by Harlan Coben
"I'm not here to eat," I said.
She just waited.
"Is Raya Singh here?"
"Who?"
I repeated the name.
"I don't'a oh, wait, she's the new girl." She folded her arms across her chest and said nothing.
"Is she here?" I said.
"Who wants to know?"
I did the eyebrow arch. I wasn't good with it. I was going for rakish but it always came out more like constipation. "The President of the United States."
"Huh?"
I handed her a business card. She read it and then surprised me by shouting out, "Raya! Raya Singh!"
Raya Singh stepped forward and I stepped back. She was younger than I'd expected, early twenties, and absolutely stunning. The first thing you noticed-couldn't help but notice in that aqua getup-was that Raya Singh had more curves than seemed anatomically possible. She stood still but it looked as though she were moving. Her hair was tousled and black and begged to be touched. Her skin was more gold than brown and she had almond eyes that a man could slip into and never find his way back out.
"Raya Singh?" I said.
Yes.
"My name is Paul Copeland. I'm the prosecutor for Essex County in New Jersey. Could we talk a moment?"
"Is this about the murder?"
"Yes."
"Then of course."
Her voice was polished with a hint of a New England-boarding school accent that shouted refinement over geographical locale. I was trying not to stare. She saw that and smiled a little. I don't want to sound like some kind of pervert because it wasn't like that. Female beauty gets to me. I don't think I'm alone in that. It gets to me like a work of art gets to me. It gets to me like a Rembrandt or Michelangelo.
It gets to me like night views of Paris or when the sun rises on the Grand Canyon or sets in the turquoise of an Arizona sky. My thoughts were not illicit. They were, I self-rationalized, rather artistic.
She led me outside onto the street, where it was quieter. She wrapped her arms around herself as though she were cold. The move, like pretty much every move she made, was nearly a double entendre. Probably couldn't help it. Everything about her made you think about moonlit skies and four-poster beds-and that, I guess, shoots down my "rather artistic" reasoning. I was tempted to offer her my coat or something, but it wasn't cold at all. Oh, and I wasn't wearing a coat.
"Do you know a man named Manolo Santiago?" I asked.
"He was murdered," she said.
Her voice had a strange lilt to it, as if she were reading for a part.
"But you knew him?"
"I did, yes."
"You were lovers?"
"Not yet."
"Not yet?"
"Our relationship," she said, "was platonic."
My eyes moved to the pavement and then across the street. Better. I didn't really care so much about the murder or who had committed it. I cared about finding out about Manolo Santiago.
"Do you know where Mr. Santiago lived?"
"No, I'm sorry, I don't."
"How did you two meet?"
"He approached me on the street."
"Just like that? He just walked up to you on the street?"
"Yes," she said.
"And then?"
"He asked me if I would like to grab a cup of coffee."
"And you did?"
"Yes."
I risked another look at her. Beautiful. That aqua against the dark skin'a total killer. "Do you always do that?" I asked.
"Do what?"
"Meet a stranger and accept his invitation to grab coffee with him?"
That seemed to amuse her. "Do I need to justify my behavior to you, Mr. Copeland?"
"No."
She said nothing.
I said, "We need to learn more about Mr. Santiago."
"May I ask why?"
"Manolo Santiago was an alias. I'm trying to find out his real name, for one thing." "I wouldn't know it." "At the risk of overstepping my bounds," I said, "I'm having trouble understanding."
"Understanding what?"
"Men must hit on you all the time," I said.
The smile was crooked and knowing. "That's very flattering, Mr.
Copeland, thank you."
I tried to stay on message. "So why did you go with him?"
"Does it matter?"
"It might tell me something about him."
"I can't imagine what. Suppose, for example, I told you that I found him handsome. Would that help?"
"Did you?"
"Did I what-find him handsome?" Another smile. A tousled lock dropped across her right eye. "You almost sound jealous."
"Ms. Singh?"
"Yes?"
"I'm investigating a murder. So maybe we can stop now with the head games."
"Do you think we can?" She tucked the hair back. I held my ground.
"Well, okay then," she said. "Fair enough."
"Can you help me figure out who he really was?"
She thought about it. "Maybe through his cell-phone records?"
"We checked the one he had on him. Your call was the only one on it."
"He had another number," she said. "Before that."
"Do you remember it?"
She nodded and gave it to me. I took out a small pen and wrote it on the back of one of my cards.
"Anything else?"
"Not really."
I took out another card and wrote down my mobile phone number. "If you think of anything else, will you call me?"
"Of course."
I handed it to her. She just looked at me and smiled.
"What?"
"You're not wearing a wedding band, Mr. Copeland."
"I'm not married."
"Divorced or widowed?"
"How do you know I'm not a lifelong bachelor?"
Raya Singh did not bother replying.
"Widowed," I said. I'm sorry.
"Thank you."
"How long has it been?"
I was going to tell her none of her goddamn business, but I wanted to keep her in my good graces. And damned if she wasn't beautiful. "Nearly six years."
"I see," she said.
She looked at me with those eyes.
"Thank you for your cooperation," I said.
"Why don't you ask me out?" she asked.
"Excuse me?"
"I know you think I'm pretty. I'm single, you're single. Why don't you ask me out?"
"I don't mix my work life with my personal," I said.
"I came here from Calcutta. Have you been?"
The change in subjects threw me for a second. The accent also didn't seem to match that locale, but that didn't mean much nowadays. I told her I had never been, but I obviously knew of it.
"What you've heard," she said. "Its even worse."
Again I said nothing, wondering where she was going with this.
"I have a life plan," she said. "The first part was getting here. To the United States." "And the second part?" "People here will do anything to get ahead. Some play the lottery.
Some have dreams of being, I don't know, professional athletes. Some turn to crime or strip or sell themselves. I know my assets. I am beautiful. I am also a nice person and I have learned how-to be"-she stopped and considered her words-"good for a man. I will make a man incredibly happy. I will listen to him. I will be by his side. I will lift his spirits. I will make his nights special. I will give myself to him whenever he wants and in whatever way he wants. And I will do it gladly."
Oookay, I thought. We were in the middle of a busy street but I swear there was so much silence I could hear a cricket chirp. My mouth felt very dry. "Manolo Santiago," I said in a voice that sounded far away. "Did you think he might be that man?"
"I thought he might be," she said. "But he wasn't. You seem nice. Like you would treat a woman well." Raya Singh might have moved to ward me, I can't be sure. But she suddenly seemed closer. "I can see that you are troubled. That you don't sleep well at night. So
how do you know, Mr. Copeland?"
"How do I know what?"
"That I'm not the one. That I'm not the one who will make you deliriously happy That you wouldn't sleep soundly next to me."
Whoa.
"I don't," I said.
She just looked at me. I felt the look in my toes. Oh, I was being played. I knew that. And yet this direct line, her lay-it-out-with-no-BS approach'a I found it oddly endearing.
Or maybe it was the blinded-by-beauty thing again.
"I have to go," I said. "You have my number."
"Mr. Copeland?"
I waited.
"Why are you really here?"
"Excuse me?"
"What is your interest in Manolo's murder?"
"I thought I explained that. I'm the county prosecutor-"
"That's not why you're here."
I waited. She just stared at me. Finally I asked, "What makes you say that?" Her reply landed like a left hook. "Did you kill him?" "What?" "I said-" "I heard you. Of course not. Why would you ask that?" But Raya Singh shook it off. "Good-bye, Mr. Copeland." She gave me one more smile that made me feel like a fish dropped on a dock. "I hope you find what you're looking for."
Chapter 12
Lucy wanted to Google the name "Manolo Santiago"- he was probably a reporter doing a story on that son of a bitch, Wayne Steubens, the Summer Slasher but Lonnie was waiting for her in the office. He didn't look up when she entered. She stopped over him, aiming for mild intimidation."You know who sent the journals," she said.
"I can't be sure."
"But?"
Lonnie took a deep breath, readying himself, she hoped, to take the plunge. "Do you know much about tracing e-mail messages?"
"No," Lucy said, moving back to her desk.
"When you receive an e-mail, you know how there's all this gobble-dygook about paths and ESMTP and Message IDs?"
"Pretend I do."
"Basically it shows how the e-mail got to you. Where it went, where it came from, what route via what Internet mail service to get from point A to point B. Like a bunch of postmarks."
"Okay."
"Of course, there are ways of sending it out anonymously. But usually, even if you do that, there are some footprints." "Great, Lonnie, super." He was stalling. "So can I assume you found some of these footprints in the e-mail with that journal attached?" "Yes," Lonnie said. He looked up now and managed a smile. "I'm not going to ask you why you want the name anymore."
"Good."
"Because I know you, Lucy. Like most hot chicks, you're a major pain in the ass. But you're also frighteningly ethical. If you need to be tray the trust of your class-betray your students and me and everything you believe-there must be a good reason. A life-or-death reason, I'm betting."
Lucy said nothing.
"It is life or death, right?"
"Just tell me, Lonnie."
"The e-mail came from a bank of computers at the Frost Library."
"The library," she repeated. "There must be, what, fifty computers in there?" "About that." "So we'll never figure out who sent it." Lonnie made a yes-and-no gesture with a head tilt. "We know what time it was sent. Six forty-two p.m. the day before yesterday."
"And that helps us how?"
"The students who use the computer. They need to sign in. They don't have to sign in to a particular computer-the staff did away with that two years ago, but in order to get a computer, you reserve it for the hour. So I went to the library and got the time sheets. I compared a list of students in your class with students who had signed up for a computer during the hour between six and seven p.m. the day before yesterday."
He stopped.
"And?"
"There was only one hit with a student in this class."
"Who?"
Lonnie walked over to the window. He looked down at the quad. "I'll give you a hint," he said. "Lonnie, I'm not really in the mood-" "Her nose," he said, "is brown." Lucy froze. "Sylvia Potter?" His back was still to her. "Lonnie, are you telling me that Sylvia Potter wrote that journal entry?" "Yes," he said. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."
On the way back to the office, I called Loren Muse.
"I need another favor," I said.
"Shoot."
"I need you to find out all you can about a phone number. Who owned the phone. Who the guy called. Everything." "What's the number?" I gave her the number Raya Singh had told me. "Give me ten minutes." "That's it?" "Hey, I didn't become chief investigator because I have a hot ass." "Says who?" She laughed. "I like when you're a little fresh, Cope." "Don't get used to it." I hung up. My line had been inappropriate-or was it a justifiable comeback to her "hot ass" joke? It is simplistic to criticize political correctness. The extremes make it an easy target for ridicule. But I've also seen what it's like in an office workplace when that stuff is allowed to go on. It can be intimidating and dark.
It's like those seemingly overcautious kid-safety rules nowadays. Your child has to wear a bike helmet no matter what. You have to use a special mulch in playgrounds and you can't have any jungle gym where a kid could climb too high and oh yeah, your child shouldn't walk three blocks without an escort and wait, where is your mouth guard and eye protection? And it is so easy to poke fun at that stuff and then some wiseass sends out a random e-mail saying, "Hey, we all did that and survived." But the truth is, a lot of kids didn't survive.
Kids did have a ton of freedom back then. They did not know what evil lurked in the darkness. Some of them went to sleep away camp in the days when security was lax and you let kids be kids. Some of those kids sneaked into the woods at night and were never seen again.
Lucy Gold called Sylvia Potter's room. There was no answer. Not surprising. She checked the school phone directory, but they didn't list mobile numbers. Lucy remembered seeing Sylvia using a Blackberry, so she e-mailed a brief message asking Sylvia to call her as soon as possible.
It took less than ten minutes to get a response.
"You wanted me to call, Professor Gold?"
"I did, Sylvia, thank you. Do you think you could stop by my office?" "When?" "Now, if that's possible."
Several seconds of silence, Sylvia: "My English lit class is about to start," she said. "I'm presenting my final project today. Can I come by when I'm done?" "That would be fine," Lucy said.
"I should be there in about two hours."
"Great, I'll be here."
More silence.
"Can you tell me what this is about, Professor Gold?"
"It can keep, Sylvia, don't worry about it. I'll see you after your class."
"Hey."
It was Loren Muse. I was back in the courthouse the next morning. Flair Hickory's cross would start in a few minutes. "Hey," I said. "You look like hell." "Wow, you are a trained detective." "You worried about this cross?" "Of course." "Chamique will be fine. You did a helluva job." I nodded, tried to get my head back into the game. Muse walked next to me.
"Oh," she said, "that phone number you gave me? Bad news."
I waited.
"It's a throwaway."
Meaning someone bought it with cash with a preset number of minutes on it and didn't leave a name. "I don't need to know who bought it," I said. "I just need to know what calls the phone made or received."
"Tough to do," she said. "And impossible through the normal sources. Whoever it was, he bought it online from some fly-by-night posing as another fly-by-night. It'll take me a while to track it all down and apply enough pressure to get records."
I shook my head. We entered the courtroom.
"Another thing," she said. "You heard of MVD?"
"Most Valuable Detection," I said.
"Right, biggest private-eye firm in the state. Cingle Shaker, the woman I have on the frat boys, used to work there. Rumor has it they got a no-expense-spared, seek-'n-destroy investigation going on with you." I reached the front of the courtroom. "Super." I handed her an old picture of Gil Perez.
She looked at it. "What?"
"We do."
"Ask him to do an age progression on this. Age him twenty years. Tell him to give him a shaved head too."
Loren Muse was about to follow up, but something in my face stopped her. She shrugged and peeled off. I sat down. Judge Pierce came in. We all rose. And then Chamique Johnson took the stand.
Flair Hickory stood and carefully buttoned his jacket. I frowned. The last time I'd seen a powder blue suit in that shade was in a prom picture from 1978. He smiled at Chamique.
"Good morning, Miss Johnson."
Chamique looked terrified. "Morning," she managed.
Flair introduced himself as if they'd just stumbled across each other at a cocktail party. He segued into Chamiques criminal record. He was gentle but firm. She had been arrested for prostitution, correct? She had been arrested for drugs, correct? She had been accused of rolling a John and taking eighty-four dollars, correct?
I didn't object.
This was all part of my warts and all strategy. I had raised much of this during my own examination, but Flair's cross was effective. He didn't ask her yet to explain any of her testimony. He simply warmed up by sticking to facts and police records.
After twenty minutes, Flair began his cross in earnest. "You have smoked marijuana, have you not?"
Chamique said, "Yeah."
"Did you smoke any the night of your alleged attack?"
"No."
"No?" Flair put his hand on his chest as though this answer shocked him to the core. "Hmm. Did you imbibe any alcohol?" "Im-what?" "Did you drink anything alcoholic? A beer or wine maybe?" "No." "Nothing?" "Nothing." "Hmm. How about a regular drink? Maybe a soda?" I was going to object, but again my strategy was to let her handle this as much as she could. "I had some punch," Chamique said. "Punch, I see. And it was nonalcoholic?" "That's what they said." "Who?" "The guys." "Which guys?" She hesitated. "Jen7-" "Jerry Flynn?" "Yeah." "And who else?" "Huh?" "You said guys. With an s at the end. As in more than one? Jerry Flynn would constitute one guy. So who else told you that the punch you consumed-by the way, how many glasses did you have?" "I don't know." "More than one." I guess. "Please don't guess, Miss Johnson. Would you say more than one?" "Probably, yeah." "More than two?" "I don't know." "But it's possible?"
"Yeah, maybe."
"So maybe more than two. More than three?"
"I don't think so."
