Wherever She Goes(74)

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.

“Surprised 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.”