Three Harlan Coben Novels (84 page)

“That he killed your sister.”

“Yes.”

She waited. They moved toward the porch furniture and sat down. Cram stood in a window watching them. He let his gaze wander toward Scott Duncan, hang there for a few heavy seconds, survey the grounds, go back to Duncan.

“He looks familiar,” Duncan said, gesturing toward Cram. “Or maybe I’m flashing back to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World. Shouldn’t he have an eye patch?”

Grace shifted in her seat. “You were telling me about why you lied?”

Duncan ran his hand through the sandy hair. “When Scanlon said the fire was no accident . . . You can’t understand what it did to me. I mean, one moment my life was one thing. The next . . .” He snapped his finger with a magician’s flourish. “It wasn’t so much that everything was different now—it was more like the past fifteen years had all been different. Like someone had gone back in time and changed one event and it changed everything else. I wasn’t the same guy. I wasn’t a guy whose sister died in a tragic fire. I was a guy whose sister had been murdered and never avenged.”

“But now you have the killer,” Grace said. “He confessed.”

Duncan smiled, but there was no joy there. “Scanlon said it best. He was just a weapon. Like a gun. I wanted the person who pulled the trigger. It became an obsession. I tried to do it part-time, you know, work my job while searching for the killer. But I started to neglect my cases. So my boss, she strongly suggested I take a leave.” He looked up at her.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I didn’t think it would be a great opening line, you know, telling you I was forced out like that. I still have connections in the office. I still have friends in law enforcement. But just so we’re clear, everything I’m doing is off the books.”

Their eyes locked. Grace said, “You’re still holding something back.”

He hesitated.

“What is it?”

“We should get one thing straight.” Duncan stood, did the run through the sandy hair bit again, turned away from her. “Right now we’re both trying to find your husband. It’s a temporary alliance. The truth is, we have separate agendas. I won’t lie to you. What happens after we find Jack, well, do we both want the truth?”

“I just want my husband.”

He nodded. “That’s what I mean about separate agendas. About our alliance being temporary. You want your husband. I want my sister’s killer.”

He looked at her now. She understood.

“So now what?” Grace asked.

He took out the mystery photograph and held it up. There was a hint of a smile on his face.

“What?”

Scott Duncan said, “I know the name of the redhead in the photograph.” She waited.

“Her name is Sheila Lambert. Attended Vermont University the same time as your husband”—he pointed at Jack and then slid his finger to the right—“and Shane Alworth.”

“Where is she now?”

“That’s just the thing, Grace. No one knows.”

She closed her eyes. A shudder ran through her.

“I sent the photograph up to the school. A retired dean identified her. I ran a full check, but she’s gone. There is no sign of Sheila Lambert’s existence over the past decade—no payroll tax, no social security number hit, nothing.”

“Just like with Shane Alworth.”

“Exactly like Shane.”

Grace tried to put it together. “Five people in the photograph. One, your sister, was murdered. Two others, Shane Alworth and
Sheila Lambert, haven’t been heard of in years. The fourth, my husband, ran overseas and is missing now. And the last one, well, we still don’t know who she is.”

Duncan nodded.

“So where do we go from here?”

“You remember I said I talked to Shane Alworth’s mother?”

“The one with the fuzzy Amazonian geography.”

“When I visited her the first time, I didn’t know about this picture or your husband or any of that. I want to show her the picture now. I want to gauge her reaction. And I want you there.”

“Why?”

“I just have a feeling, that’s all. Evelyn Alworth is an old woman. She’s emotional and I think she’s scared. I went in there the first time as an investigator. Maybe, I don’t know, but maybe if you go in as a concerned mother, something will shake loose.”

Grace hesitated. “Where does she live?”

“A condo in Bedminster. Shouldn’t take us more than thirty minutes to get there.”

Cram came back into view. Scott Duncan nodded toward him.

“So what’s with that scary guy?” Duncan asked.

“I can’t go with you now.”

“Why not?”

“I have the kids. I can’t just leave them here.”

“Bring them along. There’s a playground right there. We won’t take long.”

Cram came to the door now. He beckoned with his hand for Grace. She said, “Excuse me” and headed toward Cram. Scott Duncan stayed where he was.

“What is it?” she asked Cram.

“Emma. She’s upstairs crying.”

Grace found her daughter in classic cry position—facedown on her bed, pillow over her head. The sound was muted. It had been a while since Emma had cried like this. Grace sat on the edge of the bed. She knew what was coming. When Emma could speak, she asked where Daddy was. Grace told her that he was on a business
trip. Emma said that she didn’t believe her. That it was a lie. Emma demanded to know the truth. Grace repeated that Jack was just on a business trip. That everything was fine. Emma pushed. Where was he? Why hadn’t Daddy called? When was he coming home? Grace made up rationales that sounded pretty believable in her ears—he was really busy, he was traveling in Europe, London right now, didn’t know how long he’d be gone, he had called but Emma had been sleeping, remember that London is in a different time zone.

Did Emma buy it? Who knew?

Child-rearing experts—those namby-pamby, lobotomy-voiced Ph.D.s on cable TV—would probably tsk-tsk, but Grace was not one of those tell-kids-everything parents. Above all else a mother’s job was to protect. Emma was not old enough to handle the truth. Plain and simple. Deception was a necessary part of parenting. Of course Grace could be wrong—she knew that—but the old adage is true: Kids don’t come with instructions. We all mess up. Raising a child is pure impromptu.

A few minutes later she told Max and Emma to get ready. They were going for a ride. Both children grabbed their Game Boys and piled into the back of the car. Scott Duncan moved toward the passenger seat. Cram cut him off.

“Problem?” Duncan said.

“I want to talk to Ms. Lawson before you go. Stay here.”

Duncan snapped a sarcastic salute. Cram gave him a look that could have held back a weather front. He and Grace stepped into the back room. Cram closed the door.

“You know you shouldn’t go with him.”

“Maybe not. But I have to.”

Cram chewed on his lower lip. He didn’t like it, but he understood. “Do you carry a purse?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see it.”

She showed it to him. Cram pulled a gun out of his waist. It was small, almost toylike. “This is a Glock nine-millimeter, model 26.”

Grace held up her hands. “I don’t want that.”

“Keep it in your purse. You can also wear it in an ankle holster but you’ll need long pants.”

“I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

“Experience is overrated. You aim for the middle of the chest, you squeeze the trigger. It’s not complicated.”

“I don’t like weapons.”

Cram shook his head.

“What?”

“Maybe I’m mistaken, but didn’t somebody threaten your daughter today?”

That made her pause. Cram put the gun in her purse. She did not fight him.

“How long are you going to be gone?” Cram asked.

“Couple of hours, tops.”

“Mr. Vespa will be here at 7
P
.
M
. He says it’s important that he speaks to you.”

“I’ll be here.”

“You sure you trust this Duncan guy?”

“I’m not sure. But I think we’re safe with him.”

Cram nodded. “Let me add a little insurance on that front.”

“How?”

Cram said nothing. He escorted her back. Scott Duncan was on his cell phone. Grace did not like what she saw on Duncan’s face. He finished up his call when he spotted them.

“What?”

Scott Duncan shook his head. “Can we go now?”

Cram walked toward him. Duncan did not back down, but there was definitely an understandable flinch. Cram stopped directly in front of him, stuck out his hand, wiggled his fingers. “Let me see your wallet.”

“Pardon me?”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who enjoys repeating himself?”

Scott Duncan glanced at Grace. She nodded. Cram still had the fingers wiggling. Duncan handed Cram his wallet. Cram brought it
over to a table and sat down. He quickly rifled through the contents, taking notes.

“What are you doing?” Duncan asked.

“While you’re gone, Mr. Duncan, I’m going to learn everything about you.” He looked up. “If Ms. Lawson is harmed in any way, my response will be”—Cram stopped, looked up as though searching for the word—“disproportionate. I make myself clear?”

Duncan looked at Grace. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Grace was already moving toward the door. “We’ll be fine, Cram.”

Cram shrugged, tossed Duncan his wallet. “Have a delightful drive.”

No one talked for the first five minutes of the ride. Max and Emma used their headphones with the Game Boys. Grace had bought the headphones recently because the beeps and buzzes and Luigi shouting “Mamma Mia!” every two minutes gave her a headache. Scott Duncan sat next to her with his hands in his lap.

“So who was on the phone?” Grace asked.

“A coroner.”

Grace waited.

“Remember how I told you that I had my sister’s body exhumed?” he said.

“Yes.”

“The police didn’t really see a need for it. Too expensive. I understand, I guess. Anyway I paid for it myself. I know this person, used to work for a country M.E., who does private autopsies.”

“And he’s the one who called you?”

“It’s a she. Her name is Sally Li.”

“And?”

“And she says she needs to see me right away.” Duncan looked over at her. “Her office is in Livingston. We can hit it on the way back.” He turned back away. “I’d like you to come with me, if that’s okay.”

“To a morgue?”

“No, nothing like that. Sally does the actual autopsy work at St.
Barnabas Hospital. This is just an office where she does her paperwork. There’s a waiting room we can stick the kids in.”

Grace did not reply.

The Bedminster condos were generic, which, when you’re talking about condos, is something of a repetition in terms. They had the prefab light-brown aluminum siding, three levels, garages underneath, every building identical to the one to its right and to its left and behind it and in front of it. The complex was huge and sprawling, a khaki-coated ocean stretching as far as the eye could see.

For Grace, the route here had been familiar. Jack drove by this on his way to work. They had, for a very brief moment, debated moving into this condo development. Neither Jack nor Grace was particularly good with their hands or enjoyed fix-the-old-home shows on cable. Condos held that appeal—you pay a monthly fee, you don’t worry about the roof or an addition or the landscaping or any of that. There were tennis courts and a swimming pool and, yes, a playground for children. But in the end there was just so much conformity one could take. Suburbia is already a subworld of sameness. Why add insult to injury by making your physical abode conform too?

Max spotted the complicated, brightly hued playground before the car had come to a complete stop. He was raring to sprint for the swing set. Emma looked more bored with the prospect. She held onto her Game Boy. Normally Grace would have protested—Game Boy in the car only, especially when the alternative was fresh air—but again now did not seem the time.

Grace cupped her hand over her eyes as they started moving away. “I can’t leave them alone.”

“Mrs. Alworth lives right here,” Duncan said. “We can stay in the doorway and watch them.”

They approached the door on the first level. The playground was quiet. The air was still. Grace inhaled deeply and smelled the freshly cut grass. They stood side-by-side, she and Duncan. He rang the bell. Grace waited by the door, feeling oddly like a Jehovah’s Witness.

A cackling voice not unlike the witch in an old Disney film said, “Who is it?”

“Mrs. Alworth?”

Again the cackle: “Who is it?”

“Mrs. Alworth, it’s Scott Duncan.”

“Who?”

“Scott Duncan. We spoke a few weeks ago. About your son, Shane.”

“Go away. I have nothing to say to you.”

Grace picked up an accent now. Boston area.

“We could really use your help.”

“I don’t know nothing. Go away.”

“Please, Mrs. Alworth, I need to talk to you about your son.”

“I told you. Shane lives in Mexico. He’s a good boy. He helps poor people.”

“We need to ask about some of his old friends.” Scott Duncan looked at Grace, nodded for her to say something.

“Mrs. Alworth,” Grace said.

The cackle was more wary now. “Who’s that?”

“My name is Grace Lawson. I think my husband knew your son.”

There was silence now. Grace turned away from the door and watched Max and Emma. Max was on a corkscrew slide. Emma sat cross-legged and played the Game Boy.

Through the door, the cackling voice asked, “Who’s your husband?”

“Jack Lawson.”

Nothing.

“Mrs. Alworth?”

“I don’t know him.”

Scott Duncan said, “We have a picture. We’d like to show it to you.”

The door opened. Mrs. Alworth wore a housedress that couldn’t have been manufactured after the Bay of Pigs. She was in her mid-seventies, heavyset, the kind of big aunt who hugs you and you disappear in the folds. As a kid you hate the hug. As an adult you long for it. She had varicose veins that resembled sausage casing. Her
reading glasses dangled against her enormous chest from a chain. She smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.

“I don’t have all day,” she said. “Show me this picture.”

Scott Duncan handed her the photograph.

For a long time the old woman said nothing.