The Disappearing Act(55)

I know I should put the computer away and pass this straight on to Cortez tomorrow. I don’t need any of this in my life. It’s not appropriate for me to listen to it at all. I can just draw Cortez’s attention to the audio file and let her do the rest. But I would have to tell Cortez that I accessed a missing woman’s private emails. I can’t help think of the News International phone-hacking scandal, when a journalist accessed a missing girl’s private voicemail. What I’ve just done is no different, is it? Should I really be telling the police I’ve done that? It might be nothing but if it’s something then I’ve broken the law and people will find out.

It occurs to me that I could tell Cortez that Emily told me about the rape herself; I would just have to pretend we were good friends rather than minor acquaintances. It would only be a white lie.

But then if any of her actual friends came forward after that it would be fairly obvious I lied. Although I do appear to be the only person looking for Emily.

I realize I’m holding my breath, my shoulders high and tensed, like a trapped animal, like a cornered boxer. I need to think straight.

I shake myself out and take a couple of deep, slow breaths. Then make my way back over to the computer, thinking through the options.

I could put it away and hand it over to Cortez tomorrow saying only that I think something happened to her on New Year’s Eve and leave it at that. Hopefully they would eventually find the recording and act on it.

My mind skips to the image of the actress who jumped from the sign, her body undiscovered in a gorge in the Hollywood Hills. Surely time is an issue if Emily is missing. And someone going missing after recording their own assault is a very different proposition from someone going missing after a bad audition. I need to tell Cortez about the rape; I can’t in good conscience keep it to myself.

I let out another held breath at the finality of my decision.

Right, in that case, if I’m going to report it then I need to know the facts. Reluctantly I sit back down at the laptop. There is no way in hell I am going to force myself to listen to the recording in its entirety, that much I know. But I can skip through it for information.

I look at the visual readout of the recording: its peaks and troughs. I can skip to the sustained mid-range levels, they’ll be spoken word. If I avoid the sharp spikes of the clip readout I should avoid any shouts, or screams.

I skip to the next extended mid-level section. And press play.

“Yeah, come in,” the man says.

The door opens, the sound of music, party poppers, and laughter, then muffled quiet again. Two men out of range by the door, voices low.

“Don’t just stand there then,” the man continues. “Lock it.”

There are three men in the room with Emily now. I make a note on my pad.

Emily is saying something. I strain to hear.

“I need to go now. I’m supposed to—” I can hear the hazy fear in her voice; she’s trying to stay calm, trying not to escalate the situation. Protecting herself in the only way she can in that room. “I just need…”

The sound of a scuffle. “No, no, no. You’re staying. And we are going to have a nice time.” The sound of clothing and a sudden flurry of movement from Emily. She’s trying to get away in earnest.

“Hey, hey. Be good. Be nice.”

“No.” Her thick voice sharpening in focus, the soberest it’s been so far. Fear clarifying the situation. “Stop. Get the hell—”

“Ben, it’s too loud.” The voice comes from across the room and is answered by the sound of a slap.

Emily yelps.

Ben. I scrawl the name down quickly. I flick back a page in the pad to the name Ben Cohan, a producer at Moon Finch, and underline it hastily.

The recording is overtaken by deafening rustling as Emily struggles. I skip the audio away from the noisy peak onward to the next conversational-level section and play.

Emily is crying softly. I try to block it out and listen only to the words. Crying, heavy sobs, the whine of an injured animal, gasping breath.

“I need Mike. Get Mike here,” the man says, his breathing ragged.

I feel sick.

“I called him when I went out. He’s waiting downstairs,” the voice by the door replies. “You want me to get him?”

“Yeah, chuck me that blanket,” the man answers, his tone businesslike. The audio muffles once more as another layer of something covers the device. “Guess this isn’t the evening you had planned, right?” the man mumbles closer to the recorder.

Emily lets out another sob and I abruptly stop the audio.

I take a breath, trying to calm myself. I’m not there and yet my body is reacting as if I am. As if I’m trapped there with her, trapped forever in that room unable to get away.

I try to bring my mind back to the job at hand. I now have two names: Ben and Mike. The name of the man who assaulted Emily is Ben and in some way a man called Mike is involved. I still don’t know who the man by the door is, though.

I skip to the last burst of conversation.

“Jesus Christ.” A new voice enters the room. He sounds disgusted and yet manages to maintain a businesslike tone. This must be Mike. “Okay. Put her in the bath, Joe,” he orders, staying back at the edge of the room and orchestrating from a distance.

Joe must be the name of the other man in the room when it happened.