My blood runs cold. Oh God…I think I know what this is. I listen for the female voice, the female voice that must be there, and I pray it’s not Emily’s.
The sound of the door to the room opening causes a flood of party noise that is quickly muffled as the door closes. A second male voice asking a question.
Then a female voice closer to the recorder—a murmur, followed by a groan. I strain for words.
“I don’t feel good. Can I get some water?” the voice whispers.
It’s Emily.
The second male voice across the room gives a muffled utterance, his tone dismissive.
“Well, if you don’t want to be here then leave,” the first male voice snaps back at him, his soft coo now acidic. He turns back to the woman, his voice tender again. “You need some water, sweetheart? Let me help you.”
The sound of water hitting glass. The man by the door says something out of hearing. The sound of someone glugging back water thirstily, catching their breath, and gulping back more.
“Whoa, whoa. Slow down,” the soft male voice says. “Have you taken something?”
“No. Just so thirsty.” Emily’s voice, it’s recognizable although thickened, distorted slightly, by alcohol or drugs I presume. My thought immediately backed up by her words. “I think, someone put something…my drink. It all feels…too slow.”
The sound of a bed or sofa creaking as someone sits down near her. “Slow is fine. We’re not going anywhere, are we? It’s nice here just…us, right?”
I shudder at his words, his tone mocking in its tenderness. My hand darts out to the keyboard to stop the audio—I’ve heard enough—but I hesitate as I hear:
“Who is he?” Emily asks hazily.
The sound of the closer man turning, a pause. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a friend. We’re all friends, right?”
The sound of Emily flopping back into the cushions. “Yeah, I guess. Where’s Marla?”
“I don’t know who that is, sweetheart.”
The voice by the door says something and the door opens; sounds of the party flood the room then muffle as the door closes again. The second man is gone.
“Look at you,” he says, his voice flat and suddenly much closer. “You’re very beautiful, but I suppose you know that. You didn’t like me earlier, did you? But I think you like me now.”
“No—I need to…” Emily slurs.
My hand shoots to the space bar and I stop the recording. I don’t need to hear any more. I know what this is and I feel sick to the pit of my stomach. It’s a recording of Emily being raped. That much is clear.
I bolt up quickly from the floor, putting instant distance between me and the computer as if continued proximity might, in some way, imply tacit collusion. My blood fizzles with completely useless adrenaline, even though I know that I can’t help her. I can’t stop what happened over a month ago from happening.
The audio is only six minutes in, there’s still another forty-three minutes or so to go.
I know I should put the computer away and pass this straight on to Cortez tomorrow. I don’t need any of this in my life. It’s not appropriate for me to listen to it at all. I can just draw Cortez’s attention to the audio file and let her do the rest. But I would have to tell Cortez that I accessed a missing woman’s private emails. I can’t help think of the News International phone-hacking scandal, when a journalist accessed a missing girl’s private voicemail. What I’ve just done is no different, is it? Should I really be telling the police I’ve done that? It might be nothing but if it’s something then I’ve broken the law and people will find out.
It occurs to me that I could tell Cortez that Emily told me about the rape herself; I would just have to pretend we were good friends rather than minor acquaintances. It would only be a white lie.
But then if any of her actual friends came forward after that it would be fairly obvious I lied. Although I do appear to be the only person looking for Emily.
I realize I’m holding my breath, my shoulders high and tensed, like a trapped animal, like a cornered boxer. I need to think straight.
I shake myself out and take a couple of deep, slow breaths. Then make my way back over to the computer, thinking through the options.
I could put it away and hand it over to Cortez tomorrow saying only that I think something happened to her on New Year’s Eve and leave it at that. Hopefully they would eventually find the recording and act on it.
My mind skips to the image of the actress who jumped from the sign, her body undiscovered in a gorge in the Hollywood Hills. Surely time is an issue if Emily is missing. And someone going missing after recording their own assault is a very different proposition from someone going missing after a bad audition. I need to tell Cortez about the rape; I can’t in good conscience keep it to myself.
I let out another held breath at the finality of my decision.
Right, in that case, if I’m going to report it then I need to know the facts. Reluctantly I sit back down at the laptop. There is no way in hell I am going to force myself to listen to the recording in its entirety, that much I know. But I can skip through it for information.
I look at the visual readout of the recording: its peaks and troughs. I can skip to the sustained mid-range levels, they’ll be spoken word. If I avoid the sharp spikes of the clip readout I should avoid any shouts, or screams.
I skip to the next extended mid-level section. And press play.
“Yeah, come in,” the man says.
The door opens, the sound of music, party poppers, and laughter, then muffled quiet again. Two men out of range by the door, voices low.
“Don’t just stand there then,” the man continues. “Lock it.”
There are three men in the room with Emily now. I make a note on my pad.
Emily is saying something. I strain to hear.
“I need to go now. I’m supposed to—” I can hear the hazy fear in her voice; she’s trying to stay calm, trying not to escalate the situation. Protecting herself in the only way she can in that room. “I just need…”
The sound of a scuffle. “No, no, no. You’re staying. And we are going to have a nice time.” The sound of clothing and a sudden flurry of movement from Emily. She’s trying to get away in earnest.
“Hey, hey. Be good. Be nice.”
“No.” Her thick voice sharpening in focus, the soberest it’s been so far. Fear clarifying the situation. “Stop. Get the hell—”
“Ben, it’s too loud.” The voice comes from across the room and is answered by the sound of a slap.
Emily yelps.
Ben. I scrawl the name down quickly. I flick back a page in the pad to the name Ben Cohan, a producer at Moon Finch, and underline it hastily.
The recording is overtaken by deafening rustling as Emily struggles. I skip the audio away from the noisy peak onward to the next conversational-level section and play.
Emily is crying softly. I try to block it out and listen only to the words. Crying, heavy sobs, the whine of an injured animal, gasping breath.
“I need Mike. Get Mike here,” the man says, his breathing ragged.
I feel sick.
“I called him when I went out. He’s waiting downstairs,” the voice by the door replies. “You want me to get him?”
“Yeah, chuck me that blanket,” the man answers, his tone businesslike. The audio muffles once more as another layer of something covers the device. “Guess this isn’t the evening you had planned, right?” the man mumbles closer to the recorder.
Emily lets out another sob and I abruptly stop the audio.
I take a breath, trying to calm myself. I’m not there and yet my body is reacting as if I am. As if I’m trapped there with her, trapped forever in that room unable to get away.
I try to bring my mind back to the job at hand. I now have two names: Ben and Mike. The name of the man who assaulted Emily is Ben and in some way a man called Mike is involved. I still don’t know who the man by the door is, though.
I skip to the last burst of conversation.