WIN

by Coben, Harlan

  He drops to the ground. Having the wind knocked out of you just means the impact to your celiac plexus causes a temporary diaphragmatic spasm. It doesn’t last. I pull over a chair and sit next to him. I wait until he can breathe.

  Through gritted teeth, Cornwell says, “Get out.”

  “Look at these.”

  Pierre-Emmanuel helped me make rudimentary reproductions of two of the negatives. I drop them next to him. He looks at them and then he looks back at me in abject horror.

  “These were hidden in the frame of the Vermeer,” I say.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “These girls,” I continue, “are victims from the Hut of Horrors.”

  His eyes go wide again, a mixture of fear and total confusion. It doesn’t compute for him. Not yet. “What does that have to do—?”

  “I don’t have time for this, Ian, so I’ll ask you one more time. What really happened the night of the heist?”

  He puts his hand on his stomach and rolls into a sit. The stomach will be sore tomorrow. I can see his mind searching for a way out, and what that tells me, with very little doubt, is that Ian Cornwell knows more than he is saying. I say “very little doubt” rather than “no doubt” because, of course, I can be fooled as easily as anyone. The stupidest men are the ones who think they can’t be wrong. The stupidest men are the ones who are most sure. The stupidest men are the ones who don’t know what they don’t know.

  But right now, if I were to hypothesize, Professor Ian Cornwell is stalling so that he can rummage through all the possibilities. Showing him two sickening images of the fifteen-year-old victim we will call Jane Doe—in both she is naked, on her stomach, and trussed with barbed wire—was, of course, designed to shock him into revealing the truth. Now, however, I wonder whether I went too far, if the images will cause paralysis rather than openness. My concern now is that his brain is working thusly: Suppose, he may be wondering, he does confess to something involving the art heist—will that now link him to these unspeakable crimes? Could he end up being charged as an accessory? Silence has worked for him so far. Silence eventually got the FBI to leave him be. Silence has kept him out of prison.

  His wheels are churning. I give him another second, perhaps two, and then he looks up at me with pleading eyes.

  “I wish I could help you,” Ian Cornwell predictably begins, “but I’m telling the truth. I don’t know anything.”

  Many martial arts specialize in what we commonly call pressure points—that is, pressing or striking sensitive nerve clusters in order to cause pain. I would not advise using them in a real fight. In a real fight, you are in constant motion, and your opponent is in constant motion. That is two moving targets, thereby making strikes with the pinpoint accuracy these techniques rely upon unrealistic. Pressure points, when done well, can cause excruciating pain, though you never know your opponent’s pain threshold. Opponents often react by squirming away from such a grip with suddenly alarming strength.

  My—pardon the pun—(pressure) point?

  Pressure points work best in more passive situations. They are, if you will, pain-compliance techniques. If you want to safely but effectively escort a drunk patron out of a pub, for example, or break a hold, they can be useful. If, for a more vivid and immediate example, you want to cause enough distress to induce someone to cooperate, pressure points can be frighteningly efficient.

  I won’t go into much technical detail, but I grab his hair with one hand to hold him in place. Using my opposing thumb, I dig deep into his neck, more specifically, the upper trunk of the brachial plexus above the clavicle known as Erb’s point. Ian Cornwell’s body convulses as though I had hit him with a stun gun, which, come to think of it, I should have brought. He tries to let out a gnarled scream. I pull back my thumb suddenly, giving him a second of relief, but I don’t stop there. I move quickly to another spot on the underside of the bicep, squeeze hard, cover his mouth. Then I go back to Erb’s point, pushing down on the nerve bundle even harder. Ian Cornwell thrashes impotently, like a freshly caught fish dropped on a dock. I straddle him now, pin him down, and go after the pressure point on the underside of the jaw. His body stiffens. Then I move up to the temples, then back to the neck. I put my fingers together, forming two spears, and shove those spears deep into that hollow beneath both ears. When I jerk up hard on his skull, his head jerks and his eyes roll back.

  Of course, I could be wrong. We have established that already. Ian Cornwell may have been telling the truth from the get-go—that he didn’t know anything, that he is innocent, that he was indeed tied up by two masked men. If that is the case, we will soon know for certain. And yes, I will feel bad for what I’ve done to him. Violence is a high, but I am not a sadist. That may sound like I’m threading an awfully thin needle, but I do experience empathy, and if I hurt an innocent man, I will feel bad about it. But life is a series of close calls, of weighing pros and cons, and if both Ema and I (not to mention the original FBI investigators) believe that Ian Cornwell has not been truthful, the pros of crossing this particular line win out.

  And so I continue my assault, methodically, expressionless, until he cracks and tells me everything.

  * * *

  Well, that was interesting.

  Here is what Professor Ian Cornwell told me:

  Three months before the Vermeer and Picasso theft, young Ian Cornwell, a Haverford research assistant one year removed from graduating, met a lovely lass named Belinda Evans at a local pizzeria. Belinda was, according to Ian Cornwell, a “knockout” with long blonde hair and sun-kissed skin. He fell hard.

  At first, Belinda claimed to be a junior attending Villanova University, but as their relationship progressed, she admitted to her new beau that she still attended nearby Radnor High School as a sophomore. Her parents, she said, were very strict, so they would have to keep their relationship a secret. Ian Cornwell concurred. He did not want his relationship with a high school girl, a sophomore at that, to be made public, thereby harming his chances for academic and career advancement.

  This, of course, presented a problem for a budding romance—simply put, where to hook up. Her home with the strict parents was a no-no, as was Ian’s campus suite, which he shared with three other research assistants who would definitely gossip.

  Belinda suggested a solution.

  Ian worked nights alone as a security guard in Founders Hall. The work was, to put it mildly, uneventful. Haverford was a sleepy campus. Ian spent most nights alone at the security desk, reading and studying. What if, Belinda proposed, he could sneak her into Founders Hall, where they could spend hours late at night alone?

  Ian readily and excitedly agreed.

  The young lovebirds met up this way, Ian estimated, approximately ten times over a three-month period. Ian fell harder and harder for Belinda. The routine was a simple one: Belinda would go to the locked back entrance. There was a primitive security camera back there. Ian would see her via the monitor at his desk. She would wave and smile. He would come back, let her in, and you can guess the rest.

  But on one special night—the night of the heist obviously—when Ian unlocked that back door after seeing Belinda on the monitor, a man burst in wearing a ski mask and brandishing a handgun. At first, Ian thought the man had forced Belinda at gunpoint, but it soon became apparent that that wasn’t the case. They were working together, Belinda and this man in the ski mask. He held the gun on Ian while Belinda explained in the calmest voice, one Ian had never heard her use before, the situation—how they would tie Ian up, how Ian would tell the authorities that two men had fooled him by pretending to be policemen, how the MO would appear similar to the Gardner Museum heist in Boston so as to throw them off. Belinda did all the talking. The man in the ski mask just held the gun.

  Belinda told Ian Cornwell that if he ever talked, she would tell the authorities that the heist had been Ian’s idea. Ian was, after all, the inside source. She also reminded Ian that there was not much he could offer the police any
way. He couldn’t identify the man in the ski mask, and as for Belinda herself, nothing she had told him was the truth. She did not attend Radnor High School. Her name was not Belinda. After tonight, he would never see her again. Even if he told the police the truth, the leads would be scant; Ian would only be incriminating himself, she reminded him. He had, after all, sneaked a high school girl into Founders Hall over a three-month period. At best, Ian would be expelled for that indiscretion and academically tarnished.

  To further emphasize her seriousness, Belinda told Ian that if he did talk, they would come back and kill him. As she gave him that final warning, the man in the ski mask grabbed Ian by the scruff of the neck and pushed the muzzle of the gun into his eye.

  The morning after the art heist, when Ian was found tied up, he debated coming clean and telling the truth. But the FBI agents were so aggressive, so sure that he was involved, Ian feared that everything Belinda told him would come to pass would. He would take the fall. Suppose, after he spilled his guts, they never found Belinda or the man in the ski mask. Would the FBI be satisfied—or would they need a convenient fall guy, a guy who, at best, showed poor enough judgment to let one of the two thieves repeatedly trespass?

  It was clear to Ian that he had to remain silent and ride it out. As long as he didn’t trip himself up, the FBI had nothing on him—because, alas, he was innocent. That was the delicious irony: The only way they would be able to nail Ian for anything was if he told the truth about the fact that he didn’t do anything.

  I asked Ian: “Did you ever see Belinda Evans again?”

  When he hesitated, I made the spear shape with my fingers.

  Yes, he said. Many years later. He couldn’t be sure it was Belinda, he said, though I think that’s a lie.

  He was sure.

  * * *

  The late-night sex with Username Helena is not very good.

  After I leave Ian Cornwell, it is too late to do more sleuthing. I am not sure that I need to do more immediate work anyway.

  I know it all now.

  There are a few loose ends, but if I let all this evidence settle for a few hours—plus having Kabir and my team spend the night nailing down a few additional details—I firmly believe all will become clear in the morning.

  So, with that rationale in my mind, I keep my sex app appointment with Username Helena. She is willing and enthusiastic, and I am disappointed and surprised that I do not respond in kind. I find myself distracted. I know it appears that I am casual with sex, but the truth is very much the opposite. Sex is sacred to me. It is the closest thing I will ever know to religious euphoria. Many people feel like this in church or on a runner’s high or, in Myron’s case, when Springsteen plays “Meeting Across the River” followed by “Jungleland” in concert. For me, it only happens during sex. Sex is the excellent adventure, the grand voyage from which we completely disembark the moment we slip out of this bed. For me, sex is best when you have a—to use a business phrase I absolutely detest—“shared vision.” Tonight, there was simply too much static for a connection; it was merely a release, not all that different from masturbation.

  As we lie back in silence, catching our breaths, eyes on the ceiling, Username Helena says, “That was nice.”

  I say nothing. I debate a Round Two—perhaps that will put me more in the zone—but I’m not as young as I used to be, and it is getting late. I am idly wondering how we two will transition to exiting when my phone rings.

  It is Kabir. The time is two a.m.

  This can’t be good news. “Articulate,” I say.

  “We have a big problem.”

  CHAPTER 33

  You found Arlo Sugarman.”

  It has been twelve hours since Kabir’s phone call. My adrenaline spike has subsided, the crash thus imminent. I have not slept, and I can feel myself fraying at the edges. Stamina is a large part of my training, but genetically I am not predisposed to it. I am also aging, which obviously hampers stamina, and I have very little real-world experience in needing it. I have rarely had to stay up all night on patrol, as one might in the military, or been forced to go days on end with no sleep. I do battle—and then I rest.

  The old woman speaking to me now is Vanessa Hogan.

  I am back at her house in Kings Point. We are alone. Jessica set this up for me. At first, Vanessa Hogan was reluctant to consent to a second meeting. The enticement that pushed her over the edge, as I suspected it would, was that she and I would meet alone, only the two of us, and I would tell her the whereabouts of Arlo Sugarman.

  “Could we start with you?” I ask her.

  Vanessa Hogan is propped up via pillows on the same couch. Her skin tone is rosier than at our last meeting. She appears less frail. A scarf still covers her head. The house is empty. She’d sent her son Stuart to the grocery store.

  “I really don’t know what you mean.”

  “I recently visited Billy Rowan’s father,” I say. “Do you know he and Edie Parker’s mother are something of an item?”

  “I did not,” Vanessa says, her voice dripping something overly sticky. “How nice for them.”

  “Yes. William Rowan is in assisted living. His room is filled with Christian imagery. There are framed Bible quotes on the wall. I found the contrast striking.”

  “What contrast?”

  “With your home,” I say, lifting both hands in the air. “I don’t even see a single cross.”

  She shrugs. “That’s show religion,” Vanessa replies with a tinge of bitterness. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Alone, you’re correct, it wouldn’t. But I have done some digging. You’ve never been associated with a church, as far as I can see. You’ve never given money to any religious institution. In fact, before Frederick was killed—”

  “Murdered,” Vanessa Hogan interrupts, a sticky-sweet smile plastered to her face. “My son wasn’t killed. He was murdered.”

  I try to mirror the smile. “We are getting to it now, Ms. Hogan, aren’t we?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “My best friend was robbed of a pro basketball career because a man named Burt Wesson intentionally injured him. Destroyed his knee. One day, I paid Burt a visit. He hasn’t been the same since. There are men who have crossed my path who have done great wrongs. Over the years, I’ve conducted ‘night tours.’ Some survived, some didn’t, but none were ever the same. Most recently, right before Ry Strauss’s body was found, I made sure a bullying abuser would never harm anyone else again.”

  Vanessa Hogan studies my face. “Do you have your phone with you, Mr. Lockwood?”

  “I do.”

  “Take it out and hand it to me.”

  I do as she asks. She looks at the screen.

  “Do you mind if I power it off?”

  I signal for her to suit herself.

  Vanessa Hogan presses the button on the side and holds it. The phone goes dark. She leaves it on the coffee table. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Lockwood?”

  “You know,” I say. “We both felt it that first meeting. All of our talk about vengeance.”

  “I told you that vengeance should be the Lord’s.”

  “But you didn’t mean it. You were testing me, gauging my reaction. I could see it in your face. The bullying abuser I injured last week? He was an active danger. Now he isn’t. Simple. He was neutralized by me because the law wouldn’t stop him.”

  She nods. “You said you wanted to do the same to the men who killed your uncle.”

  “Yes.”

  “And killed the poor girls.”

  I nod. “You understood,” I say. “You sympathized.”

  “Of course.”

  “Because you’ve done the same.”

  I lean back. I put a hand into my pocket.

  “Where is Arlo Sugarman?” she asks.

  “I could just turn him in,” I say.

  “You could, yes.”

  “But you’d rather I not.”

  The room falls silent. We are r
ight on that edge now.

  I say, “You know what happened to Lionel Underwood, don’t you?”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “It was too much for Leo Staunch. He didn’t want anyone else to endure what Lionel Underwood had. So he asked me to help him protect Arlo Sugarman. I found that odd.”

  “As do I,” she says.

  “No, not that he didn’t want to hurt Arlo—I got that.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “But why did Leo only ask about Arlo?”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Why,” I continue, “didn’t he ask me about Billy Rowan and Edie Parker?” I sit back. “It kept nagging at me, but the answer was obvious.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Leo Staunch didn’t ask about Billy and Edie,” I say, “because he knew they were already dead.”

  Silence again fills the room, pushes out, suffocates.

  “It is funny how so many of the early theories ended up being the correct ones,” I say. “Take the Jane Street Six. After Lake Davies turned herself in, there were only five. How, everyone wondered, could the remaining members have managed to stay hidden all these years? One person? Okay. Two? Unlikely, but perhaps. But all five of them alive and unseen for all these years? Now we know the answer, don’t we? Lionel Underwood has been dead for more than forty years. Nero Staunch took care of that. And Billy and Edie have been dead even longer. You saw to that, Ms. Hogan.”

  Vanessa doesn’t reply. She just sits there with the sickly-sweet smile.

  “You are eighty-three years old,” I say. “You are ill. You want to tell someone the truth, and you see me as a kindred spirit. You have my phone—I would have no proof anyway. Do you fear I will report what you say to the FBI?”

  Vanessa Hogan’s eyes lock hard on mine. “I don’t fear anything, Mr. Lockwood.”