Wherever She Goes(64)

I stare at that meager call log . . . and it reminds me about something. The calls on Kim’s phone. I’d traced a few, including Ellie’s, but there’s the one that came in while I was with her in the park and a couple of times before that.

Time for more hacking. This one’s easier than I expected, and I kick myself for not digging deeper before now. When a simple search hadn’t returned an owner, I presumed it was prepaid. Yet when I dig, I come up with an actual account . . . one owned by Hugh Orbec. I look for the call I heard him make Saturday night, when I was in the closet at Zodiac Five, but it’s not there. That suggests two phones: personal and business.

Why would Hugh Orbec be so careless, using his personal phone to call Kim?

Or had someone else used it? Denis Zima could probably get access to Orbec’s cell phone. Was he setting up his old friend? I don’t know. But I do make note of other numbers that called and texted with Orbec’s phone. I’m doing that when my alarm goes off, telling me it’s 11 A.M. Time to phone Ellie, having given her plenty of time to wake up and realize she needs to get the police involved.

That’s how I greet her. Not with “Hello” or “Good morning,” but “It’s Aubrey. Have you called the police yet?”

She hasn’t. She’s absolutely convinced that if she involves them, Brandon will suffer. I try to talk her into contacting Laila Jackson. It doesn’t work.

“If they didn’t believe you, they won’t believe me,” she says. “You’re a librarian. I’m a stay-at-home mom from South Dakota.”

“You’re Brandon’s aunt. You know him. The police can’t say you hallucinated a nephew.”

“And then what? Where will they go from there? Whoever has Brandon murdered Kim. They’ll kill him too if the cops rush in.”

“So what are you going to do?” I ask. “Just hope they’ll take good care of him?”

“Of course not. I’m hiring a private investigator. I’ve found someone. I just need to figure out how to cover his retainer. It’s . . . more than I expected. But I can do it.”

I struggle to keep the impatience from my voice. “Any PI worth his salt would tell you to contact the police. Private investigators are a last resort, when the police won’t get involved. If he’s not telling you that, he just wants your money. How much is the retainer?”

“Five thousand.”

“What? No. That’s crazy.”

“How much would you charge?”

“Me?” I sputter. “I’m not a private investigator. I’m a librarian, like you said—”

“Which means you’re smart. Detective work might not be your job, but you’re really good at it. You identified Kim. You found out who Brandon’s dad is, and even I didn’t know that. You are—”

“—not a private eye.”

“But I’d pay you.”

“I don’t need money.”

Silence.

I should wish her luck and sign off. Let me know how it goes! I’ll cross my fingers for you!

I can’t do that. Physically cannot.

I take a deep breath. “Can I get that address? The one Kim gave you?”

She gives it.

“Let me do some digging,” I say. “I’ll get back to you. If you decide to contact Officer Jackson, please do that and let me know. But hold off on hiring a PI and spending five grand you don’t have. Please.”



Not surprisingly, there’s no public listing for the owner of that house. Still, obtaining the owner of record is easy enough through property taxes. But that requires doing exactly what Paul asked me not to—hacking into government servers. I’ll wait for Paul on that. In the meantime, this triggers another thought. Kim must have been in contact with whomever she asked to take Brandon.

A scan of her prepaid call record identifies the most likely number. It’s one she dialed twice in the days before her death. One call was made on the Friday, and then one shortly after she spoke to Hugh Orbec—or whoever used his phone. The initial one was short, as if she was reaching out.

I may be in trouble. I may need your help.

The second is longer, as if it was the planning call. Orbec had made contact, presumably threatening Kim, given what I’d heard of the exchange. She realizes then that she must enact her plan with Brandon, and she places the second call.

I try to trace that phone number, but I have no luck.

Paul gets home shortly after that. He’s brought lunch and a sympathetic ear as I vent my frustration. First, he takes what action he can, by asking his assistant to investigate the tax situation on that house. Then he just listens.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say.

“What do you want to do?”

I shake my head. “That doesn’t matter. I already endangered Charlie doing what I wanted to do.”

“No, some thug threatened Charlie to scare you off. Whoever these people are, Aubrey, they’re not going to kidnap your daughter. It was empty posturing. But, in the event that it wasn’t, we’ve removed our daughter from the equation. She’s safe.”

I nod, but I don’t say anything.

“You’re right about the private eye,” Paul continues. “He’s scamming Ellie. You’re also right to keep pushing her toward Officer Jackson. Eventually, she will have to make that call. If, in the meantime, you want to keep digging, I don’t see any problem with that. As long as ‘digging’ doesn’t mean marching to that club to confront Denis Zima.”