by Harlan Coben
"That's correct, Terese. Authorities aren't doing much talking right now, and officials deny the reports. But the leaks are coming to us from very reliable sources."
"Do the police have a motive, Jack?"
"We haven't heard one yet. There has been some speculation that there may have been a love triangle here. Ms. Schayes was married to a Gary Lamont, who remains in seclusion. But that's little more than conjecture at this point."
Still staring at the TV screen, she felt the tears start welling up.
"And Dr. Beck is still at large tonight?"
"Yes, Terese. The police are asking for the public's cooperation, but they stress that no one should approach him on their own."
Chatter followed. Meaningless chatter.
She turned away. Rebecca. Oh God, not Rebecca. And she'd gotten married. Had probably picked out dresses and china patterns and done all those things they used to mock. How? How had Rebecca gotten tangled up in all this? Rebecca hadn't known anything.
Why had they killed her?
Then the thought hit her anew: What have I done?
She had come back. They had started looking for her. How would they have gone about that? Simple. Watch the people she was closest to. Stupid. Her coming back had put everyone she cared about in danger. She had messed up. And now her friend was dead.
"British Airways Flight 174, departing for London. All rows may now board."
There was no time to beat herself up. Think. What should she do? Her loved ones were in danger. Beck ' she suddenly remembered his silly disguise ' was on the run. He was up against powerful people. If they were trying to frame him for murder ' and that seemed pretty obvious right now ' he'd have no chance.
She couldn't just leave. Not yet. Not until she knew that Beck was safe.
She turned and headed for an exit.
When Peter Flannery finally saw the news reports on the David Beck manhunt, he picked up the phone and dialed a friend at the D.A.'s office.
"Who's running the Beck case?" Flannery asked.
"Fein."
A true ass, Flannery thought. "I saw your boy today."
"David Beck?"
"Yeah," Flannery said. "He paid me a visit."
"Why?"
Flannery kicked back his BarcaLounger. "Maybe you should put me through to Fein."
Chapter 35
When night fell, Tyrese found me a room at the apartment of Latisha's cousin. We couldn't imagine that the police would unearth my connection with Tyrese, but why take the chance?
Tyrese had a laptop. We hooked it up. I checked my email, hoping for a message from my mysterious mailer. Nothing under my work account. Nothing under my home account. I tried the new one at bigfoot.com. Nothing there either.
Tyrese had been looking at me funny since we'd left Flannery's office. "I ask you something, Doc?"
"Go ahead," I said.
"When that mouthpiece said about that guy being murdered'"
"Brandon Scope," I added.
"Yeah, him. You look like someone hit you with a stun gun."
I had felt it. "You're wondering why?"
Tyrese shrugged.
"I knew Brandon Scope. He and my wife shared an office at a charitable foundation in the city. And my father grew up with and worked for his father. In fact, my father was in charge of teaching Brandon about the family holdings."
"Uh-huh," Tyrese said. "What else?"
"That's not enough?"
Tyrese waited. I turned to face him. He kept his eyes steady and for a moment I thought he could see all the way to the blackest corners of my soul. Thankfully, the moment passed. Tyrese said, "So what do you want to do next?"
"Make a few phone calls," I said. "You sure they can't be traced back here?"
"Can't see how. Tell you what, though. We'll do it with a conference call to another cell phone. Make it that much harder."
I nodded. Tyrese set it up. I had to dial another number and tell somebody I didn't know what numbers to dial. Tyrese headed for the door. "I'm gonna check on TJ. I'll be back in an hour."
"Tyrese?"
He looked back. I wanted to say thanks, but somehow it didn't feel right. Tyrese understood. "Need you to stay alive, Doc. For my kid, see?"
I nodded. He left. I checked my watch before dialing Shauna's cell phone. She answered on the first ring. "Hello?"
"How's Chloe?" I asked.
"Great," she said.
"How many miles did you walk?"
"At least three. More like four or five." Relief coursed through me. "So what's our next'"
I smiled and disconnected the phone. I dialed up my forwarding buddy and gave him another number. He mumbled something about not being a goddamn operator, but he did as I asked.
Hester Crimstein answered as though she were taking a bite out of the receiver. "What?"
"It's Beck," I said quickly. "Can they listen in, or do we have some kind of attorney-client protection here?"
There was a strange hesitation. "It's safe," she said.
"I had a reason for running," I began.
"Like guilt?"
"What?"
Another hesitation. "I'm sorry, Beck. I screwed up. When you ran like that, I freaked out. I said some stupid things to Shauna, and I quit as your attorney."
"Never told me," I said. "I need you, Hester."
"I won't help you run."
"I don't want to run anymore. I want to surrender. But on our terms."
"You're not in any position to dictate terms, Beck. They're going to lock you up tight. You can forget bail."
"Suppose I offer proof I didn't kill Rebecca Schayes."
Another hesitation. "You can do that?"
"Yes."
"What sort of proof?"
"A solid alibi."
"Provided by?"
"Well," I said, "that's where it gets interesting."
Special Agent Carlson picked up his cell phone. "Yeah."
"Got something else," his partner Stone said.
"What?"
"Beck visited a cheap mouthpiece named Flannery a few hours ago. A black street kid was with him."
Carlson frowned. "I thought Hester Crimstein was his attorney."
"He wasn't looking for legal representation. He wanted to know about a past case."
"What case?"
"Some all-purpose perp named Gonzalez was arrested for killing Brandon Scope eight years ago. Elizabeth Beck gave the guy a hell of an alibi. Beck wanted to know all about it."
Carlson felt his head doing a double spin. How the hell...?
"Anything else?"
"That's it," Stone said. "Say, where are you?"
"I'll talk to you later, Tom." Carlson hung up the phone and pressed in another number.
A voice answered, "National Tracing Center."
"Working late, Donna?"
"And I'm trying to get out of here, Nick. What do you want?"
"A really big favor."
"No," she said. Then with a big sigh, "What?"
"You still have that thirty-eight we found in the Sarah Goodhart safety-deposit box?"
"What about it?"
He told her what he wanted. When he finished, she said, "You're kidding, right?"
"You know me, Donna. No sense of humor."
"Ain't that truth." She sighed. "I'll put in a request, but there's no way it'll get done tonight."
"Thanks, Donna. You're the best."
When Shauna entered the building's foyer, a voice called out to her.
"Excuse me. Miss Shauna?"
She looked at the man with the gelled hair and expensive suit. "And you are?"
"Special Agent Nick Carlson."
"Nighty-night, Mr. Agent."
"We know he called you."
Shauna patted her mouth in a fake yawn. "You must be proud."
"Ever hear the terms aiding and abetting and accessory after the fact?"
"Stop scaring me," she said in an exaggerated monotone, "or I might just ma
ke wee-wee right here on the cheap carpeting."
"You think I'm bluffing?"
She put out her hands, wrists together. "Arrest me, handsome." She glanced behind him. "Don't you guys usually travel in pairs?"
"I'm here alone."
"So I gather. Can I go up now?"
Carlson carefully adjusted his glasses. "I don't think Dr. Beck killed anyone."
That stopped her.
"Don't get me wrong. There's plenty of evidence he did it. My colleagues are all convinced he's guilty. There is still a massive manhunt going on."
"Uh-huh," Shauna said with more than a hint of suspicion in her voice. "But somehow you see through all that?"
"I just think something else is going on here."
"Like what?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"And if I suspect that this is a trick?"
Carlson shrugged. "Not much I can do about that."
She mulled it over. "It doesn't matter," she said. "I don't know anything."
"You know where he's hiding."
"I don't."
"And if you did?"
"I wouldn't tell you. But you already know that."
"I do," Carlson said. "So I guess you won't tell me what all that talk about walking his dog was about."
She shook her head. "But you'll find out soon enough."
"He'll get hurt out there, you know. Your friend assaulted a cop. That makes it open season on him."
Shauna kept her gaze steady. "Not much I can do about that."
"No, I guess not."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot," Carlson said.
"Why don't you think he's guilty?"
"I'm not sure. Lots of little things, I guess." Carlson tilted his head. "Did you know that Beck was booked on a flight to London?"
Shauna let her eyes take in the lobby, trying to buy a second or two. A man entered and smiled appreciatively at Shauna. She ignored him. "Bull," she said at last.
"I just came from the airport," Carlson continued. "The flight was booked three days ago. He was a no-show, of course. But what was really odd was that the credit card used to purchase the ticket was in the name of Laura Mills. That name mean anything to you?"
"Should it?"
"Probably not. We're still working on it, but apparently it's a pseudonym."
"For whom?"
Carlson shrugged. "Do you know a Lisa Sherman?"
"No. How does she fit in?"
"She was booked on the same flight to London. In fact, she was supposed to sit next to our boy."
"Another no-show?"
"Not exactly. She checked in. But when they called the flight, she never boarded. Weird, don't you think?"
"I don't know what to think," Shauna said.
"Unfortunately, nobody could give us an ID on Lisa Sherman. She didn't check any luggage and she used an e-ticket machine. So we started running a background check. Any guess what we found?"
Shauna shook her head.
"Nothing," Carlson replied. "It looks like another pseudonym. Do you know the name Brandon Scope?"
Shauna stiffened. "What the hell is this?"
"Dr. Beck, accompanied by a black man, visited an attorney named Peter Flannery today. Flannery defended a suspect in the murder of Brandon Scope. Dr. Beck asked him about that and about Elizabeth's role in his release. Any clue why?"
Shauna started fumbling in her purse.
"Looking for something?"
"A cigarette," she said. "You have one?"
"Sorry, no."
"Damn." She stopped, met his eye. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"I have four dead bodies. I want to know what's going on."
"Four?"
"Rebecca Schayes, Melvin Bartola, Robert Wolf ' those are the two men we found at the lake. And Elizabeth Beck."
KillRoy killed Elizabeth."
Carlson shook his head.
"What makes you so sure?"
He held up the manila folder. "This, for one."
"What is it?"
"Her autopsy file."
Shauna swallowed. Fear coursed through her, tingling her fingers. The final proof, one way or the other. She tried very hard to keep her voice steady. "Can I take a look?"
"Why?"
She didn't reply.
"And more important, why was Beck so eager to see it?"
"I don't know what you mean," she said, but the words rang hollow in her own ears and, she was sure, his.
"Was Elizabeth Beck a drug user?" Carlson asked.
The question was a total surprise. "Elizabeth? Never."
"You're sure?"
"Of course. She worked with drug addicts. That was part of her training."
"I know a lot of vice cops who enjoy a few hours with a prostitute."
"She wasn't like that. Elizabeth was no Goody Two-shoes, but drugs? Not a chance."
He held up the manila envelope again. "The tox report showed both cocaine and heroin in her system."
"Then Kellerton forced them into her."
"No," Carlson said.
"What makes you so sure?"
"There are other tests, Shauna. Tissue and hair tests. They show a pattern of use going back several months at the least."
Shauna felt her legs weaken. She slumped against a wall. "Look, Carlson, stop playing games with me. Let me see the report, okay?"
Carlson seemed to consider it. "How about this?" he said. "I'll let you see any one sheet in here. Any one piece of information. How about that?"
"What the hell is this, Carlson?"
"Good night, Shauna."
"Whoa, whoa, hold up a sec." She licked her lips. She thought about the strange emails. She thought about Beck's running from the cops. She thought about the murder of Rebecca Schayes and the toxicology report that couldn't be. All of a sudden, her convincing demonstration on digital imaging manipulation didn't seem so convincing.
"A photograph," she said. "Let me see a photograph of the victim."
Carlson smiled. "Now, that's very interesting."
"Why's that?"
"There are none in here."
"But I thought'"
"I don't understand it either," Carlson interrupted. "I've called Dr. Harper. He was the M.E. on this one. I'm seeing if he can find out who else has signed out for this file. He's checking as we speak."
"Are you saying someone stole the photographs?"
Carlson shrugged. "Come on, Shauna. Tell me what's going on."
She almost did. She almost told him about the emails and the street cam link. But Beck had been firm. This man, for all his fancy talk, could still be the enemy. "Can I see the rest of the file?"
He moved it toward her slowly. The hell with blas+!, she thought. She stepped forward and grabbed it from his hand. She tore it open and found the first sheet. As her eyes traveled down the page, a block of ice hardened in her stomach. She saw the body's height and the weight and stifled a scream.
"What?" Carlson asked.
She didn't reply.
A cell phone rang. Carlson scooped it out of his pants pocket. "Carlson."
"It's Tim Harper."
"Did you find the old logs?"
"Yes."
"Did someone else sign out Elizabeth Beck's autopsy?"
"Three years ago," Harper said. "Right after it was placed into cold storage. One person signed it out."
"Who?"
"The deceased's father. He's also a police officer. His name is Hoyt Parker."
Chapter 36
Larry Gandle sat across from Griffin Scope. They were outside in the garden portico behind Scope's mansion. Night had taken serious hold, blanketing the manicured grounds. The crickets hummed an almost pretty melody, as though the super-rich could even manipulate that. Tinkling piano music spilled from the sliding glass doors. Lights from inside the house provided a modicum of illumination, casting shadows of burnt red and yellow.
Both men wore khakis. Larry wore a blue Po
lo shirt. Griffin had on a silk button-down from his tailor in Hong Kong. Larry waited, a beer cooling his hand. He watched the older man sitting in perfect copper-penny silhouette, facing his vast backyard, his nose tilted up slightly, his legs crossed. His right hand dangled over the arm of the chair, amber liquor swirling in his snifter.
"You have no idea where he is?" Griffin asked.
"None."
"And these two black men who rescued him?"
"I have no idea how they're involved. But Wu is working on it."
Griffin took a sip of his drink. Time trudged by, hot and sticky. "Do you really believe she's still alive?"
Larry was about to launch into a long narrative, offering evidence for and against, showing all the options and possibilities. But when he opened his mouth, he simply said, "I do."
Griffin closed his eyes. "Do you remember the day your first child was born?"
"Yes."
"Did you attend the birth?"
"I did."
"We didn't do that in our day," Griffin said. "We fathers paced in a waiting room with old magazines. I remember the nurse coming out to get me. She brought me down the hall and I still remember turning the corner and seeing Allison holding Brandon. It was the strangest feeling, Larry. Something welled up inside me so that I thought I might burst. The feeling was almost too intense, too overwhelming. You couldn't sort through or comprehend it. I assume that all fathers experience something similar."
He stopped. Larry looked over. Tears ran down the old man's cheeks, sparkling off the low light. Larry remained still.
"Perhaps the most obvious feelings on that day are joy and apprehension ' apprehension in the sense that you are now responsible for this little person. But there was something else there too. I couldn't put my finger on it exactly. Not then anyway. Not until Brandon's first day of school."
Something caught in the old man's throat. He coughed a bit and now Larry could see more tears. The piano music seemed softer now. The crickets hushed as though they were listening too.
"We waited together for the school bus. I held his hand. Brandon was five years old. He looked up at me in that way children do at that age. He wore brown pants that already had a grass stain on the knee. I remember the yellow bus pulling up and the sound the door made when it opened. Then Brandon let go of my hand and started climbing up the steps. I wanted to reach out and snatch him back and take him home, but I stood there, frozen. He moved inside the bus and I heard that noise again and the door slid closed. Brandon sat by a window. I could see his face. He waved to me. I waved back and as the bus pulled away, I said to myself, "There goes my whole world." That yellow bus with its flimsy metal sides and its driver I didn't know from Adam charioted away what was in effect everything to me. And at that moment, I realized what I had felt the day of his birth. Terror. Not just apprehension. Cold, stark terror. You can fear illness or old age or death. But there's nothing like that small stone of terror that sat in my belly as I watched that bus pull away. Do you understand what I'm saying?"