Gone for Good

by Harlan Coben

"An apartment off campus. Sheila stayed there too."

  "So when exactly did Sheila Rogers drop out?"

  Rose Baker pretended to think about it. I say pretend, because I could see that she knew the answer right away and that this act was somehow for our benefit. "I think Sheila left after Julie died."

  "How long after?" I asked.

  She kept her eyes down. "I don't remember ever seeing her after the murder."

  I looked at Katy. Her eyes, too, were on the floor. Rose Baker put a trembling hand to her mouth.

  "Do you know where Sheila went?" I asked.

  "No. She was gone. That was all that mattered."

  She would not look at us anymore. I found that troubling.

  "Mrs. Baker?"

  She still would not face me.

  "Mrs. Baker, what else happened?"

  "Why are you here?" she asked.

  "We told you. We wanted to know "

  "Yes, but why now?"

  Katy and I looked at each other. She nodded. I turned to Rose Baker and said, "Yesterday, Sheila Rogers was found dead. She was murdered."

  I thought that maybe she had not heard me. Rose Baker kept her gaze locked on a black-velvet Diana, a grotesque and frightening reproduction. Diana's teeth were blue, and her skin looked like a bad bottle-tan. Rose stared at the image and I started thinking again about the fact that there were no pictures of her husband or her family or her sorority girls only this dead stranger from overseas. And I wondered about how I was dealing with all this death, how I kept chasing shadows to divert the pain, and I wondered if maybe there was something like that going on here too.

  "Mrs. Baker?"

  "Was she strangled like the others?"

  "No," I said. And then I stopped. I turned to Katy. She had heard it too. "Did you say others?"

  "Yes."

  "What others?"

  "Julie was strangled," she said.

  "Right."

  Her shoulders slumped. The wrinkles on her face seemed more pronounced now, the crevices sinking deeper into the flesh. Our visit had unleashed demons she had stuffed in boxes or maybe buried beneath the Di accoutrements. "You don't know about Laura Emerson, do you?"

  Katy and I exchanged another glance. "No," I said.

  Rose Baker's eyes started darting across the walls again. "Are you sure you won't have some tea?"

  "Please, Mrs. Baker. Who is Laura Emerson?"

  She stood and hobbled over to the fireplace mantel. Her fingers reached out and gently touched down on a ceramic bust of Di. "Another sorority sister," she said. "Laura was a year behind Julie."

  "What happened to her?" I asked.

  She found a piece of dirt stuck on the ceramic bust. She used her nail to scratch it off. "Laura was found dead near her home in North Dakota eight months before Julie. She'd been strangled too."

  Icy hands were grabbing at my legs, pulling me back under. Katy's face was white. She shrugged at me, letting me know that this was new to her too.

  "Did they ever find her killer?" I asked.

  "No," Rose Baker said. "Never."

  I tried to sift through it, process this new data, get a grip on what this all meant. "Mrs. Baker, did the police question you after Julie's murder?"

  "Not the police," she said.

  "But someone did?"

  She nodded. "Two men from the FBI."

  "Do you remember their names?"

  "No."

  "Did they ask you about Laura Emerson?"

  "No. But I told them anyway."

  "What did you say?"

  "I reminded them that another girl had been strangled."

  "How did they react to that?"

  "They told me that I should keep that to myself. That saying something could compromise the investigation."

  Too fast, I thought. This was all coming at me too fast. It would not compute. Three young women were dead. Three women from the same sorority house. That was a pattern if ever I saw one. A pattern meant that Julie's murder was not the random, solo act of violence that the FBI had led us and the world to believe.

  And worst of all, the FBI knew it. They had lied to us all these years.

  The question now was, why.

  Chapter Thirty-Four.

  Man, I had a good head of steam going. I wanted to explode into Pistillo's office. I wanted to burst in and grab him by the lapels and demand answers. But real life does not work that way. Route 95 was littered with construction delays. We hit terrible traffic on the Cross Bronx Expressway. The Harlem River Drive crawled like a wounded soldier. I leaned on the horn and swerved in and out of lanes, but in New York, that just raises you to average.

  Katy used her cell phone to call her friend Ronnie, who she said was good with computers. Ronnie checked out Laura Emerson on the Internet, pretty much confirming what we already knew. She'd been strangled eight months before Julie. Her body had been found at the Court Manor Motor Lodge in Fessenden, North Dakota. The murder received extensive though vague local coverage for two weeks before fading off the front page and into stardust. There was no mention of sexual assault.

  I veered hard off the exit, drove through a red light, found the Kinney parking lot near Federal Plaza, pulled in. We hurried toward the building. I kept my head high and my feet in motion, but alas, there was a security checkpoint. We had to walk through a metal detector. My keys set it off. I emptied my pockets. Now it was my belt. The guard ran a wand that looked like a vibrator over my persons. Okay, we were cleared.

  When we reached Pistillo's office, I demanded to see him in my firmest voice. His secretary appeared unintimidated. She smiled with the genuineness of a politician's wife and sweetly asked us to have a seat.

  Katy looked at me and shrugged. I would not sit. I paced like a caged lion, but I could feel my fury ebbing.

  Fifteen minutes later, the secretary told us that Assistant Director in Charge Joseph Pistillo that was exactly how she said it, with the full title would see us now. She opened the door. I blasted into the office.

  Pistillo was already standing and at the ready. He gestured at Katy.

  "Who is this?"

  "Katy Miller," I said.

  He looked stunned. He said to her, "What are you doing with him?"

  But I was not about to be sidetracked. "Why didn't you ever say anything about Laura Emerson?"

  He turned back to me. "Who?"

  "Don't insult me, Pistillo."

  Pistillo waited a beat. Then he said, "Why don't we all sit?"

  "Answer my question."

  He lowered himself into his seat, his eyes never leaving me. His desk looked shiny and sticky. The smell of lemon Pledge clawed at the air.

  "You're in no position to make demands," he said.

  "Laura Emerson was strangled eight months before Julie."

  "So?"

  "Both of them were from the same sorority house."

  Pistillo steepled his fingers. He played the wait game and won.

  I said, "Are you going to tell me you didn't know about it?"

  "Oh, I knew."

  "And you don't see a connection?"

  "That's correct."

  His eyes were steady, but he was practiced at this.

  "You can't be serious," I said.

  He let his gaze wander the walls now. There was not much to look at it. There was a photograph of President Bush and an American flag and a few diplomas. That was pretty much it. "We looked into it at the time, of course. I think the local media picked up on it too. They might have even run something I don't remember anymore. But in the end none of them saw a true connection."

  "You have to be kidding."

  "Laura Emerson was strangled in another state at another time. There were no signs of rape or sexual assault. She was found in a motel.

  Julie" he turned to Katy "your sister was found in her home."

  "And the fact that they both belonged to the same sorority?"

  "A coincidence."

  "You're lying," I said.

>   He did not like that, and his face reddened a shade. "Watch it," he said, pointing a beefy finger in my direction. "You have no standing here."

  "Are you telling us that you saw no link between the murders?"

  "That's right."

  "And what about now, Pistillo?"

  "What about now?"

  The rage was building back up again. "Sheila Rogers was a member of that sorority too. Is that another coincidence?"

  That caught him off guard. He leaned back, trying to get some distance. Was it because he didn't know or because he didn't think I'd find out about it? "I'm not going to talk to you about an ongoing investigation."

  "You knew," I said slowly. "And you knew that my brother was innocent."

  He shook his head, but there was nothing behind it. "I knew correction: know nothing of the sort."

  But I did not believe him. He had been lying from the start. Of that I was now certain. He stiffened as though bracing for my next outburst. But, to my surprise, my voice grew suddenly soft.

  "Do you realize what you've done?" I said, barely a whisper. "The damage to my family. My father, my mother .. . ?"

  "This doesn't involve you, Will."

  "Like hell it doesn't."

  "Please," he said. "Both of you. Stay out of this."

  I stared at him. "No."

  "For your own sakes. You're not going to believe this, but I'm trying to protect you."

  "From?"

  He did not reply.

  "From?" I repeated.

  He slapped the arms of his chair and stood. "This conversation is over."

  "What do you really want with my brother, Pistillo?"

  "I'm not going to comment any further on an ongoing investigation." He moved toward the door. I tried to block his path. He gave me his hardest look and walked around me. "You stay away from my investigation, or I'll arrest you for hindering."

  "Why are you trying to frame him?"

  Pistillo stopped and turned around. I saw something change his demeanor. A straightening of the spine maybe. A quick flicker in the eyes. "You want to get into truths, Will?"

  I did not like his change of tone. I suddenly wasn't sure of the answer. "Yes."

  "Then," he said slowly, "let's start with you."

  "What about me?"

  "You've always been so convinced your brother was innocent," he continued, his posture more aggressive now. "How come?" "Because I know him."

  "Really? So how close were you and Ken near the end?"

  "We were always close."

  "Saw him often, did you?"

  I shuffled my feet. "You don't have to see someone a lot to be close."

  "Is that a fact? So tell us, Will: Who do you think killed Julie Miller?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well then, let's examine what you think happened, shall we?" Pistillo strode toward me. Somewhere along the way, I had lost the upper hand.

  There was fire in his belly now, and I had no idea why. He stopped just close enough to start invading my space. "Your dear brother, the one you were so close to, had sexual relations with your old girlfriend the night of the murder. Isn't that your theory, Will?"

  I might have squirmed. "Yes."

  "Your ex-girlfriend and your brother doing the nasty." He made a tsk-tsk noise. "That must have infuriated you."

  "What are you babbling about?"

  "The truth, Will. We want to deal in truths, right? So come on, let's all put our cards on the table." His eyes stayed on me, level and cool. "Your brother comes home for the first time in, what, two years.

  And what does he do? He strolls down the block and has intercourse with the girl you loved."

  "We'd broken up," I said, though even I could hear the whiny weakness in my own voice.

  He gave a small smirk. "Sure, that always ends it, doesn't it? Open season on her after that especially for a beloved brother." Pistillo stayed in my face. "You claim that you saw someone that night. Someone mysteriously lurking around the Miller house."

  "That's right."

  "How exactly did you see him?"

  "What do you mean?" I asked. But I knew.

  "You said you saw someone by the Miller house, correct?"

  "Yes."

  Pistillo smiled and spread his hands. "But you see, you never told us what you were doing there that night, Will." He said it in a casual, almost singsong voice. "You, Will. Outside the Miller house. Alone.

  Late at night. With your brother and your ex alone inside ..."

  Katy turned and looked at me.

  "I was taking a walk," I said quickly.

  Pistillo paced, pressing his advantage. "Uh-huh, sure, okay, so let's see if we got this straight. Your brother is having sex with the girl you still loved. You happen to be taking a walk by her house that night. She ends up dead. We find your brother's blood at the scene.

  And you, Will, know that your brother didn't do it."

  He stopped and gave me the grin again. "So if you were the investigating officer, who would you suspect?"

  A large stone was crushing my chest. I could not speak.

  "If you're suggesting ..."

  "I'm suggesting you go home," Pistillo said. "That's all. Go home, both of you, and stay the hell out of this."

  Chapter Thirty-Five.

  Pistillo offered to find Katy a ride home. She declined and said that she would stay with me. He didn't like that, but what could he do?

  We drove back to the apartment in silence. Once inside, I showed her my impressive collection of take-out menus. She ordered Chinese. I ran downstairs and picked it up. We spread the white boxes out on the table. I sat in my usual seat. Katy sat in Sheila's. I flashed back to Chinese with Sheila her hair tied back, fresh out of the shower and smelling sweet, in that terry-cloth robe, the freckles on her chest..

  .

  It was odd what you would always remember.

  The grief roared back at me in high, crippling waves. Whenever I stopped moving, it hit me hard and deep. Grief wears you down. If you don't guard against it, it will exhaust you past the point of caring.

  I dumped some fried rice on my plate and followed it up with a dash of lobster sauce. "Are you sure you still want to stay tonight?"

  Katy nodded.

  "I'll give you the bedroom," I said.

  "I'd rather sleep on the couch."

  "You sure?"

  "Positive."

  We pretended to eat.

  "I didn't kill Julie," I said.

  "I know."

  We pretended to eat some more.

  She finally asked, "Why were you there that night?"

  I tried to smile. "You don't buy that I was taking a walk?"

  "No."

  I put down the chopsticks as if they could shatter. I wondered how to explain this, here in my apartment, talking to the sister of the woman I once loved, sitting in the chair of the woman I'd wanted to marry.

  Both murdered. Both connected to me. I looked up and said, "I guess that maybe I wasn't really over Julie."

  "You wanted to see her?"

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "I rang the bell," I said. "But nobody answered."

  Katy thought about it. She looked down at her plate and tried to sound casual. "Your timing was strange."

  I picked up the chopsticks.

  "Will?"

  I kept my head down.

  "Did you know your brother was there?"

  I moved the food around the plate. She lifted her head and watched me.

  I heard my neighbor open and close his door. A horn honked. Someone on the street was shouting in what might have been Russian.

  "You knew," Katy said. "You knew Ken was at our house. With Julie."

  "I didn't kill your sister."

  "What happened, Will?"

  I folded my arms across my chest. I leaned back, closed my eyes, tilted my head all the way back. I did not want to go back there, but what choice did I have? Katy wanted to know. She deserved to know
.

  "It was such a strange weekend," I began. "Julie and I had been broken up over a year. I hadn't seen her in all that time. I'd tried to bump into her on school breaks, but she never seemed to be around."

  "She hadn't been home in a long while," Katy said.

  I nodded. "The same with Ken. That was what made it all so bizarre. All of a sudden, all three of us are back in Livingston at the same time. I can't remember the last time that happened. Ken was acting strangely too. He was looking out the window all the time. He wouldn't leave the house. He was up to something. I don't know what. Anyway, he asked me if I was still hung up on Julie.

  I told him no. That we were history."

  "You lied to him."

  "It was like ..." I tried to figure out how to explain this. "My brother was like a god to me. He was strong and brave and ..." I shook my head. I was not saying this right. I started again. "When I was sixteen, my parents took the family on a trip to Spain. The Costa del Sol. The whole place was one big party scene. It was sort of like Florida spring break for the Europeans. Ken and I hung out at this one disco near our hotel. On our fourth night there, a guy bumped me on the dance floor. I looked over at him. He laughed at me. I went back to dancing. Then another guy bumped me. I tried to ignore him too.

  Then the first guy, he ran up to me and just pushed me down." I stopped, tried to blink away the memory as if it were sand in my eye. I looked at her. "Do you know what I did?"

  She shook her head.

  "I yelled for Ken. I didn't jump up. I didn't push the guy back. I yelled for my big brother and scrambled away."

  "You were scared."

  "Always, "I said.

  "That's natural."

  I didn't think so.

  "So did he come?" she asked.

  "Of course."

  "And?"

  "A fight broke out. There was a big group of them from some Scandinavian country. Ken got the hell beat out of him."

  "And you?"

  "I never so much as threw a punch. I hung back and tried to reason with them, convince them to stop." The shame flushed my cheeks yet again. My brother, who had been in more than his share of fights, was right. A beating hurts for a little while. The shame of cowardice never leaves. "Ken broke his arm during the scuffle. His right arm.

  He was an incredible tennis player. Nationally ranked. Stanford was interested in him. His serve was never the same after that. He ended up not going to college."

  "That's not your fault."

  How wrong she was. "The point is, Ken always defended me. Sure, we fought the way brothers do. He'd tease me mercilessly. But he'd step in the way of a freight train to protect me. And me, I never had the courage to reciprocate."

  Katy put her hand to her chin.

  "What? "I said.

  "It's odd, that's all."