by Harlan Coben
"She won't mind."
But Matt suddenly hesitated. He really didn't worry about waking Marsha-- there h ad been plenty of late-night calls over the years-- but now he wondered if she w ould be alone tonight, if maybe he wouldn't be interrupting something. He also--a nd this was really weird-- started worrying about something else right now.
Suppose Marsha got remarried.
Paul and Ethan were still young. Would they call the guy Daddy? Matt wasn't sure i f he could handle that. More to the point, what role would Uncle Matt have in t his new life, this new family? All of this was silly, of course. He was getting w ay ahead of himself. It was hardly the time either, what with his other p roblems right now. But the thoughts were there, in his head, knocking to come o ut of some back closet.
He pulled out his cell phone and pushed the second number on his speed dial. As t hey hit Washington Avenue, Matt noticed two cars going past them in the o pposite direction. He turned and watched them pull into the MVD lot. The cars w ere from the Essex County prosecutor's office. They were the same make and m odel Loren had been using earlier in the evening.
This couldn't be good.
The phone was picked up on the second ring.
Marsha said, "I'm glad you called." If she'd been sleeping, she hid it pretty w ell.
"Are you alone?"
"What?"
"I mean . . . I know the kids are there--"
"I'm alone, Matt."
"I don't mean to pry. I just want to make sure I'm not interrupting anything."
"You're not. You never will be."
That should have set his mind at ease, he guessed. "Do you mind if Olivia and I c rash at your place tonight?"
"Of course not."
"It's a long story, but basically I was assaulted tonight--"
"Are you okay?"
The pain was starting to ebb back into his head and ribs. "I got a few bumps and b ruises, but I'll be fine. Thing is, the police want to ask some questions and w e're just not ready for that yet."
"Does this have anything to do with that nun?" Marsha asked.
"What nun?"
Olivia's head snapped toward him.
"There was a county investigator here today," Marsha said. "I should have called y ou, but I guess I was hoping it was no big deal. Hold on, I have her card here s omeplace . . ."
Matt's mind, both exhausted and scrambled, remembered now. "Loren Muse."
"Right, that's the name. She said a nun made a phone call to the house."
"I know," he said.
"Muse reached you?"
"Yes."
"I figured she would. We were just talking and then, I don't know, she spotted y our picture on the refrigerator and suddenly she starts asking Kyra and me all t hese questions about how often you visit."
"Don't worry, I straightened it out. Look, we'll be there in twenty minutes."
"I'll get the guest room ready."
"Don't go to any trouble."
"No trouble. I'll see you in twenty minutes."
She hung up.
Olivia said, "What's this about a nun?"
Matt told her about Loren's visit. Olivia's face lost even more color. By the t ime he finished, they were in Livingston. The roads were completely empty of b oth cars and pedestrians. There was no one about. The only lights coming from t he homes were those downstairs lamps set on timers to fool burglars.
Olivia remained silent as she pulled into Marsha's driveway. Matt could see Marsha's silhouette through the curtain in the downstairs foyer. The light above t he garage was on. Kyra was awake. He saw her look out. Matt slid down the car w indow and waved up to her. She waved back.
Olivia turned off the ignition. Matt checked his face in the visor mirror. He l ooked like hell. Lawrence was right. What with the bandage wrapped around his h ead, he did resemble the soldier playing the flute in Willard's Spirit of '76.
"Olivia?"
She said nothing.
"Do you know this Sister Mary Rose?"
"Maybe."
She stepped out of the car. Matt did the same. The outside lights-- Matt had h elped Bernie install the motion detectors-- snapped on. Olivia came around to h im. She took his hand and held it firmly.
"Before I say anything else," she began, "I need you to know something."
Matt waited.
"I love you. You are the only man I've ever loved. Whatever happens now, you h ave brought me a happiness and joy I once thought was impossible."
"Olivia--"
She put her finger to his lips. "I just want one thing. I want you to hold me.
Hold me right now. Just for a minute or two. Because after I tell you the truth, I'm not sure you will ever want to hold me again."
Chapter 33
WHEN CINGLE GOT to the police station she used her phone call to reach her boss, Malcolm Seward, the president of Most Valuable Detection. Seward was retired FBI. He opened MVD ten years ago and was making a small fortune.
Seward was not thrilled about the late-night call. "You pulled a gun on the g uy?"
"It's not like I would have shot him."
"How reassuring." Seward sighed. "I'll make some calls. You'll be out in an h our."
"You're the best, Boss."
He hung up.
She went back to her holding cell and waited. A tall officer unlocked the h olding cell door. "Cingle Shaker."
"Right here."
"Please follow me."
"Anywhere, handsome."
He led her down the hallway. She expected this to be it-- the bail hearing, the q uick release, whatever-- but that wasn't the case.
"Please turn around," he said.
Cingle cocked an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you buy me dinner first?"
"Please turn around."
She did. He cuffed her hands.
"What are you doing?"
He didn't speak. He escorted her outside, opened the back door of his squad car, a nd pushed her in.
"Where are we going?"
"The new court building."
"The one on West Market?"
"Yes, ma'am."
The ride was short, less than a mile. They took the elevator to the third floor.
The words OFFICE OF THE ESSEX COUNTY PROSECUTOR were stenciled on the glass.
There was a big trophy case by the door, the kind you see in a high school.
Cingle wondered about that, about what a trophy case was doing in a prosecutor's o ffice. You prosecute killers and rapists and drug dealers and the first thing y ou see when you enter is a bunch of trophies celebrating softball wins. Weird.
"This way."
He led her through the waiting area, past the double doors. When they stopped, s he peeked inside a small, windowless space. "An interrogation room?"
He said nothing, just held the door. She shrugged and entered.
Time passed. A lot of time, actually. They had confiscated her possessions, i ncluding her watch, so she didn't really know how much. There was no one-way m irror either, like you usually see on TV. They used a camera here. There was o ne mounted in the corner of the wall. From the monitoring room, you could zoom t he camera in or change the angle, whatever. There was one sheet of paper taped d own at a funny angle. That was the guide spot, she knew, where you put the r elease statement so that the camera could tape you signing it.
When the door finally opened, a woman-- Cingle assumed that it was a plainclothes i nvestigator-- stepped into the room. She was a tiny thing, maybe five-one, 110 p ounds tops. Sweat drenched her body. It looked like she'd just stepped out of a s team room. Her blouse stuck to her chest. There was dampness under her pits. A t hin coat of perspiration made her face glisten. She wore a gun on her belt and h ad a manila folder in her hand.
"I'm Investigator Loren Muse," the woman said.
Wow, that was fast. Cingle remembered the name-- Muse was the one who'd q uestioned Matt earlier this evening.
"Cingle Shaker," she said.
"Yes, I know. I
have a few questions."
"And I'm going to choose not to answer them right now."
Loren was still catching her breath. "Why's that?"
"I'm a working private investigator."
"And who would your client be?"
"I don't have to tell you."
"There is no such thing as PI-client privilege."
"I'm aware of the law."
"So?"
"So I choose not to answer any questions at this time."
Loren dropped the manila folder on the table. It stayed closed. "Are you r efusing to cooperate with the county prosecutor's office?"
"Not at all."
"Then please answer my question. Who is your client?"
Cingle leaned back. She stretched out her legs and crossed her ankles. "You fall i n a pool or something?"
"Oh, wait, I get it. Because I'm wet? Good one, really. Should I get a pen, you k now, in case you come up with more gems?"
"No need." Cingle pointed to the camera. "You can just watch the tape."
"It's not on."
"No?"
"If I wanted to tape this, I'd have you sign the release."
"Is anybody in the monitoring room?"
Loren shrugged, ignored the question. "Aren't you curious about how Mr. Hunter's d oing?"
Cingle didn't bite. "Tell you what. I won't ask any questions if you don't."
"I don't think so."
"Look, Inspector . . . Muse, is it?"
"Yes."
"What's the big deal here? It was a simple assault. That hotel probably has t hree a week."
"Yet," Loren said, "it was serious enough for you to pull a gun on a man?"
"I was just trying to get upstairs before it got any more dangerous."
"How did you know?"
"Pardon me?"
"The fight was on the fifth floor. You were outside in your car. How did you k now that someone was in trouble?"
"I think we're done."
"No, Cingle, I don't think we are."
Their eyes met. Cingle did not like what she saw. Loren pulled out the chair and s at down. "I've just spent the last half an hour in the stairwell of the Howard Johnson's. It's not air-conditioned. In fact, it's hot as hell. That's why I l ook like this."
"Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?"
"It's not a simple assault, Cingle."
Cingle eyed the manila folder. "What's that?"
Loren dumped out the folder's contents. They were photographs. Cingle sighed, p icked one up, froze.
"I assume you recognize him?"
Cingle stared at the two pictures. The first was a headshot. No question about i t-- the dead man was Charles Talley. His face looked like raw meat. The other w as a full body shot. Talley was sprawled on what looked like metal steps. "What h appened to him?"
"Two shots to the face."
"Jesus."
"Feel like talking now, Cingle?"
"I don't know anything about this."
"His name is Charles Talley. But you knew that, right?"
"Jesus," Cingle said again, trying to put it together. Talley was dead. How?
Hadn't he just assaulted Matt?
Loren put the pictures back in the manila folder. She folded her hands and l eaned closer. "I know you're working for Matt Hunter. I also know that right b efore you headed for that hotel you two met in your office for a very l ate-night chat. Would you care to tell me what you discussed?"
Cingle shook her head.
"Did you kill this man, Ms. Shaker?"
"What? Of course not."
"How about Mr. Hunter? Did he kill him?"
"No."
"How do you know?"
"Excuse me?"
"I didn't even tell you when he was killed." Loren tilted her head. "How could y ou possibly know that he wasn't involved in the man's death?"
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
Cingle took a breath. Loren did not.
"How about retired detective Max Darrow?"
"Who?" But Cingle remembered that name from Matt. He had asked her to check him o ut.
"Another dead man. Did you kill him? Or did Hunter do it?"
"I don't know what . . ." Cingle stopped, crossed her arms. "I have to get out o f here."
"That's not going to happen, Cingle."
"Are you charging me with something?"
"As a matter of fact, we are. You threatened a man with a loaded handgun."
Cingle crossed her arms and tried to regain her composure. "Old news."
"Ah, but see, you're no longer getting sped through the system. You'll be kept o vernight and arraigned in the morning. We're going to prosecute this to the f ull extent of the law. You'll only lose your license if it all breaks your way, b ut my bet is, you'll serve jail time."
Cingle said nothing.
"Who assaulted Mr. Hunter tonight?"
"Why don't you ask him?"
"Oh, I will. Because-- and this is interesting-- when we found Mr. Talley's corpse h e had a stun gun and a pair of brass knuckles. There was fresh blood on the b rass knuckles." Loren did that head tilt again, moving in a little closer.
"When we run a DNA test, whose blood do you think will match?"
There was a knock on the door. Loren Muse held the gaze a moment longer before s he opened it. The man who escorted Cingle from the station was there. He was h olding a cell phone.
"For her," the man said, gesturing toward Cingle. Cingle looked at Loren.
Loren's face gave away nothing. Cingle took the phone and put it to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Start talking."
It was her boss, Malcolm Seward.
"It's a sensitive case."
"I'm on the computer network now," Seward said. "Which case number?"
"There isn't a case number yet."
"What?"
"With all due respect, sir, I don't feel comfortable talking with the a uthorities here."
She heard Seward sigh. "Guess who just called me, Cingle. Guess who called me at h ome at three in the morning."
"Mr. Seward--"
"Actually, no, don't guess. I'll tell you because, hey, it's three in the m orning and I'm too tired for games. Ed Steinberg. Ed Steinberg himself called m e. Do you know who that is?"
"Yes."
"Ed Steinberg is the Essex County prosecutor."
"I know."
"He's also been my friend for twenty-eight years."
"I know that too."
"Good, Cingle, then we're on the same wavelength here. MVD is a business. A very s uccessful business, or so I like to think. And a big part of our effectiveness--y ours and mine-- depends on working with these people. So when Ed Steinberg calls m e at home at three in the morning and tells me he's working on a triple h omicide--"
"Hold up," Cingle said. "Did you say triple?"
"You see? You don't even know how deep this doo-doo goes. Ed Steinberg, my old p al, very much wants your cooperation. That means I, your boss, very much want y our cooperation. Do I make myself clear?"
"I guess so."
"Guess? What, am I being too subtle here, Cingle?"
"There are mitigating factors."
"Not according to Steinberg. Steinberg tells me this all involves some ex-con.
That true?"
"He works at Carter Sturgis."
"Is he a lawyer?"
"No, he's a paralegal."
"And he served time for manslaughter?"
"Yes, but--"
"Then there's nothing to discuss. There's no privilege here. Tell them what they w ant to know."
"I can't."
"Can't?" There was an edge in Seward's tone now. "I don't like to hear that."
"It's not that simple, Mr. Seward."
"Well, then let me simplify it for you, Cingle. You have two choices: Talk or c lean out your desk. Bye now."
He hung up the phone. Cingle eyed Loren. Loren smiled at her.
> "Everything all right, Ms. Shaker?"
"Peachy."
"Good. Because as we speak, our techno people are on their way to MVD's office.
They'll comb through your hard drive. They'll scrutinize every document you've g ot in there. Prosecutor Steinberg is right now calling back your boss. He'll f ind out what files you accessed recently, who you talked to, where you've been, w hat you've been working on."
Cingle stood slowly, towering over Loren. Loren did not back up a step. "I have n othing more to say."
"Cingle?"
"What?"
"Sit your ass down."
"I prefer to stand."
"Fine. Then listen up because we're coming to the end of our conversation. Did y ou know I went to school with Matt Hunter? Elementary school, actually. I liked h im. He was a good kid. And if he's innocent, nobody will be more anxious to c lear his name than yours truly. But your keeping mum like this, well, Cingle, i t suggests you might be hiding something. We have Talley's brass knuckles. We k now Matt Hunter was at the murder scene tonight. We know he got into some kind o f fight in Room 515-- that was Mr. Talley's room. We also know that Mr. Hunter w as out drinking at two bars this evening. We know that the DNA test on the b rass knuckles will show that the blood is Hunter's. And, of course, we know t hat Mr. Hunter, a convicted felon, has something of a history of getting into f ights where someone ends up dead."
Cingle sighed. "Is there a point to this?"
"Sure is, Cingle, and here it comes: Do you really think I need your help to n ail him?"
Cingle started tapping her foot, looking for a way out. "Then what do you want f rom me?"
"Help."
"Help with what?"
"Tell me the truth," Loren said. "That's all I ask. Hunter is already as good as i ndicted. Once he's in the system-- him being an ex-con and all-- well, you know h ow that'll go."
She did. Matt would freak. He'd go nuts if they lock him up-- his greatest fear c ome to fruition.
Loren moved a little closer. "If you know something that might help him," she s aid, "now is the time to say it."
Cingle tried to think it through. She almost trusted this little cop, but she k new better. That was what Muse wanted-- playing good cop and bad cop in one p ackage. Christ, an amateur could see through this charade and yet Cingle was a lmost ready to bite.
Key word: almost.
But Cingle also knew that once they got into her office computer, there would be h uge problems. The last files she accessed were the photographs from Matt's cell p hone. Pictures of the murder victim. A video of the murder victim and Matt Hunter's wife.