by Harper Kim
“So,” she counters bitterly, “that doesn’t prove a thing. Is it a crime to marry a woman who already has kids? I can’t believe how stupid he was to even get involved with someone like that. If he hadn’t left, he wouldn’t be in this mess.”
I remain calm. Leila isn’t in a state to be reasoned with so there really isn’t anything I can say that will get through. “Leila, we are doing everything we can, but I think you should ask your husband to look into representation for Brett.”
“We’ve already taken care of that,” she snaps. “Art’s going to represent him. We know that he’s innocent.”
I wince. That comment was intended to hit a deep wound and it worked. Mission accomplished.
“Leila, trust me, I want Brett to be innocent just as much as you do, but—”
“Trust you? Ha. How can I trust you? Especially with Brett. You out of all people should know that he’s innocent. And you out of all people should be trying very hard to keep him out of jail. You owe him this, Ky. You owe me this. Please—” the anger fizzles into an emotional outburst of sobs. Choking back tears she continues, “I’m begging you, you have to help him.”
“Leila, I hear you. Trust me or don’t trust me, that’s up to you, but I’m telling you that I’m going to do my best. I know he’s innocent.” At least I hope he’s innocent. “Now, I need to know who your dad’s lawyer is and the kid that knew the victim. Can you tell me that? It can really help your brother.” I hear sniffling on the other end of the line. “Leila?”
“The lawyer’s name is Nick Cobb.”
Chapter Sixteen:
Sunday, May 27, 2012
10:40 A.M.
Loral Holmes:
Outside, a light drizzle starts to fall, skimming the dirty window panes as more trickles in from the graying sky. May is an interesting month—the heat from the summer sneaks up on the neighborhood, but there is still the whisper of Mediterranean cool, intermingling winter’s wet showers with the dry summer heat. Graduation lies just around the corner and I have more things on my mind than worrying about Mike’s fragile teenage heart.
There are times I know Mike wants to bring up the after-losing-our-virginity conversation with me and I’ve been deflecting. I shouldn’t have to tell him it was a one-time occurrence and he shouldn’t be expecting it to happen again anytime soon. How many times does a guy need a release anyways? Did he really enjoy it like he claimed or was he just saying so because he thought he should? I don’t think it was all that and a bag of chips. Actually I think it was kind of gross and uncomfortable. I think the media sensationalizes the act, telling us that we’re young, vital, and sexy, and sex is the hot new trend. If you’re not on board, you’re a loser. And no one wants to be a loser, not even me.
Mike is over, hanging out, and the mood in the air is a bit stuffy. He sits cross-legged beside me on the bed while I lie on top of the bedspread with my feet kicked up behind me and my chin tucked over crossed arms. We stare aimlessly at the television screen, with nothing interesting to watch. Actors and actresses roam the screen pretending that life is exciting and memorable.
Besides the incident and school, we haven’t seen much of each other the past few weeks. With school winding down, Mike’s been sequestered to shadowing his dad at the Law Offices of Cobb and Sutter for most of his free time. His dad is shoving law down his throat as if doing so will provide Mike a leg up amongst the competition.
Mike told me that ever since he was old enough to understand what all the UCLA Law memorabilia hanging in his room stood for, he knew he’d be following in his dad’s footsteps. There was a school banner, a collection of Bruins ball caps, sweatshirts, blankets, custom made music mobile that lulled him to sleep, and a baby-sized gavel—engraved and framed in a shadowbox—hung above the bed. He literally lived, slept, and dreamed law ever since he was out of his mother’s womb.
I think it’s cool that Mike’s dad is showing him around the office with pride. I am even a bit jealous, wishing Tess had the gumption to show me around her workplace and hope that I’d follow in her footsteps. Although, the thought of selling real estate and schmoozing customers almost makes me want to gag.
Nick taught Mike that connections were the key to a lawyer’s success. With the right connections came success and a partnership with Cobb and Sutter. And that’s exactly what Nick’s plan was for his son, to become partner, so the doors to his office would read, “Law Offices of Cobb, Sutter, and Cobb.”
Just the other day, Nick introduced him to meet his new client, a wealthy man with his own posse dressed in shiny black. He was the kind of man that Nick loved to work with, the senior executive, the elder statesman, molted to his final instar of power before the mortal decline; who still had a sharp mind, deep pockets, and firm hands in all avenues of the political and business sectors. The pinnacle of leverage.
Mike said he was creeped out by the old guy. Something about the alertness of his eyes or his silent, all-knowing stare. Or, it could have been the smallness of his voice compared to the largeness of his presence. The man was CEO of Ficks Bank & Trust out in the city of Walnut. Why was a big shot from a town at least two hours away out mingling with Mike’s dad?
“What’s wrong?” Mike asks softly.
“Hmmm?” Twisting my head toward him, I raise a brow, confused.
“What were you thinking about? You seem distracted by something.”
Managing a weak smile, I prop myself up on my elbows. “Nope. All good here. How about you?”
“Loral—” he hesitates. “Never mind.”
I nod, relieved, and continue to pretend to be absorbed in whatever is playing on TV. I thought he’d given up trying to bring up the conversation, but I was wrong.
Clearing his throat he says, “Actually Loral, I wanted to talk about the other day. Are you OK? I mean do you feel OK? I know I kind of rushed it and, well, you ran out of the room so fast. Loral, I’d like to—” Suddenly there is some kind of commotion downstairs, followed by the front door slamming shut.
“Shit.” I jump out of bed and scramble toward the window. Peering out, I see Brett storm into his truck. “Shit,” I mutter again and run out the door and down the single flight of stairs. I am glad for the sudden distraction from what was going to be a very awkward conversation, but why does it have to be this? I come to the door just in time to see Brett backing out of the driveway in his beat up truck, jostling as he shifts gears and zooms past the house. His face is contorted in fury.
Tess shakes in anger as she brushes past me. I’m not thinking when I grab her wrist and pull her to face me. All I can think is, Tess, don’t you dare fuck up the one good relationship you have. I am just starting to have a relationship with Brett. He is changing and opening up. I don’t want to lose that. I start to get desperate, thinking, just when I start to open to the possibility of a relationship with Brett, Tess is going to ruin it.
I am so angry, I want to shake her. I am not a little girl anymore. I know what she is running off to every morning and sneaking in from every night. I stand eye to eye with Tess on the linoleum floor, seething, willing her to tell me the truth.
“Let go.” I release her wrist but stand my ground. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“What did you do?” I shout.
“Quick to judge, aren’t you Loral? Why do you think it was my fault? When did you all of a sudden get chummy with Brett? I’m your mother. Shouldn’t you be on my side?”
“Don’t swing this back at me. You’re the one dressed like a slut running off with a new man every other night. Who’s it this time? The bartender at your new favorite hangout? Or your receptionist again? Or maybe a hot new client in need of a more personal job?”
Her movements are quick and shocking. The flat-handed slap across my cheek stings. “You disgraceful Bitch. How dare you speak to me that way.”
I will myself to stand my ground, to not show weakness or pain. My left cheek burns and my vision blurs hot. A fiery rage digs its ugly cla
ws into my gut, anchoring me to years of grief and hurt. “If I’m a Bitch you’re a Whore. Why do you do it, Mother? Do you get some thrill spreading your legs for a man, any man? Is Brett not enough for you? Is that what marriage means to you? Do you even care about us? Why did you even have me in the first place?”
“I. Don’t. Know.” The words come out too fast and punched too hard. The meaning, scarring. The silence, almost deafening. Tess’s face twists in revulsion, utter disbelief, and finally in sadness. Her voice turns flat. “I’m tired. I think I’m going to take a nap…don’t bother me.” Turning, she starts to head upstairs to her room.
No way am I going to let Tess leave the room without giving me answers. I don’t know what came over me but I’m not going to pretend everything is fine any longer. I don’t want to stop asking the hard questions. I want to know. “I deserve to know the truth. Please—”
Chapter Seventeen:
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
9:50 A.M.
Detective Kylie Kang:
Seeing Brett this morning is like a breath of fresh air in a blinding snowstorm—it doesn’t make sense. Nothing seems to make sense. Brett stands before me, now seventeen years older but still breathtakingly handsome. The shock and dismay in his blue eyes seems to match mine, but there is a hint of disgust that doesn’t sit well in my empty stomach. After all this time he is definitely not pleased to see me, nor should he be given the circumstances. Here I am, standing in his house, among his wife and children, armed and badged, questioning him about the death of his stepdaughter. Under the circumstances, I don’t like myself very much either.
I stand in his foyer, stunned by the sheer sight of him, and feel the heat bloom uncontrollably on my cheek. I feel Pickering shift uncomfortably beside me. My sudden change in demeanor has Pickering quickly stepping in to take over the questioning process. I let him. What can I do when I am a blithering idiot?
My throat is suddenly very dry. I need water, wishing someone would offer some, and when Ms. Holmes does, I take the cold glass greedily. Pressing the cool glass against my quivering lips, I wash down the edge that seems to stick in my throat like nasty thorns.
Trying to hide my misstep from Pickering’s keen eye, I turn my attention to the rest of the house. Scanning the area, I notice the living quarters seem mediocre compared to Ms. Holmes’ impeccable wardrobe and the flashy BMW parked out front. Judging by the brief encounter so far with Ms. Holmes, I can tell that her priorities are a little skewed.
The home is a disaster. Shoes are cast aside in a disorganized array on the tile entryway. Piles of dirty clothes and toys litter the living area, and dirty dishes are stacked on top of each other, spilling out from the sink and onto the tile countertops. I suppress a shiver as I poke around.
Ms. Holmes sports a pair of black Chanel shades, which I think is strange until she removes them. Her eyes are bloodshot and the layers of foundation cannot hide the bags that taint her fair skin. At first I suspect that she somehow found out about her daughter’s murder or believed that she was missing, but then I find her recycle bin and I realize she is nursing a hangover.
I can’t understand why Brett married her. Yes, Tess is gorgeous with her wheat-blond hair, pouty lips and wispy frame. But besides the obvious, Tess doesn’t seem like Brett’s type. Then again, have I ever really known what Brett’s type is?
It surprises me that I am disappointed by his choice of wife. After all these years I’ve placed Brett on a pedestal and the pedestal is crumbling. When I was eleven, Brett was a dynamic guy, full of potential and charisma. He could do no wrong. Now at twenty-eight, I see a burned out shadow who sleeps in past nine and married an alcoholic mother, and yet I am still attracted to him. It doesn’t make sense.
Returning to the living room where Pickering continues to troll for clues among Brett’s and Tess’s shaky recollections of the events prior to their daughter’s death, I watch uncomfortably as Tess laces her arms possessively through Brett’s. Brett doesn’t seem to relax by his wife’s touch; he seems discomforted by it. Is their marriage on the rocks?
At least Tess doesn’t recognize me or my connection to her husband. Brett doesn’t seem inclined to bring up our history and I sure won’t divulge the information. If either Brett or Tess mentions the connection, I will be taken off the case and possibly face suspension for not coming forward immediately.
Brett avoids eye contact. Sitting rigidly on the armrest of the sofa beside his wife with arms akimbo, Brett has his eyes trained forward, focusing on Pickering and his blunt questions while desperately trying to forget I exist. I try pretending his evasion doesn’t bother me, but it does. How could it not? It’s been so long and I want to stare at him and pick him apart. So instead, I try focusing all my attention on Tess’s expressions.
“Where were you and the missus on the night of June nineteenth, between nine and midnight?”
Brett pries Tess’s gripping fingers off his arm, her nails digging crescents into his skin, and rests an arm over Tess’s quivering shoulders, providing a united front. “We were both here that night,” he says calmly. No emotion is left in his voice, but his eyes reveal fear.
Pickering catches the look and presses him. “All night?”
Brett gives a single nod.
“Okay, so what were you doing?”
“Is that pertinent?” Brett’s calm façade evaporates and his agitation peaks. “Shouldn’t you be asking us if we know of anyone who might have threatened us in the past or if Loral was having trouble in school…questions that would lead you to the killer? You’re wasting your time here. You need to be out there finding out who could have harmed Loral.” Brett rises abruptly from his perch on the armrest and waves his hands in frantic gestures.
“Sir,” Pickering changes his brisk tone to a more nurturing and consoling one, “I understand how you feel, but we must ask these questions in the order we are asking them. This is the most logical place for us to start since this was the last place she was seen. Do us all a favor and just answer my questions. The sooner we get all our questions answered the sooner we can move on.”
Brett’s tone chills slightly, but he regains his composure and sits back down. “Am I a suspect?”
“Please sir, just answer the question. What were you doing last night?”
“I tucked the girls in bed around eight-thirty and then went to my room to study.”
“Study?” I blurt out, surprised.
Pickering eyes me suspiciously, but I ignore him.
“Yes,” Tess’s tone is brusque and unfriendly. “My husband has been taking night classes at Grossmont College for Business Management.” Tess gives Brett’s hand a semi-affectionate squeeze.
“Okay,” Pickering clears his throat, “so sir you’re in your room studying, and what was the missus doing during this time?”
“I also got ready for bed,” Tess interrupts. It looks like Tess suddenly wants to be in control of this interrogation. I can’t help wondering if this is how their marriage works—Tess says jump! and Brett says how high. “We fooled around a bit before I left him alone to study…I can be a bit of a distraction sometimes,” she flutters her lashes flirtatiously at Pickering. I resist rolling my eyes. It takes great concentration.
Pickering clears his throat again and nods. I notice that Brett flinches at the halfhearted flirtation attempt. Is it a flinch of disgust, nervousness, or shame?
“And what did you do after you left the room?”
“I made a few phone calls, checked new MLS listings on the laptop, and then went to bed around ten.”
“Did either of you check on the girls’ room before you went to sleep?”
Their eyes dart to the floor and then to each other as they both guiltily shake their heads, no.
“The girls share a room with Loral, correct?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to speak with them, if you don’t mind?”
“Do you have to? I mean the girls are traumatized as it i
s. I don’t know what good questioning them about their sister is going to do.”
“You’d be surprised the amount of information kids know and are willing to share when asked the right questions.”
“I—I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why ma’am, is there something you’re hiding?”
“No…it’s just…”
“Good then,” Pickering stands up, “we’d like to talk to the kids. Now. But, if you oppose we could certainly leave and get a court order to drag them to the station and ask the questions there. We would rather talk to them in the comfort of their own home. We think you’d both agree that it’d be best for all parties involved.”
Tess chews her lip hesitantly. She tosses Brett an apprehensive glance, sees no reaction from him, and reluctantly gives a nod of approval. Brett doesn’t say one word for or against. He remains distant and mute, like a stone. There is something going on between them that they aren’t sharing. Something the girls might be able to shed some light on.
I decide to go into the girls’ room by myself because although Pickering is a loving father, outside his home he has a knack for turning kids into clams.
Pickering stops suddenly by the stairs, angling purposefully to block my entry. Leaning in, he stares me down with a look that says, hey, something you want to tell me?
“What?”
“Come on Ky, spill. Got something on this guy?”
“No.” My stomach pitches on the lie. I hate keeping secrets from my partner, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t be taken off this case. Not yet.
“Are you sure? Because for a moment there it seemed like you two knew each other.”
“I never met that woman.”
Pickering narrows his gaze. “You know I’m not referring to Ms. Model-Wannabe.”
