by Harlan Coben
“You can wait in reception.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
“She should be here soon.”
“Simon? Can I call you Simon, by the way?”
“Sure.”
“You take good care of your clients, don’t you?”
Simon glanced at Yvonne, then back to Fagbenle. “We try.”
“I mean, you don’t waste their money, right?”
“Right.”
“I’m the same. My clients, you see, are the taxpayers of the city of New York. I’m not going to waste their hard-earned dollars reading financial magazines in your reception area. Do you understand?”
Simon said nothing.
“When you and your attorney are available, you can come down to the precinct.”
Fagbenle smoothed down his suit, reached into his jacket pocket, and plucked out a business card. He handed it to Simon.
“Bye now.”
Simon read the card and saw something that surprised him. “The Bronx?”
“Pardon?”
“It says your precinct is in the Bronx.”
“That’s right. Sometimes you guys in Manhattan forget that New York has five boroughs. There’s the Bronx and Queens and—”
“But the assault”—Simon stopped, hit rewind—“the alleged assault took place in Central Park. That’s in Manhattan.”
“Yep, true,” Isaac Fagbenle said, flashing the dazzling smile again, “but the murder? That took place in the Bronx.”
Chapter
Five
When Elena Ramirez limped into the ridiculously large office with the ridiculously over-the-top views, she braced for the inevitable. He did not disappoint.
“Wait, you’re Ramirez?”
Elena was used to this skepticism bordering on shock.
“In the flesh,” she said. “Perhaps too much of it, am I right?”
The client—Sebastian Thorpe III—openly studied her in a way he would never openly study a man. That wasn’t being sensitive or any of that. It was just a fact. Everything about Thorpe stank of money—the “III” at the end of his name, the hand-tailored pinstripe suit, the rich-boy-ruddy complexion, the slicked-back ’80s Wall Street hair, the sterling bull-and-bear cuff links.
Thorpe kept staring at her with what someone must have told him was his most withering glare.
Elena said, “Want to check my teeth?”
She opened her mouth wide.
“What? No, of course not.”
“You sure? I can twirl for you too.” She did so. “Plenty of ass back here, am I right?”
“Stop that.”
Thorpe’s office was decorated in Early American Douchebag, all white and chrome with a zebra-skin throw rug in the center as if he might strike a pose on it. All show, no work. He stood across a white desk large enough to garage a Honda Odyssey. There was one framed picture on the desk—a too-posed wedding photograph of a tuxedoed Thorpe wearing a shit-eating grin standing next to a firm-bodied young blonde who probably called herself a “fitness model” on Instagram.
“It’s just that you come highly recommended,” Thorpe said in way of explanation.
Meaning he expected something a little more polished for his money—not a pudgy Mexican barely five feet tall in mom jeans and practical shoes. These guys heard her name and expected Penélope Cruz or a lithe flamenco dancer, not someone who resembled the summer help at their beach house.
“Gerald says you’re the best,” Thorpe said again.
“And the most expensive, so let’s get to it, shall we? I understand your son is missing.”
Thorpe lifted his cell phone, tapped it, spun the screen toward her. “This is Henry. My son. He’s twenty-four years old.”
In the image, Henry was dressed in a blue polo shirt and gave an awkward smile, the kind where you’re trying but it’s just not in you. Elena leaned forward for a closer look, but the desk separating them was too wide. They both stepped toward a window that offered a killer view of the Chicago River and downtown.
“Nice-looking boy,” she said.
Thorpe nodded.
“How long has he been missing?” she asked.
“Three days.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They were very polite. They listened to me, took a report, put Henry in the system or whatever, just because of who I am…”
He was white, Elena thought, and with money. That was all. That was enough.
“I hear a ‘but,’” Elena said.
“But he sent me a text. Henry, I mean.”
“When?”
“The day he went missing.”
“What did the text say?”
Thorpe tapped the phone some more and handed it to her. Elena took it and read:
Heading west with a few friends. Back in two weeks.
“You showed this to the police?” Elena asked.
“I did.”
“And they still took a report?”
“Yes.”
Elena tried to imagine the reaction if a black or Hispanic father came in to report a missing son and showed them a text like that. He’d get laughed out of the station.
“There’s another”—Thorpe looked into the air—“‘but,’ if you will.”
“What’s that?”
“Henry has been in some trouble with the law.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Minor stuff. Drugs. Possession.”
“Has he served time?”
“No. Nothing really serious. He got community service. A sealed juvie record. You understand.”
Oh yeah, Elena understood.
“Has Henry disappeared before?”
Thorpe stared at the window.
“Mr. Thorpe?”
“He’s run off before, if that’s what you mean.”
“More than once?”
“Yes. But this is different.”
“Uh-huh,” Elena said. “How do you and your son get along?”
A sad smile came to his face. “Used to be great. Best buds.”
“And now?”
He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Our relationship has been strained of late.”
“Why’s that?”
“Henry doesn’t like Abby.”
“Abby?”
“My new wife.”
Elena picked up the framed photograph from the desk. “This Abby?”
“Yes. I know what you’re thinking.”
Elena nodded. “That she’s smoking hot?”
He grabbed away the frame. “I don’t need you to judge me.”
“I’m not judging you. I’m judging Abby. And my judgment is, she’s smoking hot.”
Thorpe frowned. “Maybe calling you was a mistake.”
“Maybe, but let’s recap what we know about your son Henry. One, he sent you a text saying he was traveling west for two weeks with some friends. Two, he’s disappeared before—several times, in fact. Three, he’s been arrested on a variety of drugs charges. Anything I’m missing? Oh, right, four, he resents your relationship with Abby, who looks to be about his age.”
“Abby is almost five years older than Henry,” Thorpe snapped.
Elena said nothing.
Thorpe deflated right in front of her eyes. “I didn’t think you’d take me seriously.” He waved his hand dismissively. “You can go.”
“Yeah, not so fast.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re clearly worried about him,” Elena said. “My question is: Why?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not hiring you.”
“Humor me,” she said.
“The text message.”
“What about it?”
“It’s going to sound stupid.”
“Go for it.”
“The other times Henry disappeared…well, he just disappeared.”
Elena nodded. “He didn’t send you a text messa
ge telling you he was disappearing. He would just run off.”
“Yes.”
“So texting you like this—it’s out of character.”
Thorpe nodded slowly.
“And that’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Not very convincing evidence,” Elena said.
“The police didn’t think so either.”
Thorpe rubbed his face with his hands. She could see now that he hadn’t slept in a while, that the cheeks were ruddy but the skin around the eyes was too pale, drained of color.
“Thank you for your time, Miss Ramirez. I won’t be needing your services.”
“Oh, I think you will,” Elena said.
“Excuse me?”
“I took the liberty of doing a little digging before I arrived.”
That got his attention. “What do you mean?”
“You said your son sent you a text from his phone.”
“Right.”
“Before I got here, I pinged that phone.”
Thorpe narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean exactly? ‘Pinged’?”
“Truth? I don’t have a clue. But the shorthand is, I got a genius tech guy named Lou. Lou can send a ping—whatever that is—to a cell phone, and the cell phone pings back its location.”
“So you could see where Henry is?”
“Theoretically, yes.”
“And you did that already?”
“Lou did, yes.”
“So where is he?”
“That’s just it,” Elena said. “There was no answer to our ping.”
Thorpe blinked several times. “I don’t understand. Are you saying his phone should have…pinged you back?”
“I am,” Elena said.
“Maybe Henry just turned his phone off.”
“No.”
“No?”
“That’s a common misconception. Turning your phone off does not turn off the GPS.”
“So anyone can track you anytime?”
“In theory the police need a warrant and probable cause to get your service provider to do it.”
“Yet you were able to do it,” Thorpe said. “How?”
Elena did not reply.
Thorpe nodded slowly. “I see,” he said. “So what does it mean—that you couldn’t get his phone to ping?”
“Could be a lot of things. Could be something completely innocent. Maybe Henry figured you’d hire someone like me so he changed phones.”
“But you doubt it?”
Elena shrugged again. “Fifty-fifty—maybe more—that there is a rational explanation for all this and Henry is fine.”
“But you still think I should hire you?”
“You buy burglary insurance, even though there is maybe half of one percent chance your home will be robbed.”
Thorpe nodded. “Well put.”
“I figure I’m worth the peace of mind, if nothing else.”
Thorpe played with his phone and brought up a picture of his younger self holding an infant in his arms. “Gretchen…that’s my first wife…she and I couldn’t have kids. We tried everything. Hormones, surgeries, three rounds of IVF. Then we adopted Henry.”
There was a smile on his face now, albeit a wistful one.
“Where is Gretchen now?”
“She died ten years ago, when Henry had just started high school. It was hard on him. I tried my best. I really did. I could see he was slipping away. I took a sabbatical from work to spend more time with him. But the tighter I held on to him…”
“The more he pulled away,” Elena said.
When Thorpe looked up, his eyes were moist. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Background. I need to hear it all.”
“Anyway, I know how this all sounds. That’s why I asked Gerald to find me the best private investigator in Chicago. You see, Miss Ramirez, despite the drugs, despite that text, despite his issues with Abby, I know my son. And I have a bad feeling about this. Simple as that. Something feels very wrong. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “It does.”
“Miss Ramirez?”
“Call me Elena.”
“Elena, please find my boy.”
Chapter
Six
Simon knew he was being played.
He knew Detective Fagbenle was trying to goad him or trip him up or whatever, but he also knew that he hadn’t done anything wrong (“Famous last words of the convicted,” Hester would later tell him), and there was no way, as Fagbenle obviously knew, that Simon was going to let him drop that nuclear warhead and walk out the door.
“Who was murdered?” Simon asked.
“Ah, ah.” Fagbenle waved a mocking, semi-scolding finger. “You said not to talk to you until your attorney was present.”
Simon’s mouth felt dry. “Is it my daughter?”
“I’m sorry. Unless you waive that right to counsel—”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Yvonne snapped. “Be a human being.”
“I waive the right to counsel or whatever,” Simon said. “I’ll talk to you without my attorney present.”
Fagbenle turned at Yvonne. “I think you better leave.”
“Paige is my niece,” Yvonne said. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t know if she’s okay,” Fagbenle said, still staring at the cubicles, “but she’s not the murder victim.”
Relief. Pure, sweet relief. It was like every part of him had been starving for oxygen.
“Then who?” Simon asked.
Fagbenle didn’t answer right away. He waited until Yvonne was gone—Yvonne promised to wait by the elevator for Hester—and the door to the office was closed. For a moment Fagbenle stared through the glass wall into the cubicle area. It was odd to visitors, he guessed, having an office that never offered complete privacy.
“Do you mind telling me where you were last night, Simon?”
“What time?”
Fagbenle shrugged. “Let’s just make it all night. Six o’clock on, say.”
“I was here until six. I took the subway home.”
“Which train do you take?”
“The one.”
“From Chambers Street?”
“Yes. I get out at the Lincoln Center stop.”
Fagbenle nodded as though this was significant. “What’s that altogether? Door to door, I mean. A twenty-, thirty-minute commute?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“So you get home around six thirty?”
“That’s right.”
“Was anyone home?”
“My wife and youngest daughter.”
“You have a son too, correct?”
“Yes. Sam. But he’s at college.”
“Where?”
“Amherst. It’s in Massachusetts.”
“Yeah, I know where Amherst is,” Fagbenle said. “So you get home. Your wife and daughter are there…”
“Yes.”
“Did you go back out?”
Simon thought about it, but only for a second. “Twice.”
“Where did you go?”
“The park.”
“What times?”
“Seven, and then again at ten p.m. I was walking our dog.”
“Oh, nice. What kind of dog do you have?”
“A Havanese. Her name is Laszlo.”
“Isn’t Laszlo a boy’s name?”
He nodded. It was. They got Laszlo on Sam’s sixth birthday. Sam had insisted on that name, no matter what the dog’s gender. It was an old story, but once they got the dog home, despite the promises of Sam and his two sisters, taking care of the dog had fallen on the only family member who’d been reluctant about the adoption.
Simon.
Also not surprising: He had fallen hard for Laszlo. He loved those walks, especially the one where he’d come through the door at the end of the day and Laszlo would greet him like a released POW on a tarmac—every day, without fail—and she’d drag him enthusiastically to the park as th
ough she’d never been there before.
Laszlo was twelve now. Her step was slowing. Her hearing was gone, so that some days she didn’t know that Simon was home until he was already in the house, which saddened Simon more than it should.
“So other than the dog walks, did you go out?”
“No.”
“So the three of you were home all night?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Fagbenle sat back and opened his arms. “Do tell.”
“My wife went to work.”
“She’s a pediatrician up at New York–Presbyterian, correct? Doing an overnight shift, I assume. So that leaves you alone all night with your daughter Anya.”
That slowed Simon down. He knew where his wife worked. He knew his daughter’s name. “Detective?”
“Call me Isaac.”
Hard pass, as his kids would say. “Who was murdered?”
The door to his office flew open. Hester Crimstein may have been small of frame but she was large of step. She burst in and stormed over to Fagbenle.
“Are you effing kidding me?”
Fagbenle remained unruffled. He slowly stood, towering over Hester, and stuck out his hand. “Detective Isaac Fagbenle with Homicide. What a pleasure to meet you.”
Hester stared at his face. “Put your hand away before you lose it—like your job.” Then she turned her withering glare toward Simon. “I’m not happy with you either.”
Hester carried on a bit more. She then insisted that they move to a windowless conference room. Change of venue. It had to be a psychological play, but Simon wasn’t sure how. Once they entered the room though, Hester took full control. She had Fagbenle sit on one side of a long conference table. She and Simon took the other.
When they were all settled in, Hester nodded toward Fagbenle and said, “Okay, get to it.”
“Simon—”
“Call him Mr. Greene,” Hester snapped. “He’s not your pal.”
Fagbenle looked as though he were about to argue, but he smiled instead. “Mr. Greene.” He reached into his pocket and took out a photograph. “Do you know this man?”
Hester kept a hand on Simon’s forearm. He was not to answer or react until she said it was okay. The arm was there as a reminder.
Fagbenle slid the photograph across the table.
It was Aaron Corval. The scum was smiling that awful, smug smile, the one he’d had on his face not long before Simon punched it away. He was standing in a field somewhere, trees behind him, and he’d been standing next to someone in the photograph, someone he had his arm around, someone Fagbenle had cropped out—you could see the person’s shoulder on the left—and Simon couldn’t help but wonder whether the cropped-out person was Paige.
