Fade Away

by Harlan Coben

Hector studied the phone number. "This your work number? At AT&T?"

  "No. It's my personal phone."

  "Uh huh," Hector said. "I called AT&T after you left last time. There's no such thing as Y511 and there's no employee named Bernie Worley." He did not look particularly upset, but he wasn't dancing the hula either. He just waited, watching Myron with steady eyes.

  "I lied to you," Myron said. "I'm sorry."

  "What's your real name?" he asked.

  "Myron Bolitar." He gave the man one of his cards. Hector studied it for a moment.

  "You're a sports agent?"

  "Yes."

  "What does a sports agent have to do with Sally?"

  "It's a long story."

  "You shouldn't have lied like that. It wasn't right."

  "I know," Myron said. "I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't important."

  Hector put the card in his shirt pocket. "I have customers." He turned away. Myron debated explaining further, but there was no point.

  Win was waiting for him on the sidewalk. "Well?"

  "Cole Whiteman is a homeless man who calls himself Norman Lowenstein."

  Win waved down a taxi. A driver in a turban slowed down. They got in. Myron told him where to go. The driver nodded; as he did, his turban buffed the taxi's ceiling. Sitar music blew forth from the front speakers, plucking at the air with razor-sharp nails. Awful. It made Benny and His Magical Sitar sound like Itzhak Perlman. Still it was preferable to Yanni.

  "He looks nothing like that old picture," Myron said. "He's had plastic surgery. He grew his hair and dyed it jet black."

  They waited at a traffic light. A blue TransAm pulled up next to them, one of those souped-up models that hip-hopped up and down while playing music loud enough to crack the earth's core. The taxi actually started shaking from the decibel level. The light turned green. The TransAm sped ahead.

  "I started thinking about how Liz Gorman had disguised herself," Myron continued. "She'd taken her defining attribute and stood it on its head. Cole was the well-bred, clean-cut rich boy. What better way to stand that on its head than to become an unkempt vagrant?"

  "A Jewish unkempt vagrant," Win corrected.

  "Right. So when Dimonte told me that Professor Bowman liked to hang out with the homeless, something clicked."

  The turban barked, "Route."

  "What?"

  "Route. Henry Hudson or Broadway."

  "Henry Hudson," Win replied. He glanced over at Myron. "Continue."

  "This is what I think happened," Myron said. "Cole Whiteman suspected Liz Gorman was in some kind of trouble. Maybe she hadn't called him or met up with him. Something. The problem was, he couldn't check it out himself. Whiteman hasn't survived underground all these years by being stupid. He knew that if the police found her, they'd set a trap for him--the way they're doing right now."

  "So," Win said, "he gets you to go in for him."

  Myron nodded. "He hangs around the diner, hoping to hear something about 'Sally.' When he overhears me talking to Hector, he figures I'm his best bet. He gives me this weird story about how he knows her from using the phone at the diner. Claimed they were lovers. The story didn't really mesh, but I didn't bother questioning it. Anyway, he takes me to her place. Once I'm inside, he hides and waits to see what happens. He sees the cops come. He probably even sees the body being taken out--all from a safe distance. It confirms what he probably suspected all along. Liz Gorman is dead."

  Win thought about it a moment. "And now you think Professor Bowman may be contacting him when he visits with the homeless?"

  "Yes."

  "So our next goal is to find Cole Whiteman."

  "Yes."

  "Amongst the wretched unbathed in some godforsaken shelter?"

  "Yes."

  Win looked pained. "Oh, goodie."

  "We could try to set a trap for him," Myron said. "But I think it'll take too long."

  "Set a trap how?"

  "I think he's the one who called me on the phone last night," Myron said. "Whatever blackmail scheme Liz Gorman was running, it's natural to think that Whiteman was in on it too."

  "But why you?" Win asked. "If he has dirt on Greg Downing, why would you be the target of his extortion?"

  It was a question that had been gnawing at Myron too. "I'm not sure," he said slowly. "The best guess I can come up with is that Whiteman recognized me at the diner. He probably figures that I'm closely connected to Greg Downing. When he couldn't reach Greg, he decided to try me."

  Myron's cellular phone rang. He flicked it on and said hello.

  "Hey, Starsky." It was Dimonte.

  "I'm Hutch," Myron said. "You're Starsky."

  "Either way," Dimonte said, "I think you'll want to get your butt over to the precinct pronto."

  "You got something?"

  "Only if you call a picture of the killer leaving Gorman's apartment something," Dimonte said.

  Myron almost dropped the phone. "For real?"

  "Yep. And you'll never guess what."

  "What?"

  "It's a she."

  Chapter 31

  Here's the deal," Dimonte said. They were threading their way through a veritable United Nations of cops, witnesses, and whatnots. Win was waiting outside. He didn't like cops, and they didn't exactly feel like taking him out for ice cream. Best for all if he kept his distance. "We got a partial image of the perp on a videotape. Problem is, it's not enough to make an ID. I thought maybe you'd recognize her."

  "What kind of videotape?"

  "There's a shipping garage on Broadway between One Hundred Tenth and One Hundred Eleventh streets, east side of the block," Dimonte said. He remained a pace ahead of Myron, moving briskly. He kept turning behind him to make sure Myron was keeping up. "They handle home electronics. You know how that is--every worker steals like it's a Constitutional right. So the company set up surveillance cameras all over the place. Videotape everything." Still moving he shook his head, awarded Myron a toothpickless smile and added, "Good old big brother. Every once in a while somebody tapes a crime instead of a bunch of cops beating up a perp, you know what I'm saying?"

  They entered a small interrogation room. Myron looked into a mirror. He knew it was one-way glass--so did anybody with even a passing knowledge of cop shows or movies. Myron doubted anybody was on the other side, but he stuck his tongue out just in case. Mr. Mature. Krinsky was standing by a television and a VCR. For the second time today, Myron was going to watch a video. He trusted this one would be more tame.

  "Hey, Krinsky," Myron said.

  Krinsky barely nodded. Mr. Loquacious.

  Myron looked over at Dimonte. "I still don't see how a shipping garage camera could have gotten the killer on tape."

  "One of the cameras is by the truck entrance," Dimonte explained. "Just to make sure nothing falls off the truck as it's leaving, if you know what I mean. The camera catches part of the sidewalk. You can see people walking by." He leaned up against the wall and motioned Myron to sit in a chair. "You'll see what I mean."

  Myron sat. Krinsky hit the play button. Black and white again. No sound again. But this time the shot was from above. Myron saw the front end of a truck and behind it, a glimpse of the sidewalk. Not many people walked by; the ones that did were barely more than distant silhouettes.

  "How did you come up with this?" Myron asked.

  "With what?"

  "This tape."

  "I always check for this stuff," Dimonte said, hitching up his pants by belt loops. "Parking garages, storage houses, any of those places. They all have surveillance cameras nowadays."

  Myron nodded. "Good work, Rolly. I'm impressed."

  "Wow," Dimonte said, "now I can die happy."

  Everyone's a wiseass. Myron turned his attention back to the screen. "So how long is each tape?"

  "Twelve hours," Dimonte replied. "They change them at nine A.M. and P.M. Eight camera set-up. They keep each tape for three weeks. Then they tape over them." He pointed his fingers. "Here s
he comes now. Krinsky."

  Krinsky pressed a button and the tape froze.

  "The woman who just entered the picture. On the right. Heading south, which would be away from the scene."

  Myron saw a blurry image. He couldn't see a face or even gather much about her height. She wore high heels and a long overcoat with a frilly neck. Hard to tell much about her weight either. The hair however was familiar. He kept his tone neutral. "Yeah, I see her."

  "Look at her right hand," he said.

  Myron did. There was something dark and long in it. "I can't make it out."

  "We got it blown up. Krinsky."

  Krinsky handed Myron two large black and white photographs. The woman's head was enlarged in the first one, but you still couldn't see any facial features. In the second picture, the long dark object in her hand was clearer.

  "We think it's a plastic garbage bag wrapped around something," Dimonte said. "Kind of an odd shape, wouldn't you say?"

  Myron looked at the photo and nodded. "You figure it's covering up a baseball bat."

  "Don't you?"

  "Yeah," Myron said.

  "We found plastic garbage bags just like that one in Gorman's kitchen."

  "And probably half the kitchens in New York City," Myron added.

  "True enough. Now look at the date and time on the screen."

  On the top left-hand side of the screen, a digital clock read 02:12.32 A.M. The date was early Sunday morning. Just hours after Liz Gorman had been at the Swiss Chalet bar with Greg Downing.

  "Did the camera get her coming the other way?" Myron asked.

  "Yeah, but it's not too clear. Krinsky."

  Krinsky hit the rewind button. Several seconds later, he stopped and the picture came back on. The time now read 01:41.12. A little more than thirty minutes earlier.

  "Coming now," Dimonte said.

  The image almost flew past. Myron only recognized the woman by the long overcoat with the frilly neck. This time, she was carrying nothing in her hand. Myron said, "Let me see the other part again. All the way through."

  Dimonte nodded at Krinsky. Krinsky found it and hit play. While Myron still couldn't see the woman's face, her walk was another matter. And a person's walk could be fairly distinctive. Myron felt his heart crawl up into his throat.

  Dimonte was studying him through squinting eyes. "You recognize her, Bolitar?"

  Myron shook his head. "No," he lied.

  Chapter 32

  Esperanza liked to make lists.

  With the Raven Brigade file in front of her, she jotted down the three most important factors in chronological order: 1) The Raven Brigade robs a bank in Tucson.

  2) Within days, at least one of the Ravens (Liz Gorman) was in Manhattan.

  3) Soon after, Liz Gorman made contact with a high-profile professional basketball player.

  It didn't flow.

  She opened the file and briefly scanned the "brigade's" history. In 1975 the Ravens had kidnapped Hunt Flootworth, the twenty-two-year-old son of publishing giant Cooper Flootworth. Hunt had been a classmate at San Francisco State of several of the Ravens, including both Cole Whiteman and Liz Gorman. The famous Cooper Flootworth, never one to sit around idly and let others handle his affairs, hired mercenaries to rescue his son. During their raid, young Hunt was shot at point-blank range in the head by one of the Ravens. No one knew which one. Of all the brigade members at the scene, four managed to escape.

  Big Cyndi skipped into the office. The vibrations rolled Esperanza's pens off the desk.

  "Sorry," Cyndi said.

  "It's okay."

  "Timmy called me," Cyndi said. "We're going out Friday night."

  Esperanza made a face. "His name is Timmy?"

  "Yeah," Cyndi said. "Isn't that sweet?"

  "Adorable."

  "I'll be in the conference room," Cyndi said.

  Esperanza turned back to the file. She flipped ahead to the Tucson bank heist--the group's first in more than five years. The robbery took place as the bank was closing. The feds believed one of the security guards was in on it, but so far they had nothing more than the guard's left-leaning background. About $15,000 in cash was taken, but the robbers took the time to blow the safe deposit boxes. Risky. The feds theorized that the Ravens had somehow found out that drug money was stored there. The bank cameras showed two people dressed head to toe in black with black ski masks. No fingerprints or hairs or fibers. Nada.

  Esperanza read through the file again, but nothing new exploded from the pages. She tried to imagine what the past twenty years had been like for the surviving Ravens, constantly on the run, never sleeping in the same place very long, leaving and reentering the country, relying on old sympathizers you were never sure you could completely trust. She grabbed her piece of paper and made some more notes: Liz Gorman---->Bank Robbery---->Blackmail

  Okay, she thought, follow the arrows. Liz Gorman and the Ravens needed funds, so they robbed the bank. That worked out. It explained the first arrow. That was a gimme anyway. The real problem was that second connection: Bank Robbery---->Blackmail.

  Simply put, what about the bank robbery had led her to the East Coast and her scheme to blackmail Greg Downing? She tried to write down possibilities.

  1) Downing was involved in the bank robbery.

  She looked up. It was possible, she surmised. He needed the money for gambling debts. He might do something illegal. But this hypothesis still did not answer the biggest question in all this: how did they meet? How did Liz Gorman and Greg Downing hook up in the first place?

  That, she felt, was the key.

  She wrote a number two. And waited.

  What other link could there be?

  Nothing came to mind so she decided to try it from the opposite end. Start with the blackmail and go back. In order to blackmail Downing, Liz Gorman had to have stumbled across something incriminating. When? Esperanza drew another arrow: Bank Robbery<---->Blackmail

  Esperanza felt something like a tiny pinprick. The bank robbery. Something they found at the bank robbery led to the blackmail scheme.

  She quickly shuffled through the file, but she already knew that it wasn't there. She picked up the phone and dialed. When the man answered, she said, "Do you have a list of the people who were renting safe-deposit boxes?"

  "Somewhere, I guess," he replied. "Why, you need it?"

  "Yes."

  Deep sigh. "All right, I'll start looking. But tell Myron he owes me for this. Owes me big."

  When Emily opened the door, Myron said, "Are you alone?"

  "Why, yes," she replied with a coy smile. "What do you have in mind?"

  He shoved past her. Emily stumbled back, her mouth an open circle of surprise. He headed straight for the foyer closet and opened it.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Myron did not bother answering. His hands pushed hangers left and right in a frenzy. It didn't take long. He pulled the long overcoat with the frilly neck into view. "Next time you commit a murder," he said, "dispose of the clothes you wore."

  She took two steps back, her hand fluttering toward her mouth. "Get out," she hissed.

  "I'm giving you one chance to tell the truth."

  "I don't care what you're giving. Get the fuck out of my house."

  He held up the coat. "You think I'm the only one who knows? The police have a videotape of you at the murder scene. You were wearing this coat."

  Her body slackened. Her face looked like she'd been on the receiving end of a palm strike to the solar plexus.

  Myron lowered the coat to his side. "You planted the murder weapon at your old house," he said. "You smeared blood in the basement." He turned and half-pounced into the living room. The pile of tabloids was still there. He pointed at it. "You kept searching the papers for the story. When you read about the body being found, you made an anonymous call to the police."

  He glanced back at Emily. Her eyes were unfocused and glazed.

  "I kept wondering about the playroom,"
Myron said. "Why, I kept asking myself, would Greg go down there of all places after the murder? But of course that was the point. He wouldn't. The blood could remain undetected for weeks if need be."

  Emily made two fists at her sides. She shook her head, finally finding her voice. "You don't understand."

  "Then tell me."

  "He wanted my kids."

  "So you framed him for murder."

  "No."

  "This isn't the time to lie, Emily."

  "I'm not lying, Myron. I didn't frame him."

  "You planted the weapon--"

  "Yes," she interrupted, "you're right about all that. But I didn't frame him." Her eyes closed and reopened, almost like she was doing a minimeditation. "You can't frame somebody for something they did."

  Myron stiffened. Emily stared at him stone faced. Her hands were still tightened into small balls. "Are you saying Greg killed her?"

  "Of course." She moved toward him, taking her time, using the seconds the way a boxer uses an eight count after a surprise left hook. She took the coat from his hands. "Should I really destroy it, or can I trust you?"

  "I think you better explain first."

  "How about some coffee?"

  "No," Myron said.

  "I need some. Come on. We'll talk in the kitchen."

  She kept her head high and walked the same walk Myron had watched on the tape. He followed her into a bright white kitchen. The kitchen gleamed in tiled splendor. Most people probably thought the decor was to die for; Myron thought it resembled a urinal at a fancy restaurant.

  Emily took out one of those new coffee presses people were using. "You sure you won't have some? It's Starbucks. Kona Hawaiian blend."

  Myron shook his head. Emily had regained her senses now. She was back in control; he'd let her stay there. A person in control talks more and thinks less.

  "I'm trying to figure out where to begin," she said, adding hot water to the press. The rich aroma immediately filled the air. If this was a coffee commercial, one of them would be saying "Ahhhh" right about now. "And don't tell me to begin at the beginning or I'll scream."

  Myron held up his hands to show he would do no such thing.

  Emily pushed a little on the plunger, met resistance, pushed again. "She came up to me one day in the supermarket, of all places," she said. "Out of the blue. I'm reaching for some frozen bagels, and this woman tells me she has uncovered something that could destroy my husband. She tells me that if I don't pay up, she's going to call the papers."