Long Lost

by Harlan Coben

  "Oh, I was awake anyway," he said. Dad wore boxers that had seen better days and a threadbare gray Duke T-shirt two sizes too large. "You want me to make us some scrambled eggs?"

  "Sure."

  He did. We sat and talked about nothing. He tried not to look too concerned, which only made me feel even more cared for. More memories came back. My eyes would well up and then I would blink the tears away. Emotions swirled to the point where I couldn't really tell how I felt. I was in for a lot of bad nights. I could see that now. But I just knew one thing for certain: I couldn't stand still any longer.

  When the morning came I called Esperanza and said, "Before I disappeared, you were looking up some stuff for me."

  "Good morning to you, too."

  "Sorry."

  "Don't worry about it. You were saying?"

  "You were checking into Sam Collins's suicide and that opal code and the Save the Angels charity," I said.

  "Right."

  "I want to know what you found."

  For a moment I expected an argument, but Esperanza must have heard something in my tone. "Okay, let's meet in an hour. I can show you what I got."

  "SORRY I'm late," Esperanza said, "but Hector spit up on my blouse and I had to change it and then the babysitter started talking to me about a raise and Hector started clinging to me--"

  "Don't worry about it," I said.

  Esperanza's office still semi-reflected her colorful past. There were photographs of her in the skimpy suede costume of Little Pocahontas, the "Indian Princess," played by a Latina. Her Intercontinental Tag Team Championship Belt, a gaudy thing that if actually wrapped around Esperanza's waist would probably run from her rib cage to just above her knee, was framed behind her desk. The walls were painted periwinkle and some other shade of purple--I could never remember the name of it. The desk was ornate and serious oak, found in an antique shop by Big Cyndi, and even though I was here when they delivered it, I still don't know how it fit through the doorway.

  But now the dominant theme in this room, to quote the politician's handbook, was change. Photographs of Esperanza's infant son, Hector, poses so ordinary and obvious they bordered on the cliche, lined the desk and credenza. There were the standard kid portraits--the swirling rainbow background a la Sears Portrait Studio--along with the on-Santa's-lap image and the colored-egg Easter Bunny. There was a photograph of Esperanza and her husband, Tom, holding a white-clad Hector at his baptism, and one with some Disney character I didn't recognize. The most prominent photograph featured Esperanza and Hector on some little kiddie ride, a miniature fire truck maybe, with Esperanza looking up at the camera with the widest, most dumbstruck smile I had ever seen on her.

  Esperanza had been the freest of free spirits. She'd been a promiscuous bisexual, proudly dating a man, then a woman, then another man, not caring what anyone thought. She had gone into wrestling because it was a fun buck, and when she got tired of that, she put herself through law school at night while working as my assistant during the day. This will sound awfully uncharitable, but motherhood had smothered some of that spirit. I had seen it before, of course, with other female friends. I get it a little. I didn't know about my own son until he was almost full grown, so I have never experienced that transforming moment when your baby is born and suddenly your entire world shrinks down to a six-pound, fifteen-ounce mass. That was what had happened with Esperanza. Was she happier now? I don't know. But our relationship had changed, as it was bound to, and because I am self-absorbed, I didn't like it.

  "Here's the time line," Esperanza said. "Sam Collins, Rick's father, is diagnosed with Huntington's disease approximately four months ago. He commits suicide a few weeks later."

  "Definitely a suicide?"

  "According to the police report. Nothing suspicious."

  "Okay, go on."

  "After the suicide, Rick Collins visited Dr. Freida Schneider, his father's geneticist. There are several phone calls to her office too. I took the liberty of calling Dr. Schneider's office. She is rather busy, but she'll give us fifteen minutes during her lunch break today. Twelve thirty sharp."

  "How did you wrangle that?"

  "MB Reps is making a large donation to Terence Cardinal Cooke Health Care Center."

  "Fair enough."

  "It's coming out of your bonus."

  "Fine, what else?"

  "Rick Collins called the CryoHope Center near New York-Presbyterian. They do a lot with cord blood and embryonic storage and stem cells. Five doctors from a variety of specialties run it, so it's impossible to know which one he was dealing with. He also called the Save the Angels charity several times. So here is the chronology: First he speaks to Dr. Schneider, four times over the course of two weeks. Then he speaks to CryoHope. That somehow leads to Save the Angels."

  "Okay," I said. "Can we get an appointment with CryoHope?"

  "With whom?"

  "One of the doctors."

  "There's an ob-gyn," Esperanza said. "Should I tell him you need a pap smear?"

  "I'm serious."

  "I know you are, but I'm not sure who to try. I'm trying to figure out which doctor he called."

  "Maybe Dr. Schneider can help."

  "Could be."

  "Oh, did you come up with anything on that opal to-do note?"

  "No. I Googled all the letters. Opal of course had a million hits. When I Googled 'HHK,' the first thing that came up is a publicly traded health-care company. They deal with cancer investments."

  "Cancer?"

  "Yep."

  "I don't see how that fits."

  Esperanza frowned.

  "What?"

  "I don't see how any of this fits," she said. "This seems, in fact, like a colossal waste of time."

  "How so?"

  "What exactly do you hope to find here? The doctor treated an old man for Huntington's disease. What could it possibly have to do with terrorists murdering people in Paris and London?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Not a clue?"

  "None."

  "Probably no connection at all," she said.

  "Probably."

  "But we have nothing better to do?"

  "This is what we do. We flail until something gives. This whole thing started with a car crash a decade ago. Then we have nothing until Rick Collins found out his father has Huntington's. I don't know what the connection is, so the only thing I can think to do is go back and follow his path."

  Esperanza crossed her legs, started twirling a free lock of hair. Esperanza had very dark hair, black-blue, that always had that just-mussed thing going on. When she twirled a hair, it meant something was bugging her.

  "What?"

  "I never called Ali while you were missing," she said.

  I nodded. "And she never called me, right?"

  "So you two are done?" Esperanza asked.

  "Apparently."

  "Did you use my favorite dumping line?"

  "I forget it."

  Esperanza sighed. "Welcome to Dumpsville. Population: you."

  "Uh, no. Might be more apt to say, 'Population: me.'"

  "Oh." We sat there. "Sorry," she said.

  "It's okay."

  "Win said you did the sheet mambo with Terese."

  I almost said, Win did the sheet mambo with Mee, but I worried that Esperanza might misinterpret.

  "I don't see the relevance," I said.

  "You wouldn't do the mambo-sheet thing, especially when you're ending with someone else, unless you really care about Terese. A lot."

  I sat back. "So?"

  "So we need to go full blast, if that will help. But we also need to understand the truth."

  "Which is?"

  "Terese is probably dead."

  I said nothing.

  "I've been there when you've lost loved ones," Esperanza said. "You don't take it well."

  "Who does?"

  "Good point. But you're also dealing with whatever else happened to you. It's a lot."

  "I'll be fine.
Anything else?"

  "Yes," she said. "Those two guys you and Win beat up."

  Coach Bobby and Assistant Coach Pat. "What about them?"

  "The Kasselton police have been by a few times. You're supposed to call when you get back. You know that the guy Win popped belongs to the force, right?"

  "Win told me."

  "He had knee surgery and is recuperating. The other guy, the one who started it, used to own a small chain of appliance stores. He got knocked out of business by the big boys and now works as floor manager at Best Buy in Paramus."

  I stood. "Okay."

  "Okay, what?"

  "We have time before we meet up with Dr. Schneider. Let's head out to Best Buy."

  27

  THE Best Buy employee blue polo shirt stretched across the beer belly of Coach Bobby. He was leaning on a TV, talking to an Asian couple. I looked for remnants of the beating and saw none.

  Esperanza was with me. As we crossed the store a man wearing a logger flannel shirt ran over to her. "Excuse me," he said, his face alight like a child's on Christmas morn. "But, oh my God, aren't you Little Pocahontas?"

  I stifled a smile. It never fails to shock me how many people still remember her. She shot me a glare and turned to her fan.

  "I am."

  "Wow. Oh, I can't believe this. I mean, double wow. It's such a pleasure to meet you."

  "Thanks."

  "I used to have your poster in my bedroom. When I was like sixteen."

  "I'm flattered--" she began.

  "Got some stains on that poster too," he said with a wink, "if you know what I mean."

  "--and nauseous." She finger-waved and walked away. "Bye now."

  I followed her. "Stains," I said. "You have to be a little touched."

  "Sadly, I kind of am," she said.

  Forget what I said before about motherhood smothering her spirit. Esperanza was still the best.

  We moved past Mr. Waaaay Too Much Information and toward Coach Bobby. I heard the Asian man ask what the difference was between a plasma TV and an LCD TV. Coach Bobby puffed out his chest and gave the pros and cons, none of which I understood. The man then asked about the DLP televisions. Coach Bobby liked DLPs. He started explaining why.

  I waited.

  Esperanza gestured with her head toward Coach Bobby. "Sounds like he deserved what he got."

  "No," I said. "You don't fight people to teach them a lesson--you fight for survival or self-protection only."

  Esperanza made a face.

  "What?"

  "Win is right. You can be such a little girl sometimes."

  Coach Bobby smiled at the Asian couple and said, "Take your time, I'll be right back and we can discuss free delivery."

  He came over to me and held my gaze. "What do you want?"

  "To say I'm sorry."

  Coach Bobby didn't move. Three seconds of silence. Then: "There, you said it."

  He spun around and headed back over to his customers.

  Esperanza slapped me on the back. "Boy, that was cleansing."

  DR. Freida Schneider was short and stocky with a big trusting smile. She was an Orthodox Jew, complete with modest dress and beret. I met her in the cafeteria at Terence Cardinal Cooke Health Care Center on Fifth Avenue by 103rd Street. Esperanza was out front making some calls. Dr. Schneider asked me if I wanted anything to eat. I declined. She ordered a complicated sandwich. We sat down. She said a prayer to herself and began to devour said sandwich as though it had called her a bad name.

  "I only have ten minutes," she said by way of explanation.

  "I thought it was fifteen."

  "I changed my mind. Thanks for the donation."

  "I need to ask you some questions about Sam Collins."

  Schneider swallowed the bite. "So your colleague said. You know all about patient-client confidentiality, right? So I can skip that speech?"

  "Please."

  "He's dead, so maybe you should tell me your interest in him."

  "I understand he committed suicide."

  "You don't need me to tell you that."

  "Is that common in patients with Huntington's?"

  "Do you know what Huntington's disease is?"

  "I know it's genetic."

  "It's an inherited genetic neurological disorder." She said this between bites. "The disease does not kill you directly, but as the disorder progresses, it leads to a great deal of life-ending complications like pneumonia and heart failure and you-don't-want-to-know. HD messes with the physical, the psychological, the cognitive. It is not a pretty disorder. So, yes, suicide is not uncommon. Some studies show that one in four give it a try with about seven percent being successful, ironic as the term 'successful' is when discussing suicide."

  "And that was the case with Sam Collins?"

  "He had depression before being diagnosed. It's hard to say what came first. HD usually begins with a physical disorder, but there are plenty of times it starts with the psychiatric or cognitive. So his depression could have actually been the first signs of HD misdiagnosed. Doesn't really matter. Either way he is dead due to HD--suicide is just another life-ending complication."

  "I understand that Huntington's has to be inherited."

  "Yes."

  "And that if one of the parents has it, the child has a fifty-fifty chance."

  "To keep it simple, I will say, yes, that's accurate."

  "And if the parent doesn't have it, the offspring won't either. That's it. The family line is clean."

  "Go on."

  "So that means one of Sam Collins's parents had it."

  "That's correct. His mother lived to be in her eighties with no signs of Huntington's, so it probably came from his father, who died young and thus never had a chance to display any symptoms."

  I leaned closer. "Did you test Sam Collins's children?"

  "That's not really your concern."

  "I'm speaking specifically of Rick Collins. Who is also dead. Murdered, in fact."

  "At the hands of a terrorist, according to the news reports."

  "Yes."

  "Yet you think his father's diagnosis with Huntington's disease has something to do with his murder?"

  "I do."

  Freida Schneider took another bite and shook her head.

  "Rick Collins has a son," I said.

  "I'm aware of that."

  "And he may have a daughter."

  That stopped her mid-bite. "Excuse me?"

  I wasn't sure how to play this. "Rick Collins may not have known she was alive."

  "You want to elaborate?"

  "Not really," I said. "We only have ten minutes."

  "True."

  "So?"

  She sighed. "Rick Collins was tested, yes."

  "And?"

  "The blood test shows the number of CAG repeats in each of the HTT alleles."

  I just looked at her.

  "Right, never mind. In short, the results sadly were positive. We don't consider the blood test a diagnosis because it could be years, decades even, before the onset of symptoms. But Rick Collins was already exhibiting chorea--basically, jerky movements you can't really control. He asked us to keep it confidential. We of course agreed."

  I thought about that. Rick had Huntington's. He had symptoms already--what would his last years have looked like? His father had asked himself that question and ended his life.

  "Was Rick's son tested?"

  "Yes, Rick insisted, which I confess is a bit unconventional. There is a lot of debate over testing, especially with a child. I mean, let's say you find out that a young boy will eventually contract this disorder--isn't that a terrible burden to live with? Or is it better to know now so you live life to the fullest? And if you're positive for HD, should you have children yourself who will have a fifty-fifty chance of contracting the illness--and even if you know that, isn't it still a life worth leading? The ethics are fairly mind-boggling."

  "But Rick tested his son?"

  "Yes. Rick was a reporter thro
ugh and through. He didn't believe in not knowing. The son, thankfully, was negative."

  "That must have been a relief to him."

  "Yes."

  "Do you know the CryoHope Center?"

  She thought about it. "They do research and storage, I think. Mostly stem cell banking and the like, right?"

  "After Rick Collins came to see you, he visited them. Any clue why?"

  "No."

  "How about the Save the Angels charity? Have you heard of it?"

  Schneider shook her head.

  "There is no cure for HD, correct?" I said.

  "Correct."

  "How about through stem cell research?"

  "Wait, Mr. Bolitar, let's back up. You said Rick Collins may have a daughter."

  "Yes."

  "Do you mind explaining that to me?"

  "Did he tell you that he had a daughter who died ten years ago in a car crash?"

  "No. Why would he?"

  I mulled that over. "When Rick's body was found in Paris, there was blood at the scene. The DNA test showed it belonged to a daughter."

  "But you just said his daughter is dead. I'm not following."

  "Neither am I yet. But tell me about stem cell research."

  She shrugged. "Highly speculative at this stage. You could theoretically replace damaged neurons in the brain by transplanting stem cells from cord blood. We've seen some encouraging signs in animals, but it hasn't been subject to human clinical trials."

  "Still. If you're dying and desperate . . ."

  A woman came into the cafeteria. "Dr. Schneider?"

  She held up a finger, downed the last bite of sandwich, rose. "For the dying and desperate, yes, anything is possible. Everything from miracle cures to, well, suicide. That's your ten minutes, Mr. Bolitar. Come back sometime and I'll give you a tour of the facility. You'll be surprised by the strength and good work. Thank you for the donation, and good luck with whatever you're trying to do."

  28

  THE CryoHope Center gleamed, like, well, the ideal blend of a cutting-edge medical facility and an upscale bank. The reception desk was high and made of dark wood. I sidled up to it, Esperanza by my side. I noticed that the receptionist, a corn-fed cutie, was not wearing a wedding band. I debated changing plans. A single woman. I could turn on the charm, and she would fall under my spell and answer all my questions. Esperanza knew what I was thinking and just gave me the look. I shrugged. The receptionist probably didn't know anything anyway.

  "My wife is expecting," I said, nodding toward Esperanza. "We would like to see someone about storing our baby's umbilical cord blood."

  The corn-fed receptionist gave me a practiced smile. She handed us a bunch of four-color brochures on thick-stock paper and ushered us into a room with plush seating. There were large, artistic photographs of children on the wall, and one of those diagrams of the human body that makes you think of ninth-grade biology class. We filled out a form on a CryoHope clipboard. They asked for my name. I was tempted to go with either I. P. Daily or Wink Martindale, but I stuck with Mark Kadison because he was a friend of mine and if they called, he'd just laugh.