Wherever She Goes(73)

“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.





Chapter Thirty-Five





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 honestly 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 told Paul 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.