by Harlan Coben
"Am I a suspect?"
"How old are you, son?"
"Almost sixteen."
"You really need to come with us."
I didn't know what to do, but really, what choice did I have?
"Let me throw on some clothes," I said.
I hurried down to the basement. My cell phone was blinking. I checked for messages. There were two. The first was from Ema. She had sent it at 4:17 A.M. Did that girl ever sleep? Ema: we need to find the paramedic who wheeled away your dad. I have an idea.
Man, I wanted to know what it was, but it would have to wait.
The second text was from Myron: Had to leave early and didn't want to wake you. Have a good day.
Terrific. I tried to call Myron's cell, but it went straight into voice mail. When the beep sounded, I said, "The cops are here. They want to take me . . ." I stopped. Where did they want to take me anyway? "To the station, I guess. They won't tell me what's going on. Call me when you get this, okay?"
I hung up.
Ball yelled down the stairs, "Son, we really need to hurry."
I threw on some clothes and headed back up. Two minutes later, I sat in the back of a police cruiser as we pulled down the street.
*
"Where are you taking me?" I asked.
McDonald drove. Ball sat next to him. Neither replied.
"I asked--"
"It would be best if you were just patient."
I didn't like this.
"Who was shot?" I asked.
McDonald turned around. He narrowed his eyes. "How did you know someone was shot?"
I didn't like his tone.
"Uh, you told me," I said. "When I opened the door."
"I said this was about a shooting. I didn't say someone was shot."
I was going to make a dumb wisecrack--something about how I must be clairvoyant--but fear was starting to take over. I stayed quiet. Up ahead I could see the Kasselton police station. I remembered my last visit there, two nights ago, and now I also recalled that Police Chief Taylor hated Myron and thus by extension me.
But the squad car drove straight past the station.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"I think you've asked enough questions. Just hang on."
CHAPTER 6
Fifteen minutes later, I sat in what had to be an interrogation room in a Newark police station. A small woman came in and sat across from me. She wore a tasteful suit, and her hair was pinned up in a bun. I guessed she was about thirty.
She stuck out her hand and I shook it.
"I'm homicide county investigator Anne Marie Dunleavy," she said.
Homicide?
"Uh, I'm Mickey Bolitar," I said.
"Thanks for coming in to talk to us."
She took out a pen and made a production out of clicking the top. The door opened behind her. When I looked toward it, my heart sank. Chief Taylor stomped into the room as though the floor had offended him. He wore his police uniform and, despite being indoors and in fairly dim light, aviator sunglasses.
I waited for Chief Taylor to say something sarcastic to me. He didn't. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. I looked back toward Dunleavy.
"I'm underage, you know," I said.
"Yes, we know. Why?"
"Are you allowed to question me without my guardian present?"
She flashed a quick smile, but there was no warmth in it. "You watch too much TV. If you were a suspect in a crime, it might be different. As it is, we just need to ask you some questions. Is that okay?"
I wasn't sure what to say, but I settled for, "I guess so."
"Who is your legal guardian?"
"My mother."
Uncle Myron had wanted to be, but that had been part of the deal. I would live with him under the condition that my mother, despite being in rehab, remained my sole legal guardian.
"If you insist, we can call her."
"No," I said quickly. That would be the last thing Mom's already fragile psyche would need. "It's fine, don't worry about it."
"Do you know why you're here?" she asked.
I was going to say that it had something to do with a "shooting," but that assumption hadn't helped much in the car.
"No."
"No idea at all?"
So much for that play. "Well, the officer said it had something to do with a shooting."
"It does. In fact, two people were shot."
"Who?"
"Is there anything you can tell us about it?"
"About what?"
"About the shooting?"
"I don't even know who was shot."
Dunleavy looked at me skeptically. "Really?"
"Really."
"You have no idea?"
Chief Taylor remained silent. I didn't like that. I looked at him and even from this distance I could see my reflection in his sunglasses.
"Of course I have no idea," I said. "Who was shot?"
She changed the subject. "Can you tell us where you were last night?"
I didn't like where this was going. I risked another glance at Chief Taylor. He stood with his arms crossed.
"I was home."
"When you say home--"
"The house where you picked me up."
"You're staying with your uncle, is that right? Myron Bolitar?"
At the mention of my uncle, Chief Taylor winced a little.
"I am, yes."
She nodded and wrote something down. "So tell me what you did last night."
"I did some homework. Watched some TV. Read a book."
"Was your uncle home?"
"No, he was out."
"Where?"
"He didn't say."
"And when did he come home?"
"I don't know. I fell asleep."
"What time would this have been?"
"What time did I fall asleep?"
"Yes."
"Around eleven," I said.
Dunleavy jotted that down too. "And your uncle still wasn't home?"
"I don't think so. I don't know for sure. My bedroom is in the basement and I had the door closed."
"Doesn't he check on you when he comes home?"
"Usually, yes."
"But not last night."
"Unless he came down while I was sleeping."
She made another note.
"What else did you do last night?"
"That's it."
She finally glanced behind her at Chief Taylor. Chief Taylor recrossed his arms and gave me a tough-guy stare.
"What?" I said.
"Did you talk or text with anyone?" Dunleavy asked.
"Yes."
"Which one?"
"Both."
Chief Taylor spoke for the first time. "And yet you didn't mention that, did you, Mickey?"
"Excuse me?"
"Investigator Dunleavy asked what you did last night. You gave her some song and dance about homework and TV--but you said nothing about texting and talking. That seems kind of suspicious, don't you think?"
"I also made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich," I said. "I took a shower. The shampoo I used was Pert."
Chief Taylor didn't like that. "A wise guy, just like his uncle. Are you being a wise guy with an officer of the law, Mickey?"
I was. I could be stupid with my mouth sometimes, but I'm usually not suicidal. So I stopped.
Dunleavy put a hand on Chief Taylor's arm. "I think he was trying to make a point, Chief. Weren't you, Mickey?"
Maybe I did indeed watch too much TV, but even if I hadn't, this felt a whole lot like a good-cop bad-cop routine. Chief Taylor gave me one more hard frown and went back to the wall. He leaned against it as though it might fall without him.
"Let's start with your talks," Dunleavy said. "Did you talk to someone in person or via the phone or what?"
I swallowed. What was going on here? "Via the phone."
"And with whom did you speak?"
"Just a friend."
"Her name?"
"Her name," I said, "is Rachel Caldwell."
She was staring hard down at the paper, but I saw something I didn't like in the way her body sort of jerked at the sound of Rachel's name.
My blood went cold.
"Oh no . . . ," I heard myself say.
"Did Ms. Caldwell call you or did you call her?"
"Is it Rachel? Is she okay?"
"Mickey--"
"What happened?"
"Yo, kid."
I glared into Chief Taylor's sunglasses, again seeing my own reflection.
"Pipe down. You're here to answer our questions, not the other way around. Got it?"
I said nothing.
"Got it?" he repeated.
Not. One. Word.
"Mickey?" Dunleavy cleared her throat. She had the pen ready. "Did you call Ms. Caldwell or did she call you?"
My head spun. I tried to put it together. What was going on? Suddenly Rachel's words came back to me: I have to take care of something.
What had she meant by that?
"Mickey?"
I found my voice. "Um, Rachel called me."
"Just like that?"
"Well, no. I had texted her first. Then she called me back."
I quickly filled her in on the brief text exchange. I also told her that I had texted Spoon, but they had no interest in that. Whatever had happened . . .
. . . shooting . . . two people shot . . . homicide . . .
. . . involved Rachel.
"So after your texts, Ms. Caldwell called you back?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what time this was?"
"Maybe nine."
"The phone records tell us it was 9:17 P.M."
They had already checked the phone records.
"That sounds right," I said.
"So what did you two talk about?"
"I was just checking in on her. We had an ordeal on Wednesday. You probably know about that."
They said nothing.
"So I was making sure that she was okay, saying hi, that kind of thing. We also have a project due in school. I thought we could talk about that."
"Did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Did you talk about the project?"
"Not really, no."
"How long have you known Rachel Caldwell?"
"Not long. I just started at the school--"
Chief Taylor jumped back in. "We didn't ask when you started at the school. We asked--"
"I don't know exactly. I don't think we talked before maybe a week ago."
"Not a long time."
"Yes, not a long time." I was getting scared--and when I get scared, I have a habit of getting angry and even sarcastic. So I added, "See, that's what I meant when you asked, 'How long have you known Rachel Caldwell?' and I replied, 'Not long.' Sorry I didn't make that clear."
They didn't like that. Neither did I.
"And yet you were both here in Newark on Wednesday," Dunleavy said. "Involved in that mess at the Plan B nightclub, is that correct?"
"It is."
"Interesting. Have you met Rachel Caldwell's father?"
That question threw me. "No."
"How about her mother?"
"No."
"Any family member?"
"No. Please. What's going on? Is Rachel okay?"
"Tell us about your phone conversation with Rachel Caldwell."
"I already did."
"From the beginning. Word for word."
"I don't understand. Why do you need to know word for word?"
"Because," Homicide Investigator Dunleavy said, "right after you finished talking to her, someone shot Rachel Caldwell in the head."
CHAPTER 7
I couldn't move.
The door to the interrogation room opened. A young officer leaned in and said, "Chief Taylor? Call for you." With one last hard glare, Taylor left me alone with Dunleavy.
I swallowed. "Is Rachel . . . ?"
For a moment she said nothing. Homicide. She said that she was from homicide. I took Latin. Homo meant "human being," cidium, "to kill." Murder.
I don't cry much. Almost never, in fact. My dad and Uncle Myron were the kind of guys who cry at sentimental TV commercials. Not me. I shut it down. But right then I could feel tears pushing their way into my eyes.
"She's alive," Dunleavy said.
I almost fainted from relief. I started to ask more, but Dunleavy put up her hand to stop me.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss her condition, Mickey. What I need you to do is to help me find the person who did this to her. Do you understand?"
I did. So I told her everything I remembered about the phone conversation, brief as it was. I thought about the bad guys we had helped arrest. Hadn't Uncle Myron warned me? You don't just catch bad guys and move on. Actions had consequences.
Had someone taken revenge out on Rachel?
"Tell me more about Rachel," she said.
"Like what?"
"Let's start with her social life. Is she popular?"
"Very."
"What kids does she hang out with?"
"I don't really know. Like I said, I'm new to the school."
Dunleavy glanced behind her at the door, as if she expected it might open. It didn't. Then she said, "How about Rachel's boyfriend, Troy Taylor? What's he like?"
Even with all this danger and fear, I could still feel my cheeks redden at the name of the chief's son. Troy Taylor was a senior, captain of the basketball team, and he had made it his mission to make my life hell.
"I don't think they go out anymore," I said, trying hard not to grit my teeth.
"No?"
"No."
"You okay, Mickey?"
My hands had tightened up into fists. "Fine."
Dunleavy tilted her head. "Are you her boyfriend now?"
"No."
"Because you look a little jealous."
"I'm not," I half snapped. "What does any of this have to do with what happened to Rachel?"
"I understand you assaulted Troy Taylor."
That surprised me. "I didn't assault him. It was self-defense."
"I see. But there was an altercation?"
"Not really. Maybe a quick one--"
"And was this altercation over Rachel Caldwell?"
"No. He took my friend Ema's laptop and--"
"And you hit him."
"No. That's not how it went."
"I see," she said in a way that suggested that she clearly didn't. "According to Chief Taylor, you've had a number of run-ins with the law."
"That's not true."
"No?" She looked down at a slip of paper. "It says here you were arrested for trespassing--"
"And released," I said. That had been at Bat Lady's house. "I was knocking on a door, that's all."
She kept reading. "You also operated a motor vehicle without a valid driver's license. You operated a motor vehicle while underage. Then there's breaking and entering, and using a fake ID to enter a drinking establishment and nightclub."
I decided to keep my mouth shut. I could explain it all, but she'd never get it. Heck, I didn't even get it.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mickey?"
"Where's Rachel?"
She shook her head. Once again the door behind her opened. Officer Ball came into the room, and so did my uncle Myron. Myron gave Dunleavy a quick glance and rushed toward me.
"Are you okay?" Myron asked.
"I'm fine," I said.
Uncle Myron straightened up and faced Dunleavy. Though he didn't really practice law--Myron was an agent for athletes and entertainers--he was officially an attorney. He cleared his throat and said, "What's going on here?"
She smiled at him. "We're done here. Your nephew is free to go."
She started to rise.
"Investigator Dunleavy?" I said.
She stopped.
"Who was killed?"
H
er eyes narrowed. "How do you know--?"
Now it was my turn to hold up the hand. "You said two people were shot. You also said you were a homicide detective. That means someone was killed, right?"
"Not always," she said, but her voice was soft.
Myron stood next to me. We both just watched her.
I said, "But in this case?"
She took her time, looking down, gathering her paper. But then she said, "The gunman also shot Rachel's mother. And, yes, she's dead."
CHAPTER 8
What do you do after getting news about a friend being shot and her mother being murdered?
In my case, you go to school.
Myron asked me a hundred questions, making sure I was fine, but in the end, what was I going to do--take what my classmates call "a mental health day"? I checked my phone and saw two texts from Ema. The first one had been sent early in the morning: I found something about your dad's paramedic that makes no sense.
Normally, I'd be all over that, but about an hour later, Ema's next point was much more urgent: OMG! RUMOR THAT RACHEL WAS SHOT! WHERE ARE YOU?
The mood at school was both somber and surreal. There were counselors on hand for kids who were having trouble dealing with the news of the shooting. Some students were openly weeping in the hallways--the ones you'd expect to get overly emotional. It didn't matter if they knew Rachel well or not, but, hey, people react differently to tragedy and it wasn't fair to judge.
Rumors were flying all over the place, but nobody seemed to know how seriously Rachel was injured. Two days ago, Rachel had told me that her parents were divorced and that her mother lived in Florida. She hadn't mentioned anything about her mom visiting.
So what was Rachel's mother doing in New Jersey?
I found Ema sitting alone in the cafeteria. Some would say that we sit at the outcast or "loser" table. That may be, but to me the cafeteria is more like a sports stadium. The so-called cool kids get the boxes and suites while the rest of us sit in the bleachers--but I always have more fun when I sit in the bleachers.
"Wow," I said to Ema.
"Yeah. Where were you this morning?"
I told her about the police asking me questions. As I did, I spotted Troy Taylor out of the corner of my eye. Troy sat, to keep within my sports metaphor, in the "owner's luxury box." Our fellow students came up to him to pay their respects or offer condolences.
I looked over at his table and frowned. "They weren't even dating."
Ema gave me the flat eyes.
"What?" I said.
"That's what matters to you now? Troy Taylor's past with Rachel?"
She had a point.
"And just for the record, Rachel didn't sit here. She sat with them." Ema pointed toward Troy's table. "Once she graced us with her presence to unload some baked goods. That's all."
"She helped us," I said.
"Whatever." Ema waved her hand dismissively. Her dark nail polish was chipped.
We ate in silence for a few moments.