What You Don't Know, page 14
She pushed escape to the edge of her mind, letting it dangle there until she could figure out the best way to get it back on firm ground. In the meantime, she, Farrah, and Malcolm became a makeshift kitchen staff, forming an assembly line of sorts to satiate the bottomless pits of their captors’ stomachs. Farrah shoveled frozen pizzas and TV dinners in and out of the two ovens in the kitchen, while Blair cooked. Cookie demanded Blair make her homemade French fries, thinly sliced, skins peeled, and double cheeseburgers with potato chips, pretzels, and Cheetos smashed between the stacks of bread and meat. Just so she could watch Blair do it while she pointed and laughed maniacally. Getting off on the power of her false empire in this odd space between absurdity and terror.
She could see Malcolm drooping, meaning the fog had descended, so she gave him the mindless, menial task of repeatedly filling glasses with ice and pop and cramming huge glass bowls with buttered microwave popcorn, sour cream and onion potato chips, and pretzels. Unbelievably, after inhaling the mounds of food, they wanted ice cream. Ice cream sundaes, to be exact. Rocky Road, strawberry, chocolate chip. Topped with whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and cherries. Blair couldn’t scoop it into the bowls fast enough before like petulant, vicious children, their tongues, hands, loud voices, empty bowls, and licked-clean spoons commanded more, more, more.
Now, the six of them sat in the movie theater in the basement. Three people bound and gagged with electrical tape, wide-eyed, and petrified. Three people sprawled across the U-shaped black leather couch, two of them higher than high, watching a movie without a care in the world. Occasionally, Cookie nibbled on the bits of popcorn from the bottom of one of the glass bowls.
The Gilberts were lined up against the wall at the far end of the room. The vein in Malcolm’s neck bulged fat as a welt. Farrah stared glassy-eyed at the movie, her head resting lightly on the wall behind her. Blair alternated between letting her eyes drift closed and rolling her head around in a vain effort to relieve the cricks settling into her neck joints. Their tormentors laughed at the movie, almost as if they forgot that a few feet away sat a family tied up and terrified.
Between the noise, the stench, and the fear, a monstrous headache simmered in Blair’s temples. All she wanted was some aspirin, a cup of tea, the comfort of her soft white sheets scented in lavender, her down pillows, the shades drawn and these monsters to be on their way.
A car exploded on screen. The hero escaped, unscathed, to his sexpot girlfriend’s immense relief.
And from somewhere deep in one of their pockets, a phone rang.
Secrets and Lies
Zane Ingram: I was teaching a cooking class for a little extra money—I was a part-time waiter and line cook, looking for a sous chef position and Blair was a student. When she started, she was a disaster. Her chicken would always be raw in the center and black on the outside. She would forget to defrost things, leave bones in fish. She couldn’t get anything right.
* * *
I had no idea who she was, who she was married to—that she even was married. Not until later. She didn’t wear a wedding ring. I found her mishaps in the kitchen funny. She did a lot of extra work outside of class and slowly, she got better. In fact, she got really good. We’d go for coffee after class, and she’d pick my brain about different techniques or recipe ideas she had. She was beautiful, of course, and charming. A little on the odd side, but people say that about me, so it was like finding a kindred spirit. This went on for a few weeks and you could feel the chemistry, that heat. Next thing you know, we’re back at my crappy studio apartment.
* * *
I can honestly say, I fell in love with Blair. I thought we had a future together. She really encouraged my dreams and that I just had to keep trying to make a go of it in the restaurant business. (Smiles). I named my first restaurant after her. Bella. That’s what I used to call her. Bella Blair.
* * *
And then one day, she just disappeared. This was back before cell phones, email. I finally got a phone number from the school and called her, but her husband answered. I was too shocked to say anything and hung up. I was devastated.
* * *
Bridget Johnson: I think Farrah might have been about seven when Blair told me Malcolm wasn’t her father. Farrah … When she was a kid, she was a klutz. Blair was pretty graceful and Malcolm of course, being an athlete, was light on his feet. We were at the park one day and Farrah was playing with some of the other kids and she tripped and fell like she always did. I made some offhand comment about wondering why she was always falling all over everything. And very quietly, Blair said it probably came from her father. I mean, I just stared at her, my jaw hanging open. And she told me that she’d had this affair with some guy she met at her cooking class and got pregnant.
* * *
Mitch Gilbert: Well, she had to tell him when she got pregnant, because Malcolm was sterile.
* * *
Nate Gilbert: That’s what made all those paternity suits such a joke.
* * *
Skye Stafford: This was a bombshell when it came out during the investigation. A total game changer. People wondered, did Malcolm know? And what about the biological father? What’s his possible role in all of this?
* * *
Terry Gilbert: My brother definitely wanted kids and they’d talked about adoption as one option. He didn’t see it going down like this.
* * *
Nate Gilbert: He was devastated when she told him. A gut punch. He walked out on her. Told her the marriage was over.
* * *
Bridget Johnson: He wasn’t there when Farrah was born. I think he arranged to be out of town for a game or something. It was all super convenient. I think the media at the time said he was stuck somewhere, “Desperately trying to get back for the birth of his daughter.”
* * *
Mitch Gilbert: He visited Blair and Farrah at the hospital. I think the curiosity was too strong and the minute he saw her, he fell in love with that little girl.
* * *
Ricky Gilbert: I mean, my brother didn’t want it this way, but he made the decision that Farrah was his daughter. End of story.
* * *
Zane Ingram, Farrah’s Biological Father: About three years after the last time I saw Blair, I get a call from a lawyer informing me I have a daughter and it was highly suggested I sign away my parental rights for some crazy amount of money.
* * *
Bridget Johnson: Malcolm made the commitment to be that little girl’s father. She may not have been his biologically and she may not have gotten here the way he wanted, but she was here and he loved her.
* * *
Zane Ingram: I didn’t want the money. I mean, would millions of dollars have solved a lot of problems for me at that time? Yeah, of course. But truthfully, I wasn’t in any position to raise a kid. I could barely take care of myself. I didn’t take the money. My only condition was that I get to meet my daughter and that Blair talk to me, tell me what happened.
* * *
Bridget Johnson: After Zane signed away his parental rights, Malcolm officially adopted Farrah. His name was already on the birth certificate. He just wanted to be sure no one could ever take Farrah away from him.
* * *
Zane Ingram: Blair agreed to meet me at a park with the little girl—Farrah. She was beautiful. Looked just like her mother, something I’m sure Blair was relieved about. She apologized for how she handled everything, how she’d panicked when she found out she was pregnant and how she wanted to save her marriage. The only reason our affair wasn’t a mistake was because of the baby. She told me she thought that’s probably why we met—so I could give her this gift. We parted on good terms. I gave Farrah a teddy bear. I signed the termination papers the next day.
* * *
That was the last time I saw her or Blair. I’d Google them on occasion, that kind of thing. They seemed like a happy little family.
* * *
Elena York: Of course, Farrah’s biological father became a suspect right away.
* * *
Lieutenant Dimitri Cora: We also had to consider that Malcolm was behind the whole thing, that this was some incredible ruse on his part and he was the one pulling the strings. All to get back at Blair.
5:45 p.m.
Everyone snapped to attention.
It was his phone. His ringtone. The current NFL theme song.
Garvin. For the love of God, please be Garvin.
Three sets of eyes popped wide and stared at each other, as though no one was sure what to do. Cookie was the first to make a move by pausing the movie, the only sound in the room now the pleading phone.
“Answer the phone, baby,” Cookie said. “Or at least see who it is.”
Tree shook his head vigorously seemingly to get his bearings from the double whammy of food and pot, and extracted the phone from his pocket, the ringing now amplified. Malcolm grunted, his voice muffled as he wriggled against his restraints and banged against the wall, trying to indicate to Tree to let him answer his damn phone.
Tree looked at the screen. “Who’s Phil?”
Malcolm’s shoulders wilted. In the next instant, his heart jolted. Phil Scali. Calling about tonight.
Who else would call him about tonight? Vince Adams? Jake Blardon? Lance Karr? All three men and their wives were supposed to be sitting at his table. He could hear the voicemail messages looping through his head, gentle bewilderment growing into panic morphing into irritation, settling into resignation. Malcolm had disappointed them. Malcolm hadn’t kept his word. Since when? He’d never missed a dinner, a speech—hell, the opening of an envelope. If someone asked him to be there, he was there.
What about text messages? Had anyone been texting him? Probably. In fact, there were likely a trove of texts from Guy, Kip, and Don about today’s golf game. Would somebody drop by, wondering what had happened? Or would they just chalk it up to him being a jerk? Never mind the fact that he hadn’t missed a game in the seven years they’d been playing.
Malcolm never missed anything.
Who would miss him?
The police, the police. Where were the police? He’d hit the panic button ages ago. Where were the police? Something was wrong, something was wrong. The cameras. The cameras on the security system had been glitching. Was the whole system glitching? Damn it, damn it, damn it.
Now those other guys might not suspect anything … but Phil … Phil. He would keep calling. That guy. Persistent motherfucker. Had been since their days at UCLA. Wasn’t the fastest guy, or the strongest, but he could hit. Like a Mack truck on speed. And when he wanted something, he was like a bulldog.
Come on, Phil. Keep dialing, man. Keep calling. Sound the damn alarm. Figure out that something’s going on. Send the cavalry.
The phone stopped ringing and Tree stuffed it back in his pocket before motioning to Cookie. “Cut the movie back on.”
“Maybe he should call Ol’ Boy again,” Dio said as he sat up and looked over at Tree with puppy dog eyes. “You know. About the money.”
Tree seemed to mull this over. Without warning, he whipped his arm out and delivered a thunderous slap against Dio’s ear. He yelped like a wounded dog and scurried away in anticipation of another blow. Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw Blair and Farrah flinch. “I decide when Malcolm gets to make any phone calls. You got me?”
Dio opened his mouth to protest before letting it drop shut.
“Yeah, T,” he mumbled. “I got you.”
Dio continued to cower against the couch cushions, sniffing repeatedly. Malcolm thought he saw the glisten of a tear gliding down his cheek.
Except that boy’s pain was of no consequence to him right now. He had, as his father would always say, bigger fish to fry.
The phone rang again.
Once again, everyone snapped up, all eyes on each other.
Tree looked at the phone.
“Think this might be Ol’ Girl,” he said. He paused the movie again and signaled to Dio to rip the tape from Malcolm’s mouth. “Only thing you ask her is where her old man is at. That’s it. You feel me?”
Malcolm didn’t say anything, as he waited for Tree to hold the phone near his chin.
“Kim—”
“Hey, Malc—”
“I need to speak to Garvin—”
“Oh, he had to fly to Hong Kong at the last minute. Some emergency with an investor. His flight took off around noon.”
Malcolm’s heart toppled off the rollercoaster and smashed to the ground below as his eyes sank closed and he shook his head a little bit.
“Okay. But he’s going to call you, right? Like later today or tonight? Like while he’s waiting for his connection?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, this is a nonstop flight, so I won’t hear from him until sometime late tomorrow night. You know it’s fifteen hours.”
Malcolm glanced at the trio. Tree fumed. Cookie looked annoyed. Dio trembled. “Okay, Kim, just—when you do talk to him, have him call me right away. Doesn’t matter what time it is. As soon as he can.”
“Malcolm, what on earth is going on?”
Tree motioned for him to wrap it up. “I have to go, Kim. Just—you need to have Garvin call me the first minute he can. It’s important. I can’t stress that enough.”
“Wait. Is Blair on her way? I keep calling and it’s going straight to voicemail—”
Tree abruptly ended the call and turned the phone off before he threw it down on the couch next to him.
“Since Ol’ Boy’s not coming through for you, Mally Mal, you won’t be needing your phone this evening,” he said as he resumed the movie.
Before he could answer, Dio slapped a fresh piece of duct tape across his mouth. Malcolm scowled, his frustrated sigh trapped against the sticky goo of adhesive. He dropped his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling.
Clues
Elena York: The house was just a trove of DNA. Fingerprints, hair, blood, fibers—clothing, even—spoons, forks, glasses, you name it, it was all over that house.
* * *
Anita Sanchez, the Gilberts’ Housekeeper: I work for the Gilberts for ten, eleven years. Sometimes, I wonder why Mrs. Blair hire me (Laughs). She keep a very, very clean house. I think she clean before I get there (Laughs). But, Mrs. Blair, Mr. Malcolm, so nice. So, so nice. Mr. Malcolm, he always laughing and joking—he always say, “Good morning Anita-nita.” “What’s the good news today, Anita-nita?” (Laughs). And Mrs. Blair, sometimes she say, “Oh, don’t worry about cleaning today, it’s such a beautiful day. Let’s sit on the beach, have a cup of coffee, watch the water.” But she still pay me for full day. Very nice, very generous, very beautiful couple.
* * *
Skye Stafford: On Monday morning, the Gilbert’s housekeeper, Anita Sanchez, came to the house at eight a.m. as she always did. The first thing she noticed was it was an absolute disaster, not at all how Blair Gilbert kept her kitchen. The second thing she noticed was the smell.
* * *
Anita Sanchez: I walk in, through the back, in the kitchen and the house is very, very dirty. Filthy. Like pig. Dishes stacked in the sink, food everywhere. The floor, it is very sticky. And the smell, oh my gosh, it smell terrible. I think I drop my keys, my purse, when I see this mess. I almost pass out. I couldn’t believe it.
* * *
Elena York: At this point, Anita starts to call out for Blair Gilbert, kind of inching her way out of the kitchen into the rest of the house, because she doesn’t know what’s going on. Is there someone else in the house? Is she in danger?
* * *
Anita Sanchez: I start calling out, “Mrs. Blair, Mrs. Blair are you here? Are you here?” And nothing. She doesn’t answer me. Now, I am a little scared, because I don’t know what is going on, what am I going to find.
* * *
Skye Stafford: It was a pretty massive crime scene—it’s a huge house, lots of rooms, lots of square footage. It took a while to process the scene and the DNA—it’s not like on TV and the movies where you get the DNA back after the commercial break. Investigators knew it was going to take some time.
* * *
Lieutenant Dimitri Cora: Forensic evidence really told a story with this case. There were fingerprints all over the doorknobs, light switches, remote controls, silverware, plates, cups, and glasses. There were strands of hair on pillows, the couches. They ran through all of Malcolm Gilbert’s medicinal marijuana, leaving DNA on the blunts. I mean everywhere you looked, there was DNA. It was like Christmas.
* * *
Elena York: In the meantime, a gift was dropped in investigators’ laps.
7:31 p.m.
Farrah decided she should try to make a run for it.
Clearly she hadn’t made contact with the panic button after all. The cops wouldn’t be coming.
There was a window in the bathroom upstairs, next to the kitchen. It was a small window, but she was tiny. She could probably wriggle through it.
