A Name in the Dark Page 4

  As clear as day, the commercial I had seen a handful of times runs through my mind. A man in a plaid suit stands in an electronics store. He swings a long sword through giant price tags and yells, “Nobody slashes prices like Teddy!”

  Teddy.

  “I thought those stores were owned by someone named Teddy,” I say. “The cheesy guy in the ads.”

  “That’s an actor. When Marcos came to the States, he didn’t have much money and spoke very poor English. When he opened his first store, he wanted to put a face behind the store that people would find likable. So he hired a white actor to pretend to be the owner.”

  “And neither he nor his wife ever became a citizen?”

  He nods. “It’s complicated. And at this point, she’s been here too long without a visa or green card to seek citizenship.”

  It’s not uncommon for undocumented residents to operate small businesses. I don’t know how they do it, but they do. The fact that Marcos was able to not only open one business but a whole chain is impressive. I make a note to myself to look into that and figure out why I haven’t become more successful with my advantage of being a natural-born citizen.

  It seems like a pretty obvious case of a runaway… except the money. I wonder why Elizabeth didn’t clean out the account when she ran away. I would have.

  I did.

  I agree to visit Carmen tomorrow and get more information about the case. I haven’t had a paying gig in two months, and I need the money—and a new lamp.

  We chat for a bit longer before Ramon segues into the subject of my life. “Have you had any occurrences recently?”

  I consider telling him about last night’s episode but decide against it. There's no reason to worry him. I casually try to cover and tell him everything’s perfectly all right now. “All fine here, thank you. How are you?”

  He stares. I can read people pretty well, and I can tell he’s reading me and not buying my story. Ramon knows me better than I give him credit for, so he also knows I’m done talking about myself.

  “There’s an upcoming exhibit at the Fowler Museum,” he says. “Ancient Aztec Art. I thought a visit wouldn’t hurt.”

  In our research to find the name of this demon inside me, we’ve decided to move beyond the typical Judeo-Christian demons and investigate other religions and mythologies. After all, God and the devil are older than Judaism and more pervasive than the usual Euro-Middle Eastern history, so we might find Dudley’s real name mentioned in the texts or artwork of other civilizations.

  I have to give Father Ramon credit—for a Catholic priest, he has an open mind about other religions. Sometimes.

  “I’ll check it out,” I say.

  “May I accompany you? Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

  We decide on a weekend and set a date.

  * * *

  I enter the front door of our apartment to find Paige behind a small fort of bankers’ boxes. She pokes her head out from behind the cardboard fortress like a meerkat.

  “Hi,” she says in a guilty tone that matches her expression.

  I know immediately what’s happening. Without saying a word, I dump my keys on the table near Sir Hiss’s terrarium and join her on the floor near our couch. “Where did we leave off?”

  Paige hands me an accordion file filled with documents. “You’re on T’s,” she says. “I’m still on C’s.”

  I remove a handful of name-change forms for the County of Los Angeles.

  “How was work?” Paige asks, making idle chitchat as she pores over the paper in her hand.

  “I saw Father Ramon tonight.”

  “Tonight?” She whips her head to the window, as if only now realizing it’s dark outside. “Does this mean you have a new case?”

  I shrug, trying to be nonchalant. “I’m meeting someone tomorrow. We’ll see.”

  Paige returns her attention to the files in her hand. “I ordered dinner. Chinese.” She glances up at me. She knows Chinese is my favorite, so this must be her way of apologizing for the evening ahead.

  “Sounds perfect,” I say to let her know that I’m okay with tonight’s plan.

  She smiles, and we dig into the work for the evening.

  Paige grew up in foster care as a ward of the court. Since she turned eighteen, she’s been trying to track down her birth mother. The only evidence she has that her mom was ever a part of her life—other than her fading memories—is a photograph she keeps as a memento, a washed-out Polaroid taken at a beach. In it, a young blond woman wraps a towel around a toddler girl with shoulder-length blond hair. They’re both facing the camera with the biggest smiles you can imagine. And yes, the young mother looks a lot like Paige.

  When I say “fading memories,” it’s because Paige still remembers the day in the courthouse when her mother gave up custody. She was four. After that, Paige quickly got lost in the system. She was shuffled around to a number of foster parents who collected kids as meal tickets, cashing in on state benefits to earn a living. By Paige’s account, the best of these foster parents were only verbally abusive. The worst… well, I don’t need to paint the picture.

  Paige believes her mother abandoned her as an act of protection. The vague memories of her mother involve living in small motel rooms, moving around a lot, and watching her mother cry—hardly a stable environment for bringing up a daughter. Her mother made a sacrifice twenty-one years ago, and Paige now believes she can take care of her.

  With no help from government agencies, Paige has taken up the search on her own. She even hired a private detective at one point. Yes, she found the investigator through Father Ramon. Yes, that was how we met.

  Three years later, I’m still helping her search through boxes of old files on the off chance we stumble on some nugget of information that we missed the last time we did this—some random document related to the birth or history of Paige Alexandra Whitaker. The two documents she does have are an application for a Social Security card and an order terminating guardianship, in which the names of the judges, attorneys, and her mother are redacted. Both these forms have the same date.

  The fact that there are two documents with the same date for a Social Security number and a termination of guardianship suggested one thing—Paige Whitaker is not her real name, and her mother created a whole new identity on the day the child was legally abandoned.

  Our online searches resulted in nothing. No forms seemed to exist for this name-change document… until we found a government warehouse where the hard copies were kept. Paige and I borrowed the documents a couple of months ago. Well, “borrowed,” may be taking some artistic license. The process did involve Paige reconfiguring my City of Los Angeles employee access card for administrative access to every government building in the county, and I did have to pose as an internal auditor at the Hall of Records. But we fully intend to return every single box as soon as we’re done.

  Now that her relationship with Brock is over, Paige has pulled these boxes out of our downstairs storage locker. Clearly, his recent departure has reignited her obsession with finding her mother. We comb through the boxes, looking for evidence that a four-year-old girl changed her name to Paige Whitaker. The Chinese food arrives, and we continue to read one legal document after another. We’re still reading when the Chinese food has been eaten and the leftovers have been put in the refrigerator.

  It’s one in the morning by the time my eyes are so watery I can’t look at another piece of paper. I wish I could stay up later, but exhaustion sends me off to bed while Paige continues her search. There’s no point in telling her she should to go sleep too. There’s no stopping her. We’ve been here before. We’ll be here again.

  Chapter 5

  ____◊____

  I CALL CARMEN’S HOUSE and speak to Leona about setting up an appointment. The housekeeper’s voice is sharp and direct and vibrates over the phone. Every syllable is overenunciated as if she’s delivering a direct order to an inferior.


  Leona requests that I come this morning and explains that Mrs. Viramontes is anxious to meet me. My schedule at the library is flexible enough that I can come and go as I need and no one bothers me, which is helpful for playing hooky. I ask Leona for directions, and she’s further annoyed that I would bother her with such trivialities. After I hang up, I decide to make her my prime suspect out of spite.

  I slide open my bedroom door. On normal nights, Paige doesn’t bother to barricade me in. We’ve been living together for two years, and at first, we practiced the ritual of entombing me. Nothing ever happened. Then one morning, Paige left for an all-day seminar and forgot to unlock me.

  By the time I woke and called her, she was too far to come back. I spent the day in my room. I should not have had all that Gatorade the night before. Since then, unless I’m worked up or not feeling well before bed, we leave my door unlocked. Paige feels safe enough by now—though I think she locks her bedroom door.

  There’s no sign of her this morning, but our living room is a disaster. Boxes and papers litter the entire expanse of the floor. I can only presume she’s out on a run. It’s a little late for her to be doing that, but I’m not surprised since she was up until all hours last night.

  I leave send her a quick Good morning! text and head off.

  * * *

  Carmen Viramontes’s house is situated in a beautiful Pasadena suburb, lined and shaded by an endless column of elm trees. There are few cars parked on the street among these sprawling homes except for the trucks of gardeners and various utility vehicles at work. All the nice cars are parked in the driveways and behind the gates. The house sits behind a large wrought-iron gate surrounded by a ten-foot-high hedge.

  I press the buzzer at the gate and announce myself. The iron bars slowly wheel open, and I hike up the driveway to an enormous Arts and Crafts home—sage green with cedar trim. The rich perfume from the rose gardens on either side of the driveway hits me like a punch to the face. The area around the house is clearly inspired by Japanese landscaping.

  Leona is waiting for me on the porch and watches me trudge up the driveway. She’s tall and composed and looks as austere as she sounded on the phone. Her perfectly coifed hair bun matches her perfectly tailored tan suit.

  She furrows her brow as I approach. “Darcy Caine?”

  I know what she sees—a little grungy girl with a heavy jacket and lesbian boots. I’m not the private detective she was expecting. She’s also not what I was expecting. My impression over the phone was that she was a maid, but she’s clearly more a majordomo… or majordoma… or whatever the female equivalent is.

  However, there is one thing that strikes me about her—she’s white. Carmen Viramontes, immigrant from Mexico and undocumented resident, has a white housekeeper. That is a fantastic reversal of fortune.

  I extend my hand in greeting. “Yes. Leona? Nice to meet you.”

  Leona gives me a firm handshake. When most people first meet me, they do a double take when they see my eyes. Not Leona. She has too much social decorum for that.

  She escorts me inside, and I’m equally impressed by the interior. A dual staircase in the foyer greets visitors, the two sides winding their way up to a vast upper floor in perfect symmetry. Dark wainscoting is juxtaposed with clean white walls. Everything is meticulously placed and meant to amaze.

  I’m guided through the drawing room—yeah, this place has a drawing room—past the dining room, and to the kitchen. The moment I step inside, I’m hit by the fragrance of smoke and spices. The kitchen is busy with prep work. One servant is cutting vegetables on large board while another is hand-mixing some sauce in a wood bowl. In the middle is a woman stirring a steaming skillet. She wears an apron over her white blouse, and from behind, I can’t help but notice her voluptuous figure.

  “¡Váyanse!” Leona commands. The two other servants stop what they’re doing and quickly leave. Only Leona and the woman remain.

  Leona offers me the beverage of my choice. I ask for English breakfast tea—“if it’s not too much trouble”—with milk. I try to gauge Leona’s reaction, and though she hides it, I suspect she’s mildly impressed with my choice.

  As Leona prepares my tea, the woman at the stove turns to look at me. She’s beautiful. Though she must be in her late forties at least, her piercing eyes and long black hair make her appear much younger. Her hair reminds me of my own and gives me hope for keeping it long when I’m her age.

  “Thank you for coming.” The woman walks toward me. This has to be Carmen. I extend my hand for a shake, but she greets me with a hug instead. “I’m so glad you could come. Please, sit.”

  She has a thick Hispanic accent. English is clearly her second language, but she’s comfortable speaking it.

  Carmen guides me to sit at a stool at the kitchen counter. “Are you hungry? I have so much food here. Do you like paella?”

  Before I can answer, she’s pulled out a plate. She scoops up a generous serving of rice, shrimp, and sausage from the simmering pan. “It’s my personal recipe. Do you like spicy food? It’s not too spicy.”

  As Carmen and Leona meet at the stove, there is a silent exchange between them. Carmen nods then returns to me with the plate. “I’m sorry. Cooking usually helps relax me, but ever since Elizabeth…” She trails off. “Please, I hope you enjoy.”

  Leona returns with my tea then takes a seat at a stool in the corner. She’s not going to leave us alone. Carmen stands silently waiting. I take a bite.

  “How is it?” she asks.

  “Delicious,” I say. And I’m not lying. It’s been too long since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. Neither Paige nor I can cook. Though my mother was never one to cook anything more exotic than spaghetti with jarred sauce, having something hot off the stove reminds me of home. “This is amazing! Where did you learn to cook like this?”

  “My mother,” Carmen says proudly. “She taught me everything I know.”

  Still standing, Carmen asks me if I found the place all right. I tell her yes and compliment her on her home. It’s minor chitchat, but I can tell Carmen is comfortable and accustomed to playing the hostess. Her responses feel scripted as she describes the recent restoration of the house and the great effort that went into upgrading the design while remaining true to the original architect’s intentions.

  She keeps staring at my eyes. She doesn’t mention them, and I’m sure Father Ramon told her to prepare herself. Still, to most people, they can be disconcerting.

  While we talk and I eat, I observe Carmen’s body language. She remains standing, her hands folded neatly before her. Aside from her frantic cooking when I walked in, she’s a poised and warm hostess. Two minutes into conversation, she still hasn’t mentioned her daughter’s disappearance. Though this might make some people seem suspicious, it reminds me of my mother. She would always put on a front with people, never letting anyone know the real inner turmoil going on inside. I remember after the exorcism, when she would keep me locked inside during the day. She would tell people I was recovering from chicken pox. Or on a school trip. Or visiting family in Idaho. Anything but the unseemly truth.

  I don’t find this front suspicious. I find it familiar. Meanwhile, Leona sits quietly. She offers nothing and waits patiently for the next directive from Carmen.

  I’m the one who brings up Elizabeth. “How long has she been gone?” With one hand on my fork, I use the other to pull out my trusty composition book and start taking notes. As much as I want to be respectful of the situation at hand, I can’t stop eating.

  “Since last week. She attends school at USC and lives here. She’s a freshman, but I let her have her freedom. If she’s gone overnight, she’ll send a text just to let me know she’s safe.”

  “When was the last time you saw or heard from her?”

  “Wednesday morning before she left for school.”

  I ask about Elizabeth’s phone, thinking we could track its location. Carmen has already tried, but it�
��s been turned off. I ask about Elizabeth’s car. Carmen says they found it in a school parking lot. We run through all the For Dummies ways to track down a person, and it sounds like Carmen’s done everything she can to find her daughter—except call the police.

  “Tell me about her friends and boyfriends.”

  Carmen exchanges a glance with Leona. “She had a boyfriend, but I don’t even know his name. He never came to the house. I didn’t think it was serious, but a week before she disappeared, I overheard her talking with him on the phone. She was telling him it was over. It sounded like an argument. I asked her about it later that night, but she didn’t want to talk to me about it. When it comes to sex, you know how mothers and daughters can be.”

  “Yes. Yes I do.” No. No I do not.

  “Since that argument and since she disappeared, I worry that…”

  She stops herself—the first break in her composure. I don’t press, hoping for more genuine emotions to break through. Instead, Carmen collects herself. “I worry that he might have something to do with this.”

  I’m disappointed by the lack of an outburst. “Do you know where he is or how I can find him?”

  Carmen shakes her head.

  Turning to Leona, I ask, “Did you ever meet him? Do you know anything about him?”

  She is momentarily caught off guard. “No. I’m sorry.”

  Back to Carmen, I ask, “Is he a student?”

  “I think. But I don’t know if he goes to USC.”

  I ask about Elizabeth’s friends, and Carmen is forthcoming about everyone she knows. I get a list of friends’ names and numbers, though she claims to have called most of them and says they are all worried and no one has information.

  We keep talking, and I ask another round of questions that seem to go nowhere. Carmen is starting to open up, and her answers finally feel off script. I ask, “Can I see her room?”

  Leona rises and leads the way, and I walk beside Carmen up the stairs to the second floor. The fact that there are no personal decorations downstairs doesn’t register until we make it to the top. I realize I saw no family photos, souvenirs from vacations, clothes, or bags lying around. Downstairs is only for show.