Three Harlan Coben Novels

by Harlan Coben

  They all watched the monitor now, all hoping that screen name would pop up again. But nothing happened. Aimee did not reappear. She had delivered her message. And now, once again, she was gone.

  CHAPTER 46

  Claire was on the phone in seconds. She dialed Myron’s cell. When he answered, she said, “Aimee was just online! Two of her friends called!”

  Erik Biel sat at the table and listened. His hands were folded. He had spent the past day or so online, searching per Myron’s instructions for people who lived in the area of that cul-de-sac. Now, of course, he knew that he’d been wasting his time. Myron had spotted a car with a Livingston High School decal right away. He had traced it back to one of Aimee’s teachers, a man named Harry Davis, that very night.

  He had simply wanted to keep Erik out of the way.

  So he gave him busywork.

  Claire listened and then let out a little cry. “Oh no, oh my God. . . .”

  “What?” Erik said.

  She shushed him with her hand.

  Erik felt the rage once more. Not at Myron. Not even at Claire. At himself. He stared down at the monogram on his French cuff. His clothes were tailor-made, a custom fit. Big deal. Who did he think he was impressing? He looked up at his wife. He had lied to Myron about the passion. He still longed for her. More than anything he wanted Claire to look at him the way she used to. Maybe Myron had been right. Maybe Claire had indeed loved him. But she had never respected him. She didn’t need him.

  She didn’t believe in him.

  When their family was in crisis, Claire had run to Myron. She had shut Erik out. And of course, he had taken it.

  Erik Biel had done that his whole life. Taken it. His mistress, a mousy thing from his office, was pitiful and needy and treated him like royalty. That made him feel like a man. Claire didn’t. It was that simple. And that pitiful.

  “What?” Erik asked again.

  She ignored him. He waited. Finally Claire asked Myron to hold on a second. “Myron says he saw her online too. He had Erin ask her a question. She answered in a way . . . it was her, but she’s in trouble.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I don’t have time to go into details right now.” Claire put the phone back to her ear and said to Myron—to Myron!—“We need to do something.”

  Do something.

  The truth was, Erik Biel was not much of a man. He knew that early on. When he was fourteen, he backed out of a fight. The entire school was there. The bully was ready to pounce. Erik had walked away. His mother called him prudent. In the media, walking away is the “brave” thing to do. What a load of crap. No beating, no hospital stay, no concussion or broken bones could have hurt Erik Biel more than not standing up had. He had never forgotten it, never gotten over it. He had chickened out of a fight. The pattern continued. He abandoned his buddies when they got jumped at fraternity party. At a Jets game, he let someone spill beer on his girlfriend. If a man looked at him wrong, Erik Biel always averted his gaze first.

  You can couch it in all the psychological vernacular of modern civilization—all that garbage about strength coming from within and that violence never solved anything—but it was all a bunch of self-rationalization. You can live with fooling yourself like that, for a while anyway. And then a crisis hits, a crisis like this, and you realize what you really are, that nice suits and fancy cars and pressed pants make you nothing.

  You’re not a man.

  But still, even with wimps like Erik, there was one line you don’t cross. You cross it, you never come back. It had to do with your children. A man protects his family at all costs. No matter what the sacrifice. You will take any hit. You will go to the ends of the earth and risk everything to keep them from harm. You don’t back away. Never. Not until your dying breath.

  Someone had taken away his little girl.

  You don’t sit that fight out.

  Erik Biel took out the gun.

  It had been his father’s. A Ruger .22. It was an old gun. Probably hadn’t been fired in three decades. Erik had brought it to a gun shop this morning. He purchased ammunition and other sundries he might need. The man behind the counter had cleaned the Ruger for him, tested it out, smirking in disgust at the little man in front of him, so pitiful that he didn’t even know how to load and use his own damn gun.

  But the gun was loaded now.

  Erik Biel was listening to his wife talk to Myron. They were trying to figure out what to do next. Drew Van Dyne, he heard them say, wasn’t home. They wondered about Harry Davis. Erik smiled. He was ahead of them on that count. He had used Call Block and dialed the teacher’s number. He pretended to be a mortgage broker. Davis had answered and said he wasn’t interested.

  That was half an hour ago.

  Erik started toward his car. The gun was tucked into his pants.

  “Erik? Where are you going?”

  He didn’t answer. Myron Bolitar had confronted Harry Davis at the school. The teacher hadn’t talked to Myron. But one way or the other, he sure as hell was going to talk to Erik Biel.

  Myron heard Claire say, “Erik? Where are you going?”

  His phone clicked.

  “Claire, I have someone on the other line. I’ll call you back.” Myron clicked over to the other line.

  “Is this Myron Bolitar?”

  The voice was familiar. “Yes.”

  “This is Detective Lance Banner from the Livingston Police Department. We met yesterday.”

  Was it only yesterday? “Sure, Detective, what can I do for you?”

  “How far are you from St. Barnabas Hospital?”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes, why?”

  “Joan Rochester has just been rushed into surgery.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Myron sped and made it to the hospital in ten minutes. Lance Banner was waiting for him. “Joan Rochester is still in surgery.” “What happened?”

  “You want his story or hers?”

  “Both.”

  “Dominick Rochester said she fell down the stairs. They’ve been here before. She falls down the stairs a lot, if you get my drift.”

  “I do. But you said there were his and her stories?”

  “Right. She’s always backed up his before.”

  “And this time?”

  “She said he beat her up,” Banner said. “And that she wants to press charges.”

  “That must have surprised him. How bad is it?”

  “Pretty bad,” Banner said. “Several broken ribs. A broken arm. He must have pounded the hell out of her kidneys, because the doctor is speculating about removing one.”

  “Jesus.”

  “And, of course, not a mark on her face. The guy’s good.”

  “Comes with practice,” Myron said. “Is he here?”

  “The husband? Yeah. But we’ve got him in custody.”

  “For how long?”

  Lance Banner shrugged. “You know the answer to that.”

  In short: not very.

  “Why did you call me?” Myron asked.

  “Joan Rochester was awake when she came in. She wanted to warn you. She said to be careful.”

  “What else?”

  “That was it. It’s a miracle she got that out.”

  Rage and guilt consumed him in equal measure. Joan Rochester could handle her husband, Myron had thought. She lived with him. She made her choices. Gee, what would be his next justification for not helping her—she’d been asking for it?

  “Do you want to tell me how you’re involved in the lives of the Rochesters?” Banner asked.

  “Aimee Biel isn’t a runaway. She’s in trouble.”

  He filled him in as quickly as possible. When he finished, Lance Banner said, “We’ll get an APB out on Drew Van Dyne.”

  “What about Jake Wolf?”

  “I’m not sure how he fits in.”

  “Do you know his son?”

  “You mean Randy?” Lance Banner shrugged a little too casually. “He’s the high school quar
terback.”

  “Has Randy ever gotten into any trouble?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I heard his father bribed you guys to get him off a drug charge,” Myron said. “Care to comment?”

  Banner’s eyes turned black. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Save the indignation, Lance. Two of your fellow finest braced me on Jake Wolf’s orders. They stopped me from talking to Randy. One punched me in the gut when I was cuffed.”

  “That’s a load of crap.”

  Myron just looked at him.

  “Which officers?” Banner demanded. “I want names, dammit.”

  “One was about my height, skinny. The other had a thick mustache and looked like John Oates from Hall and Oates.”

  The shadow hit Lance’s face. He tried to cover it.

  “You know who I’m talking about.”

  Banner tried to hold it back. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “We don’t have the time. Just tell me what the deal with the Wolf kid is.”

  “No one got bribed.”

  Myron waited. A woman in a wheelchair headed toward them. Banner stepped aside and let her pass. He rubbed his face with his hand.

  “Six months ago a teacher claimed that he caught Randy Wolf selling pot. He searched the kid and found two nickel bags on him. I mean, penny-ante stuff.”

  “This teacher,” Myron said. “Who was he?”

  “He asked us to keep his name out of it.”

  “Was it Harry Davis?”

  Lance Banner didn’t nod, but he might as well have.

  “So what happened?”

  “The teacher called us. I had two guys go in. Hildebrand and Peterson. They, uh, fit your description. Randy Wolf claimed that he was framed.”

  Myron frowned. “And your guys bought that?”

  “No. But the case was weak. The constitutionality of the search was questionable. The amounts were small. And Randy Wolf. He was a good kid. No past record or anything.”

  “You didn’t want to get him in trouble,” Myron said.

  “None of us did.”

  “Tell me, Lance. If he’d been a black kid from Newark caught selling at Livingston High, would you have felt the same way?”

  “Don’t start that hypothetical crap with me. We had a weak case to begin with and then, the next day, Harry Davis tells my officers he won’t testify. Just like that. He backs out. So now it’s over. My officers had no choice.”

  “My, how convenient,” Myron said. “Tell me: Did the football team have a good season?”

  “It was a nothing of a case. The kid had a bright future. He’s going to Dartmouth.”

  “I keep hearing that,” Myron said. “But I’m beginning to wonder if it’ll happen.”

  Then a voice shouted, “Bolitar!”

  Myron turned. Dominick Rochester stood at the end of the corridor. His hands were cuffed. His face was red. Two officers were on either side of him. Myron started toward him. Lance Banner jogged behind, calling out a soft warning.

  “Myron . . . ?”

  “I won’t do anything, Lance. I just want to talk to him.”

  Myron stopped two feet in front of him. Dominick Rochester’s black eyes burned. “Where is my daughter?”

  “Proud of yourself, Dominick?”

  “You,” Rochester said. “You know something about Katie.”

  “Did your wife tell you that?”

  “No.” He grinned. It was one of the most frightening sights Myron had ever seen. “Just the opposite, in fact.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Dominick leaned in closer and whispered. “No matter what I did to her, no matter how much she suffered, my dearest wife wouldn’t talk. See, that’s why I’m sure you know something. Not because she talked—but because no matter how much hell I put her through, she wouldn’t.”

  Myron was back in his car when Erin Wilder called him.

  “I know where Randy Wolf is.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a senior party at Sam Harlow’s house.”

  “They’re having a party? Aren’t any of Aimee’s friends concerned?”

  “Everyone thinks she ran away,” Erin said. “Some of them saw her online tonight, so they’re even more sure.”

  “Wait, if they’re at a party, how did they see her online?”

  “They have BlackBerrys. They can IM from their phones.”

  Technology, he thought. Keeping people together by allowing them to be apart. Erin gave him the address. Myron knew the area. He hung up and started on his way. The ride did not take long.

  There were a bunch of cars parked out on the Harlows’ street. Someone had set up a big tent in the backyard. This was a real party, an invite party, as opposed to a few kids hanging out and sneaking beers. Myron threw the car into park and entered the yard.

  There were parents here—chaperones, he guessed. That would make this more difficult. But he didn’t have time to worry about it. The police might be mobilizing, but they weren’t anxious to look at the big picture. Myron was getting it now. It was coming into focus. Randy Wolf, he knew, was one of the keys.

  The festivities were nicely partitioned. The parents hung out in the house’s screened-in porch. Myron could see the adults in the dim light. They were laughing and had a keg. The men wore long shorts and loafers and smoked cigars. The women sported bright Lilly Pulitzer skirts and flip-flops.

  The seniors gathered at the far end of the tent, as far away from adult supervision as possible. The dance floor was empty. The DJ played a song by the Killers, something about having a girlfriend who looked like a boyfriend that somebody had in February. Myron headed straight for Randy and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  Randy shrugged Myron’s hand away. “Get off me.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “My father said—”

  “I know all about what your father said. We’re talking anyway.”

  Randy Wolf was surrounded by about six guys. Some were huge. The quarterback and his offensive line, Myron figured.

  “This butt-face bothering you, Pharm?”

  The one who said that was huge. He grinned at Myron. The guy had spiky blond hair, but what you first noticed, what you couldn’t help but notice, was that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Here they were at a party. There were girls and punch and music and dancing and even parents. And this guy wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  Randy didn’t say anything.

  Shirtless had barbed-wire tattoos around his bloated biceps. Myron frowned. The tattoos couldn’t have been more wannabe without the word wannabe actually being stenciled in. The guy was slabs and slabs of beef. His chest was so smooth it looked like someone had taken a sander to it. He rippled. His forehead was sloped. His eyes were red, indicating that at least some of the beer had found its way to the underaged. He wore calf-length pants that might have been capris, though Myron didn’t know if guys wore those or not.

  “What are you looking at, Butt-face?”

  Myron said, “Absolutely—and I mean this sincerely—absolutely nothing.”

  There were several gasps from the crowd. One of them said, “Oh man, is this old dude gonna get a beating or what!”

  Another said, “Bring it on, Crush!”

  Shirtless aka Crush made his best tough-guy face. “Pharm ain’t talking to you, you got me, Butt-face?”

  That got a laugh from his friends.

  “Butt-face,” Myron repeated. “It’s even funnier the third time you say it.” He took a step toward the kid. Crush didn’t budge. “This isn’t your business.”

  “I’m making it my business.”

  Myron waited. Then he said, “Don’t you mean, ‘I’m making it my business, Butt-face’?”

  There was another gasp. One of the other guys said, “Oh, mister, run and hide. Nobody wises off to Crush like that.”

  Myron looked at Randy. “We need to ta
lk now. Before this gets out of hand.”

  Crush smiled, flexed his pecs, stepped forward. “It’s already out of hand.”

  Myron didn’t want to take out a kid, not with the parents around. It would cause too many problems.

  “I don’t want trouble,” Myron said.

  “You already got it, Butt-face.”

  Some of the guys oooed at that one. Crush folded his massive arms across his chest. A stupid move. Myron needed to get this out of the way fast, before the parents started noticing. But Crush’s friends were watching. Crush was the resident tough guy. He couldn’t afford to back down.

  Arms folded across the chest. How macho. How dumb.

  Myron made the move. When you need to take out somebody with a minimum of fuss or mess, this technique was one of the most effective. Myron’s hand started at his side. The natural resting spot. That was the key. You don’t cock the wrist. You don’t pull the arm back. You don’t wind up or make a fist. The smallest distance between two points is a straight line. That’s what you remember. Using his natural hand speed and the element of surprise, Myron shot the hand in that straight line, from the resting point near his hip to Crush’s throat.

  He didn’t hit him hard. Myron used the knife edge below the pinky and found the neck’s sweet spot. Few points on the human body are more vulnerable. If you hit someone in the throat, it hurts. It makes them gasp and cough and freeze. But you have to know what you’re doing. You hit it too hard, you could do some serious damage. Myron’s hand darted in and struck cobra-like.

  Crush’s eyes bulged. A choking sound got locked in his throat. With almost casual ease, Myron swept out Crush’s legs with his instep. Crush went down. Myron did not wait. He grabbed Randy by the scruff of the neck and started dragging him away. If any kid so much as moved, Myron froze them with a stare-down, all the while hustling Randy into the neighbor’s backyard.

  Randy said, “Ow, let me go!”

  Screw that. Randy was eighteen, an adult, right? No reason to go soft on him because he was a kid. He took him behind the garage two houses down. When Myron released him, Randy rubbed the back of his neck.

  “What the hell is your problem, man?”