Wherever She Goes(61)

As she walks in, her gaze moves through the hall, taking the measure of this house.

“It was my choice,” I say.

“Hmm?”

“Before you draw any conclusions about why I’m in that crappy apartment while my husband lives here, it was my choice.”

“Ah.”

She’s still looking as she walks through. Then she stops at a photo. It’s the three of us—Paul, Charlotte, and me—at the beach.

“Wandered a bit, did you?” she says.

“What?”

She shrugs. “I don’t blame you. I think I’d go nuts in a place like this. Especially with a toddler. You got bored and wandered.”

“If you’re asking whether I cheated on my husband, the answer is no. I’m not living in a lousy apartment out of guilt. Our marriage didn’t work out, and Paul was the one who bought this house, so I left him with it. That seemed fair. As long as he was staying, our daughter should too, at least until we straighten out the divorce. Also fair.”

She studies me. Then she nods. “Okay, I can understand that.”

“So, if you’re done questioning my life choices . . .”

“Hey, you’re suspicious. I am, too. We both want to know who we’re dealing with. Why don’t we sit, and you can give me your statement.”





Chapter Thirty





I tell Laila what happened with Zima’s thug. By the time I finish, we don’t need a functioning air conditioner to chill the room—her look does it just fine.

“This happened last night?” she says. “And you didn’t contact me?”

“I handled it.”

Her face hardens, eyes flashing. “You are not supposed to handle armed stalkers, Aubrey. You are supposed to call us.”

“Somehow I didn’t think he’d wait while I dialed 911.”

“You know what I mean. As soon as you got away, you should have called me. This is connected to the case. It’s not a matter of whether or not you can handle it on yourself. I needed to know.”

“And I needed to know you could be trusted with that information.”

“Are you questioning my competency as an officer.”

“No, I’m saying that you and I got off on the wrong footing, and I wasn’t ready to trust you. Now I am. Which is why you’re here.”

“This is a police investigation. You don’t get to decide—”

“I handled it the best I could. I was very, very clear to this thug that I thought I’d misunderstood the situation and didn’t actually see a boy. There was no way I’d let Denis Zima think he has a son out there. I said I made a mistake. That I definitely made a mistake. He didn’t like that answer.”

Laila chews this over, and I can tell she’s debating whether or not to pursue our disagreement. After a moment, she says, “Did he seem to think you were lying?”

“I’m not sure. It’s the same guy I taped on the phone. I’m sure of that. That night, he told whoever was on the line that he thought I was wrong. That there was no kid. So he might have just been pushing me around, making sure I stuck to my story. That’s what Paul thinks, and I’d tend to agree.”

“Can you describe the man?”

“I can do better than that. I have a name. Hugh Orbec.”

She looks up at me.

I shrug. “I had some time to kill. The man I heard on the phone knew Kim, so he dated back that far in Denis Zima’s life. Social media is a wonderful thing for tracking friends. That’s what Orbec is. He’s three years older than Zima. Worked for Zima Senior, who lent him to Denis for the LA clubs. They apparently became close, and when Denis quit the underage-strip-joint racket, Orbec followed him. He’s head of operations for the Zodiac chain.”

Laila’s quiet, and I feel the temperature drop again.

I sigh. “Now what have I done?”

Her gaze meets mine, hard as steel. “Potentially ruined our case against the man, that’s all. If a defense attorney found out that you’d positively identified your attacker as Hugh Orbec before you gave your statement, he can claim your recollection is based on Orbec, not the man in the alley.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not filing a complaint about what happened in the alley. There’s no point. I’m not injured. He didn’t pull his gun. He probably even has a permit for carrying it. If I complain, I’ll only make a dangerous enemy. My complaint is about what happened next.”

I tell her about the video. Then I show it to her, along with the text.

“I’m not claiming this is Orbec,” I say. “When I spoke to him, I offhandedly said I didn’t have kids, and he never questioned that. If he sent the video, I’d think he’d reference that. Say something like ‘I see you do have a kid.’ ”

“Maybe. But that’s hardly proof that it wasn’t him.” She takes my phone and rereads the texts.

“It also doesn’t quite fit with Orbec,” I say. “Why keep pushing if you want me to stick to my story? To say there was no kid? What reason would I have to lie about being wrong . . . after he threw me into a wall?”

“But you did.”

“To protect my family and Brandon. As far as Orbec knows, though, I’m just some lady from the suburbs claiming that a dead woman had a kid. To him, I don’t know who Kim is. I don’t know Denis Zima’s connection. I’ve done nothing more than witness something . . . and then retract my statement. Why keep harassing me?”