Читать книгу The Good Girl: An addictively suspenseful and gripping thriller - Mary Kubica, Mary Kubica - Страница 13

Gabe

Before

“You’re not an easy man to find,” I say as he welcomes me into his work space. It’s more of a cubicle than an office, but with higher walls than normal, offering a minimal amount of privacy. There’s only one chair—his—and so I stand at the entrance to the cube, cocked at an angle against the pliable wall.

“I didn’t know someone was trying to find me.”

My first impression is he’s a pompous ass, much like myself years ago, before I realized I was more full of myself than I should be. He’s a big man, husky, though not necessarily tall. I’m certain he works out, drinks protein shakes, maybe uses steroids? I’ll jot this down in my notes, but for now, I’d hate to have him catch me making these assumptions. I might get my ass kicked.

“You know Mia Dennett?” I ask.

“That depends.” He turns around in his swivel chair, finishes typing an email with his back to me.

“On what?”

“On who wants to know.”

I’m not too eager to play this game. “I do,” I say, saving my trump card until later.

“And you are?”

“Looking for Mia Dennett,” I respond.

I can see myself in this guy, though he can barely be twenty-four or twenty-five years old, just out of college, still believing the world rotates around him. “If you say so.” I, however, am on the cusp of fifty, and just this morning noticed the first few strands of gray hair. I’m certain I have Judge Dennett to thank for them.

He continues the email. What the hell, I think. He couldn’t care less that I’m standing here, waiting to talk to him. I peer over his shoulder to have a look. It’s about college football, sent to a recipient by the user name dago82. My mother is Italian—hence the dark hair and eyes I’m certain all women are wooed by—and so I take the derogatory name as an insult against my people, though I’ve never been to Italy and don’t know a single word in Italian. I’m just looking for another reason not to like this guy. “Must be a busy day,” I comment and he seems peeved that I’m reading his email. He minimizes the screen.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks again.

I reach into my back pocket and pull out that shiny badge I adore so much. “Detective Gabe Hoffman.” He’s visibly knocked down a notch or two. I smile. God, do I love my job.

He plays dumb. “Is there a problem with Mia?”

“Yeah, I guess you can say that.”

He waits for me to continue. I don’t, just to piss him off. “What did she do?”

“When’s the last time you saw Mia?”

“It’s been a while. A week or so.”

“And the last time you spoke to her?”

“I don’t know. Last week. Tuesday night, I think.”

“You think?” I ask. He confirms on his calendar. Yes, it was Tuesday night. “But you didn’t see her Tuesday?”

“No. I was supposed to, but I had to cancel. You know, work.”

“Sure.”

“What happened to Mia?”

“So you haven’t spoken to her since Tuesday?”

“No.”

“Is that normal? To go nearly a week without speaking?”

“I called her,” he confesses. “Wednesday, maybe Thursday. She never called back. I just assumed she was pissed off.”

“And why would that be? Did she have a reason to be pissed off?”

He shrugs. He reaches for a bottle of water on the desk and takes a sip. “I canceled our date Tuesday night. I had to work. She was kind of short with me on the phone, you know? I could tell she was mad. But I had to work. So I thought she was holding a grudge and not calling back...I don’t know.”

“What were your plans?”

“Tuesday night?”

“Yeah.”

“Meet in a bar in Uptown. Mia was already there when I called. I was late. I told her I wasn’t going to make it.”

“And she was mad?”

“She wasn’t happy.”

“So you were here, working, Tuesday night?”

“Until like 3:00 a.m.”

“Anyone who can vouch for that?”

“Um, yeah. My boss. We were putting some designs together for a client meeting on Thursday. I met with her on and off half the night. Am I in trouble?”

“We’ll get to that,” I answer flatly, transcribing the conversation in my own shorthand that no one but me can decipher. “Where’d you go after you left work?”

“Home, man. It was the middle of the night.”

“You have an alibi?”

“An alibi?” He’s getting uncomfortable, squirming in his chair. “I don’t know. I took a cab home.”

“Get a receipt?”

“No.”

“You have a doorman in your building? Someone who can tell us you made it home safe?”

“Cameras,” he says, and then asks, “Where the fuck is Mia?”

I had pulled Mia’s phone records after my meeting with Ayanna Jackson. I found calls almost daily to a Jason Becker, who I tracked down to an architectural firm in the Chicago Loop. I paid this guy a visit to see what he knew about the girl’s disappearance, and saw the evident perception on his face when I said her name. “Yeah, I know Mia,” he said, leading me back to his cube. I saw it in the first instant: jealousy. He had himself convinced that I was the other guy.

“She’s missing,” I say, trying to read his response.

“Missing?”

“Yeah. Gone. No one has seen her since Tuesday.”

“And you think I had something to do with it?”

It irritates me that he’s more concerned with his culpability than Mia’s life. “Yeah,” I lie, “I think you might have something to do with it.” Though the truth is that if his alibi is as airtight as he’s making it out to be, I’m back to square one.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“Do you think you need a lawyer?”

“I told you, I was working. I didn’t see Mia Tuesday night. Ask my boss.”

“I will,” I assure him, though the look that crosses his face begs me not to.

Jason’s co-workers eavesdrop on the interrogation. They walk slower as they pass his cube; they linger outside and pretend to carry on conversations. I don’t mind. He does. It’s driving him nuts. He’s worried about his reputation. I like to watch him squirm in his chair, becoming antsy. “Do you need anything else?” he asks to speed things along. He wants me out of his hair.

“I need to know your plans Tuesday night. Where Mia was when you called. What time it was. Check your phone records. I need to speak to your boss and make sure you were here, and with security to see what time you left. I’ll need the footage from your apartment cameras to verify you got home okay. If you’re comfortable providing me with that, then we’re all set. If you’d rather I get a warrant...”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No,” I lie, “just giving you your options.”

He agrees to provide me with the information I need, including an introduction to his boss, a middle-aged woman in an office ridiculously larger than his, with floor-to-ceiling windows that face out onto the Chicago River, before I leave.

“Jason,” I declare, after having been assured by the boss that he was working his ass off all night, “we’re going to do everything we can to find Mia,” just to see the expression of apathy on his face before I leave.