“Runaway?”
“TBD. The mom is undocumented, so I don’t know how much you’ll be able to find online with a cursory search. You might have to be creative.”
Paige smiles. Creative is my way of saying she may have to bend the laws just a bit. Paige loves being creative. Whenever I get a job, I bring Paige in for some black-hat help and give her a cut. Not that it matters. We share so many costs at this point that we should just open a joint bank account and become common-law partners.
As we eat, Paige shows me what she is able to uncover—a lot of reviews about the Super Tech chain, which has seven locations in all. Some online reviews mention Teddy, the proxy for the franchise. No one mentions Carmen or Marcos. The Viramontes have done a pretty good job of staying out of the public eye.
Using the passwords I captured on the USB stick, we log into Elizabeth’s Facebook account. We each scroll through Elizabeth’s profile and begin the task of researching the timeline, friends, and photos of Elizabeth Viramontes. In reverse chronological order, we begin detailing the days, weeks, and months before her disappearance—attending a football game with friends, checking into bars in downtown LA, sharing posts from celebrities and news sites.
After about an hour, I recognize one face that keeps popping up. It’s a young man in his early twenties with angular features and a pointed goatee that makes his whole head look like a triangle. In some posts, he’s tagged as Sebastian Gallo. We open his profile and begin scanning his page. Scrolling down, we find more pictures of him and Elizabeth—posing at a concert, hugging on the beach, holding hands at the mall, kissing at the park.
“I think we found the boyfriend,” I say.
The amount of information at this stage is limited. There’s no evidence that he’s a student at USC or any other college. There’s no indication of his job. What is clear, however, is that he likes to “party.”
Judging by the requests on his wall, he’s also the source of the party. There are numerous posts of people asking, “Can you hook me up?” Others are looking for “T,” and some are flat-out placing volume orders for cocaine. Sebastian Gallo is a drug dealer.
“This guy is a real winner,” Paige remarks. “Why would she date him?”
I shoot her a look. Pot. Kettle. Black.
“Shut up,” she says, glaring at me out of the corner of her eye. “How do you want to proceed?”
“Let’s use Tiffany.”
Tiffany Maddox is a catfish profile we created on another case. She’s a young woman who works at Hooters to put herself through school at a fashion college. Tiffany has a Facebook profile, a Twitter account, several dating accounts, and a blog dedicated to fashion. Most of the content was my handiwork. The images are all of Paige. It took some convincing, but I needed someone superhot, and Paige’s body has often been described as “redonculous.” After we launched the various online profiles, Tiffany soon gathered thousands of friends and followers of people she’d never met in real life. Paige and I both later admitted to being jealous of Tiffany’s online popularity.
Paige logs into Tiffany’s Facebook account and sends a friend request to Sebastian. Five minutes later, we get the alert that Sebastian has accepted our request. Of course he has. Thank you, Tiffany Maddox.
Now that we’re connected, we can view even more of his photos, check-ins, and likes. It’s like getting an engraved invitation to invade someone’s privacy. All it takes is an attractive profile picture and a man’s desperate need for sexual validation.
We scroll through his albums and find more photos of Elizabeth and him. He has many pictures of them at dinner, at clubs, and at the beach. I also notice pictures of them with a group of mostly guys, none of whom I recognize from my glance at Elizabeth’s friend list or the photos on her walls. A lot of these guys are heavily tattooed. I presume they are friends of his.
“Look at this,” Paige says, pointing at the screen. It’s a check-in to La Lucha, a bar in Lincoln Heights, eight days ago. Paige brings up Elizabeth’s Facebook page on another tab. She scrolls down and points to a check-in to La Lucha from the same day.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I say. Good catch, Paige.
While we continue to search, we get a message from Sebastian: S’up?
Paige groans. “Here we go. A well-orchestrated attempt to sound cool and casual.”
I take over the keyboard and write: Oh nothing. S’up with you?
He responds: Just chillin like a villain.
I accelerate the process: I’m looking for a party. You look like someone I need to know.
Sebastian responds: You no it girl.
The typo kills me, but I keep going: What’s fun?
He answers: Rave tomorow.
When I meet this guy, I promise myself I will buy him a dictionary. I accept the invitation, and he sends me the address.
“Raves are never a good idea,” Paige says. “Maybe we shouldn’t go.”
I review the invitation. Underground party on the outskirts of town at the invitation of my prime suspect? Oh yeah, this is going to end well.
Chapter 7
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MY MINI COOPER SPEEDS along the 210 freeway late in the evening. Paige rides shotgun, navigating from her phone while I drive. To our left is the entire San Fernando Valley—a blanket of warm lights spread out in a grid that goes on forever.
I exit the freeway and proceed up a canyon highway. Within five minutes, we’ve left Los Angeles and are winding our way up a forgotten rural road. As we make our way up the hill, the ranch houses are spread farther and farther apart until they eventually disappear. There’s not a single car or street lamp in sight. The cityscape has long since disappeared from my rearview mirror. My headlights, the only source of light, illuminate a cracked and
