by Harlan Coben
"Maybe Sheila's running away had something to do with her daughter."
"How?"
"Maybe she was trying to find Carly or bring her back. Maybe she learned that Carly was in trouble. I don't know. But something."
"Sounds semi-logical."
"And if we can trace Sheila's steps," I said, "maybe we can find Carly."
"And maybe we'll end up like Sheila."
"A risk," I agreed.
There was a hesitation. I looked over at Katy. She was staring off, plucking her lower lip.
"So you want to continue," Squares said.
"Yes, but I don't want to put you in danger."
"So this is the part where you tell me I can step away at any time?"
"Right, and then this is the part where you say you'll stick with me to the end."
"Cue the violins," Squares said. "Now that we're past all that, Roscoe via Raquel just called me. He may have come up with a serious lead on how Sheila ran. You game for a night ride?"
"Pick me up," I said.
Chapter Twenty-Six.
Philip McGuane saw his old nemesis on the security camera. His receptionist buzzed him.
"Mr. McGuane?"
"Send him in," he said.
"Yes, Mr. McGuane. He's with "
"Her too."
McGuane stood. He had a corner office overlooking the Hudson River near the isle of Manhattan's southwestern tip. In the warmer months, the new mega-cruise ships with their neon decor and atrium lobbies glided by, some climbing as high as his window. Today nary a stir.
McGuane kept flicking the remote on the security camera, keeping up with his federal antagonist Joe Pistillo and the female underling he had in tow.
McGuane spent a lot on security. It was worth it. His system employed eighty-three cameras. Every person who entered his private elevator was digitally recorded from several angles, but what really made the system stand out was that the camera angles were designed to shoot in such a way that anyone entering could be made to look as though they were also leaving. Both the corridor and elevator were painted spearmint green. That might not seem like much it was, in effect, rather hideous but to those who understood special effects and digital manipulation, it was key. An image on the green background could be plucked out and placed on another background.
His enemies felt comfortable coming here. This was, after all, his office. No one, they surmised, would be brazen enough to kill someone on his own turf. That was where they were wrong. The brazen nature, the very fact that the authorities would think the same thing and the fact that he could offer up evidence that the victim had left the facility unharmed made it the ideal spot to strike.
McGuane pulled out an old photograph from his top drawer. He had learned early that you never underestimate a person or a situation. He also realized that by making opponents underestimate him, he could finagle the advantage. He looked now at the picture of the three seventeen-year-old boys Ken Klein, John "the Ghost" Asselta, and McGuane. They'd grown up in the suburb of Livingston, New Jersey, though McGuane had lived on the opposite side of town from Ken and the Ghost. They hooked up in high school, drawn to each other, noticing or perhaps this was giving them all too much credit a kinship in the eyes.
Ken Klein had been the fiery tennis player, John Asselta the psycho wrestler, McGuane the wow-'em charmer and student council president. He looked at the faces in the photograph. You would never see it. All you saw were three popular high school kids. Nothing beyond that facade. When those kids shot up Columbine a few years back, McGuane had watched the media reaction with fascination. The world looked for comfortable excuses. The boys were outsiders. The boys were teased and bullied. The boys had absent parents and played video games. But McGuane knew that none of that mattered. It may have been a slightly different era, but that could have been them Ken, John, and McGuane because the truth is, it does not matter if you are financially comfortable or loved by your parents or if you keep to yourself or fight to stay afloat in the mainstream.
Some people have that rage.
The office door opened. Joseph Pistillo and his young protegee entered. McGuane smiled and put away the photograph.
"Ah, Javert," he said to Pistillo. "Do you still hunt me when all I did was steal some bread?"
"Yeah," Pistillo said. "Yeah, that's you, McGuane. The innocent man hounded."
McGuane turned his attention to the female agent. "Tell me, Joe, why do you always have such a lovely colleague with you?"
"This is Special Agent Claudia Fisher."
"Charmed," McGuane said. "Please have a seat."
"We'd rather stand."
McGuane shrugged a suit-yourself and dropped into his chair. "So what can I do for you today?"
"You're having a tough time, McGuane."
"Ami?"
"Indeed."
"And you're here to help? How special."
Pistillo snorted. "Been after you a long time."
"Yes, I know, but I'm fickle. Suggestion: Send a bouquet of roses next time. Hold the door for me. Use candlelight. A man wants to be romanced."
Pistillo put two fists on the desk. "Part of me wants to sit back and watch you get eaten alive." He swallowed, tried to hold something deep inside him in check. "But a bigger part of me wants to see you rot in jail for what you've done."
McGuane turned to Claudia Fisher. "He's very sexy when he talks tough, don't you think?"
"Guess who we just found, McGuane?"
"Hoffa? About time too."
"Fred Tanner."
"Who?"
Pistillo smirked. "Don't play that with me. Big thug. Works for you."
"I believe he's in my security department."
"We found him."
"I didn't know he was lost."
"Funny."
"I thought he was on vacation, Agent Pistillo."
"Permanently. We found him in the Passaic River."
McGuane frowned. "Howunsanitary."
"Especially with two bullet holes in the head. We also found a guy named Peter Appel. Strangled. He was an ex-army sharpshooter."
"Be all that you can be."
Only one strangled, McGuane thought. The Ghost must have been disappointed that he'd had to shoot the other.
"Yeah, well, let's see," Pistillo went on. "We have these two men dead. Plus we have the two guys in New Mexico. That's four."
"And you didn't use your fingers. They're not paying you enough, Agent Pistillo."
"You want to tell me about it?"
"Very much," McGuane said. "I admit it. I killed them all. Happy?"
Pistillo leaned over the desk so that their faces were inches apart.
"You're about to go down, McGuane."
"And you had onion soup for lunch."
"Are you aware," Pistillo said, not backing off, "that Sheila Rogers is dead too?"
"Who?"
Pistillo stood back up. "Right. You don't know her either. She doesn't work for you."
"Many people work for me. I'm a businessman."
Pistillo looked over at Fisher. "Let's go," he said.
"Leaving so soon?"
"I've waited a long time for this," Pistillo said. "What do they say?
Revenge is a dish best served cold."
"Like vichyssoise."
Another smirk from Pistillo. "Have a nice day, McGuane."
They left. McGuane sat there and did not move for ten minutes. What had been the purpose of that visit? Simple. To shake him up. More underestimation. He hit line three, the safe phone, the one checked daily for listening devices. He hesitated. Dialing the number. Would that show panic?
He weighed the pros and cons and decided to risk it.
The Ghost answered on the first ring with a drawn-out "Hello?"
"Where are you?"
"Just off the plane from Vegas."
"Learn anything?"
"Oh yes."
"I'm listening."
"There was a third person in the car with them," the Ghost said.
McGuane shifted in his seat. "Who?"
"A little girl," the Ghost said. "No more than eleven or twelve years old."
Chapter Twenty-Seven.
Katy and I were on the street when Squares pulled up. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Squares arched an eyebrow in my direction.
I frowned at him.
"I thought you were staying on my couch," I said to her.
Katy had been distracted since the fruit basket's arrival. "I'll be back tomorrow."
"And you don't want to tell me what's going on?"
She stuck her hands deep in her pockets and shrugged. "I just need to do a little research."
"On?"
She shook her head. I did not press it. She gave me a quick grin before taking off. I got in the van.
Squares said, "And she is?"
I explained as we headed uptown. There were dozens of sandwiches and blankets packed in the bag. Squares handed them out to the kids. The sandwiches and blankets, in the same vein as his rap about the missing Angie, made excellent icebreakers, and even if they didn't, at least the kids would have something to eat and something to keep them warm. I had seen Squares work wonders with those items. The first night, a kid would most likely refuse any help at all. He or she might even curse or become hostile. Squares would take no offense. He'd just keep coming at him. Squares believed that consistency was the key. Show the kid you're there all the time. Show the kid you're not leaving. Show the kid it's unconditional.
A few nights later, that kid will take the sandwich.
Another, he'll want a blanket. After a while, he'll start looking for you and the van.
I reached back and lifted a sandwich into view. "You're working again tonight?"
He lowered his head and looked at me above his sunglasses. "No," he said dryly, "I'm just really hungry."
He drove some more.
"How long are you going to avoid her, Squares?"
Squares flipped on the radio. Carly Simon's "You're So Vain." Squares sang along. Then he said, "Remember this song?"
I nodded.
"That rumor that it was about Warren Beatty. Was that true?"
"Don't know," I said.
We drove some more.
"Let me ask you something, Will."
He kept his eyes on the road. I waited.
"How surprised were you to learn that Sheila had a kid?"
"Very."
"And," he went on, "how surprised would you be to learn I had one too?"
I looked at him.
" You don't understand the situation, Will."
"I'd like to."
"Let's concentrate on one thing at a time."
The traffic was miraculously light this evening. Carly Simon faded away and then the Chairman of the Board begged his woman to give him just a little more time and their love would surely grow. Such desperation in that simple plea. I love this song.
We cut across town and took the Harlem River Drive north. When we passed a group of kids huddled under an overpass, Squares pulled over and shifted into park.
"Quick work stop," he said.
"You want help?"
Squares shook his head. "It won't take long."
"You going to use the sandwiches?"
Squares examined his potential help-ees and considered. "Nah. Got something better."
"What?"
"Phone cards." He handed me one. "I got Tele Reach to donate over a thousand of them. The kids go nuts for them."
They did too. As soon as they saw them, the kids flocked to him. Count on Squares. I watched the faces, tried to separate the smeared mass into individuals with wants and dreams and hopes. Kids do not survive long out here. Forget the incredible physical dangers. They can often get past that. It is the soul, the sense of self, that erodes out here. Once the erosion reaches a certain level, well, that's the ball game.
Sheila had been saved before reaching that level.
Then someone had killed her.
I shook it off. No time for that now. Focus on the task at hand. Keep moving. Action kept the grief at bay. Let it fuel you, not slow you down.
Do it corny as it might sound for her.
Squares returned a few minutes later. "Let's rock and roll."
"You haven't told me where we're going."
"Corner of 128th Street and Second Avenue. Raquel will meet us there."
"And what's there?"
He grinned. "A possible clue."
We exited the highway and passed a sprawl of housing projects. From two blocks away, I spotted Raquel. This was not difficult. Raquel was the size of a small principality and dressed like an explosion at the Liberace museum. Squares slowed the van next to him and frowned.
"What? "Raquel said.
"Pink pumps with a green dress?"
"It's coral and turquoise," Raquel said. "Plus the magenta purse pulls it all together."
Squares shrugged and parked in front of a storefront with a faded sign that read GOLDBERG PHARMACY. When I stepped out, Raquel wrapped me in an embrace that felt like wet foam rubber. He reeked of Aqua Velva, and my mind couldn't help but think that in this case, indeed, there was something about an Aqua Velva man.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered.
"Thank you."
He released me, and I was able to breathe again. He was crying. His tears grabbed hold of his mascara and ran it down his face. The colors mixed and got diverted in the rough of his beard, so that his face started looking like a candle in the back of Spencer's Gifts.
"Abe and Sadie are inside," Raquel said. "They're expecting you."
Squares nodded and headed into the pharmacy. I followed. A ding-dong sounded when we entered. The smell reminded me of a cherry tree-shaped freshener dangling from a rearview window. The store shelves were high and packed and tight. I saw bandages and deodorants and shampoos and cough medicines, all laid out with seemingly little organization.
An old man with half-moon reading glasses on a chain appeared. He wore a sweater-vest over a white shirt. His hair was high and thick and white and looked like a powdered wig from Bailey's. His eyebrows were extra bushy, giving him the look of an owl.
"Look! It's Mr. Squares!"
The two men hugged, the old man giving Squares's back a few hard pats.
"You look good," the old man said.
"You too, Abe."
"Sadie," he shouted. "Sadie, Mr. Squares is here."
"Who?"
"The yoga guy. With that tattoo."
"The one on his forehead?"
"That's him."
I shook my head and leaned toward Squares. "Is there anyone you don't know?"
He shrugged. "I've lived a charmed life."
Sadie, an older woman who would never see five feet even in Raquel's highest pumps, stepped down from behind the pharmacy stand. She frowned at Squares and said, "You look skinny."
"Leave him alone," Abe said.
"Shush you. You eating enough?"
"Sure," Squares said.
"You're bones. Pure bones."
"Sadie, can you leave the man alone?"
"Shush you." She smiled conspiratorially. "I got kugel. You want some?"
"Maybe later, thanks."
"I'll put some in the Tupperware."
"That would be nice, thank you." Squares turned to me. "This is my friend, Will Klein."
The two old people showed me sad eyes. "He's the boyfriend?"
"Yes."
They inspected me. Then they looked at each other.
"I don't know," Abe said.
"You can trust him," Squares said.
"Maybe we can, maybe we can't. But we're like priests here. We don't talk. You know that. And she was particularly adamant. We were to say nothing, no matter what."
"I know that."
"We talk, what good are we?"
"I understand."
"We talk, we could be killed."
"No one will know. I give you my word."
Th
e old couple looked at each other some more. "Raquel," Abe said.
"He's a good boy. Or girl. I don't know, I get so confused sometimes."
Squares stepped toward them. "We need your help."
Sadie took her husband's hand in a gesture so intimate I almost turned away. "She was such a beautiful girl, Abe."
"And so nice," he added. Abe sighed and looked at me. The door opened and the ding-dong chimed again. A disheveled black man walked in and said, "Tyrone sent me."
Sadie moved toward him. "I'll take care of you over here," she said.
Abe kept staring at me. I looked at Squares. I didn't understand any of this.
Squares took off his sunglasses. "Please, Abe," he said. "It's important."
Abe held up a hand. "Okay, okay, just stop with the face, please." He waved us forward. "Come this way."
We walked to the back of the store. He lifted the counter flap, and we walked under. We passed the pills, the bottles, the bags of filled prescriptions, the mortars and pestles. Abe opened a door. We headed down into the basement. Abe flicked on the light.
"This," he announced, "is where it all happens."
I saw very little. There was a computer, a printer, and a digital camera. That was about it. I looked at Abe and then at Squares.
"Does someone want to clue me in?"
"Our business is simple," Abe said. "We keep no records. If the police want to take this computer, fine, go ahead. They'll learn nothing. All the records are located up here." He tapped his forehead with his finger. "And hey, lots of those records are getting lost every day, am I right, Squares?"
Squares smiled at him.
Abe spotted my confusion. "You still don't get it?"
"I still don't get it."
"Fake IDs," Abe said.
"Oh."
"I'm not talking about the ones underage kids use to drink."
"Right, okay."
He lowered his voice. "You know anything about them?"
"Not much."
"I'm talking here about the ones people need to disappear. To run away. To start again. You're in trouble? Poof, I'll make you disappear. Like a magician, no? You need to go away, really go away, you don't go to a travel agent. You come to me."
"I see," I said. "And there's a big need for your" I wasn't sure of the term "services?"
"You'd be surprised. Oh, it's not usually very glamorous. Lots of times it's just parole jumpers. Or bail jumpers. Or someone the authorities are looking to arrest. We service a lot of illegal immigrants too. They want to stay in the country, so we make them citizens." He smiled at me. "And every once in a while we get someone nicer."