her eyes.

“Where’s Aggie?”

Apr 07
0

A Tremble

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The moment Aggie got taken, Detective Matt Strickland was starting his second cup of coffee after a late lunch at The Pantry – eggs over medium, rye toast, sliced tomatoes. When he set the cup down after a sip, his coffee trembled – rippled like when a small earthquake aftershock rolls through. He looked up. No one else noticed anything. He knew this was internal; an instinct he almost wished he didn’t have – it had happened twice before. He finished the coffee, paid the bill and went back to LAPD Central and waited for the call he knew would come. It did. About seven hours later, a little after nine that night. It was Donnelly, calling about a missing little girl named Aggie Day Porter and a possible abductor who said his destination was a three hour drive from the border at Tecate.

“You call San Diego?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“Yeah, but… thought we’d better get you in right away. Kid’s American.”

Shit. It didn’t matter what nationality a kid in danger was to Strickland. But it mattered to others. It mattered in the media. An American was a bigger deal.

“Where’re the parents–” he started. “Here.” San Diego Detective Rudy Canon got on the line, letting Strickland know this was not likely a familial abduction. It was the second time that year he’d talked to Strickland. This was the third kid they’d talked about. The other two were Mexican girls – six and nine. Only the six-year-old had been found… decomposing in a trash bin on a construction site near the fourth street bridge on the east side of downtown LA. No leads. No suspects. No hope.

There was a chance the other girl and now Aggie weren’t in LA but there was a good chance they were. It was becoming a popular destination for trafficking as well as the usual runaways and illegals. And at just over five hundred square miles and nine million people, it was easy to disappear there.

“I’ll need pictures.” He told Canon, “Tonight.”

“House is in Norwalk. I can get them there by one.” Canon promised.

Strickland put out a BOLO: five year old female, blond hair, forty pounds, wearing a green jacket, white tutu and jeans. Possible suspect Mexican-American male, approximately eighteen, driving a late model blue VW van. He opened a case, drank two cups of coffee, ate a vending machine Honey Bun then at midnight, he jumped on the five and headed south.

Apr 07
0

Night Train

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Rhea didn’t want Strickland to leave. She needed his power, his confidence, his calm. She willed her mind to remember something, anything – some perfect and stunning tidbit that would lead him straight to Aggie. But nothing came. And he left. She kept staring at the closed door. She was on one side, and Aggie was somewhere outside, lost in the night. She hung on to that unbearable thought as though following it through the dark labyrinth of her imagination would lead her to her sister. But she couldn’t follow the path in her mind. She was tired. She shouldn’t be tired, her sister was missing and it was her fault – she should never ever sleep again until Aggie was home. Her eyes kept closing. What a terrible sister she was.

Stel put her thumb and forefinger on Rhea’s chin and turned her face to her own.

“Are You listening to me?”

Rhea nodded, trying to focus on what her mother was saying.

“I have to stay here, for when Aggie comes home.”

Rhea nodded again, wondering where this was going.

“Your father can’t go, look at him, he can’t even get out of that chair.”

It started to become clear. Yes! Someone in the family needed to go find Aggie because, as Stel pointed out, “That cop doesn’t know Aggie, doesn’t love her like we do. His heart isn’t in it. And she won’t be looking for him, she’ll be looking for one of us.”

“I can go…?” Rhea answered, a little unsure but as Stel firmly nodded while looking into Rhea’s eyes, Rhea became certain. This made sense. All except the details. “How will I–?” Rhea tried to make a plan–

Stel cut her off, she already had this figured out. “Trains run all night. Especially now. Christmas. Go pack a few things and I’ll take you to the Fullerton Station.”

Wow. This was really happening. Rhea felt a jolt of adrenaline and of relief. This was good. This would work. She’d find Aggie like she’d always done and everything would be back like it was.

Rhea jammed a skirt, a pair of jeans, two T-shirts, underwear, toothbrush and a picture of Aggie into her little round black patent leather case with embossed pink ballet shoes on it then zipped it up as Stel hovered, impatiently.

“Ready?”

Rhea nodded. Stel grabbed her keys. As they left, Rhea glanced at her father, searching for something in his eyes – love or at least a goodbye – but there was nothing there. She closed the door behind her.

Stel held the car door open for Rhea, trying to hurry her along. Rhea slid in. Stel hurried into the driver’s side and, not bothering to buckle her seat belt, drove them away.

At one forty nine, the Fullerton train station was still had a few people. Happy people, laughing people, setting down armloads of packages to hug their loved ones who’d come to welcome them home for the holidays.

Stel gave Rhea a ticket and a hundred and seventy-one dollars.

“It’s all I have in the house.” she said as she thrust it at Rhea. “It should be plenty for some food and a motel for a few nights.”

“Thank you.” Rhea told her mom, straining with the sudden uneasy formality.

Stel nodded and turned to leave. Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed Rhea and hugged her hard and fast. Rhea hugged back. “I’ll find her, mom. I promise.”

Stel let go. “I have to get back, in case–” Rhea nodded. Stel hurried away. Rhea got on the train alone. No one waved goodbye.

The train slipped past warehouses, trailer parks, freeways and the Firestone tire factory which was built to look like a castle.

“Is she in there?” Rhea wondered as she strained against the dirty train window trying to see a glimpse of Aggie. Or in one of those trailers? Or in that laundromat? Or that Taco Bell? So many places to look…

The magnitude of the task ahead started to creep in. But for now, Rhea just focused on looking out that window. Sometimes she glanced at the blank notepad. In the course of the thirty three minute train ride to LA, all she could think to write was: bluebirds.

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