Total Victim Theory (22 page)

According to the report, at 10:30 p.m., Lisa went out for a smoke break and never came back. Around this time, witnesses saw her talking to someone in the parking lot seated behind the wheel of a late-model red Ford truck. No one was able to provide a description of the driver. Lisa’s purse, along with its contents, was found on the ground not far from where the red Ford was seen. That's the extent of the physical and eye-witness evidence. Despite extensive interviews with friends and relatives, there are currently no suspects, and there have been no further developments.

The next item on the agenda is a search of Lisa’s apartment. I want to see if there's anything the police overlooked, being that they were unaware of the case's connection to the Ropes' investigation. The visit, however, will be more prudently undertaken after sunset. Having a few hours to kill, I return to the Comanche Motel and watch TV while nervously twiddling my thumbs.

Around 11 p.m., I pull the Accord into a visitor’s parking spot at the Pinehurst Apartments and cut the engine. Apartment 284 is the single-bedroom apartment where Lisa was living alone at the time she disappeared. My indiscretions up to this point have amounted to piddling ethical violations. The worst they could have done would have been to fire me and shower me with shameful looks while I was escorted out of the building. What I’m about to do, on the other hand, is either breaking and entering or burglary, depending on what they decide to call it, and could get me locked up for five-to-ten in the local monkey house.

But I only bring this up as an observation. I used to be a stickler to the last dot and decimal place. Today, a felony is just a footnote here. Even if this were punishable by death, I don't know that it would change my course. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm committed to this. To solving this one, come hell or high water. To crossing as many lines as I need to cross to find this guy and put him away. Now was that a threat or a promise? Or maybe just a pep talk.

From where I’m parked, I can see Lisa’s apartment. It's up on the second level, and it looks like one of her two neighbors is home. My plan is to wait a bit until everyone’s turned in for the
night. The real risk of arrest is small. If someone calls the police, I’ll just flash my badge and talk my way out of it. I even wore my suit to increase my credibility in just such a contingency.

Which raises the question—am I a burglar impersonating an agent, or an agent moonlighting as a burglar?

I look at myself in the rearview mirror and realize it's been a while since I shaved. My eyes look tired and bloodshot. Overall, a little rough around the edges. After giving my reflection a disappointed scowl, I step out of the car and walk up the stairs leading to apartment 284.

When I reach the door, I stand there listening. The neighbor to the right is still up, watching TV—so I'd better keep it down. Next to the door are two large windows. Both have screens in them and are pushed up a few inches from the sills. With my pocket knife, I cut four slashes along the perimeter of the closer screen, which allows me to tear it out, leaving only the empty aluminum frame.

In the window of the apartment on the left, a disapproving Siamese cat sits watching me. I slide the window all the way up and feel around till I grasp the cord that raises the mini blinds. They go quietly up. Next, I cautiously insert my right leg, in the process knocking over a small potted cactus perched on the sill. It falls to the floor with a carpeted thud.

A moment later, I’m inside. I consider using the flashlight I’ve brought with me, but decide that the roving beams would be more suspicious than just turning on the lights. After a moment of fumbling around on the wall and accidentally groping a coat rack, I find the switch and flip it on.

I need a moment to take in the strange spectacle before me. The room, which is otherwise conventionally furnished, is chock-full on almost every nook, and shelf, and end table, and bookcase, with an astonishing panoply of lamps. Lamps of every size and shape, color, and design. Desk lamps, standing lamps, frilly antique lamps, art deco lamps. There's even a neon Corona sign above the TV and a string of Christmas lights strung across the ceiling. The lamps are all wired somehow to the main overhead switch, and the room blazes with an elaborate and dazzling radiance.

I flip off the living room light and the display instantly darkens. I then switch on the light in the kitchen, which is less
extravagant, but more suited to my covert purposes. The lamp motif is fascinating because, as far as I know, this wasn't a hobby of Lisa's way back when, or at least it hadn't manifested itself so conspicuously. The only parallel that comes to mind is that she used to sleep with a nightlight on or sometimes with the TV going.

As I continue looking around, I realize what’s missing. So far there's nothing to suggest that a child lives here. No toys, Legos, or lunch pails whatsoever. If there was indeed a youngster in residence, he or she was certainly keeping a low profile. Though I suppose the child could be in the father’s custody.

I make my way to Lisa’s bedroom where, turning on the light, I find myself confronting another throng of lamps. If anything, their density is greater in this second room, with lamps covering the entire floor except for a narrow path running from the door to the bed to the closet. Apart from the lamps, the room's sparsely furnished. There’s an unmade double bed, a desk with a laptop on it, a closet full of brightly colored clothes, and a small dresser. In the closet, there’s a plastic laundry bin overflowing with rumpled garments. A single piano key sock has spilled out on the floor.

Likewise no trace of a kiddo here.

Maneuvering through the thicket of lamps, I step over to the desk, which is cluttered with personal effects. In addition to the laptop, there's a makeup compact, an asthma inhaler, a pair of pink Ray-Bans, an empty pack of Virginia Slims, an iPod, and three strands of red licorice. In the top drawer of the desk, I find two orange prescription drug bottles both made out to Lisa, both with pills in them. One is for Xanax, which I believe is an anti-anxiety drug, and one's for Wellbutrin, which can be used to treat either depression or anxiety. The drawer also contains a glass one-hit pot pipe and an Altoids mint container with several nuggets of marijuana inside.

On the floor under the desk there's a lint roller. I smile as I pick it up and my mind is instantly aglow with nostalgic flickerings. . . .

Lisa, when she worked at the DA's office, would often complain how her scruffy, Toto-like dog (of which there'd been a picture displayed on her desk) relentlessly shed on her. More than once, I'd stumbled on her in the break room vigorously rolling a device like this one over the curves and thoroughfares of her
garments, trying to rid herself of the unwanted fur. Its presence here may mean she never lost affection for this breed of follically challenged pooch. Who knows—it may even be the same roller that she’s been using all these years to clean up after the same dog.

I set the lint roller back down on the floor.

Extending above the desk is a hutch with two shelves. On the lower shelf are two photographs, unframed and lying face up on the wooden surface. In the first photo, Lisa appears as a gangly, preteen girl. She’s wearing Mickey Mouse ears and her face is painted with giant whiskers. A smiling blonde woman holds her hand. This is Jaci, Lisa's mom. I met her twice back when Lisa and I were dating. I now notice that part of the picture is missing. A section of the photo to the left of Lisa’s shoulder has been neatly cut away, as if with scissors. A brawny forearm and hand enter the picture from the deleted zone. Lisa's small hand holds tight to the clipped appendage, which, I would guess, belongs to Lisa's father. I never met him—he was out of the picture by the time we got together—but I gathered Lisa wasn’t too fond of him. Not sure why. I check the back of the photo, but nothing's written there.

The second photo features a paunchy middle-aged man with red hair, a somewhat younger woman of tall and stout proportions, and an eight- or nine-year-old girl. All three are clad in overalls and other outlandishly rustic attire, as if they were cast members of the show
Hee Haw
. To wit, there's a haystack in the background and the man is holding a pitchfork. The year ’08 is inscribed in golden numerals in the bottom left corner. Clearly, this is a family—but whose I couldn't say.

I flip the photo over. Handwritten in feminine cursive on the back are the words
Danielle, age 8
. I flip it back and study the young girl’s face for a minute or two. She could be Lisa's child, I suppose. Indeed, she's the only candidate so far. She could also be a niece or a cousin of Lisa's. Or these people could just be friends of Lisa's from any number of contexts. It seems notable that the photo only identifies the child. That may suggest that Lisa was more closely acquainted with her than with the two adults. After a moment's study, I'm convinced I recognize a number of Lisa’s features in the young girl's face. Her blue eyes, narrow nose and sharp chin are all clearly evident, notwithstanding the girl's black hair, fuller lips, and darker complexion. The fact that this was one
of only two photos Lisa kept on her desk suggests the child was someone very significant. After a moment’s hesitation, I grab it and stick it in my back pocket.

I turn and scan the room for anything I might have missed. At the foot of Lisa’s bed, there's a small, black suitcase. I pick it up and see there’s a travel tag around the handle which gives the address of this apartment. The “if lost contact” line lists Jaci Walters, Lisa’s mother, along with a phone number. I unzip the bag and go through its contents. There’s a four- or five-day supply of clothes, a cosmetics bag, and—taking up about a third of the bag's space—a decrepit-looking Teddy bear.

Wonder why she was taking it with her on a trip?

I pick it up. The ancient toy—perhaps a relic from Lisa's own childhood—has seen better days. There's a hole in the animal's stomach where traces of stuffing peek out, while the buttons that once served as its eyes are no more, with only a pair of white cross stitches remaining to mark the spots. Around the bear's neck there's a big red bow with—I just notice—a little card attached.

I open the card and read what's written there:

Dear Danielle,


Happy 10th Birthday!
I’m so excited to meet you
and to get to be part of your
life!


Love,


Lisa


28

El Paso, 1992

Emilia heard the sound of the truck pulling up in front of the house. She rushed out of the study, closed the door, and hurried back over to the couch in the living room.

Car doors, softly shutting. Voices speaking in hushed tones. Emilia flipped the TV on and pretended she was watching—an infomercial about a set of steak knives. A man in a chef's hat effortlessly sliced a soda can in half. The handle jiggled and Gary appeared in the open doorway. Tad and Luke shuffled up behind him. A look of surprise crossed Gary's face when he saw Emilia and for a split-second he balked.

The next moment he stepped inside, suddenly smiling. “
Hola
, Emilia.
Como estas
?” he said, addressing her in Spanish, as he typically did. “I figured you'd be in bed by now.”

“I couldn't get to sleep,” she said.

“Tossing and turning, huh?”

“A bit.”

As Gary crossed the living room, Emilia noticed something in his hand. The overhead light was off and she couldn't see exactly what it was. Something long and thin and white. An envelope—no, two of them.

Tad and Luke followed him in and without a word, continued down the hall, disappearing into their rooms. Gary lingered for a moment, just to the left of the TV. “Insomnia's no fun,” he said. “Happens to me when I’m worried about things. Have you got something on your mind?”

“No, not at all,” Emilia replied. “So, did Fernando and Esteban
make it to Juárez okay?” she asked.

“Nothing to it,” he said. “Done it a hundred times.”

Emilia had been nervous—convinced something odd was going on. But when she looked him over, she felt her suspicions evaporate into thin air. After all, this wasn't a stranger. She knew this man inside and out. She'd lived in his house for a year now. There's no way he'd be capable of anything . . . like that. And besides, the kids had been with him the whole time. If there was anything dubious going on, surely he wouldn't have brought them along.

And yet, she wanted to clear up her confusion. To have him explain the passport and why they’d gone the other direction. So she could put this doubt behind her and trust him completely from then on.

“Why do you ask, Emilia? I can see it in your eyes that there’s something,” Gary said. “Talk to me.”

She felt herself blush, imagining how silly she was going to feel once she'd heard the explanation. “Well, I noticed your passport was on your desk. I wasn’t sure how you’d get across without it.”

Gary stared at her for a moment. Then his smile returned. “Oh, they’re pretty lax if you’re American. I just showed ’em my driver’s license and they said no problem.”

“Oh, I see.” She tried to sound composed, but her heart was racing. She'd seen the license in his wallet—why was he lying to her?

She noticed that he'd shifted the envelopes behind his back.

“Emilia,” Gary said, his tone friendly. “Don’t mean to be a pest, but haven’t we talked about staying clear of that room? Like I said, my things are organized in a particular way, and I'd prefer it if people didn't go through them.”

“I just went in to turn the light off.” She heard her voice crack as she said this.

“I see.” He set the letters on the TV stand and began to pop his knuckles. “I must have left it on when I went out.”

“I’ll stay out of there from now on,” Emilia said.

“I’d be grateful if you did.” He looked over at the study without actually turning his head. Just a shift of the eyes. Then he looked at Emilia. There was a smirk on his lips. “That's funny,” he said. “Looks like the light's still on.”