A Quiet Neighbor (23 page)

“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 claws 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 is. 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.”

I shrug. “You think she could pass as a model?”

“Ky—”

“I’d like to continue the interrogation if you
don’t mind. We’re wasting precious time here.”

“Just tell me you’re good.”

“I’m good.”

Waiting a few beats, he eyes me and then moves
aside. I know Pickering isn’t going to let me off that easily, but I hope he knows
that if something is going on, I have my reasons. But he’ll bring it up again
and when he does, I’ll have to be prepared.

Knocking softly against the bedroom door, I
wait a few seconds before cracking it open. Two girls are huddled on the bottom
bunk, both still wearing their pajamas from the night before. The older of the
two rocks the younger one side-to-side, trying to evoke a sense of calm. It doesn’t
seem to be working.

“Hi,” I kneel down to be at eye level, “my name
is Kylie, but you can call me Ky. All my friends do.”

The older one gives me a weary once-over, lifts
her chin, and says, “We’re not friends.” The girl has some spunk. Which is
good. Means she’ll probably end up okay.

“True, but I’d like to be your friend.”

“But you’re a cop.”

“Yes, but cops are friendly if you give them a
chance to be. Please, let me try. I’m here to help find out what happened to
your sister. But I can’t do that without your help. Will you help me?”

The oldest nods, hesitantly. “My name is Tory,
and this is my younger sister, Bella. I’m six and she’s five. But I’m turning
seven next month. Loral was supposed to take me to the park, just the two of
us.” Her voice trails off and she starts whimpering softly.

“No fair. I wanna go too.” Bella sits up,
pouting and wiping off the tears and snot that stain her chubby face, suddenly
unaware of the reason for her sadness.

“Don’t worry Bella, we’re not going anymore,”
Tory says softly.

Uncomfortable, I stand up, anxiously searching
the room for something with which to distract the girls. There is a framed
collage of photos hanging on the wall above a plain wooden desk. The collage has
pictures of the three girls; some are individual photos, but most show all
three of them smiling and acting goofy. The good times.

“When was this picture taken?”

I stand in front of the collage with my back
turned toward the girls. It takes a few seconds, but Tory takes the bait. She
walks over and stands beside me, curious. I point to a picture of the three
sisters dressed in Halloween costumes: Bella as a pumpkin, Tory a mermaid, and
Loral a nurse-slut. All three are smiling but Loral’s eyes show a vacancy I cannot
depict.

“That was Halloween. I was five, still a baby.”

“Oh?” I manage to stifle a giggle, trying to
keep a straight face. “The three of you did a lot of things together?”

Tory looks back at Bella, nodding.

“It looks like you guys had fun. Did everyone
have fun that Halloween?”

Tory shakes her head.

“What happened?”

Fiddling with the hem of her shirt, Tory continues
to shake her head.

“It’s okay. Remember I’m one of the good guys.”

Cocking her head, Tory gives one long examining
look before she sighs and whispers, “Daddy and Mommy didn’t like Loral’s
costume. They fight.”

I nod, understanding. If I wore that outfit in
public when I was sixteen, Gramps and
Halmoni
would’ve flipped.

“Do your mommy and daddy fight often?”

Tory nods warily. “That was the first time
Daddy ever yelled at Loral…but Mommy and Daddy yell at each other a lot.” She
whispers, “They think we don’t know but I’m old enough to know when they are
mad.” Tory pauses and motions me to come closer. Tory presses a hand to my ear and
whispers, “Sometimes Bella doesn’t understand, because she’s still a baby.”