Chapter One
All day the sun had baked the concrete, sending waves of
heat shimmering skyward. Now a breeze blew through the
canyons of downtown and people crept from buildings and
sniffed the air like desert animals at the approach of
night.
Perched at the edge of a fountain outside the Dorothy
Chandler Pavilion, I felt my mood lift along with the
crowd's. It was opening night at the city's premier
theater, and soon we'd file inside and leave the pavilion
empty, save for the saxophonist nestling his instrument in
its blue velvet case, the bums sifting the trash for
crusts of panini, and the cashier savoring a cigarette
before closing up for the night.
I sipped my Pinot Blanc and watched the cafe grill send up
wisps of woodsy smoke. It felt delicious to be anonymous
and alone, the crowd swirling around me in a way that
suggested New York or Budapest or Paris. This was as good
as L.A. street life got, even though it wasn't a street at
all, but a concrete slab ringed by theaters and concert
halls.
My city had been wrenched from the desert, willed into
being by brute force and circus barkers who sold people on
a mass hallucination that became a reality. And for
generations, the loudest of those barkers had been my
newspaper, the Los Angeles Times, and its onetime owners
the Chandler family. Their name graced this square, with
its reflecting pools and shimmering fountains. It was
sheer hubris to send water cascading skyward in the heat
of an L.A. summer, but then, water had been the original
currency of this land. Without it, the city would sink
back to chaparral and sagging clapboard, a provincial
outpost doomed to fitful dreams.
Then a man was walkingtoward me. He wore a guayabera, the
accordion-pleated shirt of Mexico. His black wavy hair
cascaded over his collar. As always when I saw him from
afar, before recognition hit, a wave of impersonal
pleasure passed through me at his beauty. Then the
pleasure grew personal as I realized it was Silvio
Aguilar, the man who occupied an increasingly large part
of my heart.
We had met the previous year when I profiled the music
promotion business that his family had built from a swap
meet stand into a multimillion-dollar empire. The
attraction had been instantaneous and mutual, but Silvio
was grieving the death of his brother and I wasn't
supposed to date sources so we tried to control ourselves,
which only made things more explosive when we finally did
get together.
I loved his complexity, his Old World chivalry, the
masterful control with which he ran the family business
and the utter abandon I saw in his eyes when he made love
to me. Straddling the formal Mexican culture of his
parents and the easygoing American ways of his home,
Silvio grappled daily with the duality of his existence
and wondered where he belonged. Sometimes he turned
inward, retreating into pride and moody secrecy, and then
I wondered how well I really knew him.
But tonight promised to be perfect. One of Silvio's
childhood friends had written Our Lady of the Barrio, the
play that would premiere in less than an hour, and we had
front-row tickets. It was a triumph the entire city could
celebrate, because Alfonso Reventon was a gangbanger who
had been saved by the arts, a playwright whose tales of
streetwise magical realism brought him growing acclaim and
commissions. Our Lady of the Barrio was poised to be a
smash hit.
As Silvio drew closer, I saw a harried look on his face.
He looked at his watch, frowned, then took my hand and
caressed it absently.
"Hullo, Eve."
"Is something wrong?" I asked. My lover's mind was clearly
elsewhere.
"I was just backstage, dropping off flowers for Alfonso.
The stage manager says he's hysterical. It's forty-five
minutes to curtain on opening night and Catarina hasn't
shown up."
"Who's Catarina?"
"Only the leading lady." A hint of incredulity in his
voice.
"She's probably running late. You know those temperamental
actresses."
I was determined not to let his words shatter my good
mood, the Old World theater aura, the air like crushed
velvet against my skin.
Silvio's cell phone rang and he answered sharply. "Yeah?"
On the other end, a man's voice spoke too fast and garbled
for me to make out anything. Silvio listened, then
said, "Absolutely. You can count on me."
He hung up and scuffed his feet against the concrete,
refusing to meet my eye.
"Look, uh, Alfonso says Catarina's not answering her
phone. It's a fool's errand, but he's asked me to go by
her house. It's only ten minutes away."
My vision of a romantic evening, a shared drink at the
fountain, holding hands in the darkened theater, vanished.
I looked at my watch: 7:20. Curtain was at 8:00. There was
no way I'd be able to sit still, knowing Silvio was out
there, hunting down the star.
"I'm coming," I said.
By the time we wheeled his truck out of the underground
lot, seven more minutes had elapsed.
"At this point, it would take a medevac helicopter landing
on the roof to get her there on time," I said.
Silvio grunted and kept driving. Tense and focused, he
swerved in and out of traffic, his eyes on the road.
"So what's Catarina's story?"
Silvio explained that Catarina Velosi was a fiery Latina.
For years she had been Alfonso's muse and his lover. But
she was capricious. Unstable. The final straw came when
she took off to Berlin midrun with a composer who had
scored one of Alfonso's plays. An understudy took over the
part and Alfonso had no choice but to get over the actress
too. He married, fathered a child, and grew increasingly
prominent. His gangbanger past, when it was mentioned at
all, lent him a greater nobility for his having escaped
it. His plays received critical raves and he won a
MacArthur "genius" grant. Eventually the Mark Taper Forum
commissioned a play. In Los Angeles, it was theater's holy
grail, and Alfonso yearned to be its Latino Lancelot and
Arthur combined.
"He wrote Our Lady of the Barrio for her, you know,"
Silvio said. "Every woman he creates is based on Catarina."
"What a burden."
Silvio shot me an insulted look. "It's an honor," he
said. "But the director didn't want to cast her. He had
heard the diva stories. So Alfonso got on his knees and
begged. Then he had to beg Catarina to audition. She
thought it was beneath her." Silvio exhaled through
clenched teeth. "Oh, he ought to kill her for this."
The truck shot out over Glendale Boulevard and up around
Echo Park Lake. Silvio turned right, making his way along
a hillside street above the water.
Catarina Velosi lived in a freshly whitewashed duplex
draped with bougainvillea and banana plants and set back
from the street by a wooded hillside. We trudged up a
short flight of stairs to the entrance. From the house
next door came the loud thumping of Spanish rap, the faint
smoky scent of something sweet. Pot?
Silvio knocked, then stepped back. He knocked harder,
calling her name. He swore in Spanish and yelled something
at the rapper's window. A young man with a shaved head and
a scraggly goatee stuck his face through the yellow
curtain.
"Can you turn that down for a second, I'm trying to reach
the lady in there," Silvio said.
The man scowled and withdrew his head. A moment later, the
volume was lowered. Silvio knocked again and tapped his
foot. He tried the knob. It wouldn't turn.
"Poor Alfonso," he said. "Every critic in town is there
tonight."
"How do you know she hasn't turned up by now?"
"He promised he'd call." Silvio tapped the mute cell phone
in his pocket.
He stood there, undecided, for a moment. Then he said, "Do
me a favor. In my glove compartment, there is a
screwdriver. Could you please get it while I check the
window?"
Eager to help, I walked down to the truck, somewhat
encumbered by my outfit, a scoop-necked 1940s cocktail
dress of raw silk that curved nicely around my hips before
ending just above the knee. It was a frock made for
sipping Cosmopolitans and clapping for encores, not hiking
down a stone staircase. The high-heeled black leather
pumps didn't help, either.
Inside the truck, the glove compartment held only papers.
I looked on the floor and groped under the seats, to no
avail. Then I ran up to tell Silvio the bad news. He was
standing at the front door, now ajar, and shoving
something into his pocket. I heard a faint jingle.
"I thought it was locked."
"I jimmied it."
"That's good, because I couldn't find the screwdriver."
He gave me an odd look. "Well, never mind."
And with that, he stepped into the house. From somewhere
inside, we heard a low, guttural growl. Silvio stumbled
backward. Something soft brushed against my bare legs. I
shrieked. Craning my head, I saw a fluffed orange tail
disappear into the shrubbery.
The cat's eerie rrowwwllll reverberated up my spine.
Silvio straightened, pulled a tissue from his pocket, and
sneezed several times, his allergies distracting him
momentarily from the task at hand. Then he grasped the
door with renewed determination.
Inside, the windows were closed and the curtains drawn
against the heat. Silvio flipped on the light. When my
eyes adjusted, I saw the room was empty. An overhead fan
chugged at high volume, its blades whipping the hot, tired
air.
From the recesses of the house came faint music, male
voices singing plaintively in Spanish, their voices
twining in the style of long ago.
"Someone's home," I said.
Silvio ignored me and moved into the living room. Mexican
serapes were slung over a leather chair. There was a
rattan couch upholstered with toucans and tropical
flowers. A low coffee table scattered with Hollywood trade
publications. I saw a purse tipped on its side, spilling
out coins, a brush, a leather wallet, and a cell phone.
"Catarina?" Silvio called.
I followed him, sniffing the air. The sickly odor of gas
from a tidy two-burner stove in the kitchenette mingled
with the overflowing contents of an ashtray, each butt
kissed by bright red lipstick. Two mugs of half-drunk tea
sat on a 1950s chrome table. Above the sink, colorful
Fiestaware cups marched along the windowsill. A bleeding
Jesus crowned in thorns gazed out from a dispenser of Wash
Your Sins Away hand soap. An avocado seed stuck with
toothpicks sprouted in a cloudy glass, its vines tumbling
to the floor.
"Catarina, are you here?"
The tiny house seemed to absorb and muffle his words.
Silvio walked into the hallway, floorboards squeaking
under his weight. The singing was louder now, voices naked
and anguished. He pushed the bathroom door open and called
again, but the only answer was the slow gurgle of a toilet
tank. He headed for the bedroom and I followed.
The music seeped out, crooning a silvery ballad. I could
make out the lyrics now and they seemed sinister, at odds
with the soaring melody and sweet harmony.
"Eres una flor carnivora
En un jardin salvaje.
Bonita pero fatal
Devorando mi corazon."
I went back over the words in English to make sure I had
it right:
You are a carnivorous flower
In a savage garden.
Beautiful but deadly
As you devour my heart.
As the strings died away, I heard a scratchy whir, the pop
of a record ending. Then the click of a phonograph arm
rising, moving then dropping, the needle nestling back
into the vinyl groove in a blur of white noise. The song
started up again. It was plaintive and mournful, like the
cry of a heron at dusk when the river holds no more fish.
But Silvio wasn't listening. At the bedroom arch, I heard
his sudden exhale.
"Maybe you should wait here."
His voice was unsteady. He turned to block the doorway,
but I was already looking beyond him.
The bed was empty, its white eyelet sheets pulled back and
tousled. A torn screen balanced precariously against the
pillow. The sash window above the bed, which looked out
onto an alley, gaped open. I craned over Silvio's shoulder.
"Is she there? Let me see. For God's sake, I'm a reporter."
"Catarina?" Silvio said.
You are a carnivorous flower
Silvio stepped into the room. He walked to the closet and
threw it open, pushing aside clothes and meeting only
empty space. With a cry of exasperation, he strode to a
large hamper and lifted the lid. Nothing. His eyes roved,
considering where else a woman might hide.
In a savage garden.
He brushed past me and soon I heard him outside, calling
hoarsely for Catarina.
I walked over to examine the bedsheets. There was no
blood. Maybe the screen was old and warped and had fallen
in. Maybe it had been torn for years.
Beautiful but deadly
My gaze went to the window and I thought I saw a faint
smear of red on the sill. I bent closer. It was rusty,
already dry and slightly ridged, like a furrow in a field.
As you devour my heart.
Why was this song playing over and over? It was as though
someone was trying to tell us something.
"Silvio?" I called, but he didn't answer.
I moved to Catarina's bedside table, filled with framed
photos. All held the same pale-skinned woman with long
black hair, an oval face, and dark eyes. She had a
disquieting way of staring directly into the camera, the
force of her will radiating through the photo and into the
room. My eyes flittered over more frames. There she was,
clad in a negligee and cradling a cocktail in her "Thin
Man" phase. Defiant with a group of zoot-suited men, her
arms filled with flowers. Dressed in a T-shirt and boxers,
her thin, sculpted arms flung around a boyfriend. One of
the photos had fallen to the sisal carpet. It lay
facedown. I squatted to pick it up, then thought better of
disturbing a potential crime scene. Slowly, I stood up.
"Don't touch anything," I called to Silvio. "You already
have to explain to the police why your prints are all over
the knobs."
I considered Catarina Velosi. A single woman who lived
alone. I pictured her putting on her favorite album and
twirling around the room in the arms of an imaginary
lover. Sliding between those sheets for an afternoon nap
before her Taper debut tonight. Then someone raising the
window, left unlocked in the heat, slashing the screen and
climbing in. Every woman's nightmare. Did he have a gun or
a knife? Had he put it to her head? Had a struggle ensued
as she tried to fight him off, a struggle in which
someone's blood was spilled on the windowsill?
Or had she put on the record for a lover before they
headed to bed, then left in such a hurry that she forgot
to take it off? What if Catarina Velosi was striding onto
the Taper boards to mass applause right now, her biggest
concern a case of preshow butterflies? And Alfonso so
relieved he'd forgotten to call?
I pictured us two hours from now, gathered backstage. We'd
make toasts and drink champagne and Silvio and I would
turn this into a funny little anecdote. Remember that
night Catarina gave us such a scare...but what if that
wasn't it?
There are pivotal moments in everyone's life, when they
see the future laid out clear as a seer's vision, and
there's both a hallucinatory and a hyper-real quality
about it. Can this really be happening? Is it what my gut
tells me it is? Should I go on my instinct, even though
I'll be roundly embarrassed if I'm wrong?
As you devour my heart, the man crooned.
Slowly, I pulled my cell phone out of my purse.
"There's something that looks like blood on the
windowsill," I yelled to Silvio. "I'm calling 911."
"No," he said, his footsteps echoing back into the
house. "Wait."
Amazingly for L.A., an operator came on immediately. I
took a deep breath.
"I'd like to report a break-in," I said. "A woman is
missing. There's a dried substance that looks like blood.
Echo Park, above the lake. The address is -- "
"Don't," Silvio said. He ran up, a queer look on his face
as he realized I was already talking.
"I'm waiting, miss," the operator said.
"What's the address here?" I asked.
Silvio stared at me for a long moment.
"Eight sixty-two Lakeshore," he finally said.
It was only after I hung up that I considered the
apprehension I had seen on Silvio's face.
"Why did you tell me to wait?" I asked.
The corner of Silvio's mouth twitched.
"Because there's got to be some logical explanation," he
said. "Catarina's pulled these stunts before. And frankly,
I'm worried that bad publicity could kill Alfonso's play."
His answer seemed anything but frank.
"What if Alfonso's not the one getting killed," I said,
leading him to the rusty red mark on the sill. "What do
you think that is, nail polish?"
He looked at it and repeated that there must be an
explanation. I thought he might be trying to convince
himself. But then I thought of something else. Again, I
heard the jingle in his pocket.
As the sirens drew closer and the singers wound up again
with their beautiful and disturbing song, I asked my
lover, "You have a key to her apartment, don't you?"
Copyright © 2005 by Denise Hamilton