Three Harlan Coben Novels

by Harlan Coben

  The fourth “typo” combo she tried was “Lawson” and “Allworth”—two Ls instead of one.

  There were three hundred hits—neither name was that uncommon—but it was the fourth one that jumped out at her. She looked at the top line first:

  Crazy Davey’s Blog

  Grace knew vaguely that a blog was a sort of public diary. People wrote down their random thoughts. Other people, for some odd reason, enjoyed reading them. A diary used to be about being private. Now it was about trying to be shrill enough to reach the masses.

  The little sample bit under the link line read:

  “. . . John Lawson on keyboards and Sean Allworth who was wicked on guitar . . .”

  John was Jack’s real name. Sean was pretty close to Shane. Grace clicked the link. The page was forever long. She went back, clicked “cache.” When she returned to the page, the words Lawson and Allworth would be highlighted. She scrolled down and found an entry from two years ago:

  April 26

  Hey, gang. Terese and I took a weekend up in Vermont. We stayed at the Westerly’s bed and breakfasts. It was great. They had a fireplace and at night we played checkers. . . .

  Crazy Davey went on and on. Grace shook her head. Who the hell read this nonsense? She skipped three more paragraphs.

  That night I went with Rick, an old college bud, to Wino’s. It’s an old college bar. Total dump. We used to go when we went to Vermont University. Get this, we played Condom Roulette like the old days. Ever play? Every guy guesses a color—there’s Hot Red, Stallion Black, Lemon Yellow, Orange Orange. Okay, the last two are jokes, but you get the point. There’s this condom dispenser in the bathroom. It’s still there! So each guy puts a buck on the table. One guy gets a quarter and buys a condom. He brings it to the table. You open it and whammo, if it’s your color, you win! Rick guessed the first one right. He bought us a pitcher. The band that night sucked. I remembered hearing a group when I was a freshman named Allaw. There were two chicks in that band and two guys. I remember one chick played drums. The guys were John Lawson on keyboards and Sean Allworth who was wicked on guitar. That was how they got the name, I think. Allworth and Lawson. Combine it into Allaw. Rick never heard of them. Anyway we finished up the pitcher. A couple of hot chicks came in but they ignored us. We started feeling old. . . .

  That was it. Nothing more.

  Grace did a search for “Allaw.” Nothing.

  She tried more combinations. Nothing else. Only this one mention in a blog. Crazy Davey had gotten both Shane’s first and last name wrong. Jack had gone by Jack, well, for as long as Grace had known him, but maybe he was John back then. Or maybe the guy remembered it wrong or saw it written down.

  But Crazy Davey had mentioned four people—two women, two men. There were five people in the picture, but the one woman, the one who was pretty much a blur near the edge of the photograph—maybe she wasn’t part of the group. And what had Scott said about his sister’s last phone call?

  I figured it was about whatever new thing she was into—aromatherapy, her new rock band . . .

  Rock band. Could that be it? Was it a picture of a rock group?

  She searched Crazy Davey’s site for a phone number or a full name. There was only an e-mail. Grace hit the link and typed quickly:

  “I need your help. I have a very important question about Allaw, the band you saw in college. Please call me collect.”

  She listed her phone number and then hit the send button.

  So what does this mean?

  She tried to put it together in a dozen different ways. Nothing fit. A few minutes later the limousine pulled up the driveway. Grace glanced out the window. Carl Vespa was here.

  He had a new driver now, a mammoth muscleman with a crewcut and matching scowl who did not look half as dangerous as Cram. She bookmarked Crazy Davey’s blog before heading down the corridor to open the door.

  Vespa stepped in without saying hello. He still looked natty, still wearing a blazer that seemed to have been tailored by the gods, but the rest of him looked strangely unruly. His hair was always unkempt—that was his look—but there is a fine line between unkempt and not touched at all. It had crossed that line. His eyes were red. The lines around his mouth were deeper, more pronounced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Somewhere we can talk?” Vespa asked.

  “The kids are with Cram in the kitchen. We can use the living room.”

  He nodded. From a distance they heard Max’s full-bodied laugh. The sound made Vespa pull up. “Your son is six, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Vespa smiled now. Grace did not know what he was thinking, but the smile broke her heart. “When Ryan was six, he was into baseball cards.”

  “Max is into Yu-Gi-Oh!”

  “Yu-Gi-what?”

  She shook her head to indicate that it wasn’t worth explaining.

  He went on: “Ryan used to play this game with his cards. He’d break them up into teams. Then he’d lay them out on the carpet like it was a ball field. You know, the third baseman—Graig Nettles back then—actually playing third, three guys in the outfield—he even kept the extra pitchers in a bullpen out in right field.”

  His face glowed in the memory. He looked at Grace. She smiled at him, as gently as she could, but the mood still burst. Vespa’s face fell.

  “He’s getting released on probation.”

  Grace said nothing.

  “Wade Larue. They’re rushing his release. He’ll be out tomorrow.” “Oh.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “He’s been in jail for almost fifteen years,” she said.

  “Eighteen people died.”

  She did not want to have this conversation with him. That number—eighteen—was not relevant. Just one mattered. Ryan. From the kitchen Max laughed again. The sound shredded the room. Vespa kept his face steady but Grace could see something going on inside of him. A roiling. He did not speak. He did not have to, the thoughts obvious: Suppose it had been Max or Emma. Would she rationalize it as a stoned loser getting high and panicking? Would she be so quick to forgive?

  “Do you remember that security guard, Gordon MacKenzie?” Vespa asked.

  Grace nodded. He had been the hero of the night, finding a way to open up two locked emergency exits.

  “He died a few weeks ago. He had a brain tumor.”

  “I know.” They had given Gordon MacKenzie the biggest spread in the anniversary pieces.

  “Do you believe in life after death, Grace?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How about your parents? Will you see them one day?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Grace. I want to know what you think.”

  Vespa’s eyes bored into hers. She shifted in her seat. “On the phone. You asked if Jack had a sister.”

  “Sandra Koval.”

  “Why did you ask me that?”

  “In a minute,” Vespa said. “I want to know what you think. Where do we go when we die, Grace?”

  She could see that it would be useless to argue with him. There was a wrong vibe here, something out of sorts. He was not asking as a friend, a father figure, out of curiosity. There was challenge in his voice. Anger even. She wondered if he’d been drinking.

  “There’s a Shakespeare quote,” she said. “From Hamlet. He says that death is—and I think I have the quote right—an undiscovered country from whose borne no traveler returns.”

  He made a face. “In other words, we don’t have a clue.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You know that’s crap.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “You know that there’s nothing. That I will never see Ryan again. It’s just too hard for people to accept. The weak-minded invent invisible gods and gardens and reunions in paradise. Or some, like you, won’t buy into that nonsense, but it’s still too painful to admit the truth. So you come up with this ‘how can we know?’ rationale. But you do k
now, Grace, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, Carl.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m sorry that you’re in pain. But please don’t tell me what I believe.”

  Something happened to Vespa’s eyes. They expanded for a moment and it was almost as if something behind them exploded. “How did you meet your husband?”

  “What?”

  “How did you meet Jack?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He took a quick step closer. A threatening step. He looked down at her, and for the first time Grace knew that all the stories, all the rumors about what he was, what he did, they were true. “How did you two meet?”

  Grace tried not to cringe. “You already know.”

  “In France?”

  “Right.”

  He stared at her hard.

  “What’s going on, Carl?”

  “Wade Larue is getting out.”

  “So you said.”

  “Tomorrow his lawyer is holding a press conference in New York. The families will be there. I want you there.”

  She waited. She knew there was more.

  “His lawyer was terrific. She really dazzled the parole board. I bet she’ll dazzle the press too.”

  He stopped and waited. Grace was puzzled for a few moments, but then something cold started in the center of her chest and spread through her limbs. Carl Vespa saw it. He nodded and stepped back.

  “Tell me about Sandra Koval,” he said. “Because, see, I can’t understand how your sister-in-law, of all people, ended up representing someone like Wade Larue.”

  chapter 36

  Indira Khariwalla waited for the visitor.

  Her office was dark. All the private detection was done for the day. Indira liked sitting with the lights out. The problem with the West, she was convinced, was overstimulation. She fell prey to it too, of course. That was the thing. No one was above it. The West seduced you with stimulation, a constant barrage of color and light and sound. It never stopped. So whenever possible, especially at the end of the day, Indira liked to sit with the lights off. Not to meditate, as one might assume because of her heritage. Not sitting in lotus position with her thumbs and forefingers making two circles.

  No, just darkness.

  At 10 P.M., there was a light rap on the door. “Come on in.”

  Scott Duncan entered the room. He did not bother turning on the light. Indira was glad. It would make this easier.

  “What’s so important?” he asked.

  “Rocky Conwell was murdered,” Indira said.

  “I heard about that on the radio. Who is he?”

  “The man I hired to follow Jack Lawson.”

  Scott Duncan said nothing.

  “Do you know who Stu Perlmutter is?” she continued.

  “The cop?”

  “Yes. He visited me yesterday. He asked about Conwell.”

  “Did you claim attorney-client?”

  “I did. He wants to get a judge to compel me to answer.”

  Scott Duncan turned away.

  “Scott?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You don’t know anything.”

  Indira was not so sure. “What are you going to do?”

  Duncan stepped out of the office. He reached behind him, grabbed the knob, and started closing the door behind him. “Nip this in the bud,” he said.

  chapter 37

  The press conference was at 10 A.M. Grace took the children to school first. Cram drove. He wore an oversized flannel shirt left untucked. He had a gun under it, she knew. The children hopped out. They said good-bye to Cram and hurried away. Cram shifted the car into gear.

  “Don’t go yet,” Grace said.

  She watched until they were safely inside. Then she nodded that it was okay for the car to start moving again.

  “Don’t worry,” Cram said. “I have a man watching.”

  She turned to him. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “How long have you been with Mr. Vespa?”

  “You were there when Ryan died, right?”

  The question threw her. “Yes.”

  “He was my godson.”

  The streets were quiet. She looked at him. She had no idea what to do. She could not trust them—not with her children, not after she’d seen Vespa’s face last night. But what choice did she have? Maybe she should try the police again, but would they really be willing or able to protect them? And Scott Duncan, well, even he had admitted that their alliance only went so far.

  As if reading her thoughts, Cram said, “Mr. Vespa still trusts you.”

  “And what if he decides he doesn’t anymore?”

  “He’d never hurt you.”

  “You’re that sure?”

  “Mr. Vespa will meet us in the city. At the press conference. You want to listen to the radio?”

  The traffic was not bad, considering the hour. The George Washington Bridge was still crawling with cops, a hangover from September 11 that Grace could not get over. The press conference was being held at the Crowne Plaza Hotel near Times Square. Vespa told her that there’d been talk about conducting it in Boston—that would seem more appropriate—but someone in the Larue camp realized that it might be too emotionally jarring to return so close to the scene. They also hoped that fewer family members would show up if it were held in New York.

  Cram dropped her off on the sidewalk and headed into the lot next door. Grace stood on the street for a moment and tried to gather herself. Her cell phone sounded. She checked the Caller ID. The number was unfamiliar. Six-one-seven area code. That was the Boston area, if she remembered correctly.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. This is David Roff.”

  She was near Times Square in New York. People were, of course, everywhere. No one seemed to be talking. No horns were honking. But the roar in her ear was still deafening. “Who?”

  “Uh, well, I guess you might know me better as Crazy Davey. From my blog. I got your e-mail. Is this a bad time?”

  “No, not at all.” Grace realized that she was shouting to be heard. She stuck a finger in her free ear. “Thanks for calling me back.”

  “I know you said to call collect, but I got some new phone service where all long distance is included, so I figured what the hell, you know.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “You made it sound kind of important.”

  “It is. On your blog you mentioned a band named Allaw.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m trying to find out anything I can about them.”

  “I figured that, yeah, but I don’t think I can really help you. I mean, I just saw them that one night. Me and some buddies got totally wasted, spent the whole night there. We met some girls, did a lot of dancing, did a lot more drinking. We talked to the band afterward. That’s why I remember it so well.”

  “My name is Grace Lawson. My husband was Jack.”

  “Lawson? That was the lead guy, right? I remember him.”

  “Were they any good?”

  “The band? Truth is, I don’t remember, but I think so. I remember having a blast and getting wasted. Had a hangover that still makes me cringe to this day. You trying to put a surprise together for him?”

  “A surprise?”

  “Yeah, like a surprise party or a scrapbook about his old days.”

  “I’m just trying to find out anything I can about the people in the group.”

  “I wish I could help. I don’t think they lasted that long. Never heard them again, though I know they had another gig at the Lost Tavern. That was in Manchester. That’s all I know, I’m sorry.”

  “I appreciate your calling me back.”

  “Sure, no problem. Oh wait. This might be fun trivia for a scrapbook.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The gig Allaw played in Manchester? They opened for Still Night.”

  Waves of pedestrians rushed past her. Grace huddled near a wal
l, trying to avoid the masses. “I’m not familiar with Still Night.”

  “Well, only real music buffs would be, I guess. Still Night didn’t last too long either. At least not in that incarnation.” There was a static crackle, but Grace still heard Crazy Davey’s next words too clearly: “But their lead singer was Jimmy X.”

  Grace felt her grip on the phone go slack.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m still here,” Grace said.

  “You know who Jimmy X is, right? ‘Pale Ink’? The Boston Massacre?”

  “Yes.” Her voice sounded very far away. “I remember.”

  Cram came out of the parking lot. He spotted her face and picked up his pace again. Grace thanked Crazy Davey and hung up. She had his number on her cell phone now. She could always call him back.

  “Everything okay?”

  She tried to shake it off, this feeling of cold. It wouldn’t happen. She managed to utter, “Fine.”

  “Who was that?”

  “You my social secretary now?”

  “Easy.” He held up both hands. “Just asking.”

  They headed inside the Crowne Plaza. Grace tried to process what she had just heard. A coincidence. That was all. A bizarre coincidence. Her husband had played in a bar band in college. So had a zillion other people. He happened to play on the same bill once as Jimmy X. Again so what? They were both in the same area at around the same time. This would have been at least a year, probably two, before the Boston Massacre. And Jack might not have mentioned it to her because he figured that it was irrelevant and might, in any case, upset his wife. A Jimmy X concert had traumatized her. It had left her partially crippled. So he maybe didn’t see a need to mention that slight connection.

  No big deal, right?

  Except that Jack had never even mentioned playing in a band. Except that the members of Allaw were all now either dead or missing.

  She tried to gather some of the pieces. When exactly had Geri Duncan been murdered anyway? Grace had been undergoing physical therapy when she read about the fire. That meant it probably happened a few months after the massacre. Grace would need to check the exact date. She would need to check the entire time line because, let’s face it, there was no way the Allaw–Jimmy X connection was a coincidence.