As You Look Read online

  I started to protest but flopped back onto my pillow when she continued.

  “You know deep down that it wasn’t your fault, but you won’t acknowledge it.” She sat beside me on the bed, her own scar—“my Taliban tattoo,” she called it—highlighting her right biceps. “I just want you to be all of you, love.” She placed her hand over my heart, her kind, brown eyes locked on mine. “I know I can’t tell you how to grieve, but acknowledging anything—even this psychic stuff—has gotta be better than that unjustified guilt. It’s been almost a year.”

  I knew she was trying to help, but the psychic thing was a step too far.

  “Please. I am not psychic. And even if I had some…what do you and Jesse call it? Psychic intuition? It could never be reliable. It’s just a distraction.” I sat up again and hugged her. “No, love, don’t worry—this juju stuff’s not for me. Besides, it would never hold up in court. I’d be laughed off the witness stand. Nah…If Mom’s death taught me anything, it’s that we shouldn’t let the juju get in the way. And it won’t. I’ll call Carmen now. You’ll see. Joey’s fine.”

  I dialed Carmen on speaker and heard road noise when she answered.

  “Hey, mujer. Off to work already?” I tried to sound unconcerned, calling her “woman,” one of the terms we used for each other.

  “Buenos días, comadre. Have a deposition downtown. Gotta get in early and kick some butt. My client waited until last night to tell me about another witness. Can you believe it? Chingado. What’s up?”

  “Um, just checking in on Joey’s party tomorrow.” The little white lie couldn’t hurt. “What time should we be there? What can we bring?”

  “Ah, you’ve turned into your mother, Yolanda.” I felt her smile through the phone. “She would never arrive to a party empty-handed.”

  “No Ávila would. What can I say?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, how about your potato salad? Or Sydney’s awesome mac and cheese? Either would be fine. Say one o’clock? Joey’ll be getting hyper before the party and you and Sydney are so good with him.”

  “Carbs and entertainment for a six-year-old. You got it. Good luck with the depo.”

  “Gracias, mujer.”

  We hung up, and I raised my eyebrows at Sydney, feeling justified. She gave a curt nod.

  “You’ll still be careful today, right?” she said, standing up.

  “Absolutely!” I jumped out of bed, pretending to feel much better about the rest of my day. I knew it would take most of it to shake off the resurfaced guilt. I’d done it before. All it took was concentrating on my work, keeping busy. The thought made me feel a little better—perhaps prematurely.

  Chapter Two

  Friday, 7:00 a.m.

  After Sydney left for work, I showered and made some final edits to yet another Workers’ Comp fraud report for an insurance company client. More and more of these cases were coming in, and I was beginning to understand why Workers’ Comp reform had become a hot political issue in California. It certainly didn’t hurt my business, so I wasn’t as concerned about the politics as were Carmen and her labor union clients. A few more of these insurance company cases and I might start looking for a place to hang a shingle instead of working from home. Then I’d be more established and out from under the cloud of my short-lived LAPD career.

  I delivered my findings to a happy client in West Covina. I would close out the case altogether after the inevitable police reports and court testimony, if necessary. But, for now, I patted the check in my pocket with satisfaction.

  On my way back to Boyle Heights, I was glad I was early and would have a chance to talk to Jesse before our “after-school snack,” a Friday tradition Mom had established when I was in high school—an attempt to hang on to some family time as we got older and Dad had the flexibility at work to drop by. Now we did our best to indulge Dad on those days.

  Inching along the westbound 10, I thought I’d make the conversation with Jesse a quick one, because we both knew where I stood on letting dreams dictate our actions. He insisted I was in denial about psychic messages. And when I said I just didn’t want to think about it, I got a lecture on some philosopher who equated avoidance with denial. I wasn’t looking forward to resurfacing the argument, but I’d promised Sydney, and now my good mood diminished along with the sunlight behind a dirty dishwater sky. June gloom had set in early, and a fire raging in Griffith Park only made the air quality worse. Like everyone but the firefighters, I wished for the cleansing Santa Ana winds as I crept along in traffic.

  The midafternoon traffic toward downtown was almost as heavy as the early rush-hour traffic heading away from it, unusual, even by LA standards. Either there was an accident ahead or I was caught in one of the traffic waves emanating from the fire two freeways away. I switched my satellite radio from Mexican boleros to classic rock. The Rolling Stones are better for dealing with bottlenecks. An electronic freeway sign flashed ahead, too far away to make out the message. Something about the fire, no doubt. Creeping closer, I could make out the traffic picking up again after the sign.

  I was about to curse the slow readers and the high-tech distraction when I read the Amber Alert: “CHILD ABDUCTION—SILVER JAGUAR” and a license number. Well, at least the Jaguar made it sound more like a custody dispute than a pedophile case. Pedophile kidnappers don’t usually drive Jags. The news had been reporting on a serial kidnapper taking little boys in the desert county east of Los Angeles. He hadn’t ventured into the LA area as far as I knew. And like most of my friends, I hoped he wasn’t Black or Latino. My stomach tightened, something other than a pedophile and fear of resurgent hate crimes nagging at me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I switched the radio to an all-news station but didn’t hear anything about the Amber Alert before reaching Dad’s house. My brother’s beat-up Honda Civic blocked the driveway. He was reaching the porch steps when I pulled up to the curb and lowered the passenger window.

  “Road hog!” I shouted.

  Jesse turned around, glanced at his car, and smiled. My twenty-six-year-old brother, younger than me by four years, was home from school. Sometimes I wondered whether he went to class at all. Who would have time to do that and be involved in every political cause on the Eastside and on UCLA’s Westwood campus?

  “You should move your carcancha up the driveway before Dad gets home. Ditching class again?” I stepped out of my good-as-new, green Subaru Forester. I hadn’t wanted a black car, but dark green looks black at night and is ideal for nighttime surveillance.

  Jesse ignored my suggestion but stopped at the porch steps.

  “Friday. No class. Jesus observes the Sabbath.” He used the English pronunciation of his given name the way he sometimes did to mess with people on campus. “Jewish, you know.”

  “The Sabbath doesn’t start until sundown, you ding-a-ling,” I teased in the corny way we’d both picked up from Dad.

  “So, I’m a few hours early. But who can tell with all the smoke?” He looked up at the sky, then turned back to me as I approached. “You’re early too. What’s up?”

  “Just being a good hija checking in on her father,” I lied. And before he completed his eye roll, I added, “Actually, I was stuck in traffic and needed to pee real bad.”

  “Nice to know we’re a convenient potty break on the great road of life.”

  “Hey, at least I’m on the road while you’re still stuck in park as a professional student.”

  “Who says I’m stuck? I’m well on my way to becoming the most renowned philosopher of our time.” He held his head high, right hand on his chest in mock superiority.

  “Well, in your own mind, anyway. At least you’ve got the hair for it.” I tousled his dark, unruly curls. I envied his and Mom’s curls as much as he envied my and Dad’s straight hair. I was proud of my brother, even though he could be a bit strange at times. Not more so than any other philosophy graduate stud
ent, I supposed.

  Moving ahead of him, I unlocked the front door, put my keys and phone on the small foyer table inside, and headed for the restroom. Our father was still at the mechanic shop he managed and wouldn’t be home for another hour or so. He’d go back to work later and close the shop at eight o’clock.

  “Hey, I do need to tell you about something real quick,” I called over my shoulder, “but let’s surprise Dad and cook something ourselves.”

  “Hey, let’s not surprise him and order out for something edible.”

  When I returned to the living room, Jesse was on his way out the door. He responded to the question in my eyes with, “Carnitas Michoacan.” My brother sometimes spoke in shorthand, but I understood. He was going three blocks to Whittier and Soto and would be back with a bag of carnitas, chopped cilantro and onion, salsa, and fresh, hot tortillas—all the fixings for perfect tacos. Just as well. The only fresh thing in the refrigerator was probably Jesse’s beer, or Dad’s milk. After setting the table, I put on an old Nora Jones CD and lingered over the family pictures on the fireplace mantel. One of them was of Mom and me at my Academy graduation.

  I wiped dust off the glass with my finger, pausing over Mom’s image. She’d tried to be supportive of my career, but her concern for my safety had always been a source of tension between us. She was relieved when I left the department, but only after very supportive indignation that “the cabrones will regret losing” me. Her protective maternal instincts outweighed everything.

  Mom battled similar contradictions when Sydney and I moved in together the year I left the LAPD, and again when we got married without telling anyone but our witnesses. We hadn’t hesitated after the US Supreme Court legalized gay marriage in June of 2015. Like most gay couples in California, we remembered the 2008 legal window when sixty thousand Californians wed before voters took away the right. In the end, Mom had approved of the idea of our marriage before the US Supreme Court had, if only because she thought it was good to have someone “take care” of me, especially a doctor, when I left the department. She’d become even more supportive as our national politics turned less civil and more hateful.

  When Jesse drove up again, I remembered I’d put my phone on silent during my meeting with my client and had forgotten to switch it back. I picked it up and saw that I had messages. I dialed my voice mail and heard Carmen’s voice as Jesse came in the door.

  “Yolie, where the hell are you?” Carmen never called me Yolie; she preferred Yolanda. Something was wrong. “I need your help. Joey’s missing!” The skin on the back of my neck went cold as I visualized the Amber Alert I’d just seen. “Call me at home. God, where are you?” My jaw tightened at the desperation in her voice. The voice mail icon on my phone indicated two more messages. I called Carmen without checking them. Jesse turned back from the bags of food as I dialed.

  “What’s wrong?” The look on my face must’ve given me away, but I didn’t answer because Carmen picked up, her voice loud in my ear.

  “Oh, god, Yolie. It’s about time! Where’ve…Joey’s missing. I know that cabrón has him, so I tried to teach him a lesson with an Amber Alert, but the cops just picked him up and he says he doesn’t have him. I bet he’s at the house in Rosarito or the cabin in Big Bear. But god, I don’t know, Yolie. I need your help!” She said everything in one breath before I got a word in. I pictured the petite “dynamo,” my dad’s name for her. Wild, dark curly hair made her seem taller than her five feet, three inches, but she looked even taller when upset.

  “Carmen. Stop. Breathe.” I tried to stop her before she rattled off again in incomprehensible sobs.

  “Carmen…” I tried again. To Jesse, I whispered, “Joey’s missing.”

  “Go.” Jesse handed me a Styrofoam shell with a couple of tacos he’d hurriedly put together, deep concern etched on his face. I took the food automatically, knowing I wouldn’t eat it. “Call me as soon as you know more.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. “It’s not good, Yolie,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  I ignored him. “Carmen, I’m coming over. Be there in fifteen.”

  I hated when he did that. How did he know how bad it was? I rushed out the door and tried to shake off his foreboding. But my mind went back to my dream.

  Shit.

  Chapter Three

  Earlier Friday, 7:25 a.m.

  On his way to school, Joey looked out the back seat window, wishing Mom and Dad would get back together. He usually liked to see the changing storefronts along Sunset Boulevard and guess what kind of business was coming in. But today he barely noticed them, his thoughts on his family. The adults all told him he needed to be a “big boy,” except for Nina Yolanda. She always told him it wasn’t his fault and said that adults sometimes needed a break from each other. She said it was okay to be mad and sad, and to punch his pillow and even cry if he wanted, because adults did that too, sometimes.

  Joey only cried at night when nobody was looking. He didn’t tell anyone but his nina, and she said it was okay and never told on him.

  He wished Nina would tell Mom and Dad to stop fighting. One of his friends at school said this separation thing was what happened before his parents got a divorce. He didn’t want Mom and Dad to get a divorce. He wanted things to be like before. But these days, he liked staying over with Nina Yolanda and Sydney more than with Mom or Dad. They didn’t treat him like a baby. They asked him what he thought about stuff and really listened. The only other adult who did that was Mrs. Goldberg, his kindergarten teacher.

  Dad asked him about stuff too, but usually stuck to school or the building models in his office. It was fun playing with the models, but Nina and Sydney always wanted to know if he was okay, and what he thought about things.

  The other day, while watching an old Aladdin movie, Sydney had asked him if he had any wishes. Joey had only three. He wished Mom and Dad would get back together, he wished he had a puppy, and he wished he could rewind life.

  “Rewind life?” Sydney had asked.

  “Yeah, so, like when you have a birthday party, you can have it over and over again.”

  Sydney had smiled at that and said, “You’re a big thinker, Joe.”

  Sydney was the only person who called him Joe. He liked that. He couldn’t remember everything else Sydney had said, but he did remember something about rewind people being better than fast-forward people. Joey wasn’t sure what that meant, but he thought maybe his parents were fast-forward people because they seemed to want more and more from each other—and from him.

  “Why so quiet, Joey?” Dad asked at a stoplight, looking at him in the rearview mirror.

  “Just thinking about rewind people and fast-forward people.”

  His dad smiled and wrinkled the space between his eyebrows in the mirror before turning back to the road.

  “You’re a weird kid, Joey, but in a smart way, I think.” Joey thought it was Dad’s way of being nice. He was fun lots of times, especially when they played chess and soccer, but Dad thought he was a little kid. He was going to turn six tomorrow—he wasn’t a baby anymore. But Dad sometimes came through for him too.

  “Dad, you’re gonna drop me off at the church so I can walk to school, right?”

  “’Course, big boy.” His dad smiled at him. “And don’t forget, your mom’s picking you up after school.”

  “I know, Dad.” Joey groaned. He hated having to go back and forth between his parents. Of course, he didn’t tell anyone except his nina and Sydney. He stared out the window until they pulled up in front of Saint Martin’s.

  “Okay, then.” His dad always let Joey walk across the front of the church and go into the schoolyard through the gate on the other side. Mom wouldn’t like it and would never do the same, but Dad was cool about it. Besides, it was only a few feet. They were a bit earlier than usual because Dad had to get to the office for some emergency, but that
was okay. He’d wait in the schoolyard until his friends got there.

  His dad’s cell phone rang as Joey got out of the car. By the time he’d pulled on his backpack and turned to wave goodbye, his dad was already on the call, waving and driving away without looking back. Joey watched the car almost hit a tiny black puppy. It scampered behind a dumpster in the alley next to the church. Joey ran after the dog and into the alley to catch it on the other side of the trash bin.

  When he bent over the puppy, a big hand came over his face, covering his nose and mouth with a wet cloth. A strong arm trapped his arms at his sides and lifted him off his feet.

  Joey kicked as hard as he could.

  He opened his mouth to scream, but all he got was a gross chemical taste in his mouth.

  The white cloth squeezed tight over his nose and mouth. He tried to fight, to wiggle free, but the arm had a good hold on him. The more he kicked, the stronger the hold.

  And he couldn’t breathe.

  His eyes opened wide.

  He was so scared.

  He tried to bite, but just got more of the nasty-tasting stuff in his mouth.

  Something warm ran down his leg at the same time that a sharp prick stung his left arm. Before he could wonder what it was, his legs and arms got heavy. All he could see was a white van in front of him. Then just the door handle. Then just a small, white dot before everything went black.

  Chapter Four

  Friday, 3:15 p.m.

  On my way to Silver Lake, I raced through side streets, avoiding congested freeways. I wound my way around the Mariachi Plaza at First and Boyle, waving an apology to a rail-thin violinist I’d cut off at the curb. Then I headed west, past the northern edge of downtown along Sunset Boulevard. The Jaguar in the Amber Alert and that nagging feeling I’d had made sense now. Luis, Carmen’s estranged husband and my compadre, drove a Jaguar. Carmen had said she’d reported him, but she’d also said Luis claimed not to have Joey. I hoped the kidnapper in the news had not moved west.