by Harlan Coben
"Never too old," Wendy had said.
"Work for yourself. That's the only boss you can ever trust."
He never got the chance to work for himself. He never found another job. Two years later, at the age of fifty-eight, her father died of a heart attack at that same kitchen table, still combing classifieds and stuffing envelopes.
"You don't want to help?" Wendy asked.
"With what? Dan is dead."
Phil Turnball reached for the door handle.
Wendy put her hand on his arm. "One question before you go: Why do you think Dan was wrongly accused?"
He thought about it before answering. "I guess when it happens to you, you just have a feel for it."
"I'm not following."
"Don't worry about it. It's not important."
"Did something happen to you, Phil? What am I missing here?"
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "No comment, Wendy." He pulled on the handle.
"But--"
"Not now," he said, opening the door. "Right now I'm going to take a walk and think about my old friend for a little while. Dan deserves that, at the very least."
Phil Turnball slid out of the car, adjusted his suit jacket, and headed north away from her, away from his friends at Starbucks.
Caught
Chapter 12
ANOTHER DEAD HOOKER.
Essex County investigator Frank Tremont hoisted up his pants by the belt and looked down at the girl and sighed. Same ol', same ol'. Newark, South Ward, not far from Beth Israel Hospital yet a lifetime away. Frank could smell the decay in the air, but it wasn't from just the body. It was always this way. No one ever cleaned up out here. No one tried. They all just bathed lazily in the decay.
And so another dead hooker.
They already had her pimp in custody for it. The hooker had "dissed" him or whatever and he had to show what a big man he was so he slit her throat. Still had the knife on him when they picked him up. Smart guy, real genius. It took Frank about six seconds to get a confession out of him. All he had to say was, "We heard you don't have the balls to hurt a woman." That was enough for Genius Pimp to "man up."
He stared down at the dead girl, maybe fifteen years old, maybe thirty, hard to tell out here, splayed among the street debris, crushed soda cans, wrappers from McDonald's, empty forties of beer. Frank flashed back to his last dead hooker investigation. That case had exploded in his face. His bad, totally. He'd read it wrong and messed up. It might have cost more lives, but there was no point in going over that anymore. He had blown the case and lost his job over it. Forced out by the county prosecutor and the chief investigator. He'd been set to retire.
And then he'd drawn the Haley McWaid missing person case.
He'd gone to his bosses and asked to stay on, just until the case was solved. His bosses understood. But that was three months ago. Frank had worked hard looking for the high school girl. He had gotten others involved, the feds, cops who understood the Internet and tracking and profiling, anyone and everyone who could possibly help. He had no interest in glory, just finding the girl.
But the case was bone-dry.
He looked down at the dead hooker. That was what you got a lot of on this job. You see junkies and whores pissing their lives away, getting hammered and stoned and freeloading and then they get beaten up or knocked up with Lord knows how many kids with Lord knows how many different fathers and it was such a damn waste. Most skate through okay, shuffling listlessly through pathetic lives, making barely a dent in the social fabric, and if they do get noticed, it's for a bad reason. But most survive. They're a drain, but God lets them survive, sometimes to old age.
And then, because God is a freaking riot, He takes Frank's daughter instead.
A crowd had gathered behind the yellow tape, but not a very big one. A quick glance and then they moved on.
"You done, Frank?"
It was the medical examiner. Frank nodded. "All yours."
His little girl, Kasey. Seventeen years old. So sweet and bright and loving. There's the old saw about a smile being able to light up a whole room. Kasey had one of those smiles. Bam, a beam that could slice through any darkness. She never gave anyone an ounce of trouble or hurt anyone. Not once in her whole life. Kasey never did drugs or whored or got knocked up. Meanwhile these junkies and whores roamed like wild animals--and Kasey died.
Unfair doesn't begin to get it.
Kasey was sixteen when they made the diagnosis of Ewing's sarcoma. Bone cancer. The tumors started in her pelvis and began to gnaw away. His little girl died in pain. Frank watched it. He sat there, at her bedside, dry-eyed, holding on tightly to both her frail hand and his sanity. He saw the scars from invasive surgeries and the sunken eyes of the slowly dying. He felt her body warmth spike when she had a fever. He remembered that Kasey had a lot of bad dreams as a young child, that she'd often crawl into their bed quaking, slipping between him and Maria, that she talked in her sleep, tossed and turned, but once she was diagnosed, all that stopped. Maybe her night terror fled in the face of her day terror. Either way, Kasey's sleep became quiet, a night calm, almost as though she was rehearsing for death.
He had prayed, but that was worthless. That was just how he felt. God knows what He's going to do. He's got a plan, right? If you truly want to believe that He is all-knowing and allpowerful, do you really think you and your pitiful begging are going to sway His grand plan? Tremont knew it didn't work that way. He met another family praying for their son in the hospital. Same disease. He still died. Then their other son went to Iraq and died there. How anyone could hear that and believe prayer worked was beyond him.
Meanwhile the streets out here are littered with the useless. They live--Kasey dies. So, yeah, girls with families, girls like Haley McWaid and Kasey Tremont, girls who had people who loved them and had lives in front of them, real lives, lives that would amount to more than waste, they mattered more. That was the truth. No one wanted to say it. The spineless phonies would tell you that the dead hooker being zipped up in that Hefty bag deserved the exact same consideration as a Haley McWaid or a Kasey Tremont. Except we all know that's crap. We peddle it. But we all know the truth. We tell the lie. But we know.
So let's stop pretending. The dead hooker would maybe get two paragraphs on page twelve of The Star-Ledger, strictly as a story for the readers to tsk-tsk over. Haley McWaid got hours on national TV. So we all know, don't we? Why can't we just say it?
The Haley McWaids of the world mattered more.
Nothing wrong with that. It's the truth, right? Didn't mean the dead hooker didn't matter. But Haley mattered more. And it wasn't a question of race or any of those other tags people tried to stick on him. Label a guy a bigot--that's the easy way out. But it's crap. White, black, Asian, Latino, whatever--lesser is lesser. Everyone gets it, even if they're afraid to say it.
Frank's mind traveled, as it often did these days, to Haley McWaid's mother, Marcia, and the shattered father, Ted. This hooker being whisked away was gone now. Maybe someone will care, but nine times out of ten, that's not the case. Her parents, if she knew who they were, had given up on her long ago. Marcia and Ted were still waiting and scared and hoping. And yeah, that mattered. Maybe that was the difference between the Dead Hookers of the world and the Haley McWaids. Not skin color or finances or picket fences, but people who cared about you, family who'd be left devastated, fathers and mothers who would never ever be whole again.
So Frank would not quit until he found out what happened to Haley McWaid.
He thought about Kasey again, tried to conjure up the happy little girl, the one who liked aquariums more than zoos and blue more than pink. But those images had faded, were harder now to evoke, outrageous as that was, and instead, Frank remembered the way Kasey grew smaller in that hospital bed, the way she ran her hand through her hair and it came out in clumps, the way she looked down at the hair in her hand and cried while her father sat by her side, helpless, powerless.
The ME fi
nished with the dead hooker. Two men lifted the corpse and plopped it on a gurney, as though it were a bag of peat moss.
"Easy," Frank said.
One of the guys turned to him. "Ain't going to hurt her."
"Just go easy."
As they wheeled the body away, Frank Tremont felt his mobile phone vibrate.
He blinked back the moistness and hit the answer button. "Tremont here."
"Frank?"
It was Mickey Walker, sheriff of nearby Sussex County. Big black guy, used to work in Newark with Frank. Solid dude, good investigator. One of Frank's favorites. Walker's office had landed the baby-raper murder case--apparently a parent had taken care of the pedophilia problem with his own gun. Seemed to Frank a damned fine example of good riddance, though he knew Walker would work it for all it had.
"Yeah, I'm here, Mickey."
"You know Freddy's Deluxe Luxury Suites?"
"The hot sheets on Williams Street?"
"That's the one. I need you to get over here right away."
Tremont felt a tick in his blood. He switched hands. "Why, what's up?"
"I found something in Mercer's room," Walker said in a voice as gray as a tombstone. "I think it belongs to Haley McWaid."
Caught
Chapter 13
POPS WAS IN THE KITCHEN scrambling up some eggs when Wendy got home.
"Where's Charlie?"
"Still in bed."
"It's one in the afternoon."
Pops looked at the clock. "Yep. Hungry?"
"No. Where did you guys go last night?"
Pops, working the frying pan like a short-order lifer, arched an eyebrow.
"Sworn to secrecy?"
"Something like that," Pops said. "So where you been?"
"I spent a little time with the Fathers Club this morning."
"Care to elaborate?"
She did.
"Sad," he said.
"And maybe a little self-indulgent."
Pops shrugged. "A man stops being able to earn for his family-- you might as well cut off his balls. Makes him feel like less of a man. That's sad. Losing your job is an earthquake for Working Joes and Yuppie Scum alike. Maybe more so for the Yuppie Scum. Society has taught them to define themselves by their job."
"And now that's gone?"
"Yep."
"Maybe the answer isn't in another job," Wendy said. "Maybe the answer is in finding new ways to define manhood."
Pops nodded. "Deep."
"And sanctimonious?"
"Right on," Pops said, sprinkling grated cheese into the pan. "But if you can't be sanctimonious with me, well, who else is there?"
Wendy smiled. "No one, Pops."
He turned off the burner. "Sure you don't want some huevos de Pops? It's my forte. And I already made enough for two."
"Yeah, okay."
They sat and ate. She told him more about Phil Turnball and the Fathers Club and her sense that Phil was holding something back. As they were finishing, a sleepy Charlie appeared in ripped boxers, a huge white T-shirt, and a major case of bed head. Wendy was just thinking how much he looked like a man when Charlie started plucking at his eyes and flicking his fingers.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Sleep buggers," Charlie explained.
Wendy rolled her eyes and headed for the upstairs computer. She Googled Phil Turnball. Got very little. A political donation. There was a hit on an image search, a group shot with Phil and his wife, Sherry, a pretty petite blonde, at a charity wine tasting two years ago. Phil Turnball was listed as working for a securities firm called Barry Brothers Trust. Hoping that they hadn't already changed her password, Wendy signed on to the media database her station used. Yes, everything is supposed to be available on free search engines nowadays, but it wasn't. You still had to pay to get the goods.
She did a news search on Turnball. Still nothing. But Barry Brothers came back with more than a few unflattering articles. For one thing the company was moving out of its long-term home on Park Avenue at Forty-sixth Street. Wendy recognized the address. The Lock-Horne Building. She smiled, took out her cell phone. Yep, after two years, the number was still there. She made sure the door was closed and pressed send.
The phone was answered on the first ring.
"Articulate."
The tone was haughty, superior, and, if you could do it in one word, sanctimonious.
"Hey, Win. It's Wendy Tynes."
"So it says on my caller ID."
Silence.
She could almost see Win, the ridiculously handsome face, the blond hair, the steepled hands, the piercing blue eyes with seemingly very little soul behind them.
"I need a favor," she said. "Some info."
Silence.
Win--short for Windsor Horne Lockwood III--would not make this easy.
"Do you know anything about Barry Brothers Trust?" she asked.
"Yes, I do. Is that the info you need?"
"You're such a wiseass, Win."
"Love me for all my faults."
"Seems I did that once," she said.
"Oh, meow."
Silence.
"The Barry Brothers fired an employee named Phil Turnball. I'm curious why. Can you find out?"
"I will call you back."
Click.
Win. He was often described in the society pages as an "international playboy," and she guessed that fit. He was blue-blooded old money, very old money, the kind of old money that disembarked from the Mayflower and immediately called for a caddy and a tee time. She had met him at a black-tie event two years ago. Win had been refreshingly up-front. He wanted to have sex with her. No muss, no fuss, no obligation. One night only. She had been taken aback at first, but then thought, Well, why the hell not? She had never done the one-nightstand thing, and here was this ridiculously handsome, engaging man giving her the ideal opportunity. You only live once, right? She was a single, modern woman, and as Pops had recently put it, humans need sex. So she went back to his place in the Dakota building on Central Park West. Win ended up being kind and attentive and funny and great, and when she got home the next morning, she cried her eyes out for two hours.
Her phone rang. Wendy checked her watch and shook her head. It had taken Win less than a minute.
"Hello?"
"Phil Turnball was fired for embezzling two million dollars. Have a pleasant day."
Click.
Win.
She remembered something. Blend, right? That was the name of the place. She had gone there once to see a concert. It was in Ridgewood. She pulled up the Web site and clicked on Calendar of Events. Yep, tonight was open-mike night. It even said: "Special Appearance by new rap sensation Ten-A-Fly."
There was a knock on the door. She called, "Come in," and Pops stuck his head in the doorway. "You okay?" he asked.
"Sure. Do you like rap?"
Pops furrowed his brows. "You mean like the paper stuff on presents?"
"Uh, no. As in rap music."
"I'd rather listen to a strangled cat cough up phlegm."
"Come with me tonight. It's time we opened up your horizons."
TED MCWAID WATCHED his son, Ryan, at the Kasselton lacrosse field. Day had surrendered her rays, but the field, made from some newfangled artificial turf, had stadium-quality lights. Ted was at his nine-year-old son's lacrosse game because what else was he going to do, hang around the house and cry all day? His former friends--"former" was probably unkind but Ted wasn't in the mood to be charitable--politely nodded and made no eye contact and generally avoided him, as though having a missing child was contagious.
Ryan was on Kasselton's third-grade travel team. Stick skills were, to put it kindly, somewhere between "still developing" and "nonexistent." The ball spent most of the time on the ground, no boy able to keep it in the stick webbing for very long, and the game began to resemble hockey players at a rugby scrum. The boys wore helmets that looked too big on their heads, like the Great Gazoo on The Flintstones, and it was nearl
y impossible to tell which kid was which. Ted had cheered for Ryan an entire game, marveling at his progress, until the kid took his helmet off at the end and Ted realized that it wasn't Ryan.
Standing a little way from the other parents, thinking about that day, Ted almost smiled. Then reality pushed its way back in and snatched his breath. That's how it always was. You could sometimes slip into normalcy, but if you did, you paid a price.
He thought of Haley on this very field--here the day it opened--and the hours she spent working on her left. There was a lacrosse retriever in the far corner of the field, and Haley would come down and work on her left because she needed to improve her left, the scouts would be looking at her left, her weakness was her damn left, and UVA would never recruit her if she couldn't go to her left. So she worked on the left nonstop, not just down here, but walking through the house. She started using her left for other things, like brushing her teeth, writing notes for school, whatever. All the parents in this town trying to push their kids to be better, riding them day and night for better grades, better athletics, all in the hopes of getting into what someone deemed a more desirable institution of higher learning. Not Haley. She was self-driven. Too driven? Maybe. In the end UVA hadn't taken her. Her left became damn good, and she was fast for a high school team or maybe a lower-level Division I program, but not UVA. Haley had been crushed, inconsolable. Why? Who cares? What difference did it make in the long run?
He missed her so damn much.
Not so much this--going to her lacrosse games. He missed watching TV with her and the way she'd want him to "get" her music, the YouTube videos she thought were so funny and wanted to share with him. He missed the dumb stuff, like doing his best "moonwalk" in the kitchen while Haley rolled her eyes. Or purposely over-smooching Marcia until a mortified Haley would frown and shout, "Helloooo, yuck, children present!"
Ted and Marcia hadn't touched each other in three months--by mutual unspoken but implied consent. It just felt too raw. The lack of physical togetherness wasn't causing tension, though he had sensed a widening chasm. It just didn't feel that important to work on it, at least right now.