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  According to her Leads column, the next thing she needed to do was talk to Elissa’s mother, so maybe she would soon find out if there was a connection. Harmony Alvarez had spoken with the media early on after Elissa had gone missing; however, there hadn’t been as much coverage on Elissa as there had been on Samantha, and Madison hadn’t seen anything lately where Mrs. Alvarez had been quoted. Hopefully she would be willing to talk to Madison.

  Madison pulled up her private investigator’s database, a website that only licensed private investigators had access to, and put in the name Harmony Alvarez. It was unusual enough that there shouldn’t be too many of those in the United States, and even fewer in the San Diego area. She was right: only three names came up, and only one of them was in the San Diego area. Harmony Alvarez, age fifty-five, El Cajon, California. And there was a phone number.

  Yes, Madison reminded herself, it is easy to find someone if you have the right tools.

  “Bueno?” A woman answered. Madison did not speak Spanish, but she could get by in a pinch.

  “Si … Mrs. Alvarez? Soy Madison Kelly …”

  “Yes?” Thank God the woman had switched to English.

  “I am a licensed private investigator. I’m looking into the disappearance of your daughter. Would it be possible for me to speak with you?”

  “You are in San Diego?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am in La Jolla.”

  “Yes, this is possible. I am in La Jolla today working. I clean the house. You can come here?”

  “Yes, of course. Will that be okay with your employer?”

  “They are in Europe. I am alone here. I clean every two weeks while they travel.”

  “Okay, perfect.”

  Mrs. Alvarez gave her the address on a street in the hills of La Jolla. They agreed to meet in two hours.

  Madison hung up. She felt a little better; she was moving forward with her plan. Now what she needed was a nap. The disturbing aspect of this case exhausted her, and she wanted to be clearheaded when she met with Elissa’s mother. She went to check the windows again: no unusual cars, no one lurking in the alleys. She didn’t feel safe in her home anymore. Thankfully, her wooden stairs were so rickety that the sound of someone walking up them would wake the dead. It was the built-in alarm system of an ancient dwelling. She went to the door and added a wedge lock that made it impossible to get in unless you removed the hinges from the door. Or used an ax, which would definitely get her attention.

  Madison opened the windows so that there was an ocean breeze cutting across her apartment. She stripped off her clothes. As she crossed to her bed, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on her antique vanity, and her breath caught in her throat. That happened sometimes. When she was living her life, she tended to forget that the bilateral mastectomy she’d had for early-stage breast cancer had taken her nipples and left her with two huge scars from her armpits to the center of her chest. Clothes allowed her to forget: the mounds under her shirt from the implants looked real. When she had the surgery, a friend had said, “At least you’ll have a new rack!” She didn’t talk to that person anymore. She didn’t have a new rack; she had two implants placed under her pectoral muscles, huge scars, and no nipples.

  Madison ran her finger along the scar that ended where her nipple used to be on her right boob. Then she did the same on the left. Her chest was permanently numb from the nerves being cut during surgery, but her finger registered the unusual texture of the scarred skin. She didn’t feel pretty when she did this. She decided Dave was just being kind when he said he didn’t mind. Guys liked smooth, pretty boobs, with nipples. She looked like she’d been in a knife fight.

  She lay on top of the comforter and let the breeze drift across her body. The air at the beach in Southern California remained cool for most of the summer months; the feel and smell of it reminded her of every summer in her life. She remembered coming home from summer school that time she was taking drama; she was riding her bike. Her problems and worries had seemed big and real, but she was on the way home, where there was safety: Mom and Dad wouldn’t let anything happen to her. That’s how it felt at the time, anyway. That was so many Junes ago she’d lost count; somehow it’d had a bit more hope.

  Madison was so exhausted that she easily fell asleep. Her last thought before she began to dream was: Tom didn’t ask me what the note said.

  Chapter Ten

  When Madison pulled into the driveway, Mrs. Alvarez was standing on the sidewalk in front. She was wearing a uniform of some kind, sort of like scrubs in a tan pastel color. She waved. Madison eyed her as she was getting out of the car. Mrs. Alvarez looked warm and friendly; but she also looked like she’d been tired for a very long time.

  “Mrs. Alvarez?” Madison got out of the car and reached out her hand to shake.

  Mrs. Alvarez had to look up at Madison; she was about a foot shorter.

  “Yes! You so tall!”

  Mrs. Alvarez led the way into the home. It was the biggest house Madison had ever been in. As soon as you walked into the foyer, which was bigger than Madison’s entire apartment, you could see the ocean. They were in the hills above La Jolla, and one entire wall of this huge house was a window. It looked like there was no seam in the glass. Madison figured they must’ve used a crane to get that piece of glass in place. Mrs. Alvarez pointed at the corner of a huge couch, and Madison sat down. There was already a water bottle sitting on a coaster on the coffee table in front of her.

  “You drink.” Mrs. Alvarez looked encouragingly at her, as if Madison had had difficulty drinking in the past. Madison picked up the water bottle and opened it and took a small sip to be polite. She set it back carefully onto the coaster. The coffee table was glass, and she didn’t want Mrs. Alvarez to have to clean again when they were done. Mrs. Alvarez sat next to the couch in an overstuffed chair that could’ve fit three of her.

  “I’m not sure that I can help find your daughter, but I would like to try,” Madison said.

  Mrs. Alvarez looked out the window at the ocean. “I would like you to try. People forget. They remember the other girl, Samantha, because she was—” Mrs. Alvarez stopped and glanced back at Madison.

  “Blonde?”

  “I am sorry.” Mrs. Alvarez’s eyes went to the ground. “I upset you when you help me.”

  “No, you didn’t. You won’t ever upset me by telling the truth. I know that the media pays more attention to missing white girls than to girls of color.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Alvarez said. “Other people make excuses and deny it. Thank you for saying it.”

  “What do you think happened to Elissa?”

  Mrs. Alvarez sighed. “I no sure. I no like her boyfriend. You hear about her boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” Madison said. “I have heard about him. Why didn’t you like him?”

  “He hit her before,” Mrs. Alvarez said. “But it long time ago. I tell her to leave him and she go back always. He not nice.”

  “Her friends said that she got in a fight with her boyfriend on the phone and she left to go home. Obviously she didn’t make it to her car. Do you think she would have taken a rideshare?”

  “Maybe. But her friends say she no drunk. And her car there. So why take taxi? You know?”

  Madison thought about that for a minute. She had to agree. Why would Elissa have taken a rideshare when she hadn’t been drinking? To get away from her boyfriend? Did her boyfriend show up that night? Was she running from him?

  “I know,” Madison said. “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense that she would take a rideshare when she wasn’t drunk and her car was just a couple of blocks away.”

  “The police stop giving me updates.” Mrs. Alvarez cleaned an invisible spot off the coffee table. She fluffed the pillows sitting behind her, then did a small karate chop into the tops of them to make a V. “They tell me what happening for the first year and a half. In the last six months? No. Nothing.”

  “They probably don’t have any more leads
,” Madison said. “You realize it is not because they don’t care, right? They do care. It’s just … if they don’t have any leads, they don’t know where to go to find the next clue.”

  Mrs. Alvarez looked at Madison. “You have the lead?”

  “I’m not sure. Not a clear lead, but I may be onto something. Tell me about Elissa.”

  Mrs. Alvarez’s eyes got brighter, and she became more animated. “She smart, like you. She go to college. I no go to college. I clean houses.”

  Mrs. Alvarez put her chin up as if Madison were going to judge her for her occupation.

  “This is hard work.” Madison glanced around appreciatively. The place was immaculate. Along the wall without a window were built in floor-to-ceiling bookcases; Madison was dismayed to see that they had color-coordinated books in them: blue and yellow. Books as decoration. What a waste of good bookcases.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Alvarez said. “It very hard. But I pay for everything. Elissa go to college and she study hard. She no pay anything. The school gave her scholarship and I pay for everything else. By myself. Elissa going to be a social worker. She no clean houses. She going to have a better life.”

  Madison was silent. It had been two years since Elissa was last seen. She didn’t think Elissa was going to be anything ever again. She figured Mrs. Alvarez had to hold out hope or it would be too hard to get out of bed in the morning. Madison tried to have hope against all odds too. She decided to join Mrs. Alvarez in hoping that Elissa would be a social worker and end up helping other people wounded by tragedy.

  “You must be so proud of her.”

  “Elissa a good girl,” Mrs. Alvarez said. “The news say she did drugs or met a bad man on purpose. Not Elissa. She a good girl. That is why I say she no get in car with someone.”

  “Did she go to that bar often? Did she know anyone there?”

  “She never been there. It her friend’s idea to go downtown. I say okay because her grades good. She got all As. Do you think I did wrong? I think if only I told her she no go, she be here now.”

  “You can’t do that,” Madison said. “You can’t blame yourself. She was twenty-one, right? An adult. You have to let them grow up and live their lives.”

  “She twenty-three now. Twenty-three.”

  Shit, Madison thought. “Yes, sorry, twenty-three.” She took another swig of water.

  Mrs. Alvarez looked at her watch. “I catch the bus.”

  “Of course,” Madison said. “Can you tell me how to reach Elissa’s boyfriend? I’d like to talk to him if possible.”

  “I have his number. He not a nice man.” She pulled out her phone and read the contact info to Madison.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Madison said. She reached into her purse and took out the plastic bag containing the iPhone she had found. Before she could say anything, Mrs. Alvarez flew up and grabbed the bag out of her hand.

  “Dios mío, es su teléfono,” Mrs. Alvarez whispered. “Dios mío, Dios mío, Dios mío.” She sat back down on the overstuffed chair. Big fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Her voice became so soft that Madison couldn’t make out the words. Mrs. Alvarez started rocking back and forth with her eyes shut. Madison realized she was praying.

  Madison had found Elissa Alvarez’s phone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Madison started the drive home from her visit with Mrs. Alvarez. Her mind was racing so much that she pulled over on the way to think. She realized she’d stopped in front of her old apartment, the one she’d lived in when she first moved to La Jolla. This is where I dreamed, Madison thought.

  Madison knew she had to turn over the phone to the police. Not telling them something Felicity had said was one thing; now she had actual evidence in an active investigation. She would for sure be charged with obstruction of justice if she held on to it. She had a great computer guy who could get inside the brains of this phone in no time, but anything he found would be rendered useless due to the rules regarding chain of custody. If a suspect was identified, his attorney could say that her computer guy planted the evidence. No, it had to go to the police, and quickly.

  There was a white balloon floating above Madison’s car. She watched its path: swirling slightly as it caught an invisible air funnel; swooping down, up, and then holding steady.

  She was due to meet Tom in a few hours, so she would hand him the phone and explain how she’d found it. He could decide how best to get it to the right person involved in the investigation. Sure, it was luck she’d found it; but whose luck? This discovery threw her smack-dab in the middle of the police investigation—if she hadn’t already been there, she sure was now. The huge machine called the justice system was about to suck her into its jaws and masticate her. Luck, shmuck, Madison thought. She wished someone else had found the phone.

  She checked her Twitter. Nothing new. Yesterday seemed like a long time ago; it was sort of fun yesterday. Today was just … not fun anymore.

  The balloon had slipped down until it landed on her hood. She got out of the car and grabbed it. She held it up to the light and saw that there was a tiny slip of paper inside. A message to someone who had passed? A wish or a hope or a dream? Balloons could be dangerous for the environment. If you wanted a ritual like that, it was better to use paper lanterns that burned up with the message. Birds and fish could be injured by popped balloons that made it into the ocean.

  She held the balloon up again and shook it. She could see the writing on the note through the thin white material of the balloon.

  I’ll love you all the days of my life.

  She put the balloon in the back seat.

  Time to go shower for her date with Ryan, who had responded that happy hour at Su Casa was fine with him.

  * * *

  Madison walked into Su Casa and was hit with the smell of stale beer and mustiness. Ahhh, Su Casa, how do I love thee, Madison thought. Su Casa had been serving Mexican food and margaritas that would put hair on the chest of surfers and the local community since 1967. The decor was ocean, but more pirate than coastal. They had a big fish tank and dark corners with red leather booths.

  Ryan was already in a booth in the back.

  “Hey, sorry to change the plans,” Madison said as she sat down.

  “No problem.” Ryan was wearing a flannel button-down over a surf-contest shirt and jeans. The surfer date uniform. “I love this place, and we can fill up on half-price appetizers.”

  The waitress came over, and they ordered margaritas and guacamole and chips and said they would think about the rest.

  “So you’re a private investigator?” Ryan asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “But you don’t drive a red Ferrari … what’s up with that?”

  Madison cringed inwardly. Ever since Tom Selleck starred in Magnum P.I. in the 1980s, even guys who were way too young to have seen the TV show had talked about the red Ferrari he drove around Hawaii. And now they’d made a remake with the same stupid car. It infuriated Madison for several reasons. First, Tom Selleck and the new actor were masculinity personified, so Madison would hardly identify with them as role models; so why bring them up to her? Second, only a complete idiot would tail a subject in a bright-red foreign sports car that cost half a million dollars around a tiny island in Hawaii. The idea when tailing someone is to remain hidden, not to stand out and have people point at you. If she tailed someone in a car like that, she would be spotted in three blocks.

  “I don’t have a Ferrari because I’m actually a PI, not a PI on a TV show,” she said.

  “Oh.” He looked abashed. “I love that show.”

  Madison knew she should give Ryan a break, but this kind of stupidity drove her insane. Her job was so difficult and nuanced, and to have it reduced to a guy driving a fancy car was infuriating.

  “I’ve heard it was good,” she said. “But it’s just not realistic.”

  “Okay. So tell me how it really is.”

  He seemed genuinely interested, which caught her off guard. T
he waitress showed up, and they ordered more appetizers. Madison was still nursing her first drink, because she had to keep a clear head for meeting Tom later.

  “I mostly investigate insurance fraud,” Madison said. “A person makes an insurance claim for workers’ compensation, for example. They say they were hurt at work and can no longer work. They want the insurance company to pay them a lot of money. The insurance company hires me to make sure that they are actually injured.”

  “So you follow them and videotape them and stuff?”

  “That’s right,” Madison said. “I sit outside their home very early and wait for them to leave. Then I tail them to their next destination. Sometimes that is a baseball game, or the gym, and sometimes they’ve gotten a new job while they wait for the insurance payout. I videotape them whenever I see them.”

  “That is epic,” Ryan said.

  “So you see, I can’t drive a fancy red car, or they would see me.”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said. “I do see. The show got that part wrong, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, they did. I mean, I guess it made for good television. The macho guy driving the fancy car.”

  “Yeah, it did. But it’s just like with legal shows or doctor shows: they get stuff wrong, I guess.”

  Madison felt he understood, which was nice. She needed to give people more chances.

  “So what do you want to be when you grow up?” she asked.

  “When I grow up?” Ryan laughed. “I want to go to South America and work on civil infrastructure of developing nations.”

  Madison snorted and shook her head.

  “That’s funny?”

  “No. I’m laughing at myself. I’m impressed.” Madison had a healthy dose of arrogance; she felt it was necessary for survival. But this guy, by his very existence, was knocking her down several pegs. She thought she was so special, but Ryan was going to go change the world.