Three Harlan Coben Novels

by Harlan Coben

  “How do you do that?”

  “It’s not hard,” Rachel said. “Every law enforcement officer makes connections. And if you don’t, you pay off someone at the DMV. Five hundred bucks usually.”

  “Are you online or something?”

  She nodded. “Wireless modem. A friend of mine named Harold Fisher, he’s a tech geek who works freelance. He didn’t like how the feds pushed me out.”

  “So he helps you now?”

  “Yes.”

  The white-haired woman leaned back in and pulled out what might have been a medical bag. She threw on a pair of designer sunglasses and hurried toward Tatiana’s room. The woman knocked, the door opened, Tatiana let her in.

  I turned around in my seat and watched Katarina. She had the phone on mute. “Tatiana is telling her that she feels better now. The woman is annoyed she called for nothing.” She paused.

  “Have you heard a name yet?”

  Katarina shook her head. “The woman is going to examine her.”

  Rachel stared at her tiny Palm Pilot screen as if it were a magic eight ball. “Bang.”

  “What?”

  “Denise Vanech, Forty-seven Riverview Avenue, Ridgewood, New Jersey. Forty-six years of age. No outstanding parking violations.”

  “You got it that fast?”

  She shrugged. “All Harold has to do is type the license plate. He’s going to see what he can dig up on her.” Her stylus started up again. “Meanwhile I’m going to plug the name into Google.”

  “The search engine?”

  “Yup. You’d be surprised what you can find.”

  I knew about that, actually. I once put my own name in. I don’t remember why. Zia and I were drunk and did it for fun. She calls it “ego surfing.”

  “Not much speaking now.” Katarina’s face was a mask of concentration. “Maybe she’s examining her?”

  I looked over at Rachel. “Two hits on Google,” she said. “The first is a Web site for the Bergen County planning board. She requested a variance to subdivide her lot. It was rejected. The second, however, is more interesting. It’s an alumni site. It lists past graduates that they’re trying to locate.”

  “What school?” I asked.

  “University of Philadelphia Family Nurse and Midwifery.”

  That fit.

  Katarina said, “They’re done.”

  “Fast,” I said.

  “Very.”

  Katarina listened some more. “The woman is telling Tatiana to take care of herself. That she should eat better, for the baby. That she should call if she feels any further discomfort.”

  I turned to Rachel. “Sounds more pleasant than when she arrived.”

  Rachel nodded. The woman we assumed was Denise Vanech came out. She walked with her head high, her rear end twitching in that cocky way. The stretched white shirt was ribbed and, I couldn’t help but notice, rather see-through. She got in her car and took off.

  I started up the Camaro, the engine roaring like a lifetime smoker with a hacking cough. I followed at a safe distance. I wasn’t too worried about losing her. We knew where she lived now.

  “I still don’t understand,” I said to Rachel. “How do they get away with buying babies?”

  “They find desperate women. They lure them here with promises of money and a stable, comfortable home for their child.”

  “But in order to adopt,” I said, “there’s a whole procedure you have to go through. It’s a pain in the ass. I know some children overseas—physically deformed children—people tried to bring over. You can’t believe the paperwork. It’s impossible.”

  “I don’t have the answer to that, Marc.”

  Denise Vanech veered onto the New Jersey Turnpike north. That would be the way back to Ridgewood. I let the Camaro drop back another twenty, thirty feet. The right blinker came on, and the Lexus turned off at the Vince Lombardi rest stop. Denise Vanech parked and headed inside. I pulled the car to the side of the ramp and looked at Rachel. She was biting her lip.

  “Could be she’s using the bathroom,” I said.

  “She washed up after examining Tatiana. Why didn’t she go then?”

  “Maybe she’s hungry?”

  “Does she look like she eats much Burger King to you, Marc?”

  “So what do we do?”

  There was little hesitation. Rachel gripped the door handle. “Drop me off by the door.”

  Denise Vanech was pretty sure that Tatiana was faking.

  The girl had claimed to be hemorrhaging. Denise checked the sheets. They hadn’t been changed, yet there was no blood on them. The tiles on the bathroom floor were clean. The toilet seat was clean. There was no blood anywhere.

  That alone, of course, wouldn’t mean all that much. There was a chance the girl had cleaned up. But there were other things. The gynecological examination showed no signs of distress. Nothing. Not the slightest red tint. Her vaginal hairs, too, had no traces of blood. Denise checked the shower when she finished up. Dry as bone. The girl had called less than an hour before. She claimed to be bleeding heavily.

  It didn’t add up.

  Lastly, the girl’s demeanor was wrong. The girls are always scared. That goes without saying. Denise had moved out of Yugoslavia when she was nine, during Tito’s reign of relative peace, and she knew what a hellhole it was. To this girl, from where she had come, the United States must seem like Mars. But her fear had a different quality to it. Usually the girls stare at Denise as if she were some kind of parent or savior, looking up to her with a mix of trepidation and hope. But this girl averted her gaze. She fidgeted too much. And there was something else. Tatiana had been brought in by Pavel. He was usually good about watching them. But he hadn’t been there. Denise was about to ask about that, but she decided to wait and play it out. If nothing was wrong, the girl would certainly raise Pavel’s name.

  She hadn’t.

  Yes, something was definitely wrong.

  Denise did not want to raise suspicion. She finished the exam and hurried out. Behind her sunglasses, she checked for possible surveillance vans. There were none. She looked for obvious unmarked police cars. Again nothing. Of course, she was no expert. Though she had been working with Steven Bacard for nearly a decade, there had never been any complications. Perhaps that was why she’d let her guard down.

  As soon as she got back into her car, Denise reached for her cell phone. She wanted to call Bacard. But no. If they were somehow on to them, they’d be able to trace that back. Denise debated using a pay phone at the nearest gas station. But they’d be expecting that too. When she saw the sign for the rest stop, she remembered that they had a huge bank of pay phones. She could call from there. If she moved fast enough, they wouldn’t see her or know what phone she used.

  But was that safe either?

  She quickly sorted through the possibilities. Suppose she was indeed being followed. Driving to Bacard’s office would definitely be the wrong move. She could wait and call him when she got home. But they might have a tap on her phone. This—calling from the large bank of pay phones—seemed the least risky.

  Denise grabbed a napkin and used it to keep her fingerprints off the receiver. She was careful not to wipe it off. There were probably dozens of fingerprints already on it. Why make their job any easier?

  Steven Bacard picked up. “Hello?”

  The obvious strain in his voice made her heart sink. “Where is Pavel?” she asked.

  “Denise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I just visited his girl. Something isn’t right.”

  “Oh God,” he moaned. “What happened?”

  “The girl called the emergency number. She said she was hemorrhaging, but I think she was lying.”

  There was silence.

  “Steve?”

  “Go home. Don’t talk to anyone.”

  “Okay.” Denise saw the white Camaro pull up. She frowned. Hadn’t she seen it before?

  “Are there
any records in your house?” Bacard asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay, good.”

  A woman was getting out of the Camaro. Even from this distance, Denise could see the bandage on the woman’s ear.

  “Go home,” Bacard said.

  Before the woman could turn around, Denise hung up the phone and slipped into the bathroom.

  Steven Bacard had loved the oldBatman TV show as a kid. Every episode, he remembered, started out pretty much the same way. A crime would be committed. They would flash to Commissioner Gordon and Chief O’Hara. The two law-enforcement buffoons would be grim faced. They would discuss the situation and realize that there was only one way out. Commissioner Gordon would then pick up the red Batphone. Batman would answer, promise to save the day, turn to Robin and say, “To the Batpoles!”

  He stared at the phone with that creepy feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was no hero he was calling. Just the opposite, in fact. But in the end, survival was what mattered. Pretty words and justification were great during times of peace. In times of war, in times of life and death, it was simpler: Us or Them. He picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  Lydia answered sweetly. “Hello, Steven.”

  “I need you again.”

  “Bad?”

  “Very.”

  “We’re on our way,” she said.

  chapter 39

  “When I gotin there,” Rachel said, “she was in the bathroom. But I have a feeling she made a call first.”

  “Why?”

  “There was a line in the bathroom. She was only three people ahead of me. She should have been more.”

  “Any way of figuring out who she called?”

  “Not in the near future, no. Every phone in that place is taken. Even if I had full FBI access, it would take some time.”

  “So we keep following.”

  “Yes.” She turned behind her. “Do you have an atlas in the car?”

  Katarina smiled. “Many. Verne likes maps. World, country, state?”

  “State.”

  She dug into the pocket behind my seat and handed Rachel the atlas. Rachel uncapped a pen and started marking it up.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  The cell phone rang. I picked it up.

  “You guys all right?”

  “Yeah, Verne, we’re fine.”

  “Got my sister to watch the kids for me. I’m in the pickup heading east. What’s your ten-twenty?”

  I told him we were heading to Ridgewood. He knew the town.

  “I’m about twenty minutes away,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the Ridgewood Coffee Company on Van Neste Park.”

  “We may be at this midwife’s house,” I said.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hey, Marc,” Verne said, “not to get sentimental or anything, but if somebody needs shooting—”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  The Lexus turned off at Linwood Avenue. We dropped farther back. Rachel kept her head down, alternating between the stylus on the Palm Pilot and the marker on the atlas. We hit the suburbs. Denise Vanech turned left on Waltherly Road.

  “She’s definitely heading home,” Rachel said. “Let her go. We need to think this through.”

  I couldn’t believe what she was suggesting. “What do you mean, think this through? We need to approach her.”

  “Not yet. I’m working on something.”

  “What?”

  “Just give me a few minutes.”

  I slowed my speed and turned down Van Dien, right near Valley Hospital. I looked back at Katarina. She gave me a small smile. Rachel kept working at whatever. I checked the dashboard clock. Time to meet Verne. I took North Maple to Ridgewood Avenue. A parking spot opened in front of a store named Duxiana. I grabbed it. Verne’s pickup truck was parked across the street. It had mag wheels and two bumper stickers, one reading,CHARLTON HESTON FOR PRESIDENT and the other:DO I LOOK LIKE A HEMORRHOID ?THEN GET OFF MY ASS .

  Ridgewood’s town center was a blend of turn-of-the-century picture-postcard splendor and modern-day extravagant food-court mall. Most of the old mom-n-pop shops were gone now. Sure, the independent bookstore still thrived. There was an upscale mattress store, a cute place that sold sixties paraphernalia, a smattering of boutiques, beauty parlors, and jewelry stores. And, yes, a few of the chains—Gap, Williams-Sonoma, the prerequisite Starbucks—had gobbled up space. But more than anything, the town center had become a veritable smorgasbord, a potpourri of eateries for too many tastes and budgets. Name a country, they had a bistro here. Throw a stone, even pathetically, in any direction, you would hit three such eateries.

  Rachel took the atlas and Palm Pilot with her. She worked as we walked. Verne was already inside the coffee shop, chatting up the burly guy behind the counter. Verne wore a Deere baseball cap with a T-shirt that read:MOOSEHEAD :A GREAT BEER AND A NEW EXPERIENCE FOR A MOOSE .

  We grabbed a table.

  “So what’s the deal?” Verne said.

  I let Katarina fill him in. I was watching Rachel. Every time I started to speak, she held up a finger to silence me. I told Verne that he should take Katarina home. We didn’t need their help anymore. They should be with their children. Verne was reluctant.

  The time was sneaking up on 10:00A .M. I wasn’t really tired. Lack of sleep—even for reasons far less adrenaline generating than this—does not bother me. I credit my medical residency and the many nights on call for that.

  “Bang,” Rachel said again.

  “What?”

  With her eyes still on the Palm Pilot, Rachel put out her hand. “Let me use your phone.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just give it to me, okay?”

  I handed her the cell phone. She dialed and moved to the corner of the café. Katarina excused herself to use the bathroom. Verne poked me with his elbow and pointed at Rachel.

  “You two in love?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said.

  “Only if you’re a dumb-ass.”

  I may have shrugged.

  “You either love her or you don’t,” Verne said. “The rest? That’s for dumb-asses.”

  “Is that how you dealt with what you heard this morning?”

  He thought about that. “What Kat said. What she did in the past. It don’t matter much. There’s a core. I’ve slept with that woman for eight years. I know the core.”

  “I don’t know Rachel that well.”

  “Yeah, you do. Look at her.” I did. And I felt something airy and light travel through me. “She got beaten up. She got shot, for Chrissake.” He paused. I wasn’t looking, but I bet he shook his mane in disgust. “You let that go, you know what you are?”

  “A dumb-ass.”

  “Aprofessional dumb-ass. You give up your amateur status.”

  Rachel hung up the phone and hurried back over. Maybe it was something Verne said, but I could swear that I saw a bit of fire back in her eyes. In that dress, with her hair mussed, with the confident lick-the-world smile, I was transported back. It didn’t last long. No more than a moment or two. But maybe it was enough.

  “Bang?” I asked.

  “Cannon-fire, Fourth-of-July bang.” She starting tapping with the stylus again. “I just need to do one more thing. In the meantime, look at this atlas.”

  I pulled it over. Verne looked over my shoulder. He smelled like motor oil. There were all kinds of markings on the atlas—little stars, crosses, but the thickest line was a circuitous route. I recognized enough of it.

  “That’s the route the kidnappers took last night,” I said. “When we were following them.”

  “Right.”

  “What’s with all the stars and stuff?”

  “Okay, first thing. Look at the actual route they took. Up north over the Tappan Zee. Then west. Then south. Then west again. Then back eas
t and north.”

  “They were stalling,” I said.

  “Right. It’s like we said. They were setting up that trap for us at your house. But think about it a second. Our theory is that someone from law enforcement warned them about the Q-Logger, right?”

  “So?”

  “So no one knew about the Q-Logger until you were at the hospital. That means, for at least part of the journey, they wouldn’t have known I was tailing them.”

  I wasn’t sure I followed, but I said, “Okay.”

  “Do you pay your phone bill online?” she asked.

  The subject change threw me for a moment. “Yes,” I said.

  “So you get a statement, right? You click on the link, you sign in, you can see all your calls. It probably has a reverse directory link too—so you can click on the number and see who you called.”

  I nodded. It did.

  “Well, I got Denise Vanech’s last phone bill.” She held up a hand. “Don’t worry about how. Again it’s fairly easy. Harold could probably do it by hacking, if he had more time, but having a connection or a giving a bribe is easier. Now with the Internet billing, it’s easier than ever.”

  “Harold sent you her bill online?”

  “Yep. Anyway, Ms. Vanech makes a fair amount of calls. That’s what took me so long. We’ve been sorting through them, finding the names, then the addresses.”

  “And a name popped out?”

  “No, an address did. I wanted to see if she called anybody on the kidnapper’s route.”

  Now I saw where she was going. “And I assume the answer is yes?”

  “Better than yes. Remember when they stopped at the MetroVista office complex?”

  “Sure.”

  “Over the past month, Denise Vanech placed six calls to the law office of a Steven Bacard.” Rachel pointed to the star she’d drawn on the map. “At MetroVista.”

  “A lawyer?”

  “Harold is going to see what he can dig up, but again I just used Google. The name Steven Bacard pops up frequently.”

  “In what context?”

  Rachel smiled again. “His expertise is adoption.”

  Verne said, “Sweet mother of God.”

  I sat back and tried to digest it all. Warning lights flashed, but I wasn’t sure what they meant. Katarina came back to the table. Verne told her what we’d found. We were getting close. I knew that. But I felt adrift. My cell phone—or should I say, Zia’s—rang. I looked down at the Caller ID. It was Lenny. I debated not answering, remembering what Zia had said. But of course, Lenny would know about the possibility of a tap. He had been the one who warned Zia.