the Innocent (2005)

by Harlan Coben

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "He's no longer sure himself. He feels tremendous guilt."

  "Poor baby." Clark made a face. "How can you be so naive?"

  "Let me ask you something," Sonya said, moving closer to him. "If they fell a nother way, if the angle had been different or if Stephen had twisted his body a nd Matt Hunter had hit his head on that curb--"

  "Don't even start with that."

  "No, Clark, listen to me." She took another step. "If it had gone another way, i f Matt Hunter ended up dead and Stephen had been found on top of him--"

  "I'm not in the mood to play hypotheticals with you, Sonya. None of that m atters."

  "Maybe it does to me."

  "Why?" Clark countered. "Weren't you the one who said that either way Stephen is d ead?"

  She said nothing.

  Clark crossed the room, moving past her, keeping enough distance so that he did n ot so much as brush up against her. He collapsed into a chair and lowered his h ead into his hands. She waited.

  "Do you remember the case of that mother drowning her kids in Texas?" he asked.

  "What does that have to do with anything?"

  "Just"-- he closed his eyes for a moment--"just bear with me, okay? Do you r emember that case? This overworked mother drowned her kids in the tub. I think t here were four or five of them. Awful story. The defense made an insanity plea.

  Her husband supported her. Do you remember, on the news?"

  "Yes."

  "What did you think?"

  She said nothing.

  "I'll tell you what I thought," he continued. "I thought, who cares? I don't m ean that to sound cold. I mean, what's the difference? If this mother was found i nsane and spent the next fifty years in a loony bin or if she was found guilty a nd spent the rest of her life in jail or on death row-- what does it matter?

  Either way you killed your own children. Your life is over, isn't it?"

  Sonya closed her eyes.

  "That's how it is with Matt Hunter to me. He killed our son. If it was an a ccident or intentional, I only know that our boy is dead. The rest doesn't m atter. Do you understand that?"

  More than he could ever know.

  Sonya felt the tears escape from her eyes. She looked at her husband. Clark was i n so much pain. Just go, she wanted to say. Bury yourself in your work, in your m istress, in whatever. Just go.

  "I'm not trying to hurt you," she said.

  He nodded.

  "Do you want me to stop seeing him?" she asked.

  "Would it matter if I did?"

  She did not reply.

  Clark rose and left the room. A few seconds later, Sonya heard the front door c lose, leaving her yet again all alone.

  Chapter 20

  LOREN MUSE MADE even better time on the way back from Wilmington, Delaware, to Newark. Ed Steinberg was alone in his office on the third floor of the new c ounty courthouse.

  "Shut the door," her boss said.

  Steinberg looked disheveled-- loose tie, collar button undone, one sleeve rolled u p higher than the other-- but that was pretty much his normal look. Loren liked Steinberg. He was smart and played fair. He hated the politics of the job but u nderstood the necessity of the game. He played it well.

  Loren found her boss sexy in that cuddly-bear, hairy-Vietnam-vet-on-his-Harley v ein. Steinberg was married, of course, with two kids in college. Cliche but t rue: The good ones were always taken.

  When Loren was young, her mother would warn her to wait: "Don't get married y oung," Carmen would slur through the daytime wine. Loren never consciously f ollowed that advice, but she realized somewhere along the way that it was i diotic. The good men, the ones who wanted to commit and raise children, were s cooped up early. The field became thinner and thinner as the years went by. Now Loren had to settle for what one of her friends called "retreads"-- overweight d ivorcees who were making up for the years of high school rejection or those s till cowering from the anguish of their first marriage or those semi-decent g uys who were interested-- and why not?-- in some young waif who'd worship them.

  "What were you doing in Delaware?" Steinberg asked.

  "Following a lead on our nun's identity."

  "You think she's from Delaware?"

  "No." Loren quickly explained about the implants' identification code, the i nitial cooperation, the stonewalling, the connection to the feds. Steinberg s troked his mustache as if it were a small pet. When she finished, he said, "The SAC in the area is a fed named Pistillo. I'll call him in the morning, see what h e can tell me."

  "Thank you."

  Steinberg stroked his mustache some more. He looked off.

  "Is that what you needed to see me about?" she asked. "The Sister Mary Rose c ase?"

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "The lab guys dusted the nun's room."

  "Right."

  "They found eight sets of prints," he said. "One set matched Sister Mary Rose.

  Six others matched various nuns and employees of St. Margaret's. We're running t hose through the system, just in case, see if anybody had a record we don't k now about."

  He stopped.

  Loren came over to the desk and sat down. "I assume," she said, "you got a hit o n the eighth set?"

  "We did." His eyes met hers. "That's why I called you back here."

  She spread her hands. "I'm all ears."

  "The prints belong to a Max Darrow."

  She waited for him to say more. When he stayed quiet, she said, "I assume this Darrow has a record?"

  Ed Steinberg shook his head slowly. "Nope."

  "Then how did you get a match?"

  "He served in the armed forces."

  In the distance, Loren could hear a phone ring. Nobody answered it. Steinberg l eaned back in his big leather chair. He tilted his chin to look up. "Max Darrow i sn't from around here," he said.

  "Oh?"

  "He lived in Raleigh Heights, Nevada. It's near Reno."

  Loren considered that. "Reno's a pretty long way from a Catholic school in East Orange, New Jersey."

  "Indeed." Steinberg was still looking up. "He used to be on the job."

  "Darrow was a cop?"

  He nodded. "Retired. Detective Max Darrow. Worked homicide in Vegas for t wenty-five years."

  Loren tried to fit that into her earlier theory about Sister Mary Rose being a f ugitive. Maybe she was from the Vegas or Reno area. Maybe she'd stumbled across t his Max Darrow sometime in the past.

  The next step seemed pretty obvious: "We need to locate Max Darrow."

  Ed Steinberg's voice was soft. "We already have."

  "How's that?"

  "Darrow is dead."

  Their eyes met and something else clicked into place. She could almost see Trevor Wine pulling up his belt. How had her patronizing colleague described his m urder victim?

  "A retired white guy . . . a tourist."

  Steinberg nodded. "We found Darrow's body in Newark, near that cemetery off Fourteenth Avenue. He was shot twice in the head."

  Chapter 21

  IT FINALLY STARTED to rain.

  Matt Hunter had stumbled from the Landmark Bar and Grill and headed back up Northfield Avenue. Nobody followed him. It was late and dark and he was drunk, b ut that didn't matter. You always know the streets near where you grew up.

  He made the right on Hillside Avenue. Ten minutes later he arrived. The Realtor's sign was still out front, reading UNDER CONTRACT. In a few days this h ouse would be his. He sat on the curb and stared at it. Slow raindrops the size o f cherries pounded down on him.

  Rain reminded him of prison. It turned the world gray, drab, shapeless. Rain was t he color of jail asphalt. Since the age of sixteen Matt wore contact lenses--w as wearing them now-- but in prison he'd stayed with glasses and kept them off a l ot. It seemed to help, making his prison surroundings a blur, more unformed g ray.

  He kept his eyes on the house he'd planned to buy-- this "saltbox charmer" as the a d had call
ed it. Soon he'd move in with Olivia, his beautiful, pregnant wife, a nd they'd have a baby. There'd probably be more kids after that. Olivia wanted t hree.

  There was no picket fence in the front, but there might as well have been. The b asement was unfinished, but Matt was pretty good with his hands. He'd do it h imself. The swing set in the back was old and rusty and would need to be thrown o ut. While they were two years away from purchasing a replacement, Olivia had a lready located the exact brand she wanted-- something with cedar wood-- because t hey guaranteed no splinters.

  Matt tried to see all that-- that future. He tried to imagine living inside this t hree-bedroom abode with the kitchen that needed updating, a roaring fire, l aughter at the dinner table, the kid coming to their bed because a nightmare h ad scared her, Olivia's face in the morning. He could almost see it, like one o f Scrooge's ghosts was showing him the way, and for a second he almost smiled.

  But the image wouldn't hold. Matt shook his head in the rain.

  Who had he been kidding?

  He didn't know what was going on with Olivia, but one thing he knew for certain: It marked the end. The fairy tale was over. As Sonya McGrath had said, the i mages on the camera phone had been his wake-up call, the reality check, the "It's all a joke on you!" moment, when deep down inside, he'd always known that.

  You don't come back.

  Stephen McGrath was not about to leave his side. Every time Matt started to pull a way, Dead Stephen was there, catching up from behind, tapping him on the s houlder.

  "I'm right here, Matt. Still with you . . ."

  He sat in the rain. He idly wondered what time it was. Didn't much matter. He t hought about that damned picture of Charles Talley, the mysterious man with the b lue-black hair, his mocking whispers on the phone. To what end? That was what Matt could not get around or figure out. Drunk or sober, in the comfort of his h ome or heck, outside in the pouring rain, the drought finally over. . . .

  And that was when it struck him.

  Rain.

  Matt turned and looked up, encouraging the drops now. Rain. Finally. There was r ain. The drought had ended with a massive fury.

  Could the answer be that simple?

  Matt thought about it. First thing: He needed to get home. He needed to call Cingle. Didn't matter what the time. She'd understand.

  "Matt?"

  He hadn't heard the car pull up, but the voice, even now, even under these c onditions, well, Matt couldn't help but smile. He stayed on the curb. "Hey, Lance."

  Matt looked up as Lance Banner stepped out of a minivan.

  Lance said, "I heard you were looking for me."

  "I was."

  "Why?"

  "I wanted to fight you."

  Now it was Lance's turn to smile. "You wouldn't want to do that."

  "Think I'm afraid?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "I'd kick your ass."

  "Which would only prove me right."

  "About?"

  "About how prison changes a man," Lance said. "Because before you went in, I'd h ave beaten you with two broken arms."

  He had a point. Matt stayed seated. He still felt pretty wasted and didn't fight t he feeling. "You always seem to be around, Lance."

  "That I am."

  "You're just so damn helpful." Matt snapped his fingers. "Hey, Lance, you know w ho you're like now? You're like that Block Mom."

  Lance said nothing.

  "Remember that Block Mom on Hobart Gap Road?" Matt asked.

  "Mrs. Sweeney."

  "Right. Mrs. S. Always peering out the window, no matter what time it was. Big s ourpuss on her face, complaining about the kids cutting through her yard." Matt p ointed at him. "You're like that, Lance. You're like a great big Block Mom."

  "You been drinking, Matt?"

  "Yup. That a problem?"

  "Not in and of itself, no."

  "So why are you always out and about, Lance?"

  He shrugged. "I'm just trying to keep the bad out."

  "You think you can?"

  Lance didn't reply to that.

  "You really think that your minivans and good schools are, what, some kind of f orce field, warding off evil?" Matt laughed too hard at that one. "Hell, Lance, l ook at me, for chrissake. I'm the poster boy proving that's a load of crap. I s hould be on your warn-the-teens tour, you know, like when we were in high s chool and the cops would make us look at some car smashed up by a drunk driver.

  That's what I should be. One of those warnings to the youngsters. Except I'm not s ure what my lesson would be."

  "Not to get into fights, for one."

  "I didn't get in a fight. I tried to break one up."

  Lance fought back a sigh. "You want to retry the case out here in the rain, Matt?"

  "No."

  "Good. Then how about I give you a lift home?"

  "Not going to arrest me?"

  "Maybe another time."

  Matt took one last look at the house. "You may be right."

  "What about?"

  "About my belonging."

  "Come on, Matt, it's wet out. I'll drive you home."

  Lance came up behind him. He put his hands under Matt's armpits and lifted. The m an was powerful. Matt stumbled to a wobbly stand. His head spun. His stomach g urgled. Lance helped him to the car and into the front passenger seat.

  "You get sick in my car," Lance said, "you'll wish I arrested you."

  "Ooo, tough guy." Matt cracked the window, enough for a breeze but not enough to l et in the rain. He kept his nose near the opening like a dog. The air helped.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. The glass was cool a gainst his cheek.

  "So why the drinking binge, Matt?"

  "Felt like it."

  "You do that a lot? Drink yourself stupid?"

  "You an AA counselor too, Lance? You know, along with your gig as the Block Mom?"

  Lance nodded. "You're right. Change of subject."

  The rain let up a little. The wipers slowed down a notch. Lance kept both hands o n the wheel.

  "My oldest daughter is thirteen. You believe that?"

  "How many kids you got, Lance?"

  "Three. Two girls and a boy." He took one hand off the wheel and fumbled for his w allet. He extracted three photographs and handed them to Matt. Matt studied t hem, searching as he always did, for echoes of the parent. "The boy. How old is h e?"

  "Six."

  "Looks just like you did at that age."

  Lance smiled. "Devin. We call him Devil. He's wild."

  "Like his old man."

  "Guess, yeah."

  They fell into silence. Lance reached for the radio then decided against it. "My d aughter. The oldest. I'm thinking of putting her in Catholic school."

  "She at Heritage now?" Heritage had been the middle school they'd attended.

  "Yeah, but, I don't know, she's a little wild. I heard St. Margaret's in East Orange is supposed to be good."

  Matt looked out the window.

  "You know anything about it?"

  "About Catholic school?"

  "Yeah. Or St. Margaret's."

  "No."

  Lance had both hands on the wheel again. "Say, do you know who went there?"

  "Went where?"

  "St. Margaret's."

  "No."

  "Remember Loren Muse?"

  Matt did. It was that way with people you went to elementary school with, even i f you never saw them after graduation. You recall the name and face instantly.

  "Sure. Tomboy, hung out with us for a while. Then she kinda faded away. Her f ather died when we were kids, right?"

  "You don't know?"

  "Know what?"

  "Her old man committed suicide. Blew his brains out in their garage when she was i n like eighth grade. They kept it a secret."

  "God, that's awful."

  "Yeah, but she's doing okay. She works in the prosecutor's office in Newark n ow."

  "She's a lawyer?"
/>
  Lance shook his head. "An investigator. But after what happened with her father, w ell, Loren hit a rough patch too. St. Margaret's helped, I think."

  Matt said nothing.

  "But you don't know anybody who went to St. Margaret's?"

  "Lance?"

  "Yeah."

  "This subtlety act. It's not really playing. What are you trying to ask me h ere?"

  "I'm asking if you know anything about St. Margaret's."

  "You want me to write your daughter a letter of recommendation?"

  "No."

  "Then why are you asking me these questions?"

  "How about a Sister Mary Rose? Taught social studies there. Do you know her?"

  Matt shifted so that he faced Lance full on. "Am I a suspect in some kind of c rime?"

  "What? We're just having a friendly conversation here."

  "I don't hear a no, Lance."

  "You have a very guilty conscience."

  "And you're still evading my question."

  "You don't want to tell how you knew Sister Mary Rose?"

  Matt closed his eyes. They weren't far from Irvington now. He leaned his head b ack against the headrest. "Tell me more about your kids, Lance."

  Lance did not reply. Matt closed his eyes and listened to the rain. It brought h im back to what he'd been thinking before Lance Banner showed up. He needed to c all Cingle as soon as he could.

  Because, strangely enough, the rain could hold the key to what Olivia was doing i n that hotel room.

  Chapter 22

  MATT THANKED LANCE for the ride and watched him pull away.

  As soon as the minivan was out of sight, he headed inside, grabbed his phone, a nd started dialing Cingle's cell. He checked the time. It was nearly eleven o 'clock. He hoped that she was awake, but even if she wasn't, well, once he e xplained, she'd understand.

  The phone rang four times and then went into Cingle's simple voice mail message: "Me. You. Tone."

  Damn.

  He left Cingle a message: "Call me back, it's urgent." He hit the button for "other options" and plugged in his home number. Maybe she'd get the page.

  He wanted to download the images from his camera phone onto his hard drive, but l ike a dummy he'd left the USB cord at work. He searched the computer room for t he cord that came with Olivia's phone, but he couldn't find it.

  It was then that he noticed the phone's message light was blinking. He picked it u p and hit play. There was only one message and after the day he'd had, it h ardly surprised him.