by Harlan Coben
“They told me no cops,” I said. “Like last time. I didn’t want to risk it again. So I called Rachel.”
“I see.” Tickner looked back at Regan. Regan looked off as if trying to follow a stray thought. “You chose her because she used to be a federal agent?”
“Yes.”
“And because you two were”—Tickner made vague hand gestures—“close.”
“A long time ago,” I said.
“Not anymore?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“Hmm, not anymore,” Tickner repeated. “And yet you chose to call her in a matter involving your child’s life. Interesting.”
“Glad you think so,” Lenny said, “By the way, is there a point to any of this?”
Tickner ignored him. “Before today, when was the last time you saw Rachel Mills?”
“What difference does that make?” Lenny said.
“Please just answer my question.”
“Not until we know—”
But my hand was on Lenny’s arm now. I knew what he was doing. He had automatically snapped into his adversarial pose. I appreciated it, but I wanted to get past this as quickly as possible.
“About a month ago,” I said.
“Under what circumstances?”
“I bumped into her at the Stop & Shop on Northwood Avenue.”
“Bumped into her?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, as in a coincidence? As in not knowing the other was going to be there, out of the blue?”
“Yes.”
Tickner turned around and looked at Regan again. Regan kept perfectly still. He wasn’t even toying with the soul patch.
“And before that?”
“What before that?”
“Before you ‘bumped’ ”—Tickner’s sarcasm spit the word across the room—“into Ms. Mills at the Stop & Shop, when was the last time you’d seen her?”
“Not since college,” I said.
Again Tickner spun toward Regan, his face lit up with incredulity. When he turned back, the glasses dropped down to his eyes. He pushed them back up onto his forehead. “Are you telling us, Dr. Seidman, that the only time you’ve seen Rachel Mills between your college days and today was just that one time at the supermarket?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
For a moment, Tickner seemed at a loss. Lenny looked as if he might have something to add, but he kept himself in check.
“Have you two spoken on the phone?” Tickner asked.
“Before today?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Not ever? You never talked to her on the phone before today? Not even when you were dating?”
Lenny said, “Jesus Christ, what kind of question is that?”
Tickner snapped his head toward Lenny. “You have a problem?”
“Yeah, your questions are moronic.”
They started again with the death stares. I broke the silence. “I hadn’t spoken to Rachel on the phone since college.”
Tickner turned to me. His expression was openly skeptical now. I glanced behind him at Regan. Regan was nodding to himself. While they both looked off balance, I tried to press it. “Did you find the man and child in the Honda Accord?” I asked.
Tickner considered the question a moment. He looked back at Regan, who shrugged a why-not. “We found the car abandoned on Broadway near 145th Street. It’d been stolen a few hours earlier.” Tickner took out his notebook but didn’t look at it. “When we spotted you at the park, you began yelling about your daughter. Do you believe that she was the child in the car?”
“I thought so at the time.”
“But not anymore?”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t Tara.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“I saw him. The child, I mean.”
“It was a he?”
“I think so.”
“When did you see him?”
“When I jumped on the car.”
Tickner spread his hands. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell us exactly what happened?”
I told them the same story I’d told Lenny. Regan never moved from the wall. He still hadn’t said a word. I found that odd. As I spoke, Tickner seemed to be growing more and more agitated. The skin on his cleanly shaven head tightened, making the sunglasses, which still sat perched on the top of his skull, start sliding forward. He kept readjusting them. I saw the pulse near his temples flutter. His jaw was locked.
When I was done, Tickner said, “You’re lying.”
Lenny slid between Tickner and my bed. For a moment, I thought that they might come to blows, which, let’s face it, would not be good for Lenny. But Lenny never gave an inch. It reminded me of the time in third grade when Tony Merullo picked a fight with me. Lenny had stepped between us then, faced Tony bravely, and gotten clobbered.
Lenny stayed nose-to-nose with the larger man. “What the hell is wrong with you, Agent Tickner?”
“Your client is a liar.”
“Gentlemen, this interview is over. Get out.”
Tickner bent his neck so that his forehead pressed against Lenny’s. “We have proof he’s lying.”
“Let’s see it,” Lenny said. Then, “No, wait, forget it. I don’t want to see it. Are you arresting my client?”
“No.”
“Then get your sorry butt out of this hospital room.”
I said, “Lenny.”
With one more glare at Tickner to show he wasn’t intimidated, Lenny looked back at me.
“Let’s finish this now,” I said.
“He’s trying to hang you for this.”
I shrugged because I didn’t really care. I think Lenny saw that. He slid away. I nodded for Tickner to do his worst.
“You’ve seen Rachel before today.”
“I told you—”
“If you hadn’t seen or spoken to Rachel Mills, how did you know she’d been a federal agent?”
Lenny started to laugh.
Tickner quickly spun toward him. “What are you laughing at?”
“Because, numb-nuts, my wife is friends with Rachel Mills.”
That confused him. “What?”
“My wife and I talk to Rachel all the time. We introduced them.” Lenny laughed again. “That’s your proof?”
“No, that’s not my proof,” Tickner snapped, defensive now. “Your story about getting this ransom call, about reaching out to an old girlfriend like that. You expect that to fly?”
“Why,” I said, “what do you think happened?”
Tickner said nothing.
“You think I did it, right? That this was yet another elaborate scheme to, what, get another two million from my ex–father-in-law?”
Lenny tried to slow me down. “Marc . . .”
“No, let me just say something here.” I tried to get Regan into it, but he still looked off, so I locked eyes with Tickner. “Do you really think I staged all this? Why go through all the machinations of having this meeting in the park? How did I know you’d track me down there—hell, I still don’t know how you did that. Why would I bother leaping on a car like that? Why wouldn’t I have just taken the money and hidden it and come up with a story for Edgar? If I was just running a scam, did I hire this guy with the flannel shirt? Why? Why involve another person or a stolen car? I mean, come on. It makes no sense.”
I looked at Regan, who still wasn’t biting. “Detective Regan?”
But all he said was “You’re not being straight with us, Marc.”
“How?” I asked. “How am I not being straight with you?”
“You claim that before today you and Ms. Mills haven’t spoken on the phone since college.”
“Yes.”
“We have phone records, Marc. Three months before your wife was murdered, there was a call from Rachel’s house to yours. Do you want to explain that?”
I turned to Lenny for help, but he was staring down at me. This made
no sense. “Look,” I said, “I have Rachel’s cell phone number. Let’s call her and find out where she is.”
“Do that,” Tickner said.
Lenny picked up the hospital phone next to my bed. I gave him the number. I watched him dial it, all the while trying to put it together. The phone rang six times before I heard Rachel’s voice tell me she could not answer her phone and that I should leave a message. I did so.
Regan finally peeled himself off the wall. He pulled a chair to the side of my bed and sat. “Marc, what do you know about Rachel Mills?”
“Enough.”
“You dated in college?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Two years.”
Regan spread his arms, all open and wide eyed. “See, Agent Tickner and I still aren’t sure why you called her. I mean, okay, you dated a long time ago. But if you haven’t been in touch at all”—he shrugged—“why her?”
I thought about how to put this and chose the direct route. “There’s still a connection.”
Regan nodded as if that explained a lot. “You were aware that she got married?”
“Cheryl—that’s Lenny’s wife—she told me.”
“And you knew her husband was shot?”
“I learned about it today.” Then, realizing that it had to be after midnight, “I mean, yesterday.”
“Rachel told you?”
“Cheryl told me.” Regan’s words from his late-night visit to my abode came back to me. “And then you said Rachel shot him.”
Regan looked back at Tickner. Tickner said, “Did Ms. Mills mention that to you?”
“What, that she shot her husband?”
“Yes.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“You don’t believe it, do you?”
Lenny said, “What’s the difference what he believes?”
“She confessed,” Tickner said.
I looked at Lenny. Lenny looked away. I tried to sit up a little more. “Then why isn’t she in jail?”
Something dark crossed Tickner’s face. His hands clenched into fists. “She claimed the shooting was accidental.”
“And you don’t believe that?”
“Her husband was shot in the head at point-blank range.”
“So again I ask: Why isn’t she in jail?”
“I’m not privy to all the details,” Tickner said.
“What does that mean?”
“The local cops handled the case, not us,” Tickner explained. “They decided not to pursue it.”
I am neither a cop nor a great student of psychology, but even I could see that Tickner was holding something back. I looked at Lenny. His face was emotionless, which, of course, is not at all like Lenny. Tickner took a step away from the bed. Regan filled the void.
“You said you still felt a connection with Rachel?” Regan began.
“Asked and answered,” Lenny said.
“Did you still love her?”
Lenny couldn’t let that one go without comment. “Are you Ann Landers now, Detective Regan? What the hell does any of this have to do with my client’s daughter?”
“Bear with me.”
“No, Detective, I will not bear with you. Your questions are nonsense.” Again I put my hand on Lenny’s shoulder. He turned to me. “They want you to say yes, Marc.”
“I know that.”
“They’re hoping to use Rachel as a motive for killing your wife.”
“I know that too,” I said. I looked at Regan. I remembered the feeling when I first saw Rachel at the Stop & Shop.
“You still think about her?” Regan asked.
“Yes.”
“Does she still think about you?”
Lenny was not about to surrender. “How the hell would he know that?”
“Bob?” I said. It was the first time I had used Regan’s first name.
“Yes.”
“What are you trying to get at here?”
Regan’s voice was low, almost conspiratorial. “Let me ask you one more time: Before the incident at the Stop & Shop, had you seen Rachel Mills since you broke up in college?”
“Jesus Christ,” Lenny said.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“No communication at all?”
“They didn’t even pass notes during study hall,” Lenny said. “I mean, get on with it.”
Regan leaned away. “You went to a private detective agency in Newark to ask about a CD-ROM.”
“Yes.”
“Why today?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Your wife has been dead for a year and a half. Why the sudden interest in the CD?”
“I’d just found it.”
“When?”
“The day before yesterday. It was hidden in the basement.”
“So you had no idea that Monica had hired a private detective?”
It took me a moment to answer. I thought about what I had learned since my beautiful wife’s death. She had been seeing a psychiatrist. She had hired a private detective. She had hidden his findings in our basement. I hadn’t known about any of it. I thought about my life, my love of work, my wanting to keep traveling. Sure, I loved my daughter. I cooed on command and marveled at the wonder of her. I would die—and kill—to protect her, but in my honest moments, I knew that I had not accepted all the changes and sacrifices she’d brought to my life.
What kind of husband had I been? What kind of father?
“Marc?”
“No,” I said softly. “I had no idea she had hired a private investigator.”
“Do you have any idea why she did?”
I shook my head. Regan faded back. Tickner pulled out a manila folder.
“What’s that?” Lenny said.
“The contents of the CD.” Tickner looked at me one more time. “You never saw Rachel, right? Just that time in the supermarket.”
I did not bother answering.
Without fanfare, Tickner withdrew a photograph and handed it to me. Lenny snapped on his half-moon reading glasses and stood over my shoulder. He did that thing where you tilt your head up to look down. The photograph was black and white. It was a shot of Valley Hospital in Ridgewood. There was a date stamped on the bottom. The photograph had been taken two months before the shooting.
Lenny frowned. “The lighting is pretty good, but I’m not sure about the overall composition.”
Tickner ignored the sarcasm. “That’s where you work, is it not, Dr. Seidman?”
“We have an office there, yes.”
“We?”
“My partner and I. Zia Leroux.”
Tickner nodded. “There’s a date stamped on the bottom.”
“I can see that.”
“Were you in the office on that day?”
“I really don’t know. I’d have to check my calendar.”
Regan pointed to near the hospital entrance. “Do you see that figure over there?”
I looked harder, but I couldn’t make much out. “No, not really.”
“Just notice the length of the coat, okay?”
“Okay.”
Then Tickner handed me a second glossy. The photographer had used the zoom lens on this one. Same angle. You could see the person in the coat clearly now. She wore sunglasses, but there was no mistake. It was Rachel.
I looked up at Lenny. I saw the surprise on his face too. Tickner pulled out another photo. Then another. They were all taken in front of Valley Hospital. In the eighth one, Rachel entered the building. In the ninth one, taken one hour later, I exited alone. In the tenth, taken six minutes after that, Rachel went out the same doors.
At first, my mind could simply not soak in the implications. I was one big, swirling “Huh?” of bewilderment. There was no time to process. Lenny seemed stunned too, but he recovered first.
“Get out,” Lenny said.
“You don’t want to explain these photographs fir
st?”
I wanted to argue, but I was too dazed.
“Get out,” Lenny said again, more forcefully this time. “Get out now.”
chapter 30
I sat upin the bed. “Lenny?”
He made sure the door was closed. “Yes,” he said. “They think you did it. Check that, they think you and Rachel did it together. You two were having an affair. She killed her husband—I don’t know if they think you were involved with that or not—and then you both killed Monica, did who-knows-what with Tara, and came up with this scheme to rip off her father.”
“That makes no sense,” I said.
Lenny kept quiet.
“I was shot, remember?”
“I know.”
“So what, they think I shot myself?”
“I don’t know. But you can’t talk to them anymore. They have evidence now. You can deny a relationship with Rachel to the skies, but Monica was suspicious enough to hire a private detective. Then, Jesus, think about it. The private detective delivers. He takes those photographs and gives them to Monica. Next thing you know, your wife is dead, your kid is gone, and her father is out two million bucks. Skip ahead a year and a half. Her father is out another two million and you and Rachel are lying about being with one another.”
“We’re not lying.”
Lenny would not look at me.
“What about all I was saying,” I tried, “about how no one would go through all this? I could have just taken the ransom money, right? I didn’t have to hire that guy with the car and the kid. And what about my sister? Do they think I murdered her too?”
“Those pictures,” Lenny said softly.
“I never knew about them.”
He could barely look at me, but that didn’t stop him from reverting to our youth. “Well, duh.”
“No, I mean I don’t know anything about them.”
“You really haven’t seen her except for that time at the supermarket?”
“Of course not. You know all this. I wouldn’t hide it from you.”
He weighed that statement for too long. “You might hide it from Lenny the Friend.”
“No, I wouldn’t. But even if I would, there’s no way I could keep it from Lenny the Lawyer.”
His voice was soft. “You didn’t tell either one of us about this ransom drop.”
So there it was. “We wanted to keep it contained, Lenny.”
“I see.” But he didn’t. I couldn’t blame him. “Another thing. How did you find that CD in the basement?”