Three Harlan Coben Novels (87 page)

I
ndira Khariwalla waited for the visitor.

Her office was dark. All the private detection was done for the day. Indira liked sitting with the lights out. The problem with the West, she was convinced, was overstimulation. She fell prey to it too, of course. That was the thing. No one was above it. The West seduced you with stimulation, a constant barrage of color and light and sound. It never stopped. So whenever possible, especially at the end of the day, Indira liked to sit with the lights off. Not to meditate, as one might assume because of her heritage. Not sitting in lotus position with her thumbs and forefingers making two circles.

No, just darkness.

At 10
P
.
M
., there was a light rap on the door. “Come on in.”

Scott Duncan entered the room. He did not bother turning on the light. Indira was glad. It would make this easier.

“What’s so important?” he asked.

“Rocky Conwell was murdered,” Indira said.

“I heard about that on the radio. Who is he?”

“The man I hired to follow Jack Lawson.”

Scott Duncan said nothing.

“Do you know who Stu Perlmutter is?” she continued.

“The cop?”

“Yes. He visited me yesterday. He asked about Conwell.”

“Did you claim attorney-client?”

“I did. He wants to get a judge to compel me to answer.”

Scott Duncan turned away.

“Scott?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You don’t know anything.”

Indira was not so sure. “What are you going to do?”

Duncan stepped out of the office. He reached behind him, grabbed the knob, and started closing the door behind him. “Nip this in the bud,” he said.

T
he press conference was at 10
A
.
M
. Grace took the children to school first. Cram drove. He wore an oversized flannel shirt left untucked. He had a gun under it, she knew. The children hopped out. They said good-bye to Cram and hurried away. Cram shifted the car into gear.

“Don’t go yet,” Grace said.

She watched until they were safely inside. Then she nodded that it was okay for the car to start moving again.

“Don’t worry,” Cram said. “I have a man watching.”

She turned to him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“How long have you been with Mr. Vespa?”

“You were there when Ryan died, right?”

The question threw her. “Yes.”

“He was my godson.”

The streets were quiet. She looked at him. She had no idea what to do. She could not trust them—not with her children, not after she’d seen Vespa’s face last night. But what choice did she have? Maybe she should try the police again, but would they really be willing or able to protect them? And Scott Duncan, well, even he had admitted that their alliance only went so far.

As if reading her thoughts, Cram said, “Mr. Vespa still trusts you.”

“And what if he decides he doesn’t anymore?”

“He’d never hurt you.”

“You’re that sure?”

“Mr. Vespa will meet us in the city. At the press conference. You want to listen to the radio?”

The traffic was not bad, considering the hour. The George Washington Bridge was still crawling with cops, a hangover from September 11 that Grace could not get over. The press conference was being held at the Crowne Plaza Hotel near Times Square. Vespa told her that there’d been talk about conducting it in Boston—that would seem more appropriate—but someone in the Larue camp realized that it might be too emotionally jarring to return so close to the scene. They also hoped that fewer family members would show up if it were held in New York.

Cram dropped her off on the sidewalk and headed into the lot next door. Grace stood on the street for a moment and tried to gather herself. Her cell phone sounded. She checked the Caller ID. The number was unfamiliar. Six-one-seven area code. That was the Boston area, if she remembered correctly.

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is David Roff.”

She was near Times Square in New York. People were, of course, everywhere. No one seemed to be talking. No horns were honking. But the roar in her ear was still deafening. “Who?”

“Uh, well, I guess you might know me better as Crazy Davey. From my blog. I got your e-mail. Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all.” Grace realized that she was shouting to be heard. She stuck a finger in her free ear. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“I know you said to call collect, but I got some new phone service where all long distance is included, so I figured what the hell, you know.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You made it sound kind of important.”

“It is. On your blog you mentioned a band named Allaw.”

“Right.”

“I’m trying to find out anything I can about them.”

“I figured that, yeah, but I don’t think I can really help you. I mean, I just saw them that one night. Me and some buddies got totally wasted, spent the whole night there. We met some girls, did a lot of dancing, did a lot more drinking. We talked to the band afterward. That’s why I remember it so well.”

“My name is Grace Lawson. My husband was Jack.”

“Lawson? That was the lead guy, right? I remember him.”

“Were they any good?”

“The band? Truth is, I don’t remember, but I think so. I remember having a blast and getting wasted. Had a hangover that still makes me cringe to this day. You trying to put a surprise together for him?”

“A surprise?”

“Yeah, like a surprise party or a scrapbook about his old days.”

“I’m just trying to find out anything I can about the people in the group.”

“I wish I could help. I don’t think they lasted that long. Never heard them again, though I know they had another gig at the Lost Tavern. That was in Manchester. That’s all I know, I’m sorry.”

“I appreciate your calling me back.”

“Sure, no problem. Oh wait. This might be fun trivia for a scrapbook.”

“What’s that?”

“The gig Allaw played in Manchester? They opened for Still Night.”

Waves of pedestrians rushed past her. Grace huddled near a wall, trying to avoid the masses. “I’m not familiar with Still Night.”

“Well, only real music buffs would be, I guess. Still Night didn’t last too long either. At least not in that incarnation.” There was a static crackle, but Grace still heard Crazy Davey’s next words too clearly: “But their lead singer was Jimmy X.”

Grace felt her grip on the phone go slack.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here,” Grace said.

“You know who Jimmy X is, right? ‘Pale Ink’? The Boston Massacre?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded very far away. “I remember.”

Cram came out of the parking lot. He spotted her face and picked up his pace again. Grace thanked Crazy Davey and hung up. She had his number on her cell phone now. She could always call him back.

“Everything okay?”

She tried to shake it off, this feeling of cold. It wouldn’t happen. She managed to utter, “Fine.”

“Who was that?”

“You my social secretary now?”

“Easy.” He held up both hands. “Just asking.”

They headed inside the Crowne Plaza. Grace tried to process what she had just heard. A coincidence. That was all. A bizarre coincidence. Her husband had played in a bar band in college. So had a zillion other people. He happened to play on the same bill once as Jimmy X. Again so what? They were both in the same area at around the same time. This would have been at least a year, probably two, before the Boston Massacre. And Jack might not have mentioned it to her because he figured that it was irrelevant and might, in any case, upset his wife. A Jimmy X concert had traumatized her. It had left her partially crippled. So he maybe didn’t see a need to mention that slight connection.

No big deal, right?

Except that Jack had never even mentioned playing in a band. Except that the members of Allaw were all now either dead or missing.

She tried to gather some of the pieces. When exactly had Geri Duncan been murdered anyway? Grace had been undergoing physical therapy when she read about the fire. That meant it probably happened a few months after the massacre. Grace would need to check the exact date. She would need to check the entire time line because, let’s face it, there was no way the Allaw–Jimmy X connection was a coincidence.

But how did it work? Nothing about it made sense.

She ran it through one more time. Her husband plays in a band.
One time the band plays at the same time as a band featuring Jimmy X. A year or two later—depending on if Jack had been a senior or a year postgrad—the now famous Jimmy X plays a concert that she, young Grace Sharpe, attends. She gets injured in a melee that night. Another three years pass. She meets Jack Lawson on an entirely different continent and they fall in love.

It didn’t mesh.

The elevator dinged on the ground level. Cram said, “You sure you’re okay?”

“Groovy,” she said.

“Still twenty minutes until the press conference begins. I figured it would be better if you went alone, try to grab your sister-in-law beforehand.”

“You’re a fount of ideas, Cram.”

The doors opened. “Third floor,” he said. Grace stepped inside and let the elevator swallow her whole. She was alone. There would not be much time. She took out her cell phone and the card Jimmy X had given her. She pressed in the number and hit send. It went immediately into his voice mail. Grace waited for the beep:

“I know about Still Night playing with Allaw. Call me.”

She left her number and hung up. The elevator came to a stop. When she stepped off, there was one of those black signs with the changeable white letters, the kind that tell you in what room the Ratzenberg’s bar mitzvah or Smith-Jones wedding is being held. This one read: “Burton-Crimstein Press Conference.” Advertising the firm. She followed the arrow to a door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.

The whole thing was like one of those courthouse movie scenes—that pinnacle cinematic moment when the surprise witness bursts through the double doors. When Grace walked in, there was that sort of collective gasp. The room hushed. Grace felt lost. She glanced around and what she saw made her head spin. She took a step back. The faces of grief, older but no more at peace, swirled about her. There they were again—the Garrisons, the Reeds, the Weiders. She
flashed back to the early days at the hospital. She had seen everything through the haze of Halcion, as if through a shower curtain. It felt the same today. They approached in silence. They hugged her. None of them said a word. They didn’t have to. Grace accepted the embraces. She could still feel the sadness emanating from them.

She saw the widow of Lieutenant Gordon MacKenzie. Some said that he had been responsible for pulling Grace to safety. Like most true heroes, Gordon MacKenzie rarely talked about it. He claimed not to remember what he did exactly, that yes, he opened doors and pulled people out, but that it was more out of reaction than anything approaching bravery.

Grace gave Mrs. MacKenzie an extra long hug.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Grace said.

“He found God.” Mrs. MacKenzie held on. “He’s with Him now.”

There was really nothing to say to that, so Grace just nodded. She let her go and looked over the woman’s shoulder. Sandra Koval had entered the room from the other side. She spotted Grace at almost the same moment and a strange thing happened. Her sister-in-law smiled, almost as if she’d expected this. Grace stepped away from Mrs. MacKenzie. Sandra tilted her head, signaling her to step forward. There was a velvet rope. A security guard stepped in her way.

“It’s okay, Frank,” Sandra said. He let Grace pass.

Sandra led the way. She hurried down a corridor. Grace limped behind, unable to catch up. No matter. Sandra stopped and opened a door. They stepped into a huge ballroom. Waiters busily laid out the silverware. Sandra led her to a corner. She grabbed two chairs and turned them so that they faced each other.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” Grace said.

Sandra shrugged. “I figured you were following the case in the news.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter, I guess. Until two days ago you didn’t know who I was.”

“What’s going on, Sandra?”

She did not answer right away. The tinkling of the silverware
provided background music. Sandra let her gaze wander toward the waiters in the center room.

“Why are you representing Wade Larue?”

“He was charged with a crime. I’m a criminal defense lawyer. It’s what I do.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“You want to know how I stumbled upon this particular client, is that it?”

Grace said nothing.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“You, Grace.” She smiled. “You’re the reason I represent Mr. Larue.”

Grace opened her mouth, closed it, started again. “What are you talking about?”

“You never really knew about me. You just knew that Jack had a sister. But I knew all about you.”

“I’m still not following.”

“It’s simple, Grace. You married my brother.”

“So?”

“When I learned you were going to be my sister-in-law, I was curious. I wanted to learn about you. Makes sense, right? So I had one of my investigators do a background check. Your paintings are wonderful, by the way. I bought two. Anonymously. They’re in my home out in Los Angeles. Spectacular stuff, really. My older daughter, Karen—she’s seventeen—loves them. She wants to be an artist.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with Wade Larue.”

“Really?” Her voice was strangely cheerful. “I’ve worked criminal defense since I graduated law school. I started by working with Burton and Crimstein in Boston. I lived there, Grace. I knew all about the Boston Massacre. And now my brother had fallen in love with one of the Massacre’s major players. It piqued my curiosity even more. I started reading up on the case—and guess what I realized?”

“What?”

“That Wade Larue had been railroaded by an incompetent lawyer.”

“Wade Larue was responsible for the death of eighteen people.”

“He fired a gun, Grace. He didn’t even hit anyone. The lights went out. People were screaming. He was under the influence of drugs and alcohol. He panicked. He believed—or at least, honestly imagined—that he was in imminent danger. There was no way, no way at all, that he could have known what the outcome would be. His first lawyer should have cut a deal. Probation, eighteen months away tops. But no one really wanted to work this case. Larue was sent to jail to rot. So yes, Grace, I read about him because of you. Wade Larue had been shafted. His old attorney screwed him and ran.”

“So you took the case?”

Sandra Koval nodded. “Pro bono. I came to him two years ago. We started preparing for the parole hearing.”

Something clicked. “Jack knew, didn’t he?”

“That I don’t know. We don’t talk, Grace.”

“Are you still going to tell me you didn’t talk to him that night? Nine minutes, Sandra. The phone company says the call lasted nine minutes.”

“Jack’s call had nothing to do with Wade Larue.”

“What did it have to do with?”

“That photograph.”

“What about it?”

Sandra leaned forward. “First you answer a question for me. And I need the truth here. Where did you get that picture?”

“I told you. It was in my packet of film.”

Sandra shook her head, not believing her. “And you think the guy from Photomat stuck it in there?”

“I don’t know anymore. But you still haven’t explained—what about the picture made him call you?”

Sandra hesitated.

“I know about Geri Duncan,” Grace said.

“You know what about Geri Duncan?”

“That she’s the girl in the picture. And that she was murdered.”

That made Sandra sit up. “She died in a fire. It was an accident.”