Wherever She Goes (ARC)

by Kelley Armstrong

  “But he will go to school now,” I say. “He’s safe with whoever she gave him to—”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “What?”

  She takes a deep breath, as if calming herself to speak. “Kimmy always told me as little as possible, for my own safety. I knew about Brandon. I’ve visited them, but my kids don’t even know they have a cousin. She was so careful. She said, if anything ever happened to her, she had arranged for someone to take Brandon. I said no, I wanted him. He should be with family. I convinced her I was right, and I think she was relieved. That’s what she wanted. Brandon to be with me. She just didn’t want to assume I’d be okay with it.”

  “So you were supposed to take him from whoever had him.”

  “Right. She gave me an address in Chicago. If anything happened to her, I’d get a call, and then I should go to this address. It wouldn’t be safe to give me the address over the phone, so I needed it in advance. The day before she . . . before she was murdered, she called to see if I still had the address. I asked if anything was wrong. She laughed. Said she’d had a nightmare that I’d lost the address, so she was checking. She did things like that, so I never questioned it. I should . . . Oh God, I should have questioned.”

  “She didn’t want to put you in danger.”

  “I know.” Another deep breath. “Then the police phoned about Kimmy, and I flew into a panic because no one had called about Brandon. You did, and I thought for a second that was the call . . .”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  “No, and I was already on my way to Chicago. I thought maybe they couldn’t get through or they’d lost my phone number. I told myself everything was fine, Brandon was fine. But then I got to the address where he was supposed to be . . .”

  “And he wasn’t there.”

  “No one was there. It’s an empty house. I freaked out. I searched it for any sign that he’d been there, and there was nothing. Now I’m in Chicago, and my husband thinks I’m making arrangements to bring Kimmy’s—to bring her home—but I haven’t even spoken to the police yet. I just keep waiting for that call, and circling back to the address, in case I missed them and . . . And I don’t even know what to do.”

  I open my mouth to say I’ll be right there. It’s the first thing that comes. Then I see Paul, lifting Charlotte onto the play structure.

  I can’t do this. For the sake of my family, I cannot do this.

  Yet I can’t say that either. There’s a woman in crisis on the other end of this line. A woman whose sister has been murdered. Whose nephew is missing. I will not say “I can’t help you” and hang up.

  “My husband is a lawyer,” I say. “A criminal attorney. He’s right here. He knows what’s been going on. May I get his advice and call you back?”

  There’s a pause, and I’m not sure if she’s hesitating about me explaining to Paul or she just doesn’t want to let me go. When she gives a reluctant yes, I promise to call ASAP and disconnect.

  Paul catches my eye, and I only nod, letting him know I’m off the phone. He’s playing with Charlotte, and I don’t want to interrupt him. After a moment, he comes over and says, “Is everything okay?”

  I tell him what’s happened. When I finish, he pushes his glasses up his nose and pinches the bridge, his eyes shut. It’s a gesture I know well, the one he’d make if I came to him with a problem after a long day of work. It means he’s too exhausted to deal with this, but he won’t say that. He never says that.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You don’t need this—”

  “Aubrey?” He meets my gaze. “Don’t.”

  “I just—”

  “You’re trying to help this woman. I want to help you. I’m just thinking that it’s a mess. An unfortunate and tragic mess, and I’m not even sure what to tell you. I know what you need to tell her, though. Call the police.”

  “Go to them, not me. I should stay out of it.”

  “I’m not saying that either. Charlotte is fine. I’m taking her to my mother’s for a few days. If you want to help this woman, then I will do what you needed me to do from the start—support your decision. But at this moment, she needs to tell the police everything. Not this Officer Jackson. Let me checked her out first. Have Ellie contact the detective in charge of Kim Mikhailov’s murder and tell them about her son. Tell them what’s happened.”

  I nod. Then I make the call.

  Ellie won’t contact the police. Kim didn’t trust them, so she doesn’t either. I can’t do it myself, not when she’s adamantly opposed. So I’m stuck. I tell myself that’s a good thing. I cannot get involved. I have already endangered my child getting involved. Ellie needs to handle this, and with any luck, she’ll realize that the best way to do that is to involve the police.

  I will not feel guilty about telling her I can’t help.

  I won’t.

  I do, of course. But I’ve made the right choice, and I need to let it go.

  We’re driving to the house. Paul is taking Charlotte to his mother’s tonight, and he’d like me to come with them for the drive.

  I shake my head. “I’ve never been your mom’s favorite person. Apparently, she had good instincts.”

  Paul’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I’d like to put that aside for now. Please.”

  I glance back at Charlotte, asleep in her seat. “I’m not trying to start a fight.”

  “I know. But I need to set it aside. I’m here to help you. I’d like . . . I’d like us to get past this, which means at some point, yes, we need to hash it out. Under the circumstances, though, it’s counterproductive. I’m not over it, but I’m not as angry as I was. I’d like to put the rest on pause.”

  “Okay.”

  “As for my mother, I don’t think I ever dated anyone who lived up to her expectations. You were too young for me. Too different from me. She thought you were after a husband with a good job, and then you’d leave and take half my money.”

  “A gold digger.”

  “A gold digger with very modest aspirations.”

  I laugh at that.

  “Obviously, she was wrong,” he says, “though it did make me more sensitive to the issue of why you married me when I found out—” He stops short. “And that’s not dropping the subject, is it?”

  “No, but I understand.”

  He sighs and leans back against the headrest. “I say I want to put it aside, but that’s cowardice. I want to forget it. I want to pretend . . .”

  “It never happened. Because when you remember it did, you question whether I should be here, whether you should be helping me.”

  He makes a face. “Not like that. I accept that you didn’t marry me as a shield to hide behind. But you did lie, and you did deceive me, and I do feel betrayed. I do feel like I married a stranger. I’m just . . .” His fingers tighten on the wheel again. “I’m hurt.”

  “If I could start over, I’d do it differently. But I understand that there’s no undoing that now. There’s no making up for it. Which means I appreciate this all the more, Paul. I really do.”

  He nods. There’s silence, then. So much silence, before he says, “If you won’t come to my mother’s, will you at least stay at the house?”

  I hesitate.

  “I’d like you to stay there, Aubrey,” he says. “With the security system and . . .” He glances to make sure Charlotte’s asleep, but still lowers his voice. “That gun. Just stay there, safe, until I return. Please.”

  “All right.”

  I’ve been at Paul’s place for about two hours when he calls. That’s what I must think of it as. Paul’s place. Not ours. Not even “my old house.” That’s a dangerous path. He bought it. I left it. Now it is his.

  Paul calls about Laila Jackson. His contacts have gotten back to him, and the word is that while she can be “difficult” and “ambitious,” there’s never been any hint of corruption.

  “As my one contact said,” Paul says, “she’s more likely to be the person reporting corrupti
on. In hopes it’ll free up a job, he says. Which isn’t fair. She’s a woman of color, and she’s ambitious, and that doesn’t always play well with the good old boys. But someone like that isn’t going to risk her career for a quick payday from the mob. Even those who don’t care for Laila Jackson say she’s good at her job.”

  “Should I report the video directly to her, then?”

  “I would. You know her, and that’s more useful than placing a call to the switchboard. I could give you a contact of mine if you’d prefer . . .”

  “No, I’m okay with Laila. She’s not my biggest fan, but sometimes that’s helpful. She’ll be straight with me. I’ll tell her about my encounter Sunday night and the video today. I won’t mention Ellie Milano.”

  “Unless it means lying,” Paul says. “If she asks you anything where you’d need to lie to protect Ellie’s privacy, I would strongly suggest you don’t. Just avoid volunteering information.”

  “Got it. Oh, if Laila wants to speak to me in person, should I go to the station?”

  He pauses. “I’d rather she came to the house. I’d like her take on this—how much danger you might be in personally—before you go out alone. She’ll bring her partner to take the report, and I’ll be home in about ninety minutes.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  I call Laila. She’s out on patrol, but when I ask if I should report this to another officer, she’s quick to say no. Less than an hour later, she’s on the doorstep. And she’s alone.

  “Where’s Officer Cooper?” I ask.

  “Buried in paperwork. He said I can handle this.”

  I hesitate in the doorway, not moving aside to let her in. “I thought police were supposed to work in pairs.”

  “Technically, yes, but I know you, and this is part of an ongoing case. A case he’d rather not bother with.”

  When I still don’t move, she arches her brows. Then she laughs. “Ah, you think this is suspect, me showing up alone.”

  She holds out her phone. On it is a text string between her and Cooper, where she tells him “that Finch woman” wants to report an incident, and he grumbles. She says she’ll take it.

  “Yes,” she says as she puts her phone away. “I was dismissive, because I wanted to talk to you alone. Coop is . . .” She seems to check herself and says, carefully, “Let’s just say that I’m sure you thought he was the one taking you seriously about the boy, and I was the one blowing you off, but that’s not the way it worked. While I was suspicious, I still investigated. Mostly alone. Whatever you say to me tonight will go into an official report, and you can call the station later to verify that.”

  I back up. “Sorry. I’m just a little suspicious myself right now.”

  “I see that.”

  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.”

  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. I know that 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?”

  “Because someone realizes you’re more than you seem, Aubrey. Someone knows you’re involved. Someone knows you’ve been digging.”

  Which is the answer I don’t want. Of course I realize that’s the most obvious explanation. I just want her to give me one that means these people will leave my family alone.

  I’m about to ask her advice when Paul gets home. He greets Laila—handshake, introduction, civil but not overly warm. He feels the chill in the air. I know he does—he keeps sneaking glances at me, gauging the situation.

  When she asks to see his video and texts, he gives them to her. She forwards them to herself at the station, as she did mine.

  “We’ll be investigating.” She turns to me. “By we, I mean the Oxford Police Department. Not you, Aubrey. You are to stay out of this. Understand?”

  I can barely unhinge my jaw to answer. “I understand.”

  So, once again, I’m on my own. If I had any hope of an alliance with Laila, it evaporated in that conversation. She’s a cop, and I’m not, and that is a line she’s not letting me cross, no matter how helpful I’ve been.

  I don’t know if I’ll dig deeper. No, that’s a lie. I will dig. I must. I just won’t be out there, sneaking into clubs and playing spy anymore. Or jogging at nightfall in my neighborhood.

  Paul and I talk after that. He orders dinner in, and we spend the evening talking and polishing off a bottle of wine. He knows I’ll investigate that number and the video. He doesn’t even ask about that—just proceeds as if it’s a given. Which proves that while he may not have known the particulars of my life, he does know me.

  I consider making sure he tells Gayle that I’ll be staying over again. I might say I’m protecting their relationship, but I’m really protecting ours. I don’t want to be the cause of their breakup, something he can later resent me for. Nor do I want to give her any reason to peg me as the evil ex wriggling back into his life.

  I don’t say anything, though. I did this morning and to keep harping on it is interfering. He knows Gayle. He’ll know whether he needs to keep her apprised of the ongoing situation.