A Thousand Steps

29

The next morning, the Register coast cities reporter takes notes as Matt tells his tale. The reporter’s name is Steve Mitchell, and he wants Matt’s portrait of Jasmine, and an LBPD missing-persons flyer to impress his editor. His office is on Coast Highway in Laguna, in the basement of a real estate brokerage.

Matt senses none of the skepticism he’s gotten from the police. Mitchell agrees that a boy of sixteen ought to be able to ID his own sister from fifty feet away, fog or not. And know her voice on the phone. Mitchell says he’ll have to talk to the cops for their side of things. Kidnapping is serious business, he says, and newspapers have a responsibility. Matt says nothing of Jazz’s links to Austin Overton, Jordan Cavore’s parties, LA Moves, or Bonnie Stratmeyer. He’s trying to find his sister, not humiliate her. On Darnell’s advice, he says nothing about the peace-sign curtains in the kidnap van that night.

Sitting beside Matt, Laurel takes notes of her own. They’ve agreed that written documentation might be important. There will certainly be lots of things to keep track of. And Matt knows how important another set of eyes and ears could be.

“I hear you’re in the summer writing program at UCI,” says Mitchell. “I’m impressed.”

“Mom and Dad got me in,” she says.

“But still, you must be pretty good.”

“All I know is how hard it is.”

“Next summer, come see me if you want to intern here.”

“I’d love to.”

“And one more thing,” says Mitchell. “Nothing about this to the Times or the Pilot until after the story runs in the Register. Not even the News-Post. Get it?”

The quest begins half an hour later, way down in South Laguna.

Matt’s plan, hatched with Laurel, is for them to go south to north, to every occupied residence in the city, knock on each door, and show each person who answers his sister’s MISSING poster. According to the city planning department there are just over five thousand households in town. Most stops will be brief, Matt reasons, because most of Laguna’s homes and apartments are occupied by married couples, young professionals, families, women, the elderly and retired. He and Laurel will quickly see if Jazz could even possibly be a prisoner there. If not, they’ll be quickly on their way. If so, they’ll go straight to the police.

And Jasmine will be behind one of these doors, Matt knows. She has to be.

It’s a mathematical fact.

I can’t get out!

In Laguna!

I’m in the...

And if he surprises her tormentors and actually discovers her, what will he do? Those men were strong, determined, and at ease with violence. He thinks of Kyle’s .357 Magnum under the bed, knows how to use it, sort of, knows where the ammo is, too. But to carry that bruising cannon around Laurel, and into innocent homes, is both illegal and stupidly dangerous. For that matter, could he really shoot someone?

No. But if he finds her, he’ll find a way to free her.

By the end of this first day — just half a day, really, after talking to Steve Mitchell — they’ve knocked on seventy-one doors and looked through six homes and three apartments. Two people slam doors on them. But five others offer water, juice, and soft drinks.

Matt pulls the Westfalia into the loading curb in front of the Pageant of the Masters grounds. He and Laurel are quiet and hungry and she’s running late for her hair, makeup, and costume. Ticket-holders stream in around them.

“This could take longer than I thought,” says Matt.

“But it’s how we’ll find her.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot for doing this?”

She smiles at him, kisses him briefly, reaches for the door handle. “You’re a genius, Matt.”

“Dinner after the show? It would have to be at my house in case the phone rings.”

“I’d love that.”

Waiting for Laurel, Matt showers thoroughly, shaves his chin, straightens up his old room, makes up Kyle’s bed, puts a few stolen City Hall roses in vases in the living room, and splashes on some of Kyle’s Hai Karate. He remembers the TV commercial warning men that they’ll have to “fend off women” if they wear it. Hopes he hasn’t put on too much.

Laurel drinks iced tea at the dinette while Matt makes dinner in the little kitchen. It’s insanely stimulating to be here with her, without his mother.

He forgets the disappointments of the day. He can’t stop talking and trying to make her laugh. He’s spent more than three of Johnny Grail’s five dollars on steaks and frozen French fries and a cake for dessert, and he’s good with a skillet. Laurel gives him an appraising look when she learns that Julie is in her new digs tonight. He doesn’t mention that he’s got to be out of this house by next Sunday.

After dinner they sit close together on the lumpy couch and watch the old TV that Julie has bequeathed to her son. Laurel’s TV at home is color. Nothing about Kyle on the late L.A. news. Another replay of Bobby Kennedy’s railway hearse rolling along with all the flowers and his body inside and his brother and widow waving.

The windows of Matt’s house are all open so it smells of steak smoke and nightshade blossoms. Through the window Matt keeps an eye on the exact place where they bagged Jazz last Tuesday night. Glances at the phone too often.

Then he takes a deep breath and kisses Laurel. He’s pretty sure she likes it.

So he kisses her more ardently, but she pulls away.

“Let’s go slow,” she says.

“That’s probably best.”

“I like you, Matt.”

“I’ll wait as long as you want.”

“Okay. But maybe just one more short one.”

The phone doesn’t ring and Laurel has to be home no later than midnight.