Three Harlan Coben Novels

by Harlan Coben

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll try to keep one alive, but I can’t make any promises.”

  He hung up. I hurried back to the car and did as he said. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. But there was hope now. Verne was there. He was inside the house and armed. I pulled up to the front of Denise Vanech’s house. The blinds and curtains were drawn. I took a deep breath. I opened the car door and stood.

  Silence.

  I expected to hear shots. But that was not what came first. The first sound was shattering glass. And then I saw Rachel fall out the window.

  “His car just pulled up,” Heshy said.

  Rachel’s hands were still bound behind her back, the duct tape over her mouth. She knew that this was it. Marc would come to the door. They would let him in, this mutant version of Bonnie and Clyde, and then they would shoot them both.

  Tatiana was already dead. Denise Vanech was already dead. There was no other way to play this. Heshy and Lydia could not let them survive. Rachel had hoped that Marc would realize this and go to the police. She hoped that he wouldn’t show up, but of course, that would not be an option for him. So he was here. He would probably try something foolhardy or maybe he was still so blinded by hope that he would simply walk into the trap.

  Either way, Rachel had to stop him.

  Her only chance was to surprise them. Even then, even if everything fell into place, the best she could realistically hope for was to save Marc. The rest was fool’s gold.

  Time to act.

  They hadn’t bothered to tie her feet. With her hands behind her back and her mouth taped shut, what harm could she do? Trying to run at them would be suicide. She’d make an easy target.

  And that was what she was counting on.

  Rachel got to her feet. Lydia turned around and pointed the gun at her. “Sit down.”

  She didn’t. And now Lydia had a dilemma. If she fired the gun, Marc would hear it. He would know something was wrong. A stalemate. But it wouldn’t last. An idea—a pretty lame idea—came to Rachel. She broke into a run. Lydia would either have to shoot or give chase or . . .

  The window.

  Lydia saw what Rachel was doing, but there was no way to stop her. Rachel lowered her head like a battering ram and dived straight toward the picture window. Lydia raised her gun to shoot. Rachel braced herself. She knew that this would hurt. The glass broke with surprising ease. Rachel flew through it, but what she hadn’t counted on was how far off the ground she was. Her hands were still tied behind her back. There was no way to break the fall.

  She turned to the side and took the impact on her shoulder. Something popped. She felt a stabbing pain run down her leg. A shard of glass stuck out of her thigh. The sound would warn Marc, no question about it. He could be saved. But as Rachel rolled over, dread—deep, heavy dread—hit her next. Yes, she had warned Marc. He had seen her fall out the window.

  But now, without thinking of the danger, Marc was running toward her.

  Verne was crouched on the stairs.

  He’d been about to make his move when Rachel suddenly stood up. Was she crazy? But no, he realized, she was just a brave lady. After all, she had no idea that he was hiding upstairs. She couldn’t just sit there and let Marc walk in on this setup. She wasn’t built that way.

  “Sit down.”

  The woman’s voice. The pert thing named Lydia. She started to swing her gun up. Verne panicked. He wasn’t in position yet. He wouldn’t have a clear shot. But Lydia didn’t pull the trigger. Verne watched in amazement as Rachel ran and jumped through the window.

  Talk about a distraction.

  Verne moved now. He had heard countless times about how time stands still in moments of extreme violence, that brief seconds can drag so that you can see everything clearly. In reality, that was total bull. When you looked back, when you ran it through your mind in safety and comfort, that’s when you imagine it went by slowly. But in the heat of the moment, when he and three buddies had gotten into a firefight with some of Saddam’s “elite” soldiers, time had actually sped up. That was what was happening here.

  Verne spun around the corner. “Drop it!”

  The big man had his gun aimed at the window where Rachel had fallen out. There was no time to call out another warning. Verne fired twice. Heshy went down. Lydia screamed. Verne ducked into a roll and disappeared behind the couch. Lydia screamed again.

  “Heshy!”

  Verne peered out, expecting to see Lydia aiming the gun at him. But that wasn’t the case. She ditched the weapon. Still crying out, Lydia dropped to her knees and gently cradled Heshy’s head.

  “No! Don’t die. Please, Heshy, please don’t leave me!”

  Verne kicked her gun away. He kept his pointed at Lydia.

  Her voice was low now, soft and motherly. “Please, Heshy. Please don’t die. Oh God, please don’t leave me.”

  Heshy said, “I never will.”

  Lydia looked at Verne, her eyes pleading. He didn’t bother calling 911. He could hear the sirens now. Heshy grabbed Lydia’s hand. “You know what you have to do,” he said.

  “No,” she said, her voice small.

  “Lydia, we planned for this.”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  Heshy closed his eyes. His breathing was labored.

  “The world will think you were a monster,” she said.

  “I only care what you think. Promise me, Lydia.”

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Promise me.”

  Lydia shook her head. The tears were flowing freely now. “I can’t do it.”

  “You can.” Heshy managed a final smile. “You’re a great actress, remember?”

  “I love you,” she said.

  But his eyes were closed. Lydia kept sobbing. She kept pleading with him not to leave her. The sirens came closer. Verne stepped back. The police arrived. When they came inside, they stood around her in a circle. Lydia suddenly lifted her head off Heshy’s chest.

  “Thank God,” she said to them—and the tears started rolling again. “My nightmare is finally over.”

  Rachel was rushed to the hospital. I wanted to follow, but the police had other ideas. I spoke to Zia. I asked her to look in on Rachel for me.

  The police questioned us for hours. They questioned Verne, Katarina, and me separately and then together. I think they believed us. Lenny was there. Regan and Tickner showed up, but it took some time. They’d been going through Bacard’s files per Lenny’s phone call.

  Regan took the lead with me. “Long day, huh, Marc?”

  I sat across from him. “Do I look in the mood for chitchat, Detective?”

  “The woman goes by the name Lydia Davis. Her real name is Larissa Dane.”

  I made a face. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “She was a child actor.”

  “Trixie,” I said, remembering. “OnFamily Laughs .”

  “Yep, that’s her. Or at least, that’s what she says. Anyway, she claims this guy—we only know him as Heshy—kept her locked up and abused her. She said he forced her to do things. Your friend Verne thinks it’s all a scam. But that’s not important right now. She claims that she doesn’t know anything about your daughter.”

  “How can that be?”

  “She says they were just hired hands. That Bacard came to Heshy with this scheme about asking for ransom for a kid they hadn’t kidnapped. Heshy loved the idea. Lot of money—and since they didn’t really have the kid, there was almost no risk.”

  “She says they had nothing to do with the shooting at my house?”

  “That’s right.”

  I looked at Lenny. He saw the problem too. “But they had my gun. The one they used on Katarina’s brother.”

  “Yeah, we know. She claims that Bacard gave it to Heshy. To set you up. Heshy shot Pavel and planted the gun so you and Rachel would take the fall.”

  “How did they get Tara’s hair for the ransom drop? How did they get her clothes?
”

  “According to Ms. Dane, Bacard provided them.”

  I shook my head. “So Bacard was the one who kidnapped Tara?”

  “She claims not to know.”

  “How about my sister? How did she get involved?”

  “Again she claims it was Bacard. He gave them Stacy’s name as a fall guy. Heshy gave Stacy the money and told her to cash it at a bank. Then he killed her.”

  I looked over at Tickner, then back at Regan. “It doesn’t add up.”

  “We’re still working on it.”

  Lenny said, “I have a question. Why did they come back after a year and a half and try it again?”

  “Ms. Dane claims not to know for sure, but she suspects it was simple greed. She says Bacard called and asked if Heshy would want to make another million. He said yes. Going through Bacard’s records, he was clearly in financial trouble. We think she’s right. Bacard simply decided to take another bite of the apple.”

  I rubbed my face. My ribs began to ache. “Did you find Bacard’s adoption records?”

  Regan glanced at Tickner. “Not yet.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Look, we just got on this. We’ll find them. We’re going to check every adoption he’s ever made, especially anything involving a female eighteen months ago. If Bacard had Tara adopted, we’ll find out.”

  I shook my head again.

  “What is it, Marc?”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. The guy has a decent thing going with this adoption scam. Why shoot me and Monica and up the ante to kidnapping and murder?”

  “We don’t know,” Regan said. “I think we can all agree that there’s more to the story. But the truth is, the most likely scenario right now is that your sister and an accomplice shot you and Monica and took the baby. She then brought it to Bacard.”

  I closed my eyes and replayed it in my head. Could Stacy have really done that? Could she have broken into my house and shot me? I still couldn’t make myself believe. And then I thought of something.

  Why hadn’t I heard the window break?

  More than that, before I was shot, why hadn’t I heardanything ? A window break, a doorbell, heck, a door opening. Why hadn’t I heard any of that? The answer, according to Regan, had been that I was blocking. But now I saw that wasn’t it.

  “The granola bar,” I said.

  “Pardon me?”

  I turned to him. “Your theory is that I’m forgetting something, right? Stacy and her accomplice either broke the window or, I don’t know, rang the doorbell. I would have heard either one of those. But I didn’t. I remember eating my granola bar and then going down.”

  “Right.”

  “But see, I was pretty specific. I had the granola bar in my hand. When you found me, it was on the floor. How much had been eaten?”

  “Maybe a bite or two,” Tickner said.

  “Then your amnesia theory is wrong. I was standing over the sink eating the granola bar. I remember that. When you found me, that’s what I was doing. There is no time unaccounted for. And if it was my sister, why would she strip Monica, for Chrissake . . . ?” I stopped.

  Lenny said, “Marc?”

  Did you love her?

  I stared straight ahead.

  You know who shot you, don’t you, Marc?

  Dina Levinsky. I thought about her bizarre visits to the house she’d grown up in. I thought about the two guns—one being mine. I thought about the CD-ROM hidden in the basement, in the spot Dina had told me about. I thought about those pictures taken in front of the hospital. I thought about what Edgar said about Monica seeing a psychiatrist.

  And then an awful thought, one so terrible I might indeed have suppressed it, began to surface.

  chapter 43

  I feigned illnessand excused myself. I went to the bathroom and dialed Edgar’s phone number. My father-in-law himself answered. “Hello?”

  “You said Monica was seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “Marc? Is that you?” Edgar cleared his throat. “I just heard from the police. Those pissant fools had me convinced that you were behind all this—”

  “I don’t have time for that now. I’m still trying to find Tara.”

  “What do you need?” Edgar asked.

  “Did you ever find out the name of her psychiatrist?”

  “No.”

  I thought about it. “Is Carson there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put him on.”

  There was a brief pause. I tapped my foot. Uncle Carson’s rich voice came over the line. “Marc?”

  “You knew about those pictures, didn’t you?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “I checked our accounts. The money didn’t come from us. You paid for the private detective.”

  “It had nothing to do with the shooting or kidnapping,” Carson said.

  “I think it did. Monica told you the name of her psychiatrist, didn’t she? What was it?”

  Again he did not reply.

  “I’m trying to find out what happened to Tara.”

  “She only saw him twice,” Carson said. “How can he help you?”

  “He can’t. His name can.”

  “What?”

  “Just tell me, yes or no. Was his name Stanley Radio?”

  I could hear him breathing.

  “Carson?”

  “I already spoke to him. He knows nothing—”

  But I had already hung up. Carson wouldn’t say any more.

  But Dina Levinsky might.

  I asked Regan and Tickner if I was under arrest. They said no. I asked Verne if I could still borrow the Camaro.

  “No problemo,” Verne said. Then squinting, he added, “Do you need my help?”

  I shook my head. “You and Katarina are out of this now. It’s over for you.”

  “I’m still here, if you need me.”

  “I don’t. Go home, Verne.”

  He surprised me with a big hug then. Katarina kissed my cheek. I let go and watched them drive off in the pickup. I headed toward the city. There was heavy traffic at the Lincoln Tunnel. It took me over an hour to get through the tolls. That gave me time to make some phone calls. I learned that Dina Levinsky shared an apartment in Greenwich Village with a friend.

  Twenty minutes later, I knocked on her door.

  When Eleanor Russell returned from lunch, there was a plain manila envelope on her chair. It was addressed to her boss, Lenny Marcus, and markedPERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL .

  Eleanor had worked with Lenny for eight years. She loved him dearly. Having no family of her own—she and her husband, Saul, who had died three years before, had never been blessed with children—she had become something of a surrogate grandmother to the Marcuses. Eleanor even had photographs of Lenny’s wife, Cheryl, and their four children on her desk.

  She studied the envelope and frowned. How had it gotten here? She peeked into Lenny’s office. He looked so harried. That was because Lenny had just returned from a homicide scene. The case involving his best friend, Dr. Marc Seidman, had exploded back into the headlines. Normally Eleanor would not bother Lenny at a time like this. But the return address . . . well, she thought he should see it for himself.

  Lenny was on the phone. He saw her enter and put his hand over the receiver. “I’m kinda busy,” he said.

  “This came for you.”

  Eleanor handed him the envelope. Lenny almost ignored it. Then Eleanor watched as he spotted the return address. He turned it over, then back again.

  The return address simply read,From a friend of Stacy Seidman.

  Lenny put down the phone and tore open the envelope.

  I don’t think Dina Levinsky was surprised to see me.

  She let me in without a word. The walls were blanketed with her paintings, many hung at odd angles. The effect was dizzying, giving the entire apartment a Salvador Dalí feel. We sat in the kitchen. Dina offered to make tea. I said no. She put her hands on the table. I could see that her fingernails were bitte
n down past the cuticle. Had they been that way at my house? She seemed different now, sadder somehow. Her hair was straighter. Her eyes were downcast. It was as if she was transforming back to the pitiful girl I had known in elementary school.

  “You found the pictures?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Dina closed her eyes. “I should have never led you to them.”

  “Why did you?”

  “I lied to you before.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m not married. I don’t enjoy sex. I do have troubles with relationships.” She shrugged. “I even have problems with telling the truth.”

  Dina tried to smile. I tried to smile back.

  “In therapy we’re taught to confront our fears. The only way to do that is to let the truth in, no matter how much it hurts. But see, I wasn’t even sure what the truth was. So I tried to lead you there.”

  “You were back in the house before the night I saw you, weren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “And that’s how you met Monica?”

  “Yes.”

  I kept going. “You two became friends?”

  “We had something in common.”

  “That being?”

  Dina looked up at me, and I saw the pain.

  “Abuse?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Edgar sexually abused her?”

  “No, not Edgar. Her mother. And it wasn’t sexual. It was more physical and emotional. The woman was very ill. You knew that, right?”

  “I guess I did,” I said.

  “Monica needed help.”

  “So you introduced her to your therapist?”

  “I tried. I mean, I set up an appointment for her with Dr. Radio. But it didn’t work out.”

  “How come?”

  “Monica was not the sort of woman who believed in therapy. She thought that she could best handle her own problems.”

  I nodded. I knew. “At the house,” I said, “you asked me if I loved Monica.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “She thought you didn’t.” Dina put her finger in her mouth, searching for a sliver of nail to bite. There was none. “Of course, she thought herself unworthy of love. Like me. But there was a difference.”