by Harlan Coben
“Is Crash Maynard in school today?”
“Probably, why?”
“What time does school let out?”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Hester donned her swim cap and did laps for forty-five minutes in the indoor pool on the lower level of her office high-rise. Swimming laps—freestyle down the lane, breaststroke back—had been her major exercise activity for two decades now. Before that, she hadn’t really liked the pool. Changing out of a wet suit is a pain. You smell like chlorine. It does awful things to your hair. It is numbingly boring. But it was that last point—numbing boredom—that eventually sold Hester on it. Moments of pure alone, of pure silence, of yes, pure boredom—rote strokes you’ll repeat hundreds if not thousands of times this very week—ended up being what others considered Zen. With her body encased in water and chemicals, Hester rehearsed summations, testimony, and cross-examinations.
Today though, alone in that pool, her body gently slicing through the water, she didn’t think about work. She thought about Oren. She thought about tonight.
It’s just a dinner, she reminded herself.
He’d asked her out.
It isn’t a date. Just a meal with an old friend.
Wrong. A man doesn’t drive to your place of work and ask you to share a meal as two old friends. This was not a drill. This was a date. The real McCoy.
Hester showered, blew out her hair, got dressed in her best power suit. When she got off the elevator, Sarah McLynn, her assistant, handed her a bunch of messages that needed her attention. Hester grabbed them, headed into her corner office, and closed the door. She sat at her desk, took a deep breath, and brought up the web browser.
“Don’t, Hester,” she said out loud.
But since when did Hester Crimstein take advice from anyone, especially from Hester Crimstein?
In the search field, Hester typed in “Cheryl Carmichael.”
Yep. Oren’s ex.
Half of Hester floated up and out of her body and tsk-tsked disapprovingly. The other half—the half still in the chair—frowned at the floating half and countered, “Yeah, right, like you’re too good for this.”
Hester hit the return button and let the screen load. The top searches were for a Cheryl Carmichael who worked as a professor at CUNY. Uh-uh, no—that was definitely the wrong Cheryl Carmichael. Hester scanned down the page. She wasn’t sure what she’d find online about a divorced woman in her mid-to-late sixties. But when she found the right one—Cheryl Carmichael living in Vero Beach, Florida—what Hester uncovered was far worse than she’d imagined.
“My God…”
Cheryl Carmichael was all over social media. Her Instagram account had more than 800,000 followers. Her vertical Instagram bio or whatever you called it read:
Public Figure
Fitness Model
Influencer and Free Spirit
“I love life!”
#Over60andFabulous
Gag me, Hester thought.
Under the bio was an email address to write “For Inquiries.” Inquiries? What kind of inquiries? Hester’s mind spiraled down a prurient hole until she realized that by “inquiries” she meant paid endorsements. Yes, for real.
Companies paid Cheryl to pose with their products.
Looking at the photos on display made Hester’s stomach knot. Cheryl, who used to have flowing locks down to the middle of her back—Hester remembered her at the Little League field in tight shorts and a tighter top, the dads pretending not to stare—now sported that mod, short, spiky hair. Her physique, which was on display in many risqué pictures with hashtags reading #bikinibabe #fitgoals #squats #loveyourself #beachbum, was all that and more.
Ugh. Cheryl Carmichael was still a knockout.
Hester’s mobile rang. She checked the number and saw it was from Wilde.
“Articulate,” she said.
“What are you doing?”
“Making myself feel immensely inadequate.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. What’s up?”
“Did the phone company get back to you?” Wilde asked.
He was talking about Naomi’s phone. “They’re monitoring it. So far, no activity.”
“Meaning the phone is off?”
“Yes.”
“Can they tell when and where it was powered off?”
“I’ll check. Did you talk to Matthew last night?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And it might be better if you talk to him directly.”
Wilde didn’t want to betray Matthew’s trust. Hester understood.
“There is one other thing you can do for me,” Wilde said.
“I’m not much in the mood to put a lot of resources on this. I mean, unless you have some real evidence Naomi didn’t just run away.”
“Fair enough,” Wilde said. “Can you make one more call to Naomi’s mother?”
He briefly filled her in on his conversation with Ava O’Brien the art teacher.
“So if the mother took the kid, wouldn’t she tell the father?” Hester asked.
“Who knows. A quick call to the mom might put it to rest. If you’re too busy—”
“What, you’re going to call? What would you say? ‘Hi, I’m a single male in my late thirties looking for your daughter’?”
“Good point.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You okay, Hester?”
She was staring at a photograph of Cheryl Carmichael in a one-piece that could be a cover shot for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. “I’m average at best.”
“You sound grouchier than usual.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Where are you?”
“Still at the high school. I want to try to question the Maynard kid.”
* * *
Wilde hung up the call with Hester and turned to Ava.
“You sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“It might blow back on you.”
Ava shrugged. “I’m out at the end of the year anyway. All the part-timers are. Budget cuts.”
“Sorry.”
She waved it away. “It’s time I moved back to Maine anyway.”
They’d stayed in the same art room. Wilde had slowly circled, checking out the various student works throughout the room. It was, in some ways, the greatest museum he’d ever seen. There were drawings and watercolors and sculptures and mobiles and pottery and jewelry, and while the talent level was naturally all over the place, the heart and creativity were never less than mesmerizing.
They stood by the door and waited for the final bell.
“This wasn’t an art room when I was here,” he said.
“What was it?”
“Shop with Mr. Cece.”
She smiled. “Did you make a lamp or footstool?”
“Lamp.”
“Where is it now?”
He had given it to the Brewers, his foster-cum-adoptive parents who retired to a gated community in Jupiter, Florida. Wilde and his foster sister Rola had helped the Brewers move in eight years ago, renting a U-Haul for the long drive down Interstate 95. Rola kept wanting to stop at roadside oddities along the way, like the UFO Welcome Center in South Carolina and America’s smallest church in Georgia.
Wilde hadn’t been back to Florida since.
When the bell trilled, Wilde slipped into a supply closet. Ava stood near the door to the corridor.
Two minutes later, Crash Maynard came in. “You wanted to see me, Miss O’Brien?”
Wilde left the closet door open a crack so he could watch.
Ava said, “Yes, thank you.”
Crash touched a clay sculpture standing by the stool.
“That’s still drying,” Ava warned him.
“I don’t get why you paged me. I haven’t taken an art class since freshman year.”
“This isn’t about art. Why don’t you have a seat?”
“My mom’s waiting for me, so—”
“Do you know where Naomi Pine is?”
Wilde liked that. No reason to play around.
“Me?” Crash said it as though the very notion that he might know was the most shocking and incomprehensible concept ever uttered. “Why would I know?”
“You and Naomi are classmates.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But?”
Crash gave a chuckle that seemed both nervous and cocky at the same time. “We aren’t exactly friends or anything.”
“But you talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
Ava folded her arms. “Why should she tell me that you did?”
“Naomi said that?”
“Yes.”
Crash gave it a second. You could see the wheels turning as an aw-shucks smile spread across his face. “I shouldn’t say this.”
“But?”
“I think Naomi might have a thing for me.”
“And if she did?”
“Well, I mean, if she said we talked”—shrug—“I don’t know, maybe she was trying to show off or something.”
“Show off?”
“Yeah. Or, I don’t know, I’m nice to her and all. So, like, if she says hi to me, I say hi back.”
“Wow,” Ava said. “That is nice.”
The sarcasm went right over his head. “But really we don’t have any serious interaction. You know what I mean?”
“I think I do,” Ava said. “Now tell me about the night Matthew ghosted her or whatever you call it at your house.”
Silence.
“Crash?”
He lifted his phone into view and touched a button. Wilde didn’t like that. “My mom is texting me, Ms. O’Brien.”
“Okay.”
“I have to go.”
“Answer my question first.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Naomi told me—”
“She told you?”
“Yes—”
“Then there’s no reason to ask me about it,” Crash said, which, Wilde had to admit, was a pretty decent rejoinder. “I’d better leave now, Ms. O’Brien.”
“I want to know—”
Crash spun toward her, getting a little too close. “I don’t know anything about Naomi Pine!” The aw-shucks tone was gone. “Nothing!”
Ava didn’t back away. “You saw her that night.”
“So what if I did? She was on my property.”
“Why did you tell Matthew Crimstein to prank her?”
“Did Matthew tell you that?” He shook his head. “Look, I’m allowed to leave, right? You can’t force me to stay, can you?”
“No, of course not—”
“Then I’m out of here.”
Wilde figured, Why not? He opened the closet door and said, “I can stop you.” He crossed the room and positioned himself so that his back was against the door, literally blocking the teen’s exit. Ava shot him a look and shook her head. The look and headshake both said that this wasn’t the way to handle it.
Crash scowled. “What is this?”
“Tell us where Naomi is,” Wilde said.
His eyes narrowed. “You came to my house the other night. You’re the one who grabbed the gun from my guard.”
Ava shot Wilde another look. He ignored it.
“You’re not in trouble,” Wilde said, which may or may not have been true. “We just need to find Naomi.”
The door behind Wilde suddenly burst open, hitting him in the back and throwing him off balance. Thor surged through the door, lowering his shoulder like a blitzing linebacker. Wilde cursed himself. Of course, the kid would have security. Of course, he’d use his phone to signal he needed help. Stupid of Wilde to be caught off guard.
Now he was in serious trouble.
Thor leapt toward Wilde. No hesitancy. Wilde was still trying to get his bearings.
But it was too late.
Thor wrapped his muscled arms around Wilde, his shoulder in the midsection, and drove Wilde back. Squeezing and lifting Wilde right off the ground, Thor kept his legs going, ready to slam Wilde into the floor.
This was definitely not good.
Thor was mad. Probably upset about being embarrassed when Wilde disarmed him in front of his boss. This was payback.
Wilde debated his next move. There really wasn’t one. He was off his feet, in a bear hug, with milliseconds before he hit the floor. If they were standing or slowed down, he might try to headbutt the big man’s nose. But Thor had lowered his face into Wilde’s chest.
That wouldn’t work.
Nothing would.
He would have to brace for the blow and recover. Plan the next move.
At the last possible moment, Wilde twisted his body hard. It didn’t stop him from getting slammed to the ground. Not at all. He got slammed on the Formica, slammed hard. The air whooshed out of him. But by twisting his body, Wilde had wrenched Thor’s grip enough so that instead of Thor’s arm landing on the meaty flesh beneath the forearm, his elbow took the brunt of the fall.
That hurt too.
One man had a hurt elbow. But the other man—Wilde—couldn’t breathe.
Distance, Wilde thought.
That was his only thought. Distance. Get away from his attacker. Put as much space as possible between himself and Thor.
Regroup, recover.
Still on the floor, Wilde tried to ignore the desire, nay, the absolute need to breathe. That was the thing. He’d had the wind knocked out of him before. It was paralyzing and awful, but what he’d learned with experience was that the paralysis was mostly caused by fear—you feel as though you’ll suffocate, that you’ll never breathe again. That shut down everything. Orders from the brain to the feet or legs were cut off. But Wilde now knew, despite all his primitive instincts telling him otherwise, that his breath would eventually return, faster if he didn’t panic, and so he fought through the temptation to just stay where he was and curl up into a ball until he could recover his breath.
With his lungs bursting, Wilde log-rolled away.
“Get off him!” Ava shouted.
But Thor was relentless. He dove on top of him, driving his knees into the small of Wilde’s back. The jolt sent what felt like shards of glass up his spine. Ava tried to pull Thor away, but he shrugged her off like so little dandruff. Wilde tried to spin, to help, but Thor was having none of it. He snaked his arm under Wilde’s, and the grappling began in earnest. When you look at old movies or training films, it was all about the strikes. Men stood and threw punches, sometimes kicks. The majority of fights, however, ended up on the ground. Grappling matches. Thor would have the size and weight advantage. He’d have the element of surprise. He’d have the fact that Wilde was still trying to catch his breath.
The key to victory often involved sacrifice. Wilde watched enough football to know that the quarterbacks who stood in the pocket, who didn’t wince even when a three-hundred-pound lineman was about to demolish them like a freight train, those were the ones who succeeded. The greats took the hit while never losing focus on their target.
That was what Wilde did right now.
He let the bigger man land a few blows. Because he had one target.
A finger.
He shifted, knowing that Thor would have to grab him near his shoulder to keep him in place. He waited for that. He concentrated on that—Thor’s hand heading for his shoulder—and only that. And when Thor reached for him, Wilde let go with both hands, grabbed one of Thor’s fingers, and bent it back with everything he had.
The finger broke with an audible snap.
Thor howled.
Distance, Wilde thought.
He rolled away again. He could see the toxic mix of rage and pain in Thor’s face. The big man prepared to launch himself again, but a voice cut through the air like a reaper’s scythe. “That’s enough.”
It was Gavin Chambers.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Once in the schoo
l parking lot, Gavin Chambers packed Thor, who was cradling his broken finger as though it were a wounded pet, into a black Cadillac Escalade and sent him on his way. He put a sheepish Crash into a white Mercedes-Benz S-Class coupe, driven by Crash’s mother. The mother—Wilde knew that her name was Delia—was having none of it. She got out of the car and demanded an explanation from Gavin. Wilde stood too far away to hear what was being said—but he was still close enough to get pierced by the occasional maternal eye-dagger.
Kids from the school had gathered. Wilde recognized Kyle and Ryan and Sutton and a few of the other kids Matthew had told him about over the years. Matthew was there too, looking properly mortified. He met Wilde’s eye as if to say, What gives? Wilde gave him nothing in return.
Eventually, Delia Maynard got back into her car, slammed the door, and drove away with Crash in the passenger seat. The onlookers, including Matthew, dispersed. Gavin Chambers made his way back over to Wilde and said, “Let’s take a walk.”
They strolled between a fence and the building’s brick back. Wilde could see the football field, and more relevant to his past, the quarter-mile track that encircled it. That was the spot of his purported “glory days,” though no waves of nostalgia washed over him. He didn’t suddenly see himself as a sprinting teen or anything like that. You move forward in life. You may give the old you a nod every once in a while, but the old you is gone and not coming back. That was often a good thing.
“I thought the girl was found,” Gavin said.
“She’s gone again.”
“You mind telling me about it?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Gavin shook his head. “What you did here—confronting the kid like that, injuring my man—it makes me look bad.” He stopped. “I thought we had an understanding.”
“That was before Naomi vanished again.”
“And you have evidence that Crash is involved?”
Wilde didn’t say anything.
Gavin put his hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you.”
“It was why I was asking him questions.”
“I think you went a little too far, don’t you? His mother is furious. She wants to report the art teacher.”
“It’s on me, not her.”
“Noble of you, but I’m not sure the school board will agree.”