Three Harlan Coben Novels (81 page)

“You mean like he was garroted?”

“Doubtful. There are no ligature marks on the neck.”

She frowned. “Rocky was huge. He was strong as an ox. It had to be poison, something like that.”

“I don’t think so. The M.E. said there was substantial damage to the larynx.”

She looked confused.

“In other words, his throat was crushed like an eggshell.”

“You mean he was strangled by hand?”

“We don’t know.”

“He was too strong for that,” she said again.

“Who was he following?” Perlmutter asked.

“Let me make a call. You can wait in the hall.”

He did. The wait was not long.

When Indira came out, her voice was clipped. “I can’t speak to you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Attorney’s orders?”

“I can’t speak to you.”

“I’ll be back. I’ll get a warrant.”

“Good luck,” she said, turning away. And Perlmutter thought that maybe she meant it.

G
race and Scott Duncan headed back to the Photomat. Her heart sank when they entered and she saw no Fuzz Pellet.

Assistant Manager Bruce was there. He puffed out his chest. When Scott Duncan flashed his badge, the chest deflated. “Josh is out on lunch break,” he said.

“Do you know where?”

“He usually goes to the Taco Bell. It’s right down the block.”

Grace knew it. She hurried out first, afraid to lose his scent again. Scott Duncan followed. As soon as she entered the Taco Bell, the fragrance of lard rising up to assault her, she spotted Josh.

Equally important, Josh spotted her. His eyes widened.

Scott Duncan stood at her side. “That him?”

Grace nodded.

Fuzz Pellet Josh sat alone. His head was tilted down, his hair hanging in front of his face like a curtain. His expression—and Grace guessed that he only had this one—was sullen. He bit into the taco as if it insulted his favorite grunge group. The earphones were jammed into place. The cord fell into the sour cream. Grace hated to sound like an old biddy, but having this kind of music plugged directly into the brain all day could not be good for a person. Grace enjoyed music. When she was alone, she would turn the music up, sing along, dance, whatever. So it wasn’t the music or even the volume. But what did it do to the mental health of a young mind to
have music, probably angry and harsh, pounding in the ears all the time? An aural confinement, solitary walls of sound, to paraphrase Elton John, inescapable. No life noises let in. No talking. An artificial soundtrack to your life.

It could not be healthy.

Josh lowered his head, pretending he didn’t see them. She watched him as they approached. He was so young. He looked pitiful, sitting there alone like that. She thought about his hopes and dreams and how he already looked set on the road of life-long disappointments. She thought about Josh’s mother, about how she must have tried and how she must worry. She thought about her own son, her little Max, and about how she’d handle it if he started slipping in this direction.

She and Scott Duncan stopped in front of Josh’s table. He took another bite and then slowly looked up. The music coming from his earphones was so loud that Grace could actually make out the lyrics. Something about bitches and ho’s. Scott Duncan took the lead. She let him.

“Do you recognize this lady?” Scott asked.

Josh shrugged. He lowered the volume.

“Take those off,” Scott said. “Now.”

He did as he was told, but he took his time.

“I asked you if you recognized this lady.”

Josh glanced in her direction. “Yeah, I guess.”

“How do you know her?”

“From where I work.”

“You work at the Photomat, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And Ms. Lawson here. She’s a customer.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Do you remember the last time she was in the store?”

“No.”

“Think.”

He shrugged.

“Does two days ago sound about right?”

Another shrug. “Could be.”

Scott Duncan had the envelope from the Photomat. “You developed this roll of film, correct?”

“You say so.”

“No, I’m asking you. Look at the envelope.”

He did. Grace stayed still. Josh had not asked Scott Duncan who he was. He had not asked them what they wanted. She wondered about that.

“Yeah, I developed that roll.”

Duncan took out the photograph with his sister in it. He put it on the table. “Did you put this picture in Ms. Lawson’s packet?”

“No,” Josh said.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Grace waited a beat. She knew that he was lying. She spoke for the first time. “How do you know?” she asked.

They both looked at her. Josh said, “Huh?”

“How do you develop rolls?”

He said, “Huh?” again.

“You put the roll in that machine,” Grace said. “They come out in a pile. Then you put the pile in an envelope. Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you look at every picture you develop?”

He said nothing. He looked around as if asking for help.

“I’ve seen you work,” Grace said. “You read your magazines. You listen to your music. You do not check through all the pictures. So my question is, Josh, how do you know what pictures were in that pile?”

Josh glanced at Scott Duncan. No help there. He turned back to her. “It’s weird, that’s all.”

Grace waited.

“That picture looks like it’s a hundred years old or something. It’s the right size, but that ain’t Kodak paper. That’s what I meant. I’d never seen it before.” Josh liked that. His eyes lit up, warming to his lie. “Yeah, see, that’s what I thought he meant. When he said did I put it in. Did I ever see it before?”

Grace just looked at him.

“Look, I don’t know what goes through that machine. But I’ve never seen that print. That’s all I know, okay?”

“Josh?”

It was Scott Duncan. Josh turned toward him.

“That picture ended up in Ms. Lawson’s pack of pictures. Do you have any idea how that happened?”

“Maybe she took the picture.”

“No,” Duncan said.

Josh gave another elaborate shrug. He must have had very powerful shoulders from all the work they got.

“Tell me how it works,” Duncan said. “How you develop the pictures.”

“It’s like she said. I put the film into the machine. It does the rest. I just set the size and the count.”

“Count?”

“You know. One print from each negative, two prints, whatever.”

“And they come out in a pile?”

“Yeah.”

Josh was more relaxed now, on comfortable ground.

“And then you put them in an envelope?”

“Right. Same envelope the customer filled out. Then I file it in alphabetical order. That’s it.”

Scott Duncan looked over at Grace. She said nothing. He took out his badge. “Do you know what this badge means, Josh?”

“No.”

“It means I work for the U.S. attorney’s office. It means I can make your life miserable if you cross me. Do you understand?”

Josh looked a little scared now. He managed a nod.

“So I’m going to ask you one more time: Do you know anything about this photograph?”

“No. I swear.” He looked around. “I gotta get back to work now.”

He stood. Grace blocked his path. “Why did you leave work early the other day?”

“Huh?”

“About an hour after I picked up my roll of film, I went back to the store. You were gone. And the next morning too. So what happened?”

“I got sick,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Feeling better now?”

“Guess so.” He started pushing past her.

“Because,” Grace went on, “your manager said you had a family emergency. Is that what you told him?”

“I gotta get back to work,” he said, and this time he pushed past her and nearly ran out the door.

• • •

Beatrice Smith was not home.

Eric Wu broke in without any trouble. He checked through the house. No one was there. With the gloves still on Wu flicked on the computer. Her software PIM—a fancy term for a date and phone book—was Time & Chaos. He opened it and checked her calendar.

Beatrice Smith was visiting her son, the doctor, in San Diego. She’d be home in two days—far enough away to save her life. Wu considered that, the fickle winds of fate. He couldn’t help it. He glanced through Beatrice Smith’s calendar two months in the past and two months in the future. There were no overnight trips. If he had come at any other time, Beatrice Smith would be dead. Wu liked to think about things like that, about how it was often the little things, the unconscious things, the things we can’t know or control, that alter our lives. Call it fate, luck, odds, God. Wu found it fascinating.

Beatrice Smith had a two-car garage. Her tan Land Rover took up the right side. The left side was empty. There was an oil stain on the ground. This, Wu figured, had been where Maury parked his car. She kept it empty now—Wu couldn’t help but think of Freddy Sykes’s mother—as if it was his side of the bed. Wu parked there. He opened the back. Jack Lawson looked shaky. Wu untied his legs so he could
walk. The hands remained bound at the wrist. Wu led him inside. Jack Lawson fell twice. The blood had not fully circulated through the legs. Wu held him up by the scruff of his shirt.

“I’m taking the gag off,” Wu said.

Jack Lawson nodded. Wu could see it in his eyes. Lawson was broken. Wu had not hurt him much—not yet anyway—but when you spend enough time in the dark, alone with your thoughts, your mind turns inward and feasts. That was always a dangerous thing. The key to serenity, Wu knew, was to keep working, keep moving forward. When you’re moving, you don’t think about guilt or innocence. You don’t think about your past or your dreams, your joys or disappointments. You just worry about survival. Hurt or be hurt. Kill or be killed.

Wu removed the gag. Lawson did not plead and beg or ask questions. That stage was over. Wu tied his legs to a chair. He searched the pantry and refrigerator. They both ate in silence. When they finished, Wu washed off the dishes and cleaned up. Jack Lawson stayed tied to the chair.

Wu’s cell phone rang. “Yes.”

“We have a problem.”

Wu waited.

“When you picked him up, he had a copy of that photograph, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he said there were no other copies?”

“Yes.”

“He was wrong.”

Wu said nothing.

“His wife has a copy of the picture. She’s flashing it everywhere.”

“I see.”

“Will you take care of it?”

“No,” Wu said. “I can’t return to the area.”

“Why not?”

Wu did not respond.

“Forget I asked that. We’ll use Martin. He has the information on her children.”

Wu said nothing. He did not like the idea, but he kept it to himself.

The voice on the phone said, “We’ll take care of it,” before hanging up.

G
race said, “Josh is lying.”

They were back on Main Street. Clouds threatened, but for now humidity ruled the day. Scott Duncan gestured a few stores up with his chin. “I could use a Starbucks,” he said.

“Wait. You don’t think he’s lying?”

“He’s nervous. There’s a difference.”

Scott Duncan pulled open the glass door. Grace entered. There was a line at Starbucks. There always seemed to be a line at Starbucks. The sound system played something old from a female warbly blues singer, a Billie Holiday or Dinah Washington or Nina Simone. The song ended and a girl-with-acoustic-guitar came on, Jewel or Aimee Mann or Lucinda Williams.

“What about his inconsistencies?” she asked.

Scott Duncan frowned.

“What?”

“Does our friend Josh look like the type who willingly cooperates with authority?”

“No.”

“So what would you expect him to say?”

“His boss said that he had a family emergency. He told us he was sick.”

“It is an inconsistency,” he agreed.

“But?”

Scott Duncan gave an exaggerated shrug, mimicking Josh. “I’ve worked a lot of cases. You know what I’ve learned about inconsistencies?”

She shook her head. In the background the milk did that froth thing, the machine making a noise like a car-wash vacuum.

“They exist. I’d be more suspicious if there weren’t a few. The truth is always fuzzy. If his story had been clean, I’d be more concerned. I’d wonder if he rehearsed it. Keeping a lie consistent isn’t that difficult, but in this guy’s case, if you asked him what he ate for breakfast twice he’d mess it up.”

They moved forward in line. The
barista
asked for a drink order. Duncan looked at Grace. She ordered a venti iced Americano, no water. He nodded and said, “Make that two.” He paid using one of those Starbucks debit cards. They waited for the drinks at the bar.

“So you think he was being truthful?” Grace asked.

“I don’t know. But nothing he said raised much of a red flag.”

Grace wasn’t so sure. “It had to be him.”

“Why?”

“There was no one else.”

They picked up their drinks and found a table near the window. “Run it through for me,” he said.

“Run what?”

“Go back. You picked up the pictures. Josh handed them to you. Did you look at them right away?”

Grace’s eyes went up and to the right. She tried to remember the details. “No.”

“Okay, so you took the packet. Did you stick it in your purse or something?”

“I held it.”

“And then what?”

“I got in my car.”

“The packet was still with you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“On the console. Between the two front seats.”

“Where did you go?”

“To pick up Max from school.”

“Did you stop on the way?”

“No.”

“Were the pictures in your possession the whole time?”

Grace smiled in spite of herself. “You sound like I’m checking in for a flight.”

“They don’t ask that anymore.”

“It’s been a while since I flew anywhere.” She smiled stupidly and realized why she had taken this inane detour in their conversation. He did too. She had spotted something—something she really didn’t want to pursue.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I might not have been able to tell if Josh was hiding something. You, however, make for an easier interrogation. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Grace.”

“The pictures were never out of my possession.”

“But?”

“Look, this is a waste of time. I know it was Josh. It had to be.”

“But?”

She took a deep breath. “I’m just going to say this once, so we can dismiss it and get on with our lives.”

Duncan nodded.

“There was one person who
may
—I stress the word
may
—have had access.”

“Who?”

“I was sitting in the car waiting for Max. I opened the envelope and looked at the first few pictures. Then my friend Cora got in.”

“Got in your car?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“The passenger seat.”

“And the pictures were on the console next to it?”

“No, not anymore.” Her voice cracked now with annoyance. She was not enjoying this. “I just told you. I was looking at them.”

“But you put them down?”

“Eventually, yeah, I guess.”

“On the console?”

“I guess. I don’t remember.”

“So she had access.”

“No. I was there the whole time.”

“Who got out first?”

“We both got out at the same time, I think.”

“You limp.”

She looked at him. “So?”

“So getting out must be something of an effort.”

“I do fine.”

“But come on, Grace, work with me here. It’s possible—I’m not saying likely, I’m saying possible—that while you were stepping out, your friend could have slipped that picture into the envelope.”

“Possible, sure. But she didn’t.”

“No way?”

“No way.”

“You trust her that much?”

“Yes. But even if I didn’t, I mean, think about it. What was she doing—carrying around this picture in the hopes I’d have a packet of developed photos in my car?”

“Not necessarily. Maybe her plan was to plant it in your pocketbook. Or in the glove compartment. Or under the seat, I don’t know. Then maybe she saw the roll of film and—”

“No.” Grace held up a hand. “We’re not going there. It’s not Cora. It’s a waste to even start down this road.”

“What’s her last name?”

“It’s not important.”

“Tell me that and I’ll drop it.”

“Lindley. Cora Lindley.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll drop it.” But he was jotting on a small pad.

“Now what?” Grace asked.

Duncan checked his watch. “I have to go back to work.”

“What should I do?”

“Search your house. If your husband was hiding something, maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“Your suggestion is to spy on my husband?”

“Shake the cages, Grace.” He started for the car. “Sit tight. I’ll be back to you soon, promise.”