Three Harlan Coben Novels

by Harlan Coben

  Daley, never one at a loss for words, said, “Serious grossness.” Then he added, “He looks familiar.”

  “Richie Jovan,” Perlmutter said. “Works low level for Carl Vespa.”

  “Vespa?” Daley repeated. “He’s involved in this?”

  Perlmutter shrugged. “This has to be Wu’s handiwork.”

  Scott Duncan was turning white. “What the hell is going on?”

  “It’s simple, Mr. Duncan.” Perlmutter turned to face him. “Rocky Conwell worked for Indira Khariwalla, a private investigator you hired. The same man—Eric Wu—murdered Conwell, killed this poor schmuck, and was last seen driving away from that school with Grace Lawson.” Perlmutter moved toward him. “You want to tell us what’s going on now?”

  Another police car screeched to a stop. Veronique Baltrus came flying out. “Got it.”

  “What?”

  “Eric Wu at yenta-match.com. He was using the name Stephen Fleisher.” She sprinted over to them, the raven hair tied back in a tight bun. “Yenta-match sets up Jewish widows and widowers. Wu had three online flirtations going on at the same time. One woman is from Washington, DC. Another lives in Wheeling, West Virginia. And the last one, a Beatrice Smith, resides in Armonk, New York.”

  Perlmutter broke into a run. No doubt, he thought. That was where Wu had gone. Scott Duncan followed. The ride to Armonk would take no more than twenty minutes.

  “Call the Armonk Police Department,” he shouted to Baltrus. “Tell them to send every available unit right away.”

  chapter 45

  Grace waited for the man to get out.

  The lot was wooded so that the house was hard to see from the road. There were cathedral points and lots of deck space. Grace could see an aging barbecue. There were a string of lights, the old lantern kind, but the lanterns were weathered and torn. There was a rusted swing set in the back, like ruins from another era. There had been parties here once. A family. People who liked to entertain friends. The house had the feel of a ghost town, as if you expected tumbleweeds to roll past.

  “Turn off the ignition.”

  Grace ran it over again. Open the door. Swing the legs out. Pull out the gun. Take aim . . .

  And then what? Tell him to put his hands up? Just shoot him in the chest? What?

  She flicked off the ignition and waited for him to get out first. He reached for the door handle. She readied herself. His eyes were on the front door of the house. She slid her hand down a little.

  Should she go for it now?

  No. Wait until he starts getting out. Don’t hesitate. Any hesitation and she would lose the edge.

  The man stopped with his hand on the handle. Then he turned around, made a fist, and hit Grace so hard in the lower ribs she thought the whole cage would cave in like a bird’s nest. There was a thud and a crack.

  Pain exploded across Grace’s side.

  She thought that her whole body would simply give out. The man grabbed her head with one hand. With the other he traced his hand down the side of her rib cage. His index finger came to rest on the spot he’d just hit, at the bottom of the rib cage.

  His voice was gentle. “Please tell me how you got that picture.”

  She opened her mouth but nothing came out. He nodded as if he’d expected that. His hand dropped off her. He opened the car door and got out. Grace was dizzy from the pain.

  The gun, she thought. Get the goddamn gun!

  But he was already on the other side of the car. He opened her door. His hand took hold of her neck, his thumb on one side, his index finger on the other. He squeezed the pressure points and started to lift. Grace tried to stay with him. The movement jarred her ribs. It felt like someone had jammed a screwdriver between two bones and was jerking it up and down.

  He dragged her out by the neck. Every step was a new adventure in pain. She tried not to breathe. When she did, even that slight expansion of the ribs made the tendons feel like they were being freshly ripped. He yanked her toward the house. The front door was unlocked. He turned the knob, pushed it open, and tossed her inside. She fell hard, nearly passing out.

  “Please tell me how you got that picture.”

  He slowly moved toward her. Fear cleared her head. She talked fast.

  “I picked up a packet of film at the Photomat,” she began.

  He nodded in the way someone does when they are not listening. He kept coming closer. Grace kept talking and tried to scoot back. There was nothing on his face, a man going about a mundane task, planting seeds, hammering a nail, putting in a buy order, whittling wood.

  He was on her now. She tried to struggle but he was ridiculously strong. He lifted her enough to flip her onto her stomach. The ribs banged against the floor. A different pain, a new pain, seared through her. Her vision started going hazy. They were still in the front foyer. He straddled her back. She tried to kick, but there was nothing behind it. He pinned her down.

  Grace couldn’t move.

  “Please tell me how you got that picture.”

  She felt the tears coming, but she would not let herself cry. Stupid. Macho. But she would not cry. She said it again, about going to the Photomat, and getting that packet. Still straddling her back, his knees on the other side of her hips, he put his index finger on the damaged bottom of the rib cage. Grace tried to buck. He found the spot where it hurt the most and rested the tip of his finger right there. For a moment he did not do anything. She bucked more. She flung her head back and forth. She flailed. He just waited a second. Then another.

  And then he jammed the finger between two broken ribs.

  Grace screamed.

  The voice unchanged: “Please tell me how you got that picture.”

  Now she did cry. He let her. She started explaining again, changing her words, hoping it would sound more believable, more convincing. He did not say a word.

  He rested the index finger on the damaged rib again.

  That was when a cell phone rang.

  The man sighed. He put his hands on her back and lifted himself off. The ribs screamed again. Grace heard a whimpering sound and realized that it was coming from her. She made herself stop. She managed to glance over her shoulder. He kept his eyes on her, took the phone from his pocket, snapped it open.

  “Yes.”

  One thought in her head: Go for the gun.

  He stared down at her. She almost didn’t care. Going for the gun right now would be suicide, but her thoughts were base—escape the pain. Whatever the cost. Whatever the risk. Escape the pain.

  The man kept the phone by his ear.

  Emma and Max. Their faces floated toward her in something of a haze. Grace encouraged the vision. And something odd happened then.

  Lying there, still on her stomach, her cheek pressed to the floor, Grace smiled. Actually smiled. Not from feelings of maternal warmth, though that might be part of it, but with specific memory.

  When she was pregnant with Emma, she told Jack that she wanted to do natural childbirth and that she did not want to take any drugs. She and Jack dutifully attended Lamaze class every Monday night for three months. They practiced breathing techniques. Jack would sit behind her and rub her belly. He would go “hee hee hoo hoo.” She would copy him. Jack even bought a shirt that read “Coach” on the front and “Team Healthy Baby” on the back. He wore a whistle around his neck.

  When the contractions began, they rushed to the hospital all prepared, all ready for their hard work to pay off dividends. Once there, Grace felt a stronger contraction. They started doing their breathing. Jack would go “hee hee hoo hoo.” Grace would follow suit. It worked wonderfully well right up until the very moment Grace started to, well, started to feel pain.

  Then the insanity of their plan—when did “breathing” become a euphemism for “painkiller”?—became apparent. It washed away the macho idiocy of “taking the hurt,” a concept idiotically male in the first place, and reason, calm reason, finally came to her.

  She reached out then, grabbed a par
t of Jack’s anatomy, pulled him close so he could hear her. She told him to find an anesthesiologist. Now. Jack said he would, the moment she released said anatomy. She obliged. He ran and found an anesthesiologist. But by then it was too late. The contractions were too far along.

  And the reason Grace was smiling now, some eight years after the fact, was that the pain that day was at least this bad, probably worse. She had taken it. For her daughter. And then, miraculously, she had been willing to risk it again for Max.

  So bring it on, she thought.

  Maybe she was delirious. Nothing maybe about it. She was. But she didn’t care. The smile stayed in place. Grace could see Emma’s beautiful face. She saw Max’s face too. She blinked and they were gone. But that didn’t matter anymore. She looked at the cruel man on the phone.

  Bring it on, you sick son of a bitch. Bring it on.

  He finished with his phone call. He moved back toward her. She was still on her stomach. He straddled her again. Grace closed her eyes. Tears squeezed out of them. She waited.

  The man took hold of both of her hands and pulled them behind her back. He wrapped duct tape around them and stood. He pulled her so that she was on her knees, her hands bound behind her back. The ribs ached but the pain was manageable for now.

  She looked up at him.

  He said, “Don’t move.”

  He turned away and left her alone then. She listened. She heard a door open and then the sound of footsteps.

  He was heading down into the basement.

  She was alone.

  Grace struggled to free her arms, but they were wrapped tightly. No way to reach the gun. She debated trying to stand and run, but that would be futile at best. The position of her arms, the searing pain in her ribs, and of course, the fact that she was a major gimp under the best of circumstances—add it up and it didn’t look like a sound alternative.

  But could she slip her hands under herself?

  If she could do that, if she could get her hands, even bound, to the front of her body, she could go for the gun.

  It was a plan.

  Grace had no idea how long he’d be gone—not long, she figured—but she had to chance it.

  Her shoulders rolled back in their sockets. Her arms straightened. Every movement—every breath—set the ribs afire. She fought through it. She stood and bent at the waist. She forced her hands down.

  Progress.

  Still standing, she bent the knees and squirmed. She was getting close. Footsteps again.

  Damn, he was heading back up the stairs.

  She was caught in the middle, her bound hands under her buttocks.

  Hurry, dammit. One way or the other. Put the hands back behind her or keep going.

  She chose to keep going. Keep going forward.

  This was going to end here and now.

  The footsteps were slow. Heavier. It sounded like he was dragging something with him.

  Grace pushed harder. Her hands were stuck. She bent more at the waist and knees. The pain made her head swim. She closed her eyes and swayed. She pulled up, willing to dislocate her shoulders if it would help her get through.

  The footsteps stopped. A door closed. He was here.

  She forced her arms through. It worked. They came out in front of her.

  But it was too late. The man was back. He stood in the room, not five feet from her. He saw what she had done. But Grace did not notice that. She was, in fact, not looking at the man’s face at all. She stared openmouthed at the man’s right hand.

  The man let go. And there, falling to the floor by his side, was Jack.

  chapter 46

  Grace dove toward him. “Jack? Jack?”

  His eyes were closed. His hair was matted to his forehead. Her hands were still bound, but she was able to hold his face. Jack’s skin was clammy. His lips were dry and caked over. There was duct tape around his legs. A handcuff hung around his right wrist. She could see scabs on his left wrist. It had been cuffed too, for a long time judging by the marks.

  She called his name again. Nothing. She lowered her ear to his mouth. He was breathing. She could see that. Shallow, but he was breathing. She shifted around and put his head in her lap. Her rib pain screamed but that was irrelevant now. He lay flat on his back, her lap his pillow. Her mind fell back to the grape groves in that vineyard in Saint-Emilion. They’d been together about three months by then, totally infatuated, jammed neatly in that sprint-across-the-park, thumping-of-the-heart-whenever-you-see-the-person stage. She packed some pâté, some cheese, wine of course. The day had been sun-kissed, the sky the kind of blue that made you believe in the angels. They’d lain down on a red tartan blanket, his head in her lap like this, she stroking his hair. She’d spent more time staring at him than the natural wonders that surrounded them. She’d traced his face with her fingers.

  Grace made her voice soft, tried to ease up on the panic.

  “Jack?”

  His eyes fluttered open. His pupils were too large. It took him a moment to focus, and then he saw her. For a moment his caked lips cracked into a smile. Grace wondered if he too was flashing back to that same picnic. Her heart burst, but she managed to smile back. There was a serene moment, no more, and then reality flooded in. Jack’s eyes widened in panic. The smile vanished. His face crumbled into anguish.

  “Oh God.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, even though that was about as dumb a statement as one could make under the circumstances.

  He was trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”

  “Shhh, it’s okay.”

  Jack’s eyes searched like beacons, finding their captor. “She doesn’t know anything,” he said to the man. “Let her go.”

  The man took a step closer. He bent down on his haunches. “If you speak again,” he said to Jack, “I will hurt her. Not you. Her. I will hurt her very badly. Do you understand?”

  Jack closed his eyes and nodded.

  He stood back up. He kicked Jack off her lap, grabbed Grace by the hair, and pulled her to a standing position. With his other hand he clutched Jack by the neck.

  “We need to take a ride,” he said.

  chapter 47

  Perlmutter and Duncan had just gotten off the Garden State Parkway at Interstate 287, no more than five miles from the house in Armonk, when the call was radioed in:

  “They were here—Lawson’s Saab is still in the driveway—but they’re gone now.”

  “How about Beatrice Smith?”

  “Nowhere in sight. We just got here. We’re still checking the residence.”

  Perlmutter thought about it. “Wu would figure that Charlaine Swain would report seeing him. He’d know he had to get rid of the Saab. Do you know if Beatrice Smith had a car?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Is there any other car in the driveway or garage?”

  “Hold on.” Perlmutter waited. Duncan looked at him. Ten seconds later: “No other car.”

  “Then they took hers. Find out the make and license plate. Get an APB out right away.”

  “Okay, got it. Wait, hold on a second, Captain.” He was gone again.

  Scott Duncan said, “Your computer expert. She thought that Wu was maybe a serial killer.”

  “She thought it was a possibility.”

  “You don’t believe it though.”

  Perlmutter shook his head. “He’s a pro. He doesn’t pick victims for jollies. Sykes lived alone. Beatrice Smith is a widow. Wu needs a place to stay and operate. This is how he finds those places.”

  “So he’s a gun for hire.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Any thoughts on who he’s working for?”

  Perlmutter held the wheel. He took the Armonk exit. They were only about a mile away now. “I was hoping you or your client might have an idea.”

  The radio crackled. “Captain? You still there?”

  “I am.”

  “One car registered to Mrs. Beatrice Smith. A tan Land Rover. License plate 472-J
XY.”

  “Get an APB out on it. They can’t be far.”

  chapter 48

  The tan Land Rover stayed on side roads. Grace had no idea where they were headed. Jack was lying on the floor of the backseat. He had passed out. His legs were duct-taped together. His hands were cuffed behind him. Grace’s hands were still bound in front of her. Her captor, she figured, had seen no reason to make her put them back.

  In the backseat Jack groaned like a wounded animal. Grace looked at their captor, his placid face, one hand on the wheel like a father taking the family out for a Sunday drive. She ached. Every breath was a reminder of what he’d done to her ribs. Her knee felt as if it’d been ripped apart by shrapnel.

  “What did you do to him?” she asked.

  She tensed, awaiting the blow. She almost didn’t care. She was beyond that. But the man did not lash out. He did not stay silent either. He pointed with his thumb toward Jack.

  “Not as much,” he said, “as he did to you.”

  She stiffened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Now, for the first time, she saw a genuine smile. “I think you know.”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea,” she said.

  He still smiled, and maybe, somewhere deep inside of her, the gnawing started to grow. She tried to cast it off, tried to concentrate on getting out of this, on saving Jack. She asked, “Where are you taking us?”

  He did not reply.

  “I said—”

  “You’re brave,” he interrupted.

  She said nothing.

  “Your husband loves you. You love him. It makes this easier.”

  “Makes what easier?”

  He glanced toward her. “You both may be willing to risk pain. But are you willing to let me hurt your husband?”

  She did not reply.

  “The same thing I said to him: If you talk again, I won’t hurt you. I’ll hurt him.”

  The man was right. It worked. She kept silent. She gazed out the window and let the trees blur. They veered onto a two-lane highway. Grace had no idea where. The area was rural. She could see that. They took two more roads and now Grace knew where they were—the Palisades Parkway heading south, back down toward New Jersey.