by Harlan Coben
Matt looked at him. The man had gray flecks in his eyes. He had put on weight.
His fingers kept itching and Matt didn't like the way he smiled at him. Lance Banner's family had worked this land as farmers. His grandfather or maybe it was h is great-grandfather had sold the land for a song. The Banners still considered Livingston their town. They were the soil here. The father drank too much. So d id Lance's two dull brothers. Lance, on the other hand, always hit Matt as b eing pretty sharp.
"Then you know it was an accident," Matt said.
Lance Banner nodded slowly. "Could be."
"So why the hard time, Lance?"
"Because you're an ex-con."
"You think I should have gone to prison?"
"Tough call," he said, rubbing his chin. "But from what I read, I think you got a bad break."
"So?"
"So you did. Go to prison, I mean."
"I don't understand."
"Society wants to peddle that rehabilitation crap on the public, hey, that's f ine with me. But I"-- he pointed to himself--"know better. And you"-- he turned t he finger toward Matt--"know better."
Matt said nothing.
"You may have gone into that place an okay guy. But you want to tell me you're t he same man now?"
Matt knew that there was no right answer to that one. He turned and started t oward the door.
Lance said, "Maybe your home inspector will find something. Give you a way to b ack out."
Matt went inside and finished up with the inspector. There were several issues--s ome pipe problem, one overloaded breaker-- but they were all small. He and Harold finished up, and Matt started for Marsha's house.
He pulled into the tree-lined street where his nephews and sister-in-law-- was s he still considered a sister-in-law after your brother died? "Ex" certainly d idn't sound right-- resided. The boys, Paul and Ethan, were on the front lawn r olling in the leaves. Their babysitter, Kyra, was with them. Kyra Walsh was a r ecent freshman-transfer taking summer classes at William Paterson University.
She rented a room above Marsha's garage. Kyra had come highly recommended from s omeone at Marsha's church, and while Matt had been initially skeptical of the w hole idea of a live-in babysitter (nonetheless a college student) it seemed to b e working great. Kyra ended up being a pretty terrific kid, a fresh-faced burst o f needed sunshine from one of the "I" states in the Midwest, he could never r emember which one.
Matt stepped out of the car. Kyra shaded her eyes with one hand and waved with t he other. She smiled as only the young can. "Hi, Matt."
"Hey, Kyra."
The boys heard his voice and turned their heads like dogs hearing their owner r ummaging for treats. They sprinted at him, calling, "Uncle Matt! Uncle Matt!"
Matt felt a sudden lightness in his chest. A smile played with the corner of his l ips as the boys rushed him. Ethan grabbed hold of Matt's right leg. Paul aimed f or the midsection.
"McNabb back to pass," Matt said, doing his best Greg Gumbel impression. "Look o ut! Strahan breaks through the line and has a leg . . ."
Paul stopped. "I want to be Strahan!" he demanded.
Ethan would have none of that. "No, I want to be Strahan!"
"Hey, you both can be Strahan," Matt said.
The two youngsters squinted at their uncle as if he were the slow kid sitting in t he back. "You can't have two Michael Strahans," Paul said.
"Yeah," his brother chimed in.
Then they lowered their shoulders and hit him again. Matt performed a near Pacino-esque performance of a quarterback about to be sacked. He s tutter-stepped, he looked desperately for imaginary receivers, he pump-faked a p ass with his invisible football, and ultimately he went down in a slow-motion h eap.
"Woo-hoo!" The boys stood, high-fived each other, bumped chests. Matt groaned i nto a sitting position. Kyra was smothering a giggle.
Paul and Ethan were still doing a celebration dance when Marsha appeared at the d oor. She looked, Matt thought, very nice. She wore a dress and makeup. Her hair h ad that carefully mussed thing going on. The car keys were already jiggling in h er hand.
When Bernie died, Matt and Marsha had both been so devastated, so desperate, t hat they tried to knit something together where Matt could maybe take over as h usband and father.
It was a disaster.
Matt and Marsha had waited a proper amount of time-- six months-- and then one n ight, without discussing it but knowing what was about to happen, they both got d runk. Marsha made the first move. She kissed him, kissed him hard, and then she s tarted to sob. That had been the end.
Before "the slip," Matt's family had been strangely blessed or maybe just b lessedly naive. Matt had been twenty years old and all four of his grandparents w ere alive and in good health-- two in Miami, two in Scottsdale. Tragedy had v isited other families, but the Hunters had been left alone. The slip changed a ll that. It left them ill prepared for what followed.
Tragedy sort of works this way: Once it snakes its way in, it cuts down all your d efenses and allows its brethren easy access to feed. Three of his four g randparents died during Matt's stint in prison. The burden killed his father a nd sapped his mother. Mom fled to Florida. Their sister ran west to Seattle.
Bernie had the aneurysm.
Just like that, they were all gone.
Matt stood up. He waved to Marsha. She waved back. Kyra said, "Is it okay if I g o?"
Marsha nodded. "Thanks, Kyra."
"No problem." Kyra slipped on the backpack. "Bye, Matt."
"Bye, kiddo."
Matt's cell phone rang. The caller ID told him it was Cingle Shaker. He signaled t o Marsha that he needed to take it. She gestured for him to go ahead. Matt m oved toward the curb and picked it up.
"Hello."
"Got some info on the license plate," Cingle said.
"Go ahead."
"It's a rental. Avis at Newark Airport."
"So does that mean it's a dead end?"
"For most private investigators, most definitely. But you're dealing with a near l egend in the business."
"Near?"
"I'm trying to be modest."
"Doesn't work on you, Cingle."
"Yeah, but the effort is there. I called a contact at the airport. He ran it d own for me. The car was rented by one Charles Talley. You know him?"
"No."
"I figured the name might mean something to you."
"It doesn't."
"You want me to check this Talley guy out?"
"Yes."
"Call you back."
She hung up. Matt started to lower the phone when he spotted the same police c ruiser turning onto the block. It slowed as it passed Marsha's house. The u niformed cop who'd been with Lance eyed him. Matt eyed him back and felt his f ace flush.
Paul and Ethan stood and watched the cruiser. Matt turned back to Marsha. She s aw it too. He tried to smile and wave it off. Marsha frowned.
That was when his phone rang again.
Still watching Marsha, Matt put the phone to his ear without checking the caller ID.
"Hello," he said.
"Hi, hon, how was your day?"
It was Olivia.
Chapter 8
TELEVISION SHOWS, Loren knew, had convinced people that cops commonly meet with m edical examiners in a morgue over a corpse. In reality that pretty much never h appens. Loren was grateful for that. She was not squeamish or any of that, but s he wanted death to be a constant shock to her. She didn't make jokes at the s cene. She didn't try to block or use other defense mechanisms to look past it.
For Loren a morgue was too matter-of-fact, too casual, too mundane about murder.
Loren was about to open Eldon's office door when Trevor Wine, a fellow homicide i nvestigator, stepped out. Trevor was overweight and old-school. He tolerated Loren as one might a cute pet that sometimes pees on the good carpet.
"Hey, Squirt," he said to her.
"You catch a homicide?"
"Yup.
" Trevor Wine pulled up his belt. He had that weird kind of fat where you c an never get the waist to perch and stay. "Gunshot victim. Two to the head at c lose range."
"Robbery, gang, what?"
"Maybe a robbery, definitely not a gang. The vic was a retired white guy."
"Where did you find the body?"
"Near the Hebrew cemetery off Fourteenth Avenue. We think he's a tourist."
"A tourist in that neighborhood?" Loren made a face. "What's there to see?"
Trevor faked a laugh and put a meaty hand on her shoulder. "I'll let you know w hen I know." He didn't add "little lady" but he might as well have. "See you l ater, Squirt."
"Yeah, later."
He moved away. Loren opened the door.
Eldon sat at his desk. He wore a pair of clean scrubs. Eldon always wore scrubs.
His office had absolutely no personality or color. When Eldon first took the job h e wanted to change that, but when people came into this room to hear the d etails of the death, they wanted nothing stimulating any of the senses. So Eldon shifted the decor into neutral.
"Here," Eldon said, "catch."
He tossed her something. Instinctively Loren caught it. It was a plastic bag, f ilmy and yellow. There was some sort of gel inside it. Eldon held a matching b ag in his hand.
"Is this . . . ?"
Eldon nodded. "A well-used and thus well-soiled breast implant."
"Can I just say for the record, 'Eeuw'?"
"You may."
Loren held the bag up to the light and frowned. "I thought implants were clear."
"They start off that way-- at least the saline ones."
"These aren't saline?"
"Nope. Silicone. And they've been marinating in bosom for well over a decade."
Loren tried not to make a face. There was some sort of gel inside them. Eldon a rched an eyebrow and started to knead the implant.
"Cut that out."
He shrugged. "Anyway, these belong to your Sister of the Immaculate Hooters."
"And you're showing them to me because . . . ?"
"Because they offer us clues."
"I'm listening."
"First off, they're silicone."
"So you said."
"Remember, what, five, ten years ago when they had the big cancer scare?"
"The implants were leaking."
"Right. So the companies were forced to move to saline."
"Aren't some people moving back now to silicone?"
"Yes, but the point remains: These are old. Very old. Well over a decade."
She nodded. "Okay, good, that's a start."
"There's more." Eldon took out a magnifying glass. He flipped one of the i mplants over. "See this here?"
Loren took the magnifying glass. "It's a tag."
"See that number over on the bottom?"
"Yes."
"That's the serial number. This is true with pretty much any surgical implant--k nees, hips, breasts, pacemaker, whatever. The device has to have a serial n umber."
Loren nodded. "And the manufacturer keeps records."
"Exactly."
"So if we call the manufacturer and give them the serial number . . ."
"We learn the real name of Mother with the Superiors."
Loren looked up. "Thanks."
"There's a problem."
She sat back.
"The company that made the implants was named SurgiCo. They went under eight y ears ago."
"And their records?"
Eldon shrugged. "We're trying to look into it. Look, it's late. We won't get a nything tonight. I'm hoping to find out what happened to the records in the m orning."
"Okay. Anything else?"
"You asked why there were no fibers under her fingernails."
"Yes."
"We're still running a full tox report. It could be that she was drugged, but I d on't think that was it."
"You have another theory."
"I do."
"What's that?"
Eldon leaned back and crossed his legs. He turned to the side and stared at the w all. "There was slight bruising along both inner biceps."
Loren's eyes narrowed. "I'm not following."
"If a man were very strong and, uh, knowledgeable, he could sneak up on a s leeping woman," he began, his voice almost singsong, as if he were talking to a c hild. "He might flip the woman onto her back-- or maybe she slept that way. He'd s traddle her chest, pin her arms down with his knees-- that, if he was careful a nd professional, could be done so as to leave very little bruising-- and then h e'd smother her with a pillow."
The room dropped ten degrees. Loren's voice was barely a whisper. "You think t hat's what happened here?"
"We have to wait for the full tox," Eldon said, turning away from the wall and l ooking directly at her. "But yeah. Yeah, I think that's what happened here."
She said nothing.
"There's one more thing that backs my theory up. It could help us." Eldon put a p hotograph on the desk. A headshot of the nun. Her eyes were closed as if she w ere expecting a facial. She'd been in her early sixties, but the lines had all b een smoothed away in death. "You know anything about fingerprints on the skin?"
"Just that they're hard to pick up."
"Nearly impossible, if you don't catch the corpse right away. Most of the major s tudies are telling us to try to pick up the fingerprints at the crime scene if p ossible. At a minimum the lab guys should make sure the body is glue fumed r ight away to preserve the prints before the vic is packed away."
Forensic detail was not Loren's forte. "Uh huh."
"Well, it was too late for that with our Dying Nun here." He looked up. "Get it?
Dying Nun instead of Flying Nun?"
"It's like I'm hanging with Chris Rock here. Go on."
"Right, so I'm trying something experimental. We got lucky that the corpse w asn't refrigerated. The condensation that builds up on the skin throws the w hole thing out of whack. Anyway, I thought about going with the polyethylene t erephthalate semirigid sheet. That's the one we use based on the fact that s tatic electricity attracts dust particles--"
"Whoa." Loren held up her palm in the classic stop gesture. "Let's skip the CSI c asting call. Did you get prints off the body?"
"Yes and no. I found smudges on both temples, one looks like a thumb, the other m ight be a ring finger."
"On her temples?"
Eldon nodded. He took off his glasses, gave them a wipe down, put them back on t he end of his nose, pushed up. "I think the perp grabbed her face with one h and. Palmed it like a basketball player-- with the heel of his hand on her n ose."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. Then I think he pushed her head down as he climbed on top."
"But the fingerprints. Can you get any kind of ID off them?"
"Doubtful. We have partials at best. It'll never be enough for court, but t here's this new software that helps you, I don't know, fill in the blanks, if y ou will. If you find somebody, I might get enough to confirm or eliminate."
"That might help."
He stood. "I'll get on it now. Probably take a day, maybe two. I'll let you know w hen I have more."
"Okay," Loren said. "Anything else?"
It was like a shadow fell over his face.
"Eldon?"
"Yeah," he said. "There's something else."
"I don't like the way you said that."
"I don't like saying it, believe me. But I think whoever did this did more than j ust smother her."
"What do you mean?"
"You know anything about stun guns?"
"Some."
"I think they used one." He swallowed. "In her."
"When you say 'in her,' do you mean--"
"I mean exactly what you think," he said, interrupting her. "Hey, I'm a product o f Catholic school too, okay?"
"Are there burn marks?"
"Faint. But if you know what you're doing-- and especially in an area that s ensitive-- you really shou
ldn't leave them. It was also a one-prong stunner, if t hat helps. Most, like the police-issue stun guns, have two prongs. I'm still r unning tests, but my guess is, she died in a lot of pain."
Loren closed her eyes.
"Hey, Squirt?"
"What?"
"Do me a favor," Eldon said. "Nail this son of a bitch, will ya?"
Chapter 9
OLIVIA SAID, "Hi, hon, how was your day?"
Matt just held the phone.
"Matt?"
"I'm here," he said.
The police cruiser was gone now. Matt looked behind him. Marsha stood on the f ront step with her hands on her hips. Paul was chasing Ethan, both of them s hrieking with laughter.
"So," Olivia said, as if it were just another day, "where are you?"
"At Marsha's."
"Everything okay?"
"I'm just taking the boys out to dinner."
"Not McDonald's again. Those fries are so unhealthy."
"Right."
Tentative steps. The ground giving way. Matt held the phone, thinking: You don't j ust jump up and scream, "Aha, caught ya!"
"So anything going on?" Olivia asked.
"Not much," he said. Kyra was getting in her car. She gave him a big smile and w aved good-bye. He gestured back with his chin. "I called you before," Matt said w ith as much nonchalance as he could muster.
"You did?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Around noon."
"Really?"
"No, I'm making it up. Yes, really."
"Well, that's weird."
"Why?"
"I didn't hear the phone ring."
"Maybe you were out of range," he tried, giving her an out.
"Maybe," she said slowly.
"I left a message."
"Hold on." There was a pause. "Wait, it says here 'three missed calls.' "
"That would be me."
"I'm sorry, honey. I know this sounds ridiculous but I still get confused about h ow to retrieve messages. My old phone's code was six-seven-six and then I hit a s tar, but I don't think that works on this one."
"It doesn't," Matt said. "Your new code is the last four digits of your phone n umber and then you hit the pound key."
"Oh, right. I usually just check the missed calls log."
Matt closed his eyes. He could not believe how inane and ordinary this all felt.
"Where have you been?" he asked.