Three Harlan Coben Novels

by Harlan Coben

“Seems like mostly women,” Grace noted.

  “When I was in school, they told us the national ratio in assisted living is five women for every one man.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes. Bobby jokes that he’s waited his whole life for that kind of odds.”

  Grace smiled.

  She waved a hand. “Oh, but he’s all talk. His wife—he calls her ‘his Maudie’—died almost thirty years ago. I don’t think he’s looked at a woman since.”

  That silenced them. The corridor was done up in forest green and pink, the walls lined with the familiar—Rockwell prints, dogs playing poker, black-and-whites from old movies like Casablanca and Strangers on a Train. Grace limped along. Lindsey noticed it—Grace could tell the way she cut quick glances—but like most people, she said nothing.

  “We have different neighborhoods at Starlight,” Lindsey explained. “That’s what we call the corridors like this. Neighborhoods. Each has a different theme. The one we’re in now is called Nostalgia. We think the residents find it comforting.”

  They stopped at a door. A nameplate on the right said “B. Dodd.” She knocked on the door. “Bobby?”

  No reply. She opened the door anyway. They stepped into a small but comfortable room. There was a tiny kitchenette on the right. On the coffee table, ideally angled so that you could see it from both the door and the bed, was a large black-and-white photograph of a stunning woman who looked a bit like Lena Horne. The woman in the picture was maybe forty but you could tell that the picture was old.

  “That’s his Maudie.”

  Grace nodded, lost for a moment in this image in the silver frame. She thought again about “her Jack.” For the first time she allowed herself to consider the unthinkable: Jack might never come home. It was something she’d been avoiding from the moment she’d heard the minivan start up. She might never see Jack again. She might never hold him. She might never laugh at one of his corny jokes. She might never—and this was apropos to think here—grow old with him.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Bobby must be up with Ira on Reminiscence. They play cards.”

  They began to back out of the room. “Is Reminiscence another, uh, neighborhood?”

  “No. Reminiscence is what we call our third floor. It’s for our residents with Alzheimer’s.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ira doesn’t recognize his own children, but he still plays a mean game of poker pinochle.”

  They were back in the hall. Grace noticed a cluster of images next to Bobby Dodd’s door. She took a closer look. It was one of those box frames people use to display trinkets. There were army medals. There was an old baseball, brown with age. There were photographs from every era of the man’s life. One photograph was of his murdered son, Bob Dodd, the same one she’d seen on the computer last night.

  Lindsey said, “Memory box.”

  “Nice,” Grace said, because she didn’t know what else to say.

  “Every patient has one by their door. It’s a way to let everyone know about you.”

  Grace nodded. Summing up a life in a twelve-by-eight box frame. Like everything else about this place, it managed to be both appropriate and creepy at the exact same time.

  To get to the Reminiscence floor you had to use an elevator that worked by a coded numeric keypad. “So the residents don’t wander,” Lindsey explained, which again fit into the “making sense yet giving the willies” style of this place.

  The Reminiscence floor was comfortable, well appointed, well staffed, and terrifying. Some residents were functional, but most wilted in wheelchairs like dying flowers. Some stood and shuffled. Several muttered to themselves. All had that glazed, hundred-yard stare.

  A woman deep into her eighties jangled her keys and started for the elevator.

  Lindsey asked, “Where are you going, Cecile?”

  The old woman turned toward her. “I have to pick up Danny from school. He’ll be waiting for me.”

  “It’s okay,” Lindsey said. “School won’t be out for another two hours.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. Look, let’s have some lunch and then you can pick up Danny, okay?”

  “He has piano lessons today.”

  “I know.”

  A staff member came over and steered Cecile away. Lindsey watched her go. “We use validation therapy,” she said, “with our advanced Alzheimer’s patients.”

  “Validation therapy?”

  “We don’t argue with them or try to make them see the truth. I don’t, for example, tell her that Danny is now a sixty-two-year-old banker with three grandchildren. We just try to redirect them.”

  They walked down a corridor—no, “neighborhood”—filled with life-size dolls of babies. There was a changing table and teddy bears.

  “Nursery neighborhood,” she said.

  “They play with dolls?”

  “Those that are more high functioning. It helps them prepare for visits from great-grandchildren.”

  “And the others?”

  Lindsey kept walking. “Some think they’re young mothers. It helps soothe them.”

  Subconsciously, or maybe not, they picked up the pace. A few seconds later, Lindsey said, “Bobby?”

  Bobby Dodd rose from the card table. The first word that came to mind: Dapper. He looked sprightly and fresh. He had dark black skin, thick wrinkles like something you might see on an alligator. He was a snappy dresser in a tweed jacket, two-tone loafers, red ascot with matching hanky. His gray hair was cropped close and slicked down.

  His manner was upbeat, even after Grace explained that she wanted to talk to him about his murdered son. She looked for some signs of devastation—a wetness in the eye, a tremor in the voice—but Bobby Dodd showed nothing. Okay, yes, Grace was dealing in heavy generalities, but could it be that death and big-time tragedy did not hit the elderly as hard as the rest of us? Grace wondered. The elderly could be easily agitated by the little stuff—traffic delays, lines at airports, poor service. But it was as if the big things never quite reached them. Was there a strange selfishness that came with age? Was there something about being closer to the inevitable—having that perspective—that made one either internalize, block, or brush off the big calamities? Can frailty not handle the big blows, and thus a defense mechanism, a survival instinct, runs interference?

  Bobby Dodd wanted to help, but he really didn’t know much. Grace could see that almost right away. His son had visited twice a month. Yes, Bob’s stuff had been packed up and sent to him, but he hadn’t bothered opening it.

  “It’s in storage,” Lindsey told Grace.

  “Do you mind if I look through it?”

  Bobby Dodd patted her leg. “Not at all, child.”

  “We’ll need to ship it to you,” Lindsey said. “The storage facility is off site.”

  “It’s very important.”

  “I can have it overnighted.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lindsey left them alone.

  “Mr. Dodd—”

  “Bobby, please.”

  “Bobby,” Grace said. “When was the last time your son visited you?”

  “Three days before he was killed.”

  The words came quickly and without thought. She finally saw a flicker behind the façade, and she wondered about her earlier observations, about old age making tragedy less hurtful—or does it merely make the mask more deft?

  “Did he seem different at all?”

  “Different?”

  “More distracted, anything like that.”

  “No.” Then: “Or at least I didn’t notice, if he did.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “We never have much to say. Sometimes we talk about his momma. Most of the time we just watch TV. They got cable here, you know.”

  “Did Jillian come with him?”

  “No.”

  He said that too quickly. Something in his face closed down.

  “Did sh
e ever come?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But not the last time?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  “That? No, that”—big emphasis—“didn’t surprise me.”

  “What did?”

  He looked off and bit his lower lip. “She wasn’t at the funeral.”

  Grace thought that she must have heard wrong. Bobby Dodd nodded as if he could read her thoughts.

  “That’s right. His own wife.”

  “Were they having marital issues?”

  “If they were, Bob never said anything to me.”

  “Did they have any children?”

  “No.” He adjusted the ascot and glanced away for a moment. “Why are you bringing this all up, Mrs. Lawson?”

  “Grace, please.”

  He did not reply. He looked at her with eyes that spoke of wisdom and sadness. Maybe the answer to elderly coldness is far simpler: Those eyes had seen bad. They didn’t want to see more.

  “My own husband is missing,” Grace said. “I think, I don’t know, I think they’re connected.”

  “What’s your husband’s name?”

  “Jack Lawson.”

  He shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. She asked if he had a phone number or any idea how she could contact Jillian Dodd. He shook his head again. They headed to the elevator. Bobby didn’t know the code, so an orderly escorted them down. They rode from floor three to one in silence.

  When they reached the door, Grace thanked him for his time.

  “Your husband,” he said. “You love him, don’t you?”

  “Very much.”

  “Hope you’re stronger than me.” Bobby Dodd walked away then. Grace thought of that silver-framed picture in his room, of his Maudie, and then she showed herself out.

  chapter 24

  Perlmutter realized that they had no legal right to open Rocky Conwell’s car. He pulled Daley over. “Is DiBartola on duty?”

  “No.”

  “Call Rocky Conwell’s wife. Ask her if she had a set of keys to the car. Tell her we found it and want her permission to go through it.”

  “She’s the ex-wife. Does she have any standing?”

  “Enough for our purposes,” Perlmutter said.

  “Okay.”

  It took Daley no time. The wife cooperated. They stopped by the Maple Garden apartments on Maple Street. Daley ran up and retrieved the keys. Five minutes later they pulled into the Park-n-Ride.

  There was no reason to be suspicious of foul play. If anything, finding the car here, at this depot, would lead one to the opposite conclusion. People parked here so that they could go elsewhere. One bus whisked the weary to the heart of midtown Manhattan. Another brought you to the northern tip of the famed isle, near the George Washington Bridge. Other buses took you to the three nearby major airports—JFK, LaGuardia, Newark Liberty—and ultimately anywhere in the world. So no, finding Rocky Conwell’s car did not lead one to suspect foul play.

  At least, not at first.

  Pepe and Pashaian, the two cops who were watching the car, had not seen it. Perlmutter’s eyes slid toward Daley. Nothing on his face either. They all looked complacent, expecting this would lead to a dead end.

  Pepe and Pashaian hoisted their belts and sauntered toward Perlmutter. “Hey, Captain.”

  Perlmutter kept his eyes on the car.

  “You want us to start questioning the ticket agents?” Pepe asked. “Maybe one of them remembers selling Conwell a ticket.”

  “I don’t think so,” Perlmutter said.

  The three younger men caught something in their superior’s voice. They looked at each other and shrugged. Perlmutter did not explain.

  Conwell’s vehicle was a Toyota Celica. A small car, old model. But the size and age didn’t really matter. Neither did the fact that there was rust along the wheel trims, that two hubcaps were gone, that the other two were so dirty you could not tell where metal ended and rubber began. No, none of that bothered Perlmutter.

  He stared at the back of the car and thought about those small-town sheriffs in horror movies, you know the ones, where something is very wrong, where townspeople start acting strangely and the body count keeps rising and the sheriff, that good, smart, loyal, out-of-his-league law enforcement officer, is powerless to do anything about it. That was what Perlmutter felt now because the back of the car, the trunk area, was low.

  Much too low.

  There was only one explanation. Something heavy was in the trunk.

  It could be anything, of course. Rocky Conwell had been a football player. He probably lifted weights. Maybe he was transferring a set of dumbbells. The answer could be as simple as that, good old Rocky moving his weights. Maybe he was bringing them back to the garden apartment on Maple Street, the one where his ex lived. She had worried about him. They were reconciling. Maybe Rocky loaded his car—okay, not his whole car, just his trunk, because Perlmutter could see that there was nothing in the backseat—anyway, maybe he loaded it up to move back in with her.

  Perlmutter jangled the keys as he moved closer to the Toyota Celica. Daley, Pepe, and Pashaian hung back. Perlmutter glanced down at the set of keys. Rocky’s wife—he thought that her name was Lorraine but he couldn’t be sure—had a Penn State football helmet key chain. It looked old and scraped up. The Nittany Lion was barely visible. Perlmutter wondered what she thought about when she looked at the key chain, why she still used it.

  He stopped at the trunk and sniffed the air. Not a hint. He put the key in the lock and turned. The trunk’s lock popped open, the sound echoing. He began to lift the trunk. The air escaping was almost audible. And now, yes, the smell was unmistakable.

  Something large had been squished into the trunk, like an oversize pillow. Without warning it sprang free like a giant jack-in-the-box. Perlmutter jumped back as the head fell out first, smacking the pavement hard.

  Didn’t matter, of course. Rocky Conwell was already dead.

  chapter 25

  Now what?

  Grace was starved for one thing. She drove over the George Washington Bridge, took the Jones Road exit, and stopped to grab a bite at a Chinese restaurant called, interestingly enough, Baumgart’s. She ate in silence, feeling as lonely as she had ever felt, and tried to hold herself together. What had happened? The day before yesterday—was it really only then?—she had picked up photographs at Photomat. That was all. Life was good. She had a husband she adored and two wonderful, inquisitive kids. She had time to paint. They all had their health, enough money in the bank. And then she had seen a photograph, an old one, and now . . .

  Grace had almost forgotten about Josh the Fuzz Pellet.

  He was the one who developed the roll of film. He was the one who mysteriously left the store not long after she picked up the pictures. He had to be the one, she was sure, who put that damn photograph in the middle of her pack.

  She grabbed her cell phone, asked directory assistance for the number of the Photomat in Kasselton, and even paid the extra fee to be directly connected. On the third ring, the phone was picked up.

  “Photomat.”

  Grace said nothing. No question about it. She would recognize that bored yah-dude slur anywhere. It was Fuzz Pellet Josh. He was back at the store.

  She considered just hanging up, but maybe, somehow, that would—she didn’t know—tip him off somehow. Make him run. She changed her voice, added a little extra lilt, and asked what time they closed.

  “Like, six,” Fuzz Pellet told her.

  She thanked him, but he had hung up. The check was already on the table. She paid and tried not to sprint to her car. Route 4 was wide open. She sped past the plethora of malls and found a parking spot not far from the Photomat. Her cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Carl Vespa.”

  “Oh, hi.”

  “I’m sorry about yesterday. About springing Jimmy X on you like that.”

  She debated tellin
g him about Jimmy’s late night visit, decided now was not the time. “It’s okay.”

  “I know you don’t care, but it looks like Wade Larue is going to get released.”

  “Maybe it’s the right thing,” she said.

  “Maybe.” But Vespa sounded far from convinced. “You sure you don’t need any protection?”

  “Positive.”

  “If you change your mind . . .”

  “I’ll call.”

  There was a funny pause. “Any word from your husband?”

  “No.”

  “Does he have a sister?”

  Grace changed hands. “Yes. Why?”

  “Her name Sandra Koval?”

  “Yes. What does she have to do with this?”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  He hung up. Grace stared at the phone. What the hell was that all about? She shook her head. It would be useless to call back. She tried to refocus.

  Grace grabbed her purse and hurry-limped toward the Photomat. Her leg hurt. Walking was a chore. It felt as though someone were on the ground clinging to her ankle and she had to drag him along. Grace kept moving. She was three stores away when a man in a business suit stepped in her path.

  “Ms. Lawson?”

  A weird thought struck Grace as she looked at this stranger: His sandy hair was nearly the same color as his suit. It almost looked liked they were both made from the same material.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph. He held it up to her face so that she could see it. “Did you post this on the Web?”

  It was the cropped mystery photograph of the blonde and the redhead.

  “Who are you?”

  The sandy-haired man said, “My name is Scott Duncan. I’m with the U.S. attorney’s office.” He pointed to the blonde, the one who’d been looking up at Jack, the one with the X across her face.

  “And this,” Scott Duncan said, “is a picture of my sister.”

  chapter 26

  Perlmutter had broken the news to Lorraine Conwell as gently as he could.

  He had delivered bad news plenty of times. Usually it involved car accidents on Route 4 or the Garden State Parkway. Lorraine Conwell had exploded into tears when he told her, but now the numb had seeped in and dried her eyes.