Читать книгу The Good Girl: An addictively suspenseful and gripping thriller - Mary Kubica, Mary Kubica - Страница 9

Gabe

Before

It’s dark by the time I pull up to the house. Light pours from the windows of the English Tudor home and onto the tree-lined street. I can see a collection of people hovering inside, waiting for me. There’s the judge, pacing, and Mrs. Dennett perched on the edge of an upholstered seat, sipping from a glass of something that appears to be alcoholic. There are uniformed officers and another woman, a brunette, who peers out the front window as I come to a sluggish halt in the street, delaying my grand entrance.

The Dennetts are like any other family along Chicago’s North Shore, a string of suburbs that lines Lake Michigan to the north of the city. They’re filthy rich. It’s no wonder that I’m procrastinating in the front seat of my car when I should be making my way up to the massive home with the clout I’ve been led to believe I carry.

I think of the sergeant’s words before assigning the case to me: Don’t fuck this one up.

I eye the stately home from the safety and warmth of my dilapidated car. From the outside it’s not as colossal as I envision the interior to be. It has all the old-world charm an English Tudor has to offer: half-timbering and narrow windows and a steep sloping roof. It reminds me of a medieval castle.

Though I’ve been strictly warned to keep it under wraps, I’m supposed to feel privileged that the sergeant assigned this high-profile case to me. And yet, for some reason, I don’t.

I make my way up to the front door, cutting across the lawn to the sidewalk that leads me up two steps, and knock. It’s cold. I thrust my hands into my pockets to keep them warm while I wait. I feel ridiculously underdressed in my street clothes—khaki pants and a polo shirt that I’ve hidden beneath a leather jacket—when I’m greeted by one of the most influential justices of the peace in the county.

“Judge Dennett,” I say, allowing myself inside. I conduct myself with more authority than I feel I have, displaying traces of self-confidence that I must keep stored somewhere safe for moments like this. Judge Dennett is a considerable man in size and power. Screw this one up and I’ll be out of a job, best-case scenario. Mrs. Dennett rises from the chair. I tell her in my most refined voice, “Please, sit,” and the other woman, Grace Dennett, I assume, from my preliminary research—a younger woman, likely in her twenties or early thirties—meets Judge Dennett and me in the place where the foyer ends and the living room begins.

“Detective Gabe Hoffman,” I say, without the pleasantries an introduction might expect. I don’t smile; I don’t offer to shake hands. The girl says that she is in fact Grace, whom I know from my earlier legwork to be a senior associate at the law firm of Dalton & Meyers. But it takes nothing more than intuition to know from the get-go that I don’t like her; there’s an air of superiority that surrounds her, a looking down on my blue-collar clothing and a cynicism in her voice that gives me the willies.

Mrs. Dennett speaks, her voice still carrying a strong British accent, though I know, from my previous fact-finding expedition, that she’s been in the United States since she was eighteen. She seems panicked. That’s my first inclination. Her voice is high-pitched, her fingers fidgeting with anything that comes within reach. “My daughter is missing, Detective,” she sputters. “Her friends haven’t seen her. Haven’t spoken to her. I’ve been calling her cell phone, leaving messages.” She chokes on her words, trying desperately not to cry. “I went to her apartment to see if she was there,” she says, then admits, “I drove all the way there and the landlord wouldn’t let me in.”

Mrs. Dennett is a breathtaking woman. I can’t help but stare at the way her long blond hair falls clumsily over the conspicuous hint of cleavage that pokes through her blouse, where she’s left the top button undone. I’ve seen pictures before of Mrs. Dennett, standing beside her husband on the courthouse steps. But the photos do nothing compared to seeing Eve Dennett in the flesh.

“When is the last time you spoke to her?” I ask.

“Last week,” the judge says.

“Not last week, James,” Eve says. She pauses, aware of the annoyed look on her husband’s face because of the interruption, before continuing. “The week before. Maybe even the one before that. That’s the way our relationship is with Mia—we go for weeks sometimes without speaking.”

“So this isn’t unusual then?” I ask. “To not hear from her for a while?”

“No,” Mrs. Dennett concedes.

“And what about you, Grace?”

“We spoke last week. Just a quick call. Wednesday, I believe. Maybe Thursday. Yes, it was Thursday because she called as I was walking into the courthouse for a hearing on a motion to suppress.” She throws that in, just so I know she’s an attorney, as if the pin-striped blazer and leather briefcase beside her feet didn’t already give that away.

“Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Just Mia being Mia.”

“And that means?”

“Gabe,” the judge interrupts.

“Detective Hoffman,” I assert authoritatively. If I have to call him Judge he can certainly call me Detective.

“Mia is very independent. She moves to the beat of her own drum, so to speak.”

“So hypothetically your daughter has been gone since Thursday?”

“A friend spoke to her yesterday, saw her at work.”

“What time?”

“I don’t know... 3:00 p.m.”

I glance at my watch. “So, she’s been missing for twenty-seven hours?”

“Is it true that she’s not considered missing until she’s been gone for forty-eight hours?” Mrs. Dennett asks.

“Of course not, Eve,” her husband replies in a degrading tone.

“No, ma’am,” I say. I try to be extracordial. I don’t like the way her husband demeans her. “In fact, the first forty-eight hours are often the most critical in missing-persons cases.”

The judge jumps in. “My daughter is not a missing person. She’s misplaced. She’s doing something rash and negligent, something irresponsible. But she’s not missing.”

“Your Honor, who was the last one to see your daughter then, before she was—” I’m a smart-ass and so I have to say it “—misplaced?”

It’s Mrs. Dennett who responds. “A woman named Ayanna Jackson. She and Mia are co-workers.”

“Do you have a contact number?”

“On a sheet of paper. In the kitchen.” I nod toward one of the officers, who heads into the kitchen to get it.

“Is this something Mia has done before?”

“No, absolutely not.”

But the body language of Judge and Grace Dennett says otherwise.

“That’s not true, Mom,” Grace chides. I watch her expectantly. Lawyers just love to hear themselves speak. “On five or six different occasions Mia disappeared from the house. Spent the night doing God knows what with God knows whom.”

Yes, I think to myself, Grace Dennett is a bitch. Grace has dark hair like her dad’s. She’s got her mother’s height and her father’s shape. Not a good mix. Some people might call it an hourglass figure; I probably would, too, if I liked her. But instead, I call it plump.

“That’s completely different. She was in high school. She was a little naive and mischievous, but...”

“Eve, don’t read more into this than there is,” Judge Dennett says.

“Does Mia drink?” I ask.

“Not much,” Mrs. Dennett says.

“How do you know what Mia does, Eve? You two rarely speak.”

She puts her hand to her face to blot a runny nose and for a moment I am so taken aback by the size of the rock on her finger that I don’t hear James Dennett rambling on about how his wife had put in the call to Eddie—mind you, I’m struck here by the fact that not only is the judge on a first-name basis with my boss, but he’s also on a nickname basis—before he got home. Judge Dennett seems convinced that his daughter is out for a good time, and that there’s no need for any official involvement.

“You don’t think this is a case for the police?” I ask.

“Absolutely not. This is an issue for the family to handle.”

“How is Mia’s work ethic?”

“Excuse me?” the judge retorts as wrinkles form across his forehead and he rubs them away with an aggravated hand.

“Her work ethic. Does she have a good employment history? Has she ever skipped work before? Does she call in often, claim she’s sick when she’s not?”

“I don’t know. She has a job. She gets paid. She supports herself. I don’t ask questions.”

“Mrs. Dennett?”

“She loves her job. She just loves it. Teaching is what she always wanted to do.”

Mia is an art teacher. High school. I jot this down in my notes as a reminder.

The judge wants to know if I think that’s important. “Might be,” I respond.

“And why’s that?”

“Your Honor, I’m just trying to understand your daughter. Understand who she is. That’s all.”

Mrs. Dennett is now on the verge of tears. Her blue eyes begin to swell and redden as she pathetically attempts to suppress the tiny drips. “You think something has happened to Mia?”

I’m thinking to myself: isn’t that why you called me here? You think something has happened to Mia, but instead I say, “I think we act now and thank God later when this all turns out to be a big misunderstanding. I’m certain she’s fine, I am, but I’d hate to overlook this whole thing without at least looking into it.” I’d kick myself if—if—it turned out everything wasn’t fine.

“How long has Mia been living on her own?” I ask.

“It’ll be seven years in thirty days,” Mrs. Dennett states point-blank.

I’m taken aback. “You keep count? Down to the day?”

“It was her eighteenth birthday. She couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

“I won’t pry,” I say, but the truth is, I don’t have to. I can’t wait to get out of here, too. “Where does she live now?”

The judge responds. “An apartment in the city. Close to Clark and Addison.”

I’m an avid Chicago Cubs fan and so this is thrilling for me. Just mention the words Clark or Addison and my ears perk up like a hungry puppy. “Wrigleyville. That’s a nice neighborhood. Safe.”

“I’ll get you the address,” Mrs. Dennett offers.

“I would like to check it out, if you don’t mind. See if any windows are broken, signs of forced entry.”

Mrs. Dennett’s voice quavers as she asks, “You think someone broke into Mia’s apartment?”

I try to be reassuring. “I just want to check. Mrs. Dennett, does the building have a doorman?”

“No.”

“A security system? Cameras?”

“How are we supposed to know that?” the judge growls.

“Don’t you visit?” I ask before I can stop myself. I wait for an answer, but it doesn’t come.