As she’s telling me this, I search for a note. If Orbec took Paul, he’s left a note.
As I hunt, Gayle follows me, still talking. “I don’t know what kind of hold you have over Paul, but he cannot break free of it. God knows, I’ve tried. It took months to even get him on a date, and then he’s dragging his feet every step of the way.”
“And you didn’t take a hint?” I say as I check the kitchen counters.
She glares at me. “I knew what he needed. I knew what Charlotte needed. I just had to make him realize it. I finally start seeing progress, and then you slam back into his life like a tornado. All of a sudden, I can’t do anything right. I fix your mess with the princess tea, and he tells me I handled it wrong, that I should have encouraged you to go despite not being dressed for it. I invite Charlotte to my daughter’s party, and he accuses me of planning it at the last minute.”
I’m barely listening, too focused on finding that note. If Orbec took Paul hostage, he must have left something for me. A threat. A warning. An ultimatum.
Gayle keeps talking. “Sunday night, he calls to say you’re in trouble and staying here for the night. He asks if I can take Charlotte the next day. I’m not happy about you sleeping over, but I suck it up. I figured I’d deal with that later. The next morning, he calls and ends it. Breaks it off. No explanation. Just ‘it’s not working out.’ ”
“And that’s why you sent the video?”
She looks at me.
“I know you sent it,” I say. “I saw your car in it. Paul did, too. He confronted you. Didn’t he?”
She chews on that for a moment, deciding which angle to play here. Then she spits, “Yes. All right? I sent it to protect Paul from his crazy ex. To show him how dangerous you are. What kind of danger you pose to his daughter.”
I spin on her. “Danger I pose? The only threat against our daughter was that video. Which you made. You call me craz—” I bite it off and head for the back door. “If Paul dumped you, that’s on you. I can tell you one thing, though. Now that he knows who sent that video, you don’t have a hope in hell of getting him back.”
“And you’ll make sure of that?”
“I won’t need to,” I say as I head out the back door.
I’m in Paul’s car, trying to decide my next move, fighting against absolute panic, when Orbec calls.
“I believe I have something of yours,” he says when I answer.
“Do you really think this is going to work?” I say. “I know who you are. All I have to do—”
“—is call the police? Do you really think that is going to work? Leave the cops out of this, and I won’t hurt your husband, Aubrey.”
“You already have. I saw the blood.”
A short laugh. “That would be mine. He punched me in the nose. I have no interest in you or him. What I want is that data.”
“What data?”
“Don’t play coy. You’re a friend of Kimmy’s. You know exactly what’s going on here.”
“Friend? I met her once, for ten minutes, in a park—”
“Do you really expect me to believe that? The police didn’t, did they? They thought you were a whackjob. I know better. You’re a friend of Kimmy’s, and you know what’s going on, and you’re trying to help her and the boy. It’s too late for her, but I’m going to tell you how you can help Brandon—and your husband.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know Kim—”
“So you did all this for a stranger? A woman you met, as you say, for ten minutes? No one does that. Stop prolonging this conversation. I will call again in an hour. You will have the data. We will trade. You’ll get your husband and something else you’ve been looking for.”
“Brandon? Are you telling me you have—?”
He hangs up.
* * *
Hugh Orbec thinks I’m a friend of Kim’s. He thinks I’m involved in this, that I know her and I’ve been pretending to be a stranger caught up in it to help her and Brandon. Because that’s the obvious answer. If I wasn’t so freaked out, I’d laugh. This is what I get for playing Good Samaritan. For being the person who stops to help. It’s so far outside Orbec’s experience that he’s rejected the possibility. I must know Kim. I must know about her situation with Denis Zima. I must know about the “data”—whatever the hell that is.
No, wait, I do know what it is. Kim’s insurance policy. That must be it. Now I’m supposed to find this “data” and hand it over? Mission impossible.
I’m barely off the phone when Laila Jackson calls. I want to answer that call. I want to answer it so badly. Ten minutes earlier, Laila, and I could have told you everything. Now I don’t dare. She leaves a message. I don’t even retrieve it.
I call the number Kim had for Orbec. He doesn’t answer. I consider pleading my case, my ignorance, but I know that’ll do no good. Worse, he might punish Paul for it.
I try Beth Kenner next. Yes, she’s part of all this, but she was a social worker. There must be a streak of goodness in her that I can appeal to, more than I could with Orbec. At least I can ask her what he’s looking for exactly.
I call the number. The line is disconnected.
I could go there. Confront her . . . if she’s home, which I doubt. She knows I might come back.
That leaves one option. The riskiest of all. Stop playing with the hired help, and go straight to the top of the food chain.
Earlier, I said I wouldn’t do anything as crazy as confront Denis Zima. Now I’m convinced that’s exactly what I need to do.
Finding Zima is easy. Men like him don’t hide.
To locate him, I make a few calls. Tell a few lies. Concoct a few stories. And soon learn that Zima is at Zodiac Five, working for the day.
So he’s working, maybe clearing some paperwork . . . while his thug menaces me and kidnaps my husband. Just another day at the office for Denis Zima.
When I return to the club, I see that I missed a potential escape route Saturday night. There’s a fire escape with a second-floor emergency exit. I get up onto that and pick the door lock. It’s easy enough—it seems Zima’s security team still hasn’t brought the place up to the boss’s standards.
I’m stepping into the hall when Laila calls again. My phone vibrates loud enough that I quickly back onto the fire escape and shut it off.
I reenter the club. The upper hall is dark, the only light coming from under the office door. I creep to it, gun in hand. Then I put my ear to the wood. I hear the clackity-clack of someone striking a keyboard with typewriter force. It’s fast spurts, patter-patter-patter, pause, patter-patter-patter, pause. At that speed, I’m wondering if it’s someone else. Denis Zima doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who took keyboarding in high school.
A phone rings, and whoever’s in the office lets out a curse. He answers. I’ve never heard Denis Zima speak, but this does seem to be him—he’s telling someone in security that if the work isn’t done this week, they’re out of a job. He hangs up and grumbles under his breath. Then back to typing.
If there were anyone else in the room, I’d expect some conversation after that call. The silence tells me he’s alone. Still, I only crack the door a half inch, enough to peer through. Zima sits at the desk, intent on whatever he’s typing on a laptop. There’s no sign of anyone else.
Zima pauses. Thinking through his next words. When he attacks the keyboard with fresh ferocity, I use the clatter of those keys to push open the door. He never even notices. When he pauses, though, he goes still. He doesn’t look my way, but I know he senses someone there. I expect him to reach for a holstered gun. Instead his hand slides towards a closed drawer.
“Stop,” I say.
His chin jerks up, as if he’s surprised by my voice. Surprised by the gender of it, I presume. Then he looks over, and his eyes widen before his brow furrows. As he stares at me, I lock the door behind my back.
“You’re . . . the woman from the video?” His voice inflects, as if he must be wrong.
“Surpri
sed I actually showed up? You have my husband. I’m not going to cry in a corner, hoping you’ll be nice and give him back.”
His face screws up. “What?”
I move forward, gun pointed at his forehead. “If you’re stalling in hope of rescue, I’d strongly advise you to reconsider. You have my husband. I can’t get you what you want in exchange. So I’m a little short on options. If I hear footsteps outside that door, this turns into a hostage situation with a woman too desperate to control her trigger finger.”
“I’m not stalling, Ms. . . .” He struggles, as if to remember. “Finch, right? Ms. Finch? If I’m acting confused, it’s because I am. I don’t have your husband. I have no idea—”
“Hugh Orbec.”
He stops. “Sure, I know Hugh. He works for me. He’s a friend.”
“He’s also your hired gun. He broke into my house two hours ago and took my husband. He left a witness who described Orbec perfectly. I’d know, because I’ve met the man. First when he slammed me into a wall while I was out jogging Sunday night. Then today, when he tried to corner me at Elizabeth Kenner’s house.”
“Elizabeth Kenner?”
I tell myself he’s faking his confusion. He must be, even if it doesn’t seem like it.
I push on. “The woman Kim trusted to take Brandon . . . well, until she didn’t trust her. For good reason it seems.”
“Brandon?” Something sparks in his eyes. “My . . . you mean my son? That’s his name?”
That spark hits me square in the gut. There’s no way to fake that look, that glimmer, the way he perks up, as if that’s all he heard, the rest only white noise.
I take a split second to regroup. Then I plow forward again, because it’s all I can do. Don’t hang everything on a look. Acknowledge it and keep going.
“Hugh Orbec kidnapped my husband. He called me an hour ago and said if I gave him the data, he’d return Paul.”
“Data?”
“Kim’s insurance policy.”
When he still looks confused, I say, “Whatever she took when she left you.”
He pauses. Then his eyes go wide, and he lets out a string of curses. Again, his surprise doesn’t seem faked. Not unless he’s an Oscar-caliber actor playing a two-bit mobster.
My gut twists. What if I’m wrong? What if I’ve miscalculated completely?
Keep going. That’s all I can do. Just keep going.
I say, “The problem is that I don’t know where to find this insurance policy. I don’t even know what it is. I only know Kim took something from you because Beth Kenner said so.”
“Beth . . . ?”
His confusion still seems real. All his reactions seem real, and I want to tell myself they aren’t, but my gut says that Denis Zima hasn’t the faintest clue what I’m talking about.
If he doesn’t know about Paul’s kidnapping, though, that means Orbec isn’t acting on his boss’s orders. So what the hell is going on here?
Keep going. Let this play through and hope I can figure it out.
“Beth is Elizabeth Kenner,” I say. “Kim’s former social worker. She’d retired and moved to Chicago. I think that’s why Kim moved here. Because she trusted Beth. Wrongly, as it turns out. But the point is that Kim took something of yours and Orbec wants it back, and I have no idea what he’s talking about, so I’m kind of screwed.”
“The thumb drive,” he murmurs, as if to himself.
“Thumb . . .”
“USB drive. One of those—”
“I know what a thumb drive is. I’m just confirming that’s what you said. So when Kim left you, she took a thumb drive full of evidence that could send you to jail.”
“Not me. My—” He stops short and straightens. “It was my drive. I took the data from someone else. I’d been planning to use it but . . .”
I remember what Paul said. “It’s the evidence against your family.”
His head shoots up.
I go on. “I’ve done my homework. Six years ago, you offered evidence to the feds. Evidence against your family. Then you changed your mind. I’m guessing that was a tactic to spook your father, to get something you wanted.”
He shakes his head. “No, it was a tactic to get the hell away from my family, for once and for all. Only it backfired. They threatened Kimmy. So I changed my mind. Then when Kimmy left, she took the drive. For insurance, I guess. I couldn’t blame her. I just . . . The thought that she might have been pregnant? That she left because she was scared of my family?” He runs his hand through his hair. Then he throws it off and straightens again. “Does Hugh have my son?”
“Don’t know. Right now, don’t care. He has my husband, and that’s my primary concern. So there’s a USB drive that contains incriminating data you compiled after you got tired of working in the family business.”
“I never worked in the family business.” His voice is sharp, emphatic, eyes bright with anger.
“You ran an underage strip club—”
“I was young. I was stupid. I believed the girls when they said they were eighteen. Yeah, young and stupid, okay? A strip club with eighteen-year-olds isn’t exactly a business to be proud of, but in my family, that bar’s set pretty damned low. To me, that was going legit. It was also an enterprise my parents supported. They helped me set it up. Then I found out they were using it as a front for—” Again, he cuts himself off. “I found out my club wasn’t as legal as I thought. So I closed it down and started the Zodiacs. Which are legit. Or they damned well better be. If Hugh . . .”
He gives his head a shake, that anger surging again. “What the hell am I saying? Of course my parents have their fingers in the Zodiacs. I was a damned fool. Again.”
He takes a deep breath and looks at me. “Hugh was my parents’ employee. They gave him to me for the strip clubs. We became friends. He comes from the same place I do, just lower on the totem pole. He wanted out, too. Or so he said. So when I broke it off with my parents, Hugh came with me. I trusted him.”
I’m still struggling to keep up here, to work it out, so I say, “You think he’s been working for your parents all along. They’re the ones who want the USB drive back, and they’re using him to get it. He’s doing this for them, not for you.”
“Definitely not for me, that son of a bitch. I only wanted him to find my son. I thought he—Brandon—was out there somewhere, maybe taken by whoever killed Kimmy.”
Zima pushes to his feet. I jump forward with “Uh-uh,” gun still raised, and he seems to struggle to focus on it, as if he’s distracted, forgetting the whole held-at-gunpoint situation.
When he realizes it, he waves me off. “You don’t need that. I’m going to handle this. I’ll call—”
I stop him as he reaches for his phone. “Explain first.”
“The main thing right now is getting your husband and Brandon back. I’m going to call Hugh. He might be my parents’ man, but I’ve got enough dirt on him to make him give back whoever he has.”
I nod. “Go ahead, but I’m listening.”
“I know.” He hits speed dial. Listens. Then curses and hangs up. Tries again. Curses again.
“Not answering, is he?” I say.
“No, and I won’t even bother leaving a message. That was his one and only chance to straighten this out. Now I go to my parents.”
“They’re in Chicago?”
He nods. “They came to celebrate the opening. Or I thought that’s why they were here.”
I’m putting it all together. “Hugh saw Kim in Chicago. He called your father, who had her killed.”
Zima goes still. His hand reaches blindly, finding and gripping the desktop. He looks as if he’s going to be sick, and I realize he hadn’t connected the dots that far. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, composing himself.
When he speaks again his voice is low and controlled but strumming with anger. “I will handle this.”
“I really don’t have any idea where that drive is. Hugh is convinced I knew Kim, and that she to
ld me about it. But I only met her once. I just got caught up in this.”
He nods but doesn’t seem to hear me, still lost in his thoughts, in his grief and anger.
“I don’t care about the drive,” he says. “This is about my son.”
“And my husband.”
He nods, but again, it’s distracted. “I’ll get him back for you. Everything will be fine. My father will listen to me. I’ll straighten this out.”
He walks away before I can say another word.
I go after Zima . . . at least to make sure we exchange numbers. Then he’s gone, hell-bent on his mission.
I don’t trust him.
But I do believe him when he says he had nothing to do with killing Kim or kidnapping Paul. His confusion and anger and grief were genuine. His story is true. The part I don’t trust is him saying he’ll get Paul back for me. Oh, he’ll try, but that’s not his priority. Brandon is. Zima’s family is his responsibility, and my family is mine.
Orbec calls as I reach the car. Again I try reasoning with him. Try telling him I don’t know anything about this “data.” He won’t even hear me out. I have one more hour to find it. One more hour until he calls. Then I’m out of time.
I need that USB drive. I have no damned idea where it is. I can’t imagine Kim stashing it in the farmhouse. She’d find a safe place where they’d never look. . . .
I flash back to that first day in the park, when I met Kim. She’d been playing a hiding game with Brandon, and I’d noticed, thinking it’d be a fine game to play with Charlotte. I’d watched her hiding a small object . . . an object the size of a USB drive.
She’d been trying to find just the right spot for the drive. One Brandon couldn’t easily figure out . . . meaning no one would accidentally see it. But also, I think, letting Brandon know where it was, in case it came to this, a situation where his life might depend on being able to find that drive. She made it an absolute last resort. If something happened to her and he was taken into safe custody, then he was better off not knowing about the drive. But if he was taken hostage and questioned properly—do you remember Mommy hiding something about this size—he’d think of the park.
Wherever She Goes (ARC) Page 22