Three Harlan Coben Novels (80 page)

Bobby Dodd wanted to help, but he really didn’t know much. Grace could see that almost right away. His son had visited twice a month. Yes, Bob’s stuff had been packed up and sent to him, but he hadn’t bothered opening it.

“It’s in storage,” Lindsey told Grace.

“Do you mind if I look through it?”

Bobby Dodd patted her leg. “Not at all, child.”

“We’ll need to ship it to you,” Lindsey said. “The storage facility is off site.”

“It’s very important.”

“I can have it overnighted.”

“Thank you.”

Lindsey left them alone.

“Mr. Dodd—”

“Bobby, please.”

“Bobby,” Grace said. “When was the last time your son visited you?”

“Three days before he was killed.”

The words came quickly and without thought. She finally saw a flicker behind the façade, and she wondered about her earlier observations, about old age making tragedy less hurtful—or does it merely make the mask more deft?

“Did he seem different at all?”

“Different?”

“More distracted, anything like that.”

“No.” Then: “Or at least I didn’t notice, if he did.”

“What did you talk about?”

“We never have much to say. Sometimes we talk about his momma. Most of the time we just watch TV. They got cable here, you know.”

“Did Jillian come with him?”

“No.”

He said that too quickly. Something in his face closed down.

“Did she ever come?”

“Sometimes.”

“But not the last time?”

“That’s right.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“That? No,
that
”—big emphasis—“didn’t surprise me.”

“What did?”

He looked off and bit his lower lip. “She wasn’t at the funeral.”

Grace thought that she must have heard wrong. Bobby Dodd nodded as if he could read her thoughts.

“That’s right. His own wife.”

“Were they having marital issues?”

“If they were, Bob never said anything to me.”

“Did they have any children?”

“No.” He adjusted the ascot and glanced away for a moment. “Why are you bringing this all up, Mrs. Lawson?”

“Grace, please.”

He did not reply. He looked at her with eyes that spoke of wisdom and sadness. Maybe the answer to elderly coldness is far simpler: Those eyes had seen bad. They didn’t want to see more.

“My own husband is missing,” Grace said. “I think, I don’t know, I think they’re connected.”

“What’s your husband’s name?”

“Jack Lawson.”

He shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. She asked if he had a phone number or any idea how she could contact Jillian Dodd. He shook his head again. They headed to the elevator. Bobby didn’t know the code, so an orderly escorted them down. They rode from floor three to one in silence.

When they reached the door, Grace thanked him for his time.

“Your husband,” he said. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“Hope you’re stronger than me.” Bobby Dodd walked away then. Grace thought of that silver-framed picture in his room, of his Maudie, and then she showed herself out.

P
erlmutter realized that they had no legal right to open Rocky Conwell’s car. He pulled Daley over. “Is DiBartola on duty?”

“No.”

“Call Rocky Conwell’s wife. Ask her if she had a set of keys to the car. Tell her we found it and want her permission to go through it.”

“She’s the ex-wife. Does she have any standing?”

“Enough for our purposes,” Perlmutter said.

“Okay.”

It took Daley no time. The wife cooperated. They stopped by the Maple Garden apartments on Maple Street. Daley ran up and retrieved the keys. Five minutes later they pulled into the Park-n-Ride.

There was no reason to be suspicious of foul play. If anything, finding the car here, at this depot, would lead one to the opposite conclusion. People parked here so that they could go elsewhere. One bus whisked the weary to the heart of midtown Manhattan. Another brought you to the northern tip of the famed isle, near the George Washington Bridge. Other buses took you to the three nearby major airports—JFK, LaGuardia, Newark Liberty—and ultimately anywhere in the world. So no, finding Rocky Conwell’s car did not lead one to suspect foul play.

At least, not at first.

Pepe and Pashaian, the two cops who were watching the car, had
not seen it. Perlmutter’s eyes slid toward Daley. Nothing on his face either. They all looked complacent, expecting this would lead to a dead end.

Pepe and Pashaian hoisted their belts and sauntered toward Perlmutter. “Hey, Captain.”

Perlmutter kept his eyes on the car.

“You want us to start questioning the ticket agents?” Pepe asked. “Maybe one of them remembers selling Conwell a ticket.”

“I don’t think so,” Perlmutter said.

The three younger men caught something in their superior’s voice. They looked at each other and shrugged. Perlmutter did not explain.

Conwell’s vehicle was a Toyota Celica. A small car, old model. But the size and age didn’t really matter. Neither did the fact that there was rust along the wheel trims, that two hubcaps were gone, that the other two were so dirty you could not tell where metal ended and rubber began. No, none of that bothered Perlmutter.

He stared at the back of the car and thought about those small-town sheriffs in horror movies, you know the ones, where something is very wrong, where townspeople start acting strangely and the body count keeps rising and the sheriff, that good, smart, loyal, out-of-his-league law enforcement officer, is powerless to do anything about it. That was what Perlmutter felt now because the back of the car, the trunk area, was low.

Much too low.

There was only one explanation. Something heavy was in the trunk.

It could be anything, of course. Rocky Conwell had been a football player. He probably lifted weights. Maybe he was transferring a set of dumbbells. The answer could be as simple as that, good old Rocky moving his weights. Maybe he was bringing them back to the garden apartment on Maple Street, the one where his ex lived. She had worried about him. They were reconciling. Maybe Rocky loaded his car—okay, not his whole car, just his trunk, because Perlmutter
could see that there was nothing in the backseat—anyway, maybe he loaded it up to move back in with her.

Perlmutter jangled the keys as he moved closer to the Toyota Celica. Daley, Pepe, and Pashaian hung back. Perlmutter glanced down at the set of keys. Rocky’s wife—he thought that her name was Lorraine but he couldn’t be sure—had a Penn State football helmet key chain. It looked old and scraped up. The Nittany Lion was barely visible. Perlmutter wondered what she thought about when she looked at the key chain, why she still used it.

He stopped at the trunk and sniffed the air. Not a hint. He put the key in the lock and turned. The trunk’s lock popped open, the sound echoing. He began to lift the trunk. The air escaping was almost audible. And now, yes, the smell was unmistakable.

Something large had been squished into the trunk, like an oversize pillow. Without warning it sprang free like a giant jack-in-the-box. Perlmutter jumped back as the head fell out first, smacking the pavement hard.

Didn’t matter, of course. Rocky Conwell was already dead.

N
ow what?

Grace was starved for one thing. She drove over the George Washington Bridge, took the Jones Road exit, and stopped to grab a bite at a Chinese restaurant called, interestingly enough, Baumgart’s. She ate in silence, feeling as lonely as she had ever felt, and tried to hold herself together. What had happened? The day before yesterday—was it really only then?—she had picked up photographs at Photomat. That was all. Life was good. She had a husband she adored and two wonderful, inquisitive kids. She had time to paint. They all had their health, enough money in the bank. And then she had seen a photograph, an old one, and now . . .

Grace had almost forgotten about Josh the Fuzz Pellet.

He was the one who developed the roll of film. He was the one who mysteriously left the store not long after she picked up the pictures. He had to be the one, she was sure, who put that damn photograph in the middle of her pack.

She grabbed her cell phone, asked directory assistance for the number of the Photomat in Kasselton, and even paid the extra fee to be directly connected. On the third ring, the phone was picked up.

“Photomat.”

Grace said nothing. No question about it. She would recognize that bored yah-dude slur anywhere. It was Fuzz Pellet Josh. He was back at the store.

She considered just hanging up, but maybe, somehow, that would—she didn’t know—tip him off somehow. Make him run. She changed her voice, added a little extra lilt, and asked what time they closed.

“Like, six,” Fuzz Pellet told her.

She thanked him, but he had hung up. The check was already on the table. She paid and tried not to sprint to her car. Route 4 was wide open. She sped past the plethora of malls and found a parking spot not far from the Photomat. Her cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Carl Vespa.”

“Oh, hi.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday. About springing Jimmy X on you like that.”

She debated telling him about Jimmy’s late night visit, decided now was not the time. “It’s okay.”

“I know you don’t care, but it looks like Wade Larue is going to get released.”

“Maybe it’s the right thing,” she said.

“Maybe.” But Vespa sounded far from convinced. “You sure you don’t need any protection?”

“Positive.”

“If you change your mind . . .”

“I’ll call.”

There was a funny pause. “Any word from your husband?”

“No.”

“Does he have a sister?”

Grace changed hands. “Yes. Why?”

“Her name Sandra Koval?”

“Yes. What does she have to do with this?”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

He hung up. Grace stared at the phone. What the hell was that all about? She shook her head. It would be useless to call back. She tried to refocus.

Grace grabbed her purse and hurry-limped toward the Photomat. Her leg hurt. Walking was a chore. It felt as though someone were
on the ground clinging to her ankle and she had to drag him along. Grace kept moving. She was three stores away when a man in a business suit stepped in her path.

“Ms. Lawson?”

A weird thought struck Grace as she looked at this stranger: His sandy hair was nearly the same color as his suit. It almost looked liked they were both made from the same material.

“May I help you?” she said.

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph. He held it up to her face so that she could see it. “Did you post this on the Web?”

It was the cropped mystery photograph of the blonde and the redhead.

“Who are you?”

The sandy-haired man said, “My name is Scott Duncan. I’m with the U.S. attorney’s office.” He pointed to the blonde, the one who’d been looking up at Jack, the one with the X across her face.

“And this,” Scott Duncan said, “is a picture of my sister.”

P
erlmutter had broken the news to Lorraine Conwell as gently as he could.

He had delivered bad news plenty of times. Usually it involved car accidents on Route 4 or the Garden State Parkway. Lorraine Conwell had exploded into tears when he told her, but now the numb had seeped in and dried her eyes.

The stages of grief: Supposedly the first is denial. That was wrong. The first is just the opposite: Total acceptance. You hear the bad news and you understand exactly what is being said to you. You understand that your loved one—your spouse, your parent, your child—will never come home, that they are gone for good, that their life is over, and that you will never, ever, see them again. You understand that in a flash. Your legs buckle. Your heart gives out.

That was the first step—not just acceptance, not just understanding, but total truth. Human beings are not built to withstand that kind of hurt. That then is when the denial begins. Denial floods in quickly, salving the wounds or at least covering them. But there is still that moment, mercifully quick, the real Stage One, when you hear the news and stare into the abyss, and horrible as it is, you understand everything.

Lorraine Conwell sat ramrod. There was a quiver in her lips. Her eyes were dry. She looked small and alone and it took all Perlmutter had not to put his arms around her and pull her in close.

“Rocky and me,” she said. “We were going to get back together.”

Perlmutter nodded, encouraging.

“It’s my fault, you know. I made Rocky leave. I shouldn’t have.” She looked up at him with those violet eyes. “He was different when we met, you know? He had dreams then. He was so sure of himself. But when he couldn’t play ball anymore, it just ate away at him. I couldn’t live with that.”

Perlmutter nodded again. He wanted to help her out, wanted to stay in her company, but he really did not have time for the unabridged life story. He needed to move this along and get out of here. “Was there anyone who wanted to hurt Rocky? Did he have enemies or anything like that?”

She shook her head. “No. No one.”

“He spent time in prison.”

“Yes. It was stupid. He got into a fight in a bar. It got out of hand.”

Perlmutter looked over at Daley. They knew about the fight. They were already on that, seeing if his victim had sought late revenge. It seemed doubtful.

“Was Rocky working?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In Newark. He worked at the Budweiser plant. The one near the airport.”

“You called our office yesterday,” Perlmutter said.

She nodded, her eyes staring straight ahead.

“You spoke to an Officer DiBartola.”

“Yes. He was very nice.”

Right. “You told him that Rocky hadn’t come home from work.”

She nodded.

“You called in the early morning. You said he’d been working the night before.”

“That’s right.”

“Did he work a night shift at the plant?”

“No. He’d taken a second job.” She squirmed a little. “It was off the books.”

“Doing what?”

“He worked for this lady.”

“Doing what?”

She used one finger to wipe a tear. “Rocky didn’t talk about it much. He delivered subpoenas, I think, stuff like that.”

“Do you know the lady’s name?”

“Something foreign. I can’t pronounce it.”

Perlmutter did not need to think about it long. “Indira Khariwalla?”

“That’s it.” Lorraine Conwell looked up at him. “You know her?”

He did. It had been a long time, but yes, Perlmutter knew her very well.

• • •

Grace had handed Scott Duncan the photograph, the one with all five people in it. He could not stop staring, especially at the image of his sister. He ran his finger over her face. Grace could barely look at him.

They were back at Grace’s house now, sitting in the kitchen. They had been talking for the better part of half an hour.

“You got this two days ago?” Scott Duncan asked.

“Yes.”

“And then your husband . . . He’s this one, right?” Scott Duncan pointed to Jack’s image.

“Yes.”

“He ran off?”

“He vanished,” she said. “He didn’t run off.”

“Right. You think he was, what, kidnapped?”

“I don’t know what happened to him. I only know he’s in trouble.”

Scott Duncan’s eyes stayed on the old photograph. “Because he gave you some kind of warning? Something about needing space?”

“Mr. Duncan, I’d like to know how you came across this picture. And how you found me, for that matter.”

“You sent it out via some kind of spam. Someone recognized the
picture and forwarded it to me. I traced back the spammer and put a little pressure on him.”

“Was that why we didn’t receive any answers?”

Duncan nodded. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

“I’ve told you everything I know. I was on my way to confront the guy in the Photomat when you showed up.”

“We’ll question him, don’t worry about that.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the picture. She had done all the talking. He had told her nothing, except that the woman in the photograph was his sister. Grace pointed at the crossed-out face. “Tell me about her,” she said.

“Her name was Geri. Does her name mean anything to you?”

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t.”

“Your husband never mentioned her? Geri Duncan.”

“Not that I remember.” Then: “You said was.”

“What?”

“You said was. Her name
was
Geri.”

Scott Duncan nodded. “She died in a fire when she was twenty-one years old. In her dorm room.”

Grace froze. “She went to Tufts, right?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

Now it made sense—why the girl’s face had seemed familiar. Grace hadn’t known her, but there had been pictures in the newspapers at the time. Grace had been undergoing physical therapy and ripping through way too many periodicals. “I remember reading about it. Wasn’t it an accident? Electrical fire or something?”

“That was what I thought. Until three months ago.”

“What changed?”

“The U.S. attorney’s office captured a man who goes by the name Monte Scanlon. He’s a hired assassin. His job was to make it look like an accident.”

Grace tried to take it in. “And you just learned this three months ago?”

“Yes.”

“Did you investigate?”

“I’m still investigating, but it’s been a long time.” His voice was softer now. “Not many clues after all these years.”

Grace turned away.

“I found out that Geri was dating a boy at the time, a local kid named Shane Alworth. The name mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“Shane Alworth had a rap sheet, nothing serious, but I checked him out.”

“And?”

“And he’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“No sign of him. I can’t find work records for him. I can’t find any sign of a Shane Alworth on the tax payroll. I can’t find any hit on his social security number.”

“For how long?”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve gone back ten years. Nothing.” Duncan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another photograph. He handed it to Grace. “Recognize him?”

She took a long look at the photograph. No question about it. It was the other guy in her photograph. She looked up at him for confirmation. Duncan nodded.

“Creepy, huh?”

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“From Shane Alworth’s mother. She claims her son lives in a small town in Mexico. That he’s a missionary or something and that’s why his name doesn’t pop up. Shane also has a brother who lives in St. Louis. Works as a psychologist. He backs up what the mother said.”

“But you don’t buy it.”

“Do you?”

Grace put the mystery photograph on the table. “So we know
about three people in this photograph,” she said, more to herself than Duncan. “We have your sister, who was murdered. We have her boyfriend, Shane Alworth, the guy over here. He’s missing. We have my husband, who disappeared right after seeing this photograph. That about right?”

“Pretty much.”

“What else did the mother say?”

“Shane was unreachable. He was in the Amazon jungle, she thought.”

“The Amazon jungle? In Mexico?”

“Her geography was fuzzy.”

Grace shook her head and pointed at the picture. “So that leaves the other two women. Any clue who they are?”

“No, not yet. But we know more now. The redhead, we should get a bead on her pretty soon. The other one, the one with her back to the camera, I don’t know if we’ll ever know.”

“Did you learn anything else?”

“Not really. I’ve had Geri’s body exhumed. That took some time to arrange. A full autopsy is being done, see if they can find any physical evidence, but it’s a long shot. This”—he held up the picture from the Web—“this is the first real lead I’ve had.”

She didn’t like the pitch of hope in his voice. “It might just be a picture,” she said.

“You don’t believe that.”

Grace put her hands on the table. “Do you think my husband had something to do with your sister’s death?”

Duncan rubbed his chin. “Good question,” he said.

She waited.

“Something to do with it, probably. But I don’t think he killed her, if that’s what you’re asking. Something happened to them a long time ago. I don’t know what. My sister was killed in a fire. Your husband ran overseas, I guess. France, you said?”

“Yes.”

“And Shane Alworth, too. I mean, it’s all connected. It has to be.”

“My sister-in-law knows something.”

Scott Duncan nodded. “You said she’s a lawyer?”

“Yes. With Burton and Crimstein.”

“That’s not good. I know Hester Crimstein. If she doesn’t want to tell us anything, I won’t be able to apply much pressure.”

“So what do we do?”

“We keep shaking the cage.”

“Shaking the cage?”

He nodded. “Shaking cages is the only way you make progress.”

“So we should start with shaking Josh at the Photomat,” Grace said. “He’s the one who gave me that photograph.”

Duncan stood. “Sounds like a plan.”

“You’re going there now?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to come along.”

“Let’s go then.”

• • •

“As I live and breathe. Captain Perlmutter. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Indira Khariwalla was small and wizened. Her dark skin—she was, as her name implied, from India, more specifically Bombay—had started to harden and thicken. She was still attractive but not the exotic temptress she had been in her heyday.

“Been a long time,” he said.

“Yes.” The smile, once a dazzler, took great effort now, almost cracking the skin. “But I’d prefer not to rehash the past.”

“Me either.”

When Perlmutter started working in Kasselton, he had been partnered with a veteran a year from retirement named Steve Goedert, a great guy. They struck up a deep friendship. Goedert had three kids, all grown, and a wife named Susan. Perlmutter did not know how Goedert met Indira, but they started up. Susan found out.

Fast-forward past the ugly divorce.

Goedert had no money left once the lawyers were through with him. He ended up working as a private investigator but with a twist:
He specialized in infidelity. Or at least that was what he claimed. To Perlmutter’s thinking it was a scam—entrapment at its very worst. He would use Indira as bait. She would approach the husband, lure him in, and then Goedert would take pictures. Perlmutter told him to stop. Fidelity was not a game. It was not a prank, testing a man like that.

Goedert must have known it was wrong. He hit the bottle pretty good and never came out. He too had a gun in his house, and in the end he too did not use it to stop a home invasion. After his death, Indira struck out on her own. She took over the agency, keeping Goedert’s name on the door.

“A long time ago,” she said softly.

“Did you love him?”

“None of your business.”

“You ruined his life.”

“Do you really think I can wield that kind of power over a man?” She shifted in her chair. “What can I do for you, Captain Perlmutter?”

“You have an employee named Rocky Conwell.”

She did not respond.

“I know he’s off the books. I don’t care about that.”

Still nothing. He slapped down a crude Polaroid of Conwell’s dead body.

Indira’s eyes flicked to it, ready to dismiss, and then stared there. “Dear Lord.”

Perlmutter waited, but Indira said nothing. She stared for a little while longer and then let her head drop back.

“His wife says he worked for you.”

She nodded.

“What did he do?”

“Night shifts.”

“What did he do on the night shifts?”

“Mostly repossession. He did a little subpoena work too.”

“What else?’

She said nothing.

“There was stuff in his car. We found a long-range camera and a pair of binoculars.”

“So?”

“So was he doing surveillance?”

She looked at him. There were tears in her eyes. “You think he was killed on the job?”

“It’s a logical assumption, but I won’t know for certain until you tell me what he was doing.”

Indira looked away. She began to rock in the chair.

“Was he working a job the night before last?”

“Yes.”

More silence.

“What was he doing, Indira?”

“I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

“I have clients. They have rights. You know the drill, Stu.”

“You’re not a lawyer.”

“No, but I can work for one.”

“Are you saying this case was attorney work product?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You want to take another look at that photograph?”

She almost smiled. “You think that will make me talk?” But Indira did take another look. “I don’t see any blood,” she said.

“There wasn’t any.”

“He wasn’t shot?”

“Nope. No gun, no knife.”

She looked confused. “How was he killed?”

“I don’t know yet. He’s on the table. But I have a guess, if you want to hear it?”

She didn’t. But she nodded slowly.

“He suffocated.”