Anonymity (21 page)

“OH MY God. What am I supposed to do about this?”

She held a copy of
Be Here Now.
Lorelei's face stared at her, an accusation in black-and-white.

“Nothing. It's done,” Barbara said.

“Can I sue them?”

“You can. Good luck. The press club has excellent lawyers. They win a lot. Make them give you a job instead.”

“I don't want to work for people who will steal your creativity.”

“I understand. I wouldn't either.”

“I'm going to call him and cuss him out.”

“Make sure he doesn't put you on speaker phone or worse, record you.”

“Great. I hadn't thought about that.”

“How's Lorelei going to react?”

“She's going to freak.”

“Is she dangerous? Do you need to come home so you can avoid her?”

Her mother devolved to that tone that set Emily's nerves on edge. She regretted calling her.

After they hung up, Emily was washed in a wave of gloom. Her high over her photography being published was sullied. A guy she had trusted, a guy she had liked, had turned out to be a total jerk. Her friendship with Lorelei was ruined. Emily had actually put the girl's life in jeopardy. The situation couldn't get much worse.

She had Travis on speed dial.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“At least you've got enough balls to answer the phone.”

“Let me explain.”

“Yes. Please do explain exactly how you got that photograph. Did you download it before or after you fucked me?”

“Before.”

“Well, so glad you stuck around.”

“Look, this will eventually work out to be a good thing. I promise you.”

“I could sue the shit out of you.”

“You wouldn't win.”

There was a tense lull.

“You idiot, that girl has a very legitimate reason for not wanting her photograph on the front of your magazine. There's some creepy stalker looking for her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some older guy she shacked up with in Arizona. She's scared to death of him. You'd better hope he doesn't show up and kill her.”

A long pause.

“Do you think that's really possible?” he asked.

Emily wouldn't tell him anything about Fiona's murder. He was a newshound, not a friend. His actions had made that clear. If he printed anything about Lorelei in connection with Fiona's murder, even a description of her, it would put Lorelei in even more danger.

So she said, “Look at that girl who was beaten to death in the park.” Another extended pause. “Things are scary. The least you can do is find Lorelei's parents.”

“What?”

“Throw down your investigative thing and find out who she is.”

“Do you know anything about her?”

“Not really. She's been all up and down the West Coast. Says she's got a brother, Noah, she's looking for. He's apparently been vagrant for a number of years.”

“Is Noah even a real name?”

“Who knows?”

“Where's she from?”

“I'm thinking Midwest somewhere.”

“Wow. That's extremely helpful.”

“I don't care if you have to look through ten thousand photos of missing children. You need to find her. It's the right thing to do.”

“You're asking a lot.”

“You owe me a lot. You'll be lucky if I don't sue you and the paper.”

“We both know that's not going to happen.”

EMILY CALLED him some colorful nouns and adjectives before they finally hung up. Sure, Travis knew it was a rotten thing to do, but the photo had turned out perfect. Guaranteed to be a picked up cover.

But if Bob found out how Travis got the shot, things would turn ugly.

And what about some goon stalking this girl? Was it true or was Emily spinning a tale to make him feel bad?

Travis had desk duty, his turn to watch the wires for breaking news. A number of writers were working late—last minute layouts, headlines and deadlines. Things were slow, so Travis started digging. He had a photo of Lorelei, but no name, no state.

He needed to redeem himself with Emily before she called Bob and went off. He was supposed to always have signed releases to publish photos, but nobody ever asked if he did. Bob had just assumed that because the paper had worked with Emily on the flood story that they were cleared to use her shots again.

Travis had abused Bob's trust, just like he'd abused Emily's.

He was a scoundrel. But he was a scoundrel who got the story.

The telephone was still a journalist's most powerful tool. If the first person you contacted couldn't help they were usually happy to refer you to somebody who could. Travis would play dumb, ask for their assistance and make them the expert. People loved to feel like the expert.

Problem was, he had nobody to call, nowhere to start, not even one lead. He could spend hours culling through the thousands of runaway photos on various national databases. For once, he lacked resources. He was at a dead end before he even started.

He thought to call one of his connections at the Austin PD to get some direction on how to start a search. He could also call David at the Tumbleweed Center, but Travis wondered if he had burned that connection. David was a reasonable guy. Maybe if he explained the gravity of the situation, David would forgive his aggressive rainy day photo op.

His desk phone rang.

“Travis Roberts.”

“Are you the guy that wrote that article about the homeless in Austin?”

“That would be me.”

“That girl on the cover. Do you know her?”

“Sort of. Why?”

“Because I think that's my sister.”

NOT LONG after she finished cursing out Travis, he called back. Group had been slow all afternoon, and even though it was Happy Hour she had only two customers nursing beers.

“This better be good news,” she said.

“Is Lorelei looking for a long-lost brother?”

“How'd you know that?”

“He's on the other line. Can I give him your number?”

Sixty seconds later, Emily was talking with the mystery man.

“Do you know the girl on the cover?”

“Lorelei.”

“Yes. Do you know where I can find her?”

“You told Travis you're her brother.”

“Right. Noah. Do you know where she is?”

“Can we meet?” she asked.

“Where?”

“I'm at work. Group Therapy, it's a bar.”

“I can find it.”

When they hung up, she dialed David.

He said, “I'll be there in fifteen.”

They sat in the staff booth waiting for Noah. Angel hovered around the bar, keeping an eye on things. The last bit of daylight blazed through the open door, and Emily held her breath.

He was larger than she had expected, but then again, Lorelei was a tall girl.

He hesitated, scanned the room. When his eyes fell on David, they nodded to each other. He walked in their direction. Emily had pictured Noah as a slight person, with pale straight hair and effeminate ways. She supposed she thought of him as vulnerable. But this was a dark-haired gym rat with enough tattoos woven between his fingers to make her think he had a full body suit under his long sleeves and jeans.

“You're not Noah,” she said. She made eye contact with Angel. He walked to her end of the bar.

“Name's Leo.”

“You're the tattoo artist.”

“It's that apparent?”

Emily scowled at him.

“Can I sit?”

David waved to a seat next to him.

“So,” David said, “why did you lie about being Noah?”

He shrugged. “I thought it would be the easiest way to get her to talk to me.”

“Do you know Noah?”

“No.”

“You came all the way from Phoenix?” Emily asked.

“L.A.”

“I thought your studio was in Phoenix.”

“No. It's in L.A.” He reached into his pocket and removed a business card. Japanese designs swirled in red and black across the back of the card. “Leo's L.A. That's my studio.”

“So why'd she tell me you were in Phoenix?”

“First of all, let me ask, if you don't mind, who are
you
?”

That seemed like a reasonable enough question, so she said, “I'm Emily. I'm just a friend. This is David. He's her…what are you to her, David?”

“I'm a friend too. I work with the homeless kids around here. So, how did you find out she was in Austin?”

“That newspaper,” Leo answered. “I got buddies work at studios here in Austin. They recognized my work. Called me up. I looked it up online. Pretty easy.”

“Didn't you have some sort of relationship with her?” Emily asked.

“I did.”

“Don't you think you're a little old for her?”

“She needed somebody to take care of her, and I'm not immune to her feminine charms.” He raised an eyebrow to David as if he would understand, but got no response. “What's a guy to do? She lived with me. Ran away once, but I can't stand to see her on the streets. I found her, but that lasted about another month, then she left again.”

“So you what?” she asked. “You want her back? This sixteen-year-old girl.”

“Fuck. No way. Is that how old she is?”

“I don't know,” David said. “She could be.”

“Did you tattoo her face?”

“I
fixed
her face,” he said defensively.

“She said you did it to her while she was drunk.”

“What? No way. She had this crap stick and poke tat under her eye. I fixed it. Covered it up. Now it looks great.”

“That's totally fucked up, tattooing a child's face,” Emily said.

David gave her a look that said pull back.

“I'd never do anything to hurt her. She had a bunch of tats when I met her—train tracks and owls and all kinds of work. Look, why am I on trial here? I'm just trying to help her. Keep her off the streets. Keep her from doing drugs and other shit that'll fuck her up.”

“What drugs does she do?” David asked.

“All kinds I think. She's up one minute and down the next. Crazy stuff. Look, you going to help me find her or not?”

“We don't know where she is,” Emily said. “Haven't seen her in a while.”

He nodded. “She does have a way of just vanishing.”

“You're too old for her.”

“I agree, but I love her. I worry about her.”

“Uh-huh.”

David said, “Do you know anything about her that could help reconnect her with her family? Her real name, where she's from?”

“She's from Utah.”

“Where in Utah?”

“I don't know. Like Mormon central or something.”

“Salt Lake?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Do you know her real name?”

“Wish I could help you out, man. All she ever told me was Lorelei. Here, take a couple more of my cards. Please, have her call me.”

“I don't think so,” Emily said. “You'd better leave or I'll tell the cops you're a stalker pedophile.”

“I'll be in town awhile.” He looked directly at David as he said this. “Call me if anybody on your end changes their mind.”

Emily was hacked off. His mobile crackled with her anger, cutting out as she yelled.

“You total ass…that guy wasn't…brother…tattooed jerk that's after her.” Then loud and clear,
“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Unsure how to respond, he said, “Wait. Back off. How was I supposed to know that?” He came off as too defensive and silently cursed himself.

“You're not supposed to make things worse. I mean, geez,” she said.

“I was just the messenger.”

“Oh, no. You're not responsible for any of this are you?”

“What do you want from me?”

“Find her parents.”

“I'm trying, but I don't have a lot to go on.”

“Try Utah.”

“Utah? All of Utah?”

“Start with Salt Lake.”

“Okay.”

“Call me as soon as you get anything.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. You'd better call me.”

When they hung up Travis could still hear Emily's words stinging his ear. So she had been telling the truth about Lorelei's stalker. That bit of information did change the gravity of the situation. Maybe Emily was right. Maybe he was somewhat responsible for the girl.

Travis checked the National Runaway Switchboard but got nowhere. Next, he tried the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children's website. If she was from Utah, and if her parents cared enough to file a missing persons report, he might have luck.

On the first page he found a search engine. He checked Female, Utah. How long missing? He guessed and entered two years.

Four photos appeared. First one was a black girl, but the next three were all possibilities. He looked closely. One girl had promise, but this girl was healthy, her cheeks round with youth, her hair shiny and long. She was smiling. Travis held the cover image of Lorelei up next to the monitor and compared the girls.

The stats read:

Name: Rose Kimball

Case Type: Endangered Runaway

DOB: Sept. 1,1996

Missing Date: Sept. 6,2010

Missing State: Utah

Sex: Female

Race: White

Height: 510”

Weight 135 lbs.

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Green/Blue

This girl was much heavier than Lorelei. He could see the perfectly aligned teeth of the happy child in the photo, but there were no teeth showing in Emily's photo. Still, it could be the same girl.

He found the contact number for the Salt Lake City Police Department online and got in touch with a Lieutenant Smith in missing persons. He confirmed for Travis that he still had three missing teenage girls. One had come home.

“Can you shoot me over that picture? I got some face identification software that'll tell me if it's a match or not,” Smith said.

Travis e-mailed Lorelei's image. He waited on the line while the officer opened the file and ran the analysis.

“Wow,” the lieutenant said. “If she was trying to change her appearance she sure accomplished that.”

“So we got a match?” Travis asked.

“It's a match,” the officer said. “No doubt about it.”

IT WAS another clear day. The capitol's golden dome shimmered in the afternoon sun as Barbara approached downtown. She had just picked up her Acadia from being detailed for a second time. The first job hadn't touched the stagnant water funk emanating from the carpet after Emily borrowed it. This time around her vehicle smelled almost like a new car again.

Barbara switched radio channels on the way into the city, making mental notes about which talk shows were in which time slots. Radio talent moved frequently. She used her drive time to keep up.

She switched to conservative talk radio. Emily called it hate radio. She said the talk always focused on what was wrong with the other guy, never on personal responsibility. Barbara had to admit conservative radio loved to lay blame.

Still, Barbara could usually find a grain of truth in conservative talk. After all, somebody has to be responsible for the economic mess the country was in, and she didn't think that somebody was her or Gerald. It was validating to have her frustrations expressed, even if the announcers and guests did tend to be a little on the angry side. She could always use a good dose of vitriol about illegal immigrants or taxes.

Her usual exit was blocked by a semi. She was stuck five cars back, perfect pickings for the homeless guy who'd been working this territory for the past ten years. Today his sign read
Homeless Hungry VET.
Sometimes he waited for drivers to beckon him over. Other times, he walked along the traffic jam like a fireman collecting money for burned children.

Barbara reached into the center console between her seats and pulled out a granola bar. She always had a moment of panic when anyone of his sort approached. She rolled the window open a few inches and passed the food through the slit.

“Thank you, ma'am,” he said. “God bless you.” He didn't seem drunk, but you never knew.

The intersection cleared, traffic moved, and she gladly left the bedraggled man behind.

Talk shows warned listeners against giving money to the homeless. The general thinking was any money given would go directly to alcohol or drugs. Then the vagrants ended up in the emergency room, and taxpayers got stuck with the outrageous unpaid ER bills. Barbara supported clinics to help poor people as a better, less expensive way to provide indigent care.

She had been thinking a lot about the homeless since Emily dragged that strange, hungry, tattooed girl into her house. That poor child was beyond help. There is no way to clean her up and make her presentable. Nobody would hire her except maybe as a clerk in a comic book shop or an adult toy store.

Contrary to what Emily and Gerald might think, Barbara was not unsympathetic to this little Lorelei's plight. Although she'd never told anyone, Barbara had seen hunger. She'd gone to college on scholarship, but her parents hadn't been able to help with other expenses. She had been on her own when it came to room and board, so Barbara got a restaurant job and scrounged food. Restaurants expected the college kids who worked for them to pinch a little food here and there.

And she had dated for dinner too. Although she had never been reduced to having sex for food, she had known girls who did. After all, birth control on campus was free. Food was not.

Barbara had seen need and the desperation that comes with it. She sensed the trouble that followed Lorelei, and although Emily wasn't forthcoming with information, Barbara knew the girl was still hanging around. If she didn't take action, Lorelei was bound to bring bad luck into Emily's life.

Gerald would say she was overstepping her boundaries, but Barbara didn't care. A mother had to do what a mother had to do.

Barbara turned onto Guadalupe and followed it downtown. She found a parking space on the street and retrieved the cardboard box from the backseat. She reached into the center console again and dumped the rest of the granola bars into the box. She crossed the street and stood in a barren plaza, looking around for the entrance.

“You looking for the drop-in?” a boy asked.

“Yes. I am.”

“It's down there,” he said, pointing to concrete steps that ended at a gray metal door.

“Thank you.”

Inside, the place was empty of ragtag teenagers. She walked around, calling out for anyone. A plump, middle-aged woman stuck her head out of a small office.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I'm looking for David. We met a while back.”

“He's not here right now. I'm Amelia. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you have something you'd like to donate?” she said, motioning to the box.

“Well, no. Actually, I'm looking for a young girl named Lorelei.”

The woman shook her head. “We haven't seen Lorelei around here for a while.”

“Do you have any suggestions for where I might look? I really need to find her.”

“Sorry. I couldn't say.” She was getting nowhere with this woman, so Barbara thanked her and wandered back out to the plaza. The same boy was talking with friends.

“Excuse me,” she said as she approached them. “I'm looking for a girl named Lorelei.”

“Yeah, I know her,” he said, offering no other help. He had two metal studs on the outsides of his lower lips, the kind of thing that you can't stop looking at. The punctures were angry red, obviously infected. She tried to pull her eyes away.

Barbara was relieved when a girl said, “She's the one with the bird on her face.”

“Yes, that's her. Do you know where she is?”

“She hangs with Mook's clan, doesn't she?” the girl said. “Down at Pease.”

“Pease Park?”

“Yeah, but like, she's been AWOL for days.”

The boy said, “Yeah. Last time I saw her she was hanging with Fiona.”

“Fiona? That name sounds familiar,” Barbara said.

“She's the dead girl they found at Town Lake.”

“Oh, yes. That's so sad. Did they ever find out what happened to her?”

“She was a slinger. I bet the East Austin mafia got her,” the boy said.

“I don't understand.”

“A slinger, a broker, a scrub?” the girl said. “She sold drugs to UT students for a dealer. Sort of a go-between so she could pay for her own habit.”

“She was a burnout,” the boy said. “She probably ripped them off or something. Piss them off and they'll f…uh, mess you up.”

The girl said, “Oh yeah. For sure.”

“So Lorelei hung around with this girl?”

“Yeah. I saw them together. They were friends. They were at Lawrence's, right?”

The boy nodded his agreement.

“Who is Lawrence?”

“Just some strung-out old paralyzed dude. She's probably not there,” the girl said.

“She could be, if she took Fiona's business,” the boy said. “Or maybe she got spooked and went stealth.”

“Is this place in East Austin?” Barbara asked.

“You don't want to go there,” the girl said. “It's drugland. No place for a lady like you in a nice ride like that.”

All three turned to look at her SUV.

“We got a ride in one of those once,” Star said. Something passed between the two friends. Barbara couldn't read their expressions, and she had a sudden fear that they would rob her.

“Yes, well.” Barbara was unsure what to say next. Then she realized how to manage things. “I have clothes in this box. They're about your size. Would you like a jacket?”

“Depends.”

Barbara opened the box and held out one of Emily's old velour sweatshirts. It was black with
Juicy
in cursive on the back. Barbara had always hated the expensive, tacky thing and was relieved when Emily wore it only once and pushed it to the back of her closet.

“It's cute. I'll take it,” the girl said.

“A trade,” Barbara said. “You tell me the address of drugland.”

“Sure lady. It's your funeral,” she said.

The boy gave her an address. She thanked them.

“You might find her just walking around somewhere,” he said and motioned down the street. “We're not allowed to stay in one spot very long or we violate camping rules. Just drive around. You might get lucky and run up on her.”

“Thank you.”

“If you go to East Austin, don't get out of your fancy ride,” the girl said.

“I won't.”

“And if you find Lorelei, tell her Star and Monkey said hey.” They looked at each other with an odd grin, as if they knew an inside joke.

She drove up the hill into the Penbrooke neighborhood, behind Pease Park and across the Winsor Street Bridge, without any sign of Lorelei. In a parking lot, she asked a few teens if they had seen her. Barbara drove to all the spots in the city that made sense, but she had no luck. Desperate, she decided to give East Austin a try.

The last time she'd spent any time in East Austin was back in the eighties when Gerald brought her to the Victory Grill to see Stevie Ray Vaughan. Before they had a child, Gerald used to drag her to jazz clubs and blues clubs. But that seemed like a lifetime ago as she rolled slowly along the streets wondering exactly what she was looking for.

She passed through parts of town where things were looking up. New construction. New restaurants. Retail.

Then suddenly, there was the expected decline.

Barbara was used to illegals waiting for offers of work on Cesar Chavez. They wanted to be inconspicuous except to those who would offer a job for the day. But she immediately felt a different street presence driving into this part of town. All eyes were on her.

In squalid apartment complexes, men in sunglasses peered from dark doorways, televisions flickering behind them. A few dominated the sidewalk, making direct eye contact as she drove by. It was a life she'd only seen on cable and in the movies.

A pitiful man in a wheelchair gazed longingly out his door. Children played with beer bottles in parking lots. How could a child ever survive this? Why would any girl voluntarily come here? Even one who warned the world away with tough tattoos?

On her second pass through the neighborhood, a man wearing a wife beater and enough hardware in his face to attract lightning approached her. Barbara stepped on the gas and crushed his curses with the growl of the engine, although there was no mistaking his sign language in the rearview mirror.