Marcia Clark - Blood Defense

Alex snorted. “Only for the very few who don’t know how to get around their so-called security. Snapchat leaks like a rusty sieve. The only thing these guys would use is Wickr. It saves absolutely no data on a server, and everything’s encrypted so-”

I held up a hand. “TMI, Alex. I get it. Can you capture a still shot of Mr. Perfect off that video? Nothing too explicit, just something that looks like he took it during that threesome.” I wanted it to be believable that he’d send it. No matter how secure this Wickr app might be, no one with half a brain these days believes anything is foolproof.

Alex leaned back and blew out a breath. “Maybe. Assuming they’re on Wickr, I could set up a fake account for us and send it to them.”

I nodded. “Hopefully they’ll give us a name to work with. I assume you have a spare phone? One that’s not registered?” Alex smiled. It figured. He probably had a dozen of them. “Send a note with the photo saying he’s using someone else’s phone for cover.”

Alex reached out and turned on the television. Fifteen minutes later, he had a shot of our man with his robe half off. It was cropped to keep out Paige’s image. “Perfect,” I said. “Let’s send that with a message. Something like, ‘Thanks for the memories.’”

Alex winced. “Really?”

I put my hands on my hips. “Make up something better, then.”

Alex sent out the photo with the message, Good times. Thanks! LOL.

I stared at him. “Yeah, like that’s so much better.”

Michelle shrugged. “Actually, it is.”

I shot her a look and went back to pacing. Alex asked if we wanted anything to eat, but my stomach was so tied up in knots I couldn’t think of food. Michelle asked if he had any soup.

Alex headed for the kitchen. “I think I’ve got something in a can that might not put you in a hospital.”

A few minutes later, he brought out two bowls of chicken noodle soup. While they ate, I stared out the living room window. It had a reflective covering that let you see out but prevented anyone from seeing in. Alex wasn’t kidding about his security. It was almost seven o’clock, and all that was left of daylight were the indigo blues on the horizon. As I watched the rising glow of city lights, I tried to come up with a Plan B if this one didn’t work.

Ten minutes later, Alex’s spare phone gave a beep. We all turned to look at it. I grabbed the phone and read the message aloud. “‘You’re most welcome, Aubrey. Keep sharing!’”

Aubrey. That was such a distinctive name. “I know I’ve heard that name before, I just can’t remember where or how. Sound familiar to you guys?”

They both shook their heads. I started pacing again as I tried to squeeze my brain for the memory.

Alex sat down at his computer. He started to read off the screen. “Aubrey, Aubrey… wow, lots of girls named Aubrey.”

Michelle watched me. “Was it during this case?” I nodded. “Maybe you heard it in court?”

I shook my head. “No, I know I didn’t hear it in court.” I might not remember my own phone number, but I never forgot what anyone said in court.

“Did it have something to do with this case?” Michelle asked.

I stopped and stared at the floor. “No, I don’t think so.”

Alex read from the screen again. “Aubrey Plaza, Allison Aubrey, there’s a town in France.”

I stared at him. “You’re not helping, you know.”

He glanced up. “Sorry.” But he kept scanning the monitor.

“What about outside court?” Michelle asked. “I mean, when you were talking to reporters?”

Something tickled the back of my brain. I had that frustrating feeling that it was hovering just out of reach. I tried to grasp it. And failed. “Damn it!”

“Okay, let it go,” Michelle said. “You can’t force it. Talk about something else.”

But I couldn’t. I kept pacing.

Alex picked up their empty bowls. “That guy Marc was a lot smaller than this Aubrey dude. I thought models were supposed to be buff.”

I’d noticed that, too. “At least more buff than Marc was. But as I recall, Golden said the agency was trying to get him to buff up.”

Alex nodded. “Yeah, I can see why.” He shook his head. “And I can also see why Marc had no chance against him.”

Aubrey probably outweighed Marc by a good thirty pounds-and all of it looked like solid muscle.

Michelle stood up. “Here, let me help you, Alex. You don’t have to wait on us.” She took the bowls from him. “I was wondering if Marc shaved his body. I’ve never seen a guy that hairless. He reminded me of a Ken doll. Except you know, he wasn’t all smooth down there.”

Something she’d said clicked in my brain. “Say that again!”

Michelle stopped. “Say what? Smooth down there?” I shook my head. “What? Ken doll?”

Ken doll. Ken doll. “Kendall, that reporter! He said Edie’s husband’s name was Aubrey!” I was about to tell Alex to look it up, but he was already back at his laptop and typing.

Michelle’s eyes widened. “Holy shit, Sam. Mr. Perfect’s married to Edie Anderson?”

“That’s what I-”

“Got it!” Alex read from the screen. “Aubrey Miles, state senator. And yep, he’s married to Edie Anderson, correspondent for local news channel KCAL 9.”

I mentally replayed the surveillance camera footage. “Can you figure out who he called after Paige left?”

Alex was energized. “I’m on it.”

It was a little alarming how fast Alex managed to hack into Aubrey Miles’s cell phone account. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before he looked up and turned the laptop toward me. “Done. These records won’t tell us where the calls were made-”

“So you can’t get the cell-tower records?” Cell-phone calls ping the nearest towers. The location of those towers gives you the general area where the calls were placed or received.

“I can; it’ll just take a little longer.”

“Okay, we can wait on that. What do you have for the night Paige got killed?”

“The first call went to a number with a Beverly Hills prefix at eleven thirty-two p.m. The second was made to a number with a West Hollywood prefix right after that. Both numbers are registered to a Brent Farmington-”

Michelle picked up Alex’s phone. “Spell that for me.” She typed it in as he gave her the spelling.

I remembered the coroner’s estimated time of death. “So those were all made before Paige died.” Alex nodded. “How long were the calls?”

“Those first two calls were too short to be actual conversations-”

I pictured the footage of Aubrey on his cell phone. “He didn’t seem to be talking to anyone. Looked like he just left a message. So there was no answer.”

Alex studied the monitor. “Right. And it was late. So maybe the first call was to a landline, and the next one was to a cell phone. Then right after that there was a third call. That one went to Aubrey’s own home in West Hollywood. It lasted for almost a minute, so I’d guess someone answered-”

“Edie, probably,” I said. “They don’t have kids.”

Alex continued. “The last call I have on Miles’s cell for that night was an incoming. It was right after the call to Edie ended. From one of Brent Farmington’s numbers.”

“And I got him.” Michelle held up Alex’s phone. “Brent Farmington is Aubrey’s aide.”

“Sounds like that’s who Aubrey was looking for,” I said.

Michelle passed me Alex’s phone. “He looks like the serious type.”

A LinkedIn photo showed a sharp-featured man in his thirties with slicked-back hair and wire-framed glasses. I thought about the timing of those phone calls-and the order. Aubrey to Brent. Aubrey to Edie. Brent to Aubrey. I gave the phone back to Michelle and looked at the monitor over Alex’s shoulder. “Seems like Aubrey actually talked to Edie, and right after that, Brent called him.”