Jonnie’s dad had finally picked up.
“Who is this?” I could hear heavy breathing on the other end.
“It’s me,” I said, my voice breathy, low.
“Who?” he asked, softening.
I giggled. “You don’t remember? How could you forget?” I asked, my tone dulcet. “I know I couldn’t.”
“I—”
“That night,” I said, and sighed. I rolled my eyes and walked out for a smoke. The night was cloudy, no stars. I could see the lights of the Burger King next to me flickering.
“What was your name?” he asked.
“Cindy. I can’t believe you don’t remember the sound of my voice,” I said, mock-angrily, ending with another giggle.
“I’m sorry.”
“I was just... you know,” I said, lighting up, taking a puff, “hoping we could get together again for a drink, now that I heard you were back in town.”
A long silence.
“You are in Denver, right?”
Another silence. My heart sped up again.
“I... this must’a been a long time ago. I haven’t had a drink in fifteen years, um — what you say your name was?”
“Cindy,” I replied, listening hard. It didn’t seem like he was lying, but some men were good.
“And Denver, you know, I got a kid there, and an angry ex, to tell you the truth. And I ain’t been back there in, well...” I could hear him light up, the flame struggling to move, “over ten years. Though I been thinking about it.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. Shit. Shit. Shit. I’d call around, but this guy — unless he was serial-killer good — wasn’t lying. “Well, you know where to find me.” I hung up, hoping he wouldn’t call back. It was a burner phone anyway.
I finished my cigarette, and it began to rain.
I was back to square one, and I didn’t like it one bit.
Sitting in Betty’s living room in Lakewood was like sitting in my mom’s or one of my aunties’ houses on Colfax. My mom had left Denver after a breakup, telling her sisters that she was done with this city, ready to go back to the Chiricahua homeland in Albuquerque — though as far as I understood it, my family was originally from northern Mexico. But we’d always come back to Denver, back to Colfax, back to Lakewood, to Aurora. Back to the same large, sweeping T.C. Cannon and R.C. Gorman prints that were on the walls over the couch in front of me — the Indians gray-haired, old and beautiful, crows at their shoulders, their braids moving down their necks like living things. The couch was beige and rough, ancient multicolored afghans covering it, old powwow-bought blankets draped over the cracked leather La-Z-Boy.
And the great thing was, I could smoke indoors.
We were drinking coffee — Betty’d told me she’d just brewed a fresh carafe — and waiting for her brother. I’d wanted to ask him some questions — but he’d never showed. I’d made some more calls, and it turned out that George had been living in Minneapolis for the past ten years. That he was sober — he’d been telling the truth about that. I’d even gotten it on good authority that he was on the job — he’d become a mechanic — at the time that Jonnie was being accosted by the man outside the 7-Eleven. But Betty was having none of it. She was sure it was him. A little too sure.
Something had been poking at me.
I asked if I could see Jonnie’s room, and she told me of course, but not to feel disappointed if I didn’t find anything — that her baby had been an open book, and that even if there had been anything to find, she and the police had gone through it thoroughly, a few days after Jonnie had disappeared.
She followed me down the hallway, but at the doorway to the girl’s room, I told her that I worked better alone. She frowned, but acquiesced.
I waited for the sound of her footsteps to diminish completely before I went in. On the door was a handmade sign that stated, GET OUT!!!! Huh. That didn’t sound like Jonnie was an “open book.” It sounded like Jonnie — like most teenagers — wanted to be left the fuck alone. But though she was sixteen, and certainly at an age where drama was high, there was something about the plain black marker, the four exclamation marks.
The bed was little and covered in a bright-yellow and red star quilt. God, had I coveted those when I was a kid. Shit, I coveted them now. The walls were covered in posters of hip-hop stars — Lil Yachty, Young Thug, Playboi Carti — and one retro Lil’ Kim, in all of her leopard-print glory.
I sat down on Jonnie’s bed, closed my eyes. Unbidden, an image of my ex came to mind, his long, lithe brown body, his sensitive eyes. His expression of sadness when I cut him off, after I found out he had kids.
I shook my head.
“Let’s try this again,” I whispered. I thought of the pictures of Jonnie that Betty had let me borrow — her long brown eyes, her shy-but-bold smile.
My eyes snapped open.
I went over to her dresser, which she had painted black. There were pictures everywhere — her mother, even an old one of her dad, I had to guess — and friends — there was Judd and Macina — and baby pictures of herself, clearly. And cutouts of hearts, all black, pasted or taped to each picture. I opened the first drawer and slid my hand along. No. Then the second, third, the fourth and last — still no. I shut it, disappointed. My instincts were usually so on-point.
Wait.
I hunkered down on the old red-carpeted floor, some of the white hair from the cat I’d seen earlier sticking to me. I scooted. Ran my hand along the underside of the dresser. Bingo! It was duct-taped to the bottom. I pulled, and it came off, out.
I opened the journal, which was gold — but had more black hearts taped to it — and gasped. I’d been right. That poor kid...
My eyes narrowed in anger.
I was going to get that fucker.
“Hey there, Michael,” I said. I’d been waiting outside the restaurant for a while, smoking one cig after another, making sure I had every part of how this was going to go down lined up. It was a nice, breezy spring day, only a few clouds lining the horizon.
“Who are you?” His voice was drenched in suspicion, irritation.
I took a hit, put the smoke out in the dirt. But I didn’t move from my position leaning against the brick — I didn’t want this excuse for a human being to know that I was a threat, not just yet.
“Name’s Naiche. I’m a friend of your sister’s — and of Jonnie’s,” I said, watching him flinch.
“Jonnie’s been kidnapped by her dad.” His mouth was soft, his eyes brown — light brown — and he moved his tall frame like a snake. He was just about the same color as Jonnie’s father. Medium-brown. Just a shade darker than me. I’d wondered briefly about how Judd, and especially Macina, hadn’t seen Uncle Michael before — wasn’t Macina Jonnie’s best friend? But then I thought back to the girl in my high school who, come to find out, was being molested by her father — how she never let anyone spend time at her house. I had to assume that either Michael had banned guests, afraid they’d find out, or that Jonnie hadn’t wanted anyone else to get diddled by her nasty uncle.
He worked at a Mexican restaurant, not far from the one I’d eaten at only days ago. He wiped his hands down his apron, then pulled it off, exposing his stained blue work pants, and folded the apron up and slipped it into his pocket.
“Yeah, that’s what Betty thinks.”
“And she’s right,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “That piece of shit was never good for nothing. I was glad he left.”
I nodded. Then, “You didn’t show the other night. Your sister said that you and Jonnie were tight. That you were real broken up about her disappearance. That you’d do anything to help.”