And Now She's Gone(50)

“She’s lying,” Ian said, his voice quavering. “Never. Not ever. My mother was abused. She had heart problems because of it, and she … I … Nick Rader, your boss, and I…”

“Why is she saying that you hit her?”

“Trinity. When did she say this happened? That I … did that to her?”

“Late April was the last incident.”

“The last? She’s saying that I hit her regularly?”

“She thinks you’re capable of killing her.”

He placed his head between his knees. After a moment of deep breathing, he looked out at her. “If I showed you something…”

“Everything is confidential—that is, until we go to court, if necessary.”

“I … recorded us.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “With her knowledge, of course.”

Her skin prickled. She knew what that meant. “Okay. Let’s see what you have.”

What Ian had was a recording of him naked, a tattoo of an X over his heart, golden skin, tight abs. There was naked Isabel, kneeling on a bed, flawless skin from there all the way to there. No blood, no bruises. In the background, there was a sixty-inch television and Rachel Maddow reporting that April day’s breaking news.

Face burning, Gray asked, “May I have a copy? Again, this is all confidential.” She’d be fine if she never glimpsed another minute of this recording.

Ian tapped a few keys and whoosh, the video landed in Gray’s inbox. “It’s Tea. She’s the one who puts all these thoughts in Isabel’s head. Tells her that I’m abusive and mean and … I know I gave you Tea’s number. Maybe I shouldn’t have. I know you’ve already talked to her, but maybe … Don’t trust a word she says.”

“There’s something else.”

“I don’t know if I can hear any more.”

“Rebekah and Joe Lawrence aren’t her parents. They’re not her stepparents. They’re not related at all.” Then Gray told him of her conversation with Inglewood’s Clair Huxtable.

Ian frowned. “What do you mean, she doesn’t know me?”

Gray told him that Rebekah Lawrence was the mother of one of Isabel’s friends.

“Noelle?” Ian said. “I don’t know a Noelle and I never saw anyone living in the condo.”

“Do you know the names Christopher Lincoln or Hope Walters Lincoln?”

He shook his head.

“They’re on Isabel’s birth certificate,” Gray said. “They’re her parents.”

Ian grabbed the wineglass from the coffee table. “Maybe she was adopted.”

“Maybe. Do you want me to keep working?”

Ian rolled the cool wineglass against his forehead. “This is crazy. This is nuts.” He took in a deep breath, then slowly released it. “I was thinking about something you asked me yesterday. Shit—was it just yesterday? About her ex-boyfriends.”

Gray said, “Okay,” then took a long sip of Viognier.

“She told me about this one guy, Mitch. He owns a furniture store off of Venice Boulevard. Spoiled her sometimes. Smashed her head in, the other times. Sounded like a jerk.”

“I’m also trying to reach Omar. Anything else?”

“Slicked-back hair. Lots of jewelry. All about the machismo thing, but the Russian version. We drove by there once, so that I could get a look at him.”

“I’ll talk with Mitch, then. See what he knows, find out when he talked with her last. May I ask … if you weren’t with Isabel, where were you on Memorial Day weekend? Really?”

Defiance shone in Ian’s eyes briefly before it vaporized. “I was with Trinity Bianchi.”

“Your nurse.”

“We stayed at the Four Seasons in Newport Beach.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Credit card bills—it was a very expensive weekend. I’m sure there’s closed-circuit TVs around that hotel. And there’s Trinity. You can ask her—but her word is as good as mine, right?”

Secrets and lies screamed out of Ian like bottle rockets and barn owls. Secrets and lies had led to Gray being hired to find his girlfriend. He wasn’t who he said he was. Neither was Isabel Lincoln. But then again, who was?

Stricken, Ian said, “I didn’t touch Isabel. Not like that. Not even in some sexual BDSM thing. She didn’t leave because I hit her or because I tried to kill her. I know that for a fact.”

“Why did she leave then?”

“She was threatening to tell the board about Trinity and me. About an … episode in one of the treatment rooms late one night. Either I paid her fifty K or she’d do a Gone Girl and fake her death, leaving all evidence pointing to me. She said she had bills, and if I didn’t pay up she’d make me pay in other ways. I couldn’t figure out which bills she had left, since I’d paid almost every bill she had, including rent. Her name is on the application as tenant but I’m fucking on the hook for everything else.”

“So, basically, it’s your apartment.”

“That’s what the Gardners told me.”

“And did you pay the fifty grand?”

“All cash—and I have a bank record, because I’m not that stupid and it’s a lot of money.… I left it on the counter in the condo. But she never responded. I texted her to make sure she received it. No answer. So I worried—about the money, yes, but she took my dog and…”