by Harlan Coben
• • •
Mike did indeed drive. The Asian man had nearly a minute head start, but what was good about their twisty development of cul-de-sacs, tract houses, nicely wooded lots—this wondrous serpentine sprawl of suburbia—was that there was only one true entrance and exit road.
In this stretch of Ho-Ho-Kus, all roads led to Hollywood Avenue.
Charlaine filled Mike in as quickly as possible. She told him most of it, about how she’d looked out the window and spotted the man and grown suspicious. Mike listened without interrupting. There were holes the size of a heartache in her story. She left out why she had been looking out the window in the first place, for example. Mike must have seen the holes, but right now he was letting it go.
Charlaine studied his profile and traveled back to the first time they met. She had been a freshman at Vanderbilt University. There was a park in Nashville, not far from campus, with a replica of the Parthenon, the one in Athens. Originally built in 1897 for the Centennial Expo, the structure was thought to be the most realistic replica of the famed site atop the Acropolis anywhere in the world. If you wanted to know what the actual Parthenon looked like in its heyday, well, people would travel to Nashville, Tennessee.
She was sitting there on a warm fall day, just eighteen years old, staring at the edifice, imagining what it must have been like in Ancient Greece, when a voice said, “It doesn’t work, does it?”
She turned. Mike had his hands in his pocket. He looked so damned handsome. “Excuse me?”
He took a step closer, a half smile on his lips, moving with a confidence that drew her. Mike gestured with his head toward the enormous structure. “It’s an exact replica, right? You look at it, and this is what they saw, great philosophers like Plato and Socrates, and all I can think is”—he stopped, shrugged—“is that all there is?”
She smiled at him. She saw his eyes widen and knew that the smile had landed hard. “It leaves nothing to the imagination,” she said.
Mike tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“You see the ruins of the real Parthenon and you try to imagine what it would have looked like. But the reality, which this is, can never live up to what your mind conjures up.”
Mike nodded slowly, considering.
“You don’t agree?” she asked.
“I had another theory,” Mike said.
“I’d like to hear it.”
He moved closer and bent down on his haunches. “There are no ghosts.”
Now she did the head tilt.
“You need the history. You need the people in their sandals walking through it. You need the years, the blood, the deaths, the sweat from, what, four hundred years B.C. Socrates never prayed in there. Plato didn’t argue by its door. Replicas never have the ghosts. They’re bodies without souls.”
The young Charlaine smiled again. “You use this line on all the girls?”
“It’s new, actually. I’m trying it out. Any good?”
She lifted her hand, palm down, and turned it back and forth. “Eh.”
Charlaine had been with no other man since that day. For years they returned to the fake Parthenon on their anniversary. This had been the first year they hadn’t gone back.
“There he is,” Mike said.
The Ford Windstar was traveling west on Hollywood Avenue toward Route 17. Charlaine was back on the phone with a 911 operator. The operator was finally taking her seriously.
“We lost radio contact with our officer at the scene,” she said.
“He’s heading onto Route 17 south at the Hollywood Avenue entrance,” Charlaine said. “He’s driving a Ford Windstar.”
“License plate?”
“I can’t see it.”
“We have officers responding to both scenes. You can drop your pursuit now.”
She lowered the phone. “Mike?”
“It’s okay,” he said.
She sat back and thought about her own house, about ghosts, about bodies without souls.
• • •
Eric Wu was not easily surprised.
Seeing the woman from the house and this man he assumed was her husband following him—that definitely registered as something he would not have predicted. He wondered how to handle it.
The woman.
She had set him up. She was following him. She had called the police. They had sent an officer. He knew then that she would call again.
What Wu had counted on, however, was putting enough distance between himself and the Sykes household before the police responded to her call. When it comes to tracking down vehicles the police are far from omnipotent. Think about the Washington sniper a few years back. They had hundreds of officers. They had roadblocks. For an embarrassingly long time they couldn’t locate two amateurs.
If Wu could get enough miles ahead, he would be safe.
But now there was a problem.
That woman again.
That woman and her husband were following him. They would be able to tell the police where he was going, what road he was on, what direction he was heading. He would not be able to put the distance between him and the authorities.
Conclusion: Wu had to stop them.
He spotted the sign for the Paramus Park Mall and took the jug-handle back over the highway. The woman and her husband followed. It was late at night. The stores were closed. The lot was empty. Wu pulled into it. The woman and her husband kept their distance.
That was okay.
Because it was time to call their bluff.
Wu had a gun, a Walther PPK. He didn’t like using it. Not that he was squeamish. Wu simply preferred his hands. He was decent with a gun; he was expert with his hands. He had perfect control with them. They were a part of him. With a gun you are forced to trust the mechanics, an outside source. Wu did not like that.
But he understood the need.
He stopped the car. He made sure the gun was loaded. His car door was unlocked. He pulled the handle, stepped out of the vehicle, and aimed his weapon.
• • •
Mike said, “What the hell is he doing?”
Charlaine watched the Ford Windstar enter the mall lot. There were no other cars. The lot was well lit, bathed in a shopping-center fluorescent glow. She could see Sears up ahead, the Office Depot, Sports Authority.
The Ford Windstar drifted to a stop.
“Keep back,” she said.
“We’re in a locked car,” Mike said. “What can he do?”
The Asian man moved with fluidity and grace, and yet there was also deliberation, as if each movement had been carefully planned in advanced. It was a strange combination, the way he moved, almost inhuman. But right now the man stood next to his car, his entire body still. His arm swept forward, only the arm, the rest of him so undisturbed by the motion that you might think it was an optical illusion.
And then their windshield exploded.
The noise was sudden and deafening. Charlaine screamed. Something splashed on her face, something wet and syrupy. There was a coppery smell in the air now. Instinctively Charlaine ducked. The glass from the windshield rained down on her head. Something slumped against her, pushing her down.
It was Mike.
She screamed again. The scream mixed with the sound of another bullet being fired. She had to move, had to get out, had to get them out of here. Mike was not moving. She shoved him off her and risked raising her head.
Another shot whistled past her.
She had no idea where it landed. Her head was back down. There was a screaming in her ears. A few seconds passed. Charlaine finally risked a glance.
The man was walking toward her.
What now?
Escape. Flee. That was the only thought that came through.
How?
She shifted the car into reverse. Mike’s foot was still on the brake. She dropped low. Her hand stretched out and took hold of his slack ankle. She slid his foot off the brake. Still wedged into the foot area Charlaine managed to jam he
r palm on the accelerator. She pushed down with everything she had. The car jerked back. She could not move. She had no idea where she was going.
But they were moving.
She kept her palm pressed down to the floor. The car jolted over something, a curb maybe. The bounce banged her head against the steering column. Using her shoulder blades, she tried to keep the wheel steady. Her left hand still pressed down on the accelerator. They hit another bump. She held on. The road was smoother now. But just for a moment. Charlaine heard the honking of horns, the screech of tires and brakes, and the awful whir of cars spinning out of control.
There was an impact, a terrible jarring, and then, a few seconds later, darkness.
chapter 19
The color in Officer Daley’s face had ebbed away. Perlmutter sat up. “What is it?”
Daley stared at the sheet of paper in his hand as if he feared it might flee. “Something doesn’t make sense here, Cap.”
When Captain Perlmutter had started working as a cop, he hated the night shift. The quiet and solitude got to him. He had grown up in a big family, one of seven kids, and he liked that life. He and his wife Marion planned on having a big family. He had the whole thing figured out—the barbecues, the weekends coaching one kid or the other, the school conferences, the family movies on Friday night, the summer nights on the front porch—the life he’d experienced growing up in Brooklyn, but with a suburban, bigger-house twist.
His grandmother used to spew Yiddish quotes all the time. Stu Perlmutter’s personal favorite had been this: “Man plans and God laughs.” Marion, the only woman he had ever loved, died of a sudden embolism when she was thirty-one. She’d been in the kitchen, making Sammy—that was their son, their only child—a sandwich when the embolism hit. She was dead before she landed on the linoleum.
Perlmutter’s life pretty much ended that day. He did what he could to raise Sammy, but the truth was, his heart was never really in it. He loved the boy and enjoyed his job, but he had lived for Marion. This precinct, his work, had become his solace. Home, being with Sammy, reminded him of Marion and all they’d never have. Here, alone, he could almost forget.
All of that was a long time ago. Sammy was in college now. He had turned into a good man, despite his father’s inattentiveness. There was something to be said for that, but Perlmutter did not know what.
Perlmutter signaled for Daley to sit down. “So what’s up?”
“That woman. Grace Lawson.”
“Ah,” Perlmutter said.
“Ah?”
“I was just thinking about her too.”
“Something about her case bothering you, Captain?”
“Yep.”
“I thought it was just me.”
Perlmutter tipped his chair back. “Do you know who she is?”
“Ms. Lawson?”
“Yup.”
“She’s an artist.”
“More than that. You notice the limp?”
“Yes.”
“Her married name is Grace Lawson. But once upon a time, her name—her maiden name, I guess—was Grace Sharpe.”
Daley looked at him blankly.
“You ever hear of the Boston Massacre?”
“Wait, you mean that rock concert riot?”
“More a stampede, but yeah. Lot of people died.”
“She was there?”
Perlmutter nodded. “Badly injured too. In a coma for a while. Press gave her the full fifteen minutes and then some.”
“How long ago was that?”
“What, fifteen, sixteen years ago maybe.”
“But you remember?”
“It was big news. And I was a big fan of the Jimmy X Band.”
Daley looked surprised. “You?”
“Hey, I wasn’t always an old fart.”
“Heard their CD. It was pretty damn good. Radio still plays ‘Pale Ink’ all the time.”
“One of the best songs ever.”
Marion had liked the Jimmy X Band. Perlmutter remembered her constantly blasting “Pale Ink” on an old Walkman, her eyes closed, her lips moving as she silently sang along. He blinked the image away.
“So what happened to them?”
“The massacre destroyed the band. They broke up. Jimmy X—I don’t remember his real name anymore—was the front man and wrote all the songs. He just up and quit.” Perlmutter pointed to the piece of paper in Daley’s hand. “So what’s that?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Something to do with the Lawson case?”
“I don’t know.” Then: “Yeah, maybe.”
Perlmutter put his hands behind his head. “Start talking.”
“DiBartola got a call early tonight,” Daley said. “Another missing husband case.”
“Similarities to Lawson?”
“No. I mean, not at first. This guy wasn’t even her husband anymore. An ex. And he isn’t exactly squeaky clean.”
“He’s got a record?”
“Did time for assault.”
“Name?’
“Rocky Conwell.”
“Rocky? For real?”
“Yep, that’s what it says on his birth certificate.”
“Parents.” Perlmutter made a face. “Wait, why does that name ring a bell?”
“He played a little pro ball.”
Perlmutter searched the memory banks, shrugged. “So what’s the deal?”
“Okay, like I said, this case looks even more cut-and-dry than Lawson. Ex-husband who was supposed to take his wife out shopping this morning. I mean, it’s nothing. It’s less than nothing. But DiBartola sees the wife—her name is Lorraine—well, she’s a royal babe. So you know DiBartola.”
“A pig,” Permutter said with a nod. “Ranked in the top ten by both the AP and UPI.”
“Right, so he figures, what the hell, humor her, right? She’s separated, so you never know. Maybe something would swing his way.”
“Very professional.” Perlmutter frowned. “Go on.”
“This is where it gets weird.” Daley licked his lips. “DiBartola, he does the simple thing. He runs the E-ZPass.”
“Like you.”
“Exactly like me.”
“What do you mean?”
“He gets a hit.” Daley took another step into the room. “Rocky Conwell crossed the tollbooth off Exit 16 on the New York Thruway. At exactly ten-twenty-six last night.”
Perlmutter looked at him.
“Yeah, I know. Exact same time and place as Jack Lawson.”
Perlmutter scanned the report. “You’re sure about this? DiBartola didn’t accidentally run the same number we did or something?”
“Checked it twice. There’s no mistake. Conwell and Lawson crossed the toll at the exact same time. They had to be together.”
Perlmutter mulled it over and shook his head. “No.”
Daley looked confused. “You think it’s a coincidence?”
“Two separate cars, crossing the toll at the same time? Not likely.”
“So how do you figure it?”
“I’m not sure,” Perlmutter said. “Let’s say they, I don’t know, ran away together. Or Conwell kidnapped Lawson. Or hell, Lawson kidnapped Conwell. Whatever. They’d be in the same car. There would be only one E-ZPass hit, not two.”
“Right, okay.”
“But they were in two separate cars. That’s what’s throwing me. Both men in separate cars cross the toll at the same time. And now both men are missing.”
“Except Lawson called his wife,” Daley added. “He needed space, remember?”
They both thought about it.
Daley said, “You want me to call Ms. Lawson? See if she knows this Conwell guy?”
Perlmutter plucked on his bottom lip and thought about it. “Not yet. Besides it’s late. She’s got kids.”
“So what should we do?”
“A little more investigating. Let’s talk to Rocky Conwell’s ex-wife first. See if we dig up a connection betwee
n Conwell and Lawson. Put his car out there, see if we get a hit.”
The phone rang. Daley was working the switchboard as well. He picked it up, listened, and then turned to Perlmutter.
“Who was that?”
“Phil over at the Ho-Ho-Kus station.”
“Something wrong?”
“They think an officer might be down. They want our help.”
chapter 20
Beatrice Smith was a fifty-three-year-old widow.
Eric Wu was back in the Ford Windstar. He took Ridgewood Avenue to the Garden State Parkway north. He headed east on Interstate 287 toward the Tappan Zee Bridge. He exited at Armonk in New York. He was on side roads now. He knew exactly where he was going. He had made mistakes, yes, but the basics were still with him.
One of those basics: Have a backup residence lined up.
Beatrice Smith’s husband had been a popular cardiologist, even serving a term as town mayor. They’d had lots of friends, but they were all “couple” friends. When Maury—that was her husband’s name—died of a sudden heart attack, the friends stayed around for a month or two and then faded away. Her only child, a son, and a doctor like his father, lived in San Diego with his wife and three children. She kept the house, the same house she had shared with Maury, but it was big and lonely. She was thinking about selling it and moving into Manhattan, but the prices were just too steep right now. And she was afraid. Armonk was all she knew. Would it be jumping from the frying pan into the fire?
She had confided all of this online to the fictional Kurt McFaddon, a widower from Philadelphia who was considering relocating to New York City. Wu pulled onto her street and slowed. The surroundings were quiet and woodsy and very private. It was late. A fake delivery would not work at this hour. There would be no time or even need for subtlety. Wu would not be able to keep this host alive.
There could be nothing to connect Beatrice Smith to Freddy Sykes.
In short, Beatrice Smith could not be found. Not ever.
Wu parked the car, put on his gloves—no fingerprints this time—and approached the house.
chapter 21
At 5 A.M., Grace threw on a bathrobe—Jack’s robe—and headed downstairs. She always wore Jack’s clothes. He’d kindly request lingerie, but she preferred his pajama tops. “Well?” she’d ask, modeling the top. “Not bad,” he’d reply, “but why not try wearing just the bottoms instead. Now that would be a look.” She shook her head at the memory and reached the computer room.