by Harlan Coben
“You don’t have to answer. I’ve seen you with her. And her with you.”
“So you know then.”
She sighed. “Give me the plate number again.”
He did. This time Cingle wrote it down.
“Shouldn’t take more than an hour. I’ll call you on your cell.”
“Thanks.” He started for the door.
“Matt?”
He turned back toward her.
“I’ve had some experience in stuff like this.”
“I’m sure.”
“Opening this door.” Cingle held up the slip of paper with the license plate. “It’s kinda like trying to break up a fight. Once you jump in, you don’t know what could happen.”
“Gee, Cingle, that’s pretty subtle.”
She spread her arms. “Subtlety ended for me the day I hit puberty.”
“Just do this for me, okay?”
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
“But”—she put up her index finger—“should you feel the need to take it further, I want you to promise to let me help.”
“I won’t take it further,” he said, and the look on her face told him all he needed to know about how much she believed him.
Matt was just entering his old hometown of Livingston when his cell phone rang again. It was Jamie Suh, Olivia’s assistant, finally calling back. “Sorry, Matt, I can’t find a hotel contact.”
“How can that be?” he snapped without thinking.
There was too long a pause.
He tried to backtrack. “I mean, doesn’t she usually leave one? Suppose there was an emergency.”
“She has her cell phone.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“And most of the time,” Jamie went on, “I book the hotel for her.”
“You didn’t this time?”
“No.” Then she hurriedly added: “But that’s not unusual or anything. Olivia does it herself sometimes too.”
He didn’t know what to make of that. “Have you heard from her today?”
“She called in this morning.”
“Did she say where she was going to be?”
There was another pause. Matt knew that his behavior would be considered beyond the scope of normal husbandly curiosity, but he figured it was worth the risk.
“She just said she had some meetings. Nothing specific.”
“Okay, if she calls back—”
“I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”
Then Jamie hung up.
Another memory struck him. He and Olivia had a huge fight, one of those no-holds-barred verbal brawls where you know you’re wrong and you just keep pushing. She ran out in tears and didn’t call for two days. Two full days. He would call, she wouldn’t answer. He searched, but he couldn’t find her. It punched a huge hole in his heart. That was what he remembered right now. The idea that she would never come back to him hurt so much he could barely breathe.
The home inspector was just finishing up when he arrived at the house. Nine years ago Matt walked out of jail after serving four years for killing a man. Now, incredible as it might seem, he was on the verge of buying a home, sharing it with the woman he loved, raising a child.
He shook his head.
The house was part of a suburban tract built in 1965. Like most of Livingston, the area used to be a farm. All the houses were pretty much the same, but if that discouraged Olivia, she hid it pretty well. She’d stared at the house with a nearly religious fervor and whispered, “It’s perfect.” Her enthusiasm had swept away any doubts he’d had about moving back.
Matt stood on what would soon be his front yard and tried to imagine himself living here. It felt odd. He didn’t belong here anymore. He had known that until, well, until Olivia. Now he was back.
Behind him a police cruiser pulled up. Two men got out. The first one was in uniform. He was young and in shape. He gave Matt the cop squint. The second man was in plainclothes.
“Hey, Matt,” the man in the brown suit called out. “Long time, no see.”
It had been a long time, since Livingston High at least, but he recognized Lance Banner right away.
“Hi, Lance.”
Both men slammed their doors closed as if they’d coordinated the move. The uniform crossed his arms and remained silent. Lance moved toward Matt.
“You know,” Lance said, “I live on this street.”
“That a fact.”
“It is.”
Matt said nothing.
“I’m a detective on the force now.”
“Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
How long had he known Lance Banner? Since second grade, at least. They were never friends, never enemies. They played on the same Little League team for three years running. They shared a gym class in eighth grade and a study hall junior year of high school. Livingston High School had been big—six hundred kids per grade. They’d simply traveled in different circles.
“How’s it been going for you?” Lance asked.
“Super.”
The home inspector stepped outside. He had a clipboard. Lance said, “How’s it look, Harold?”
Harold looked up from his clipboard and nodded. “Pretty solid, Lance.”
“You sure?”
Something in his tone made Harold take a step back. Lance looked back at Matt.
“We have a nice neighborhood here.”
“It’s why we picked it.”
“You really think it’s a good idea, Matt?”
“What’s that, Lance?”
“Moving back.”
“Done my time.”
“And you think that’s the end of it?”
Matt didn’t say anything.
“That boy you killed. He’s still dead, isn’t he?”
“Lance?”
“I’m Detective Banner now,” he said.
“Detective Banner, I’m going inside now.”
“I read all about your case. I even called a couple of cop buddies, got the whole scoop on what happened.”
Matt looked at him. The man had gray flecks in his eyes. He had put on weight. His fingers kept itching and Matt didn’t like the way he smiled at him. Lance Banner’s family had worked this land as farmers. His grandfather or maybe it was his great-grandfather had sold the land for a song. The Banners still considered Livingston their town. They were the soil here. The father drank too much. So did Lance’s two dull brothers. Lance, on the other hand, always hit Matt as being pretty sharp.
“Then you know it was an accident,” Matt said.
Lance Banner nodded slowly. “Could be.”
“So why the hard time, Lance?”
“Because you’re an ex-con.”
“You think I should have gone to prison?”
“Tough call,” he said, rubbing his chin. “But from what I read, I think you got a bad break.”
“So?”
“So you did. Go to prison, I mean.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Society wants to peddle that rehabilitation crap on the public, hey, that’s fine with me. But I”—he pointed to himself—“know better. And you”—he turned the finger toward Matt—“know better.”
Matt said nothing.
“You may have gone into that place an okay guy. But you want to tell me you’re the same man now?”
Matt knew that there was no right answer to that one. He turned and started toward the door.
Lance said, “Maybe your home inspector will find something. Give you a way to back out.”
Matt went inside and finished up with the inspector. There were several issues—some pipe problem, one overloaded breaker—but they were all small. He and Harold finished up, and Matt started for Marsha’s house.
He pulled into the tree-lined street where his nephews and sister-in-law—was she still considered a sister-in-law after your brother died? “Ex” certainly didn’t sound right—resided. The boys, Paul and Ethan, were on
the front lawn rolling in the leaves. Their babysitter, Kyra, was with them. Kyra Walsh was a recent freshman-transfer taking summer classes at William Paterson University. She rented a room above Marsha’s garage. Kyra had come highly recommended from someone at Marsha’s church, and while Matt had been initially skeptical of the whole idea of a live-in babysitter (nonetheless a college student) it seemed to be working great. Kyra ended up being a pretty terrific kid, a fresh-faced burst of needed sunshine from one of the “I” states in the Midwest, he could never remember which one.
Matt stepped out of the car. Kyra shaded her eyes with one hand and waved with the other. She smiled as only the young can. “Hi, Matt.”
“Hey, Kyra.”
The boys heard his voice and turned their heads like dogs hearing their owner rummaging for treats. They sprinted at him, calling, “Uncle Matt! Uncle Matt!”
Matt felt a sudden lightness in his chest. A smile played with the corner of his lips as the boys rushed him. Ethan grabbed hold of Matt’s right leg. Paul aimed for the midsection.
“McNabb back to pass,” Matt said, doing his best Greg Gumbel impression. “Look out! Strahan breaks through the line and has a leg . . .”
Paul stopped. “I want to be Strahan!” he demanded.
Ethan would have none of that. “No, I want to be Strahan!”
“Hey, you both can be Strahan,” Matt said.
The two youngsters squinted at their uncle as if he were the slow kid sitting in the back. “You can’t have two Michael Strahans,” Paul said.
“Yeah,” his brother chimed in.
Then they lowered their shoulders and hit him again. Matt performed a near Pacino-esque performance of a quarterback about to be sacked. He stutter-stepped, he looked desperately for imaginary receivers, he pump-faked a pass with his invisible football, and ultimately he went down in a slow-motion heap.
“Woo-hoo!” The boys stood, high-fived each other, bumped chests. Matt groaned into a sitting position. Kyra was smothering a giggle.
Paul and Ethan were still doing a celebration dance when Marsha appeared at the door. She looked, Matt thought, very nice. She wore a dress and makeup. Her hair had that carefully mussed thing going on. The car keys were already jiggling in her hand.
When Bernie died, Matt and Marsha had both been so devastated, so desperate, that they tried to knit something together where Matt could maybe take over as husband and father.
It was a disaster.
Matt and Marsha had waited a proper amount of time—six months—and then one night, without discussing it but knowing what was about to happen, they both got drunk. Marsha made the first move. She kissed him, kissed him hard, and then she started to sob. That had been the end.
Before “the slip,” Matt’s family had been strangely blessed or maybe just blessedly naïve. Matt had been twenty years old and all four of his grandparents were alive and in good health—two in Miami, two in Scottsdale. Tragedy had visited other families, but the Hunters had been left alone. The slip changed all that. It left them ill prepared for what followed.
Tragedy sort of works this way: Once it snakes its way in, it cuts down all your defenses and allows its brethren easy access to feed. Three of his four grandparents died during Matt’s stint in prison. The burden killed his father and sapped his mother. Mom fled to Florida. Their sister ran west to Seattle. Bernie had the aneurysm.
Just like that, they were all gone.
Matt stood up. He waved to Marsha. She waved back. Kyra said, “Is it okay if I go?”
Marsha nodded. “Thanks, Kyra.”
“No problem.” Kyra slipped on the backpack. “Bye, Matt.”
“Bye, kiddo.”
Matt’s cell phone rang. The caller ID told him it was Cingle Shaker. He signaled to Marsha that he needed to take it. She gestured for him to go ahead. Matt moved toward the curb and picked it up.
“Hello.”
“Got some info on the license plate,” Cingle said.
“Go ahead.”
“It’s a rental. Avis at Newark Airport.”
“So does that mean it’s a dead end?”
“For most private investigators, most definitely. But you’re dealing with a near legend in the business.”
“Near?”
“I’m trying to be modest.”
“Doesn’t work on you, Cingle.”
“Yeah, but the effort is there. I called a contact at the airport. He ran it down for me. The car was rented by one Charles Talley. You know him?”
“No.”
“I figured the name might mean something to you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You want me to check this Talley guy out?”
“Yes.”
“Call you back.”
She hung up. Matt started to lower the phone when he spotted the same police cruiser turning onto the block. It slowed as it passed Marsha’s house. The uniformed cop who’d been with Lance eyed him. Matt eyed him back and felt his face flush.
Paul and Ethan stood and watched the cruiser. Matt turned back to Marsha. She saw it too. He tried to smile and wave it off. Marsha frowned.
That was when his phone rang again.
Still watching Marsha, Matt put the phone to his ear without checking the caller ID.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi, hon, how was your day?”
It was Olivia.
Chapter 8
TELEVISION SHOWS, Loren knew, had convinced people that cops commonly meet with medical examiners in a morgue over a corpse. In reality that pretty much never happens. Loren was grateful for that. She was not squeamish or any of that, but she wanted death to be a constant shock to her. She didn’t make jokes at the scene. She didn’t try to block or use other defense mechanisms to look past it. For Loren a morgue was too matter-of-fact, too casual, too mundane about murder.
Loren was about to open Eldon’s office door when Trevor Wine, a fellow homicide investigator, stepped out. Trevor was overweight and old-school. He tolerated Loren as one might a cute pet that sometimes pees on the good carpet.
“Hey, Squirt,” he said to her.
“You catch a homicide?”
“Yup.” Trevor Wine pulled up his belt. He had that weird kind of fat where you can never get the waist to perch and stay. “Gunshot victim. Two to the head at close range.”
“Robbery, gang, what?”
“Maybe a robbery, definitely not a gang. The vic was a retired white guy.”
“Where did you find the body?”
“Near the Hebrew cemetery off Fourteenth Avenue. We think he’s a tourist.”
“A tourist in that neighborhood?” Loren made a face. “What’s there to see?”
Trevor faked a laugh and put a meaty hand on her shoulder. “I’ll let you know when I know.” He didn’t add “little lady” but he might as well have. “See you later, Squirt.”
“Yeah, later.”
He moved away. Loren opened the door.
Eldon sat at his desk. He wore a pair of clean scrubs. Eldon always wore scrubs. His office had absolutely no personality or color. When Eldon first took the job he wanted to change that, but when people came into this room to hear the details of the death, they wanted nothing stimulating any of the senses. So Eldon shifted the décor into neutral.
“Here,” Eldon said, “catch.”
He tossed her something. Instinctively Loren caught it. It was a plastic bag, filmy and yellow. There was some sort of gel inside it. Eldon held a matching bag in his hand.
“Is this . . . ?”
Eldon nodded. “A well-used and thus well-soiled breast implant.”
“Can I just say for the record, ‘Eeuw’?”
“You may.”
Loren held the bag up to the light and frowned. “I thought implants were clear.”
“They start off that way—at least the saline ones.”
“These aren’t saline?”
“Nope. Silicone. And they’ve been marinating in bosom
for well over a decade.”
Loren tried not to make a face. There was some sort of gel inside them. Eldon arched an eyebrow and started to knead the implant.
“Cut that out.”
He shrugged. “Anyway, these belong to your Sister of the Immaculate Hooters.”
“And you’re showing them to me because . . . ?”
“Because they offer us clues.”
“I’m listening.”
“First off, they’re silicone.”
“So you said.”
“Remember, what, five, ten years ago when they had the big cancer scare?”
“The implants were leaking.”
“Right. So the companies were forced to move to saline.”
“Aren’t some people moving back now to silicone?”
“Yes, but the point remains: These are old. Very old. Well over a decade.”
She nodded. “Okay, good, that’s a start.”
“There’s more.” Eldon took out a magnifying glass. He flipped one of the implants over. “See this here?”
Loren took the magnifying glass. “It’s a tag.”
“See that number over on the bottom?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the serial number. This is true with pretty much any surgical implant—knees, hips, breasts, pacemaker, whatever. The device has to have a serial number.”
Loren nodded. “And the manufacturer keeps records.”
“Exactly.”
“So if we call the manufacturer and give them the serial number . . .”
“We learn the real name of Mother with the Superiors.”
Loren looked up. “Thanks.”
“There’s a problem.”
She sat back.
“The company that made the implants was named SurgiCo. They went under eight years ago.”
“And their records?”
Eldon shrugged. “We’re trying to look into it. Look, it’s late. We won’t get anything tonight. I’m hoping to find out what happened to the records in the morning.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“You asked why there were no fibers under her fingernails.”
“Yes.”
“We’re still running a full tox report. It could be that she was drugged, but I don’t think that was it.”
“You have another theory.”
“I do.”
“What’s that?”