by Harlan Coben
"He showed it to you?"
She nodded.
My throat was dry. "Did you see the autopsy photos?"
"There weren't any, Beck."
"What?"
"Carlson thinks someone stole them."
"Who?"
She shrugged. "The only other person to sign out the file was Elizabeth's father."
Hoyt. It all circled back to him. I looked at her. "Did you see any of the report?"
Her nod was more tentative this time.
"And?"
"It said Elizabeth had a drug problem, Beck. Not just that there were drugs in her system. He said that the reports showed the abuse was long-term."
"Impossible," I said.
"Maybe, maybe not. That alone wouldn't be enough to convince me. People can hide drug abuse. It's not likely, but neither is her being alive. Maybe the tests were wrong or inconclusive. Something. There are explanations, right? It can somehow be explained away."
I licked my lips. "So what couldn't be?" I asked.
"Her height and weight," Shauna said. "Elizabeth was listed as five seven and under a hundred pounds."
Another sock in the gut. My wife was five four and closer to a hundred fifteen pounds. "Not even close," I said.
"Not even."
"She's alive, Shauna."
"Maybe," she allowed, and her gaze flicked toward the kitchen. "But there's something more."
Shauna turned and called out Linda's name. Linda stepped into the doorway and stayed there. She looked suddenly small in her apron. She wrung her hands and wiped them on the apron front. I watched my sister, puzzled.
"What's going on?" I said.
Linda started speaking. She told me about the photographs, how Elizabeth had come to her to take them, how she'd been only too happy to keep her secret about Brandon Scope. She didn't sugarcoat or offer explanations, but then again, maybe she didn't have to. She stood there and poured it all out and waited for the inevitable blow. I listened with my head down. I couldn't face her, but I easily forgave. We all have our blind spots. All of us.
I wanted to hug her and tell her that I understood, but I couldn't quite pull it off. When she'd finished, I merely nodded and said, "Thanks for telling me."
My words were meant to be a dismissal. Linda understood. Shauna and I sat there in silence for almost a full minute.
"Beck?"
"Elizabeth's father has been lying to me," I said.
She nodded.
"I've got to talk to him."
"He didn't tell you anything before."
True enough, I thought.
"Do you think it'll be different this time?"
I absentmindedly patted the Glock in my waistband. "Maybe," I said.
Carlson greeted me in the corridor. "Dr. Beck?" he said.
Across town at the same time, the district attorney's office held a press conference. The reporters were naturally skeptical of Fein's convoluted explanation (vis-+-vis me), and there was a lot of backpedaling and finger-pointing and that sort of thing. But all that seemed to do was confuse the issue. Confusion helps. Confusion leads to lengthy reconstruction and clarification and exposition and several other emotions." The press and their public prefer a simpler narrative.
It probably would have been a rougher ride for Mr. Fein, but by coincidence, the D.A.'s office used this very same press conference to release indictments against several high-ranking members of the mayor's administration along with a hint that the "tentacles of corruption" ' their phrase ' may even reach the big man's office. The media, an entity with the collective attention span of a Twinkie filled two-year-old, immediately focused on this shiny new toy, kicking the old one under the bed.
Carlson stepped toward me. "I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Not now," I said.
"Your father owned a gun," he said.
His words rooted me to the floor. "What?"
"Stephen Beck, your father, purchased a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. The registration showed that he bought it several months before he died."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"I assume you inherited the weapon. Am I correct?"
"I'm not talking to you." I pressed the elevator button.
"We have it," he said. I turned, stunned. "It was in Sarah Goodhart's safety-deposit box. With the pictures."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
Carlson gave me a crooked smile.
"Oh right, I was the bad guy back then," I said. Then, making a point of turning away, I added, "I don't see the relevance."
"Sure you do."
I pressed the elevator button again.
"You went to see Peter Flannery," Carlson continued. "You asked him about the murder of Brandon Scope. I'd like to know why."
I pressed the call button and held it down. "Did you do something to the elevators?"
"Yes. Why did you see Peter Flannery?"
My mind made a few quick deductions. An idea ' a dangerous thing under the best of circumstances ' came to me. Shauna trusted this man. Maybe I could too. A little anyway. Enough. "Because you and I have the same suspicions," I said.
"What's that?"
"We're both wondering if KillRoy murdered my wife."
Carlson folded his arms. "And what does Peter Flannery have to do with that?"
"You were tracking down my movements, right?"
Yes.
"I decided to do the same with Elizabeth's. From eight years ago. Flannery's initials and phone number were in her day planner."
"I see," Carlson said. "And what did you learn from Mr. Flannery?"
"Nothing," I lied. "It was a dead end."
"Oh, I don't think so," Carlson said.
"What makes you say that?"
"Are you familiar with how ballistic tests work?"
"I've seen them on TV."
"Put simply, every gun makes a unique imprint on the bullet it fires. Scratches, grooves ' unique to that weapon. Like fingerprints."
"That much I know."
"After your visit to Flannery's office, I had our people run a specific ballistic match on the thirty-eight we found in Sarah Goodhart's safety-deposit box. Know what I found?"
I shook my head, but I knew.
Carlson took his time before he said, "Your father's gun, the one you inherited, killed Brandon Scope."
A door opened and a mother and her teen son stepped into the hall. The teen was in mid-whine, his shoulder slumped in adolescent defiance. His mother's lips were pursed, her head held high in the don't-wanna-hear-it position. They came toward the elevator. Carlson said something into a walkie-talkie. We both stepped away from the elevator bank, our eyes locked in a silent challenge.
"Agent Carlson, do you think I'm a killer?"
"Truth?" he said. "I'm not sure anymore."
I found his response curious. "You're aware, of course, that I'm not obligated to speak to you. In fact, I can call Hester Crimstein right now and nix everything you're trying to do here."
He bristled, but he didn't bother denying it. "What's your point?"
"Give me two hours."
"To what?"
"Two hours," I repeated.
He thought about it. "Under one condition."
"What?"
"Tell me who Lisa Sherman is."
That genuinely puzzled me. "I don't know the name."
"You and she were supposed to fly out of the country last night."
Elizabeth.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said. The elevator dinged. The door slid open. The pursed-lips mom and her slumped adolescent stepped inside. She looked back at us. I signaled for her to hold the door.
"Two hours," I said.
Carlson nodded grudgingly. I hopped into the elevator.
Chapter 40
"You're late!" the photographer, a tiny man with a fake French accent, shouted at Shauna. "And you look like ' comment dit-on? ' like some
thing flushed through the toilette."
"Up yours, Frederic," Shauna snapped back, not knowing or caring if that was his name. "Where you from anyway, Brooklyn?"
He threw his hands up. "I cannot work like this!"
Aretha Feldman, Shauna's agent, hurried over. "Don't worry, Francois. Our makeup man will work magic on her. She always looks like hell when she arrives. We'll be right back." Aretha grabbed Shauna's elbow hard but never let up the smile. To Shauna, sotto voce, she said, "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I don't need this crap."
"Don't play prima donna with me."
"I had a rough night, okay?"
"Not okay. Get in that makeup chair."
The makeup artist gasped in horror when he saw Shauna. "What are those bags under your eyes?" he cried. "Are we doing a shoot for Samsonite luggage now?"
"Ha-ha." Shauna moved toward the chair.
"Oh," Aretha said. "This came for you." She held an envelope in her hand.
Shauna squinted. "What is it?"
"Beats me. A messenger service dropped it off ten minutes ago. Said it was urgent."
She handed the envelope to Shauna. Shauna took it in one hand and flipped it over. She looked at the familiar scrawl on the front of the envelope ' just the word "Shauna" ' and felt her stomach clench.
Still staring at the handwriting, Shauna said, "Give me a second."
"Now's not the time'"
"A second."
The makeup artist and agent stepped away. Shauna slit open the seal. A blank white card with the same familiar handwriting fell out. Shauna picked it up. The note was brief: "Go to the ladies' room."
Shauna tried to keep her breath even. She stood.
"What's wrong?" Aretha said.
"I have to pee," she said, the calmness in her voice surprising even her. "Where's the head?"
"Down the hall on the left."
"I'll be right back."
Two minutes later, Shauna pushed the bathroom door. It didn't budge. She knocked. "It's me," she said. And waited.
A few seconds later, she heard the bolt slide back. More silence. Shauna took a deep breath and pushed again. The door swung open. She stepped onto the tile and stopped cold. There, across the room, standing in front of the near stall, was a ghost.
Shauna choked back a cry.
The brunette wig, the weight loss, the wire-framed spectacles ' none of it altered the obvious.
"Elizabeth..."
"Lock the door, Shauna."
Shauna obeyed without thought. When she turned around, she took a step toward her old friend. Elizabeth shrunk back.
"Please, we don't have much time."
For perhaps the first time in her life, Shauna was at a loss for words.
"You have to convince Beck I'm dead," Elizabeth said.
"A little late for that."
Her gaze swept the room as though looking for an escape route. "I made a mistake coming back. A stupid, stupid mistake. I can't stay. You have to tell him'"
"We saw the autopsy, Elizabeth," Shauna said. "There's no putting this genie back in the bottle."
Elizabeth's eyes closed.
Shauna said, "What the hell happened?"
"It was a mistake to come here."
"Yeah, you said that already."
Elizabeth started chewing on her lower lip. Then: "I have to go."
"You can't," Shauna said.
"What?"
"You can't run away again."
"If I stay, he'll die."
"He's already dead," Shauna said.
"You don't understand."
"Don't have to. If you leave him again, he won't survive. I've been waiting eight years for him to get over you. That's what's supposed to happen, you know. Wounds heal. Life goes on. But not for Beck." She took a step toward Elizabeth. "I can't let you run away again."
There were tears in all four eyes.
"I don't care why you left," Shauna said, inching closer. "I just care that you're back."
"I can't stay," she said weakly.
"You have to."
"Even if it means his death?"
"Yeah," Shauna said without hesitation. "Even if. And you know what I'm saying is true. That's why you're here. You know you can't leave again. And you know I won't let you."
Shauna took another step.
"I'm so tired of running," Elizabeth said softly.
"I know."
"I don't know what to do anymore."
"Me neither. But running isn't an option this time. Explain it to him, Elizabeth. Make him understand."
Elizabeth lifted her head. "You know how much I love him?"
"Yeah," Shauna said, "I do."
"I can't let him get hurt."
Shauna said, "Too late."
They stood now, a foot apart. Shauna wanted to reach out and hold her, but she stayed still.
"Do you have a number to reach him?" Elizabeth said.
"Yeah, he gave me a cell'"
"Tell him Dolphin. I'll meet him there tonight."
"I don't know what the hell that means."
Elizabeth quickly slid past her, peeked out the bathroom door, slithered through it. "He'll understand," she said. And then she was gone.
Chapter 41
As usual, Tyrese and I sat in the backseat. The morning sky was a charcoal ash, the color of tombstone. I directed Brutus where to turn off after we crossed the George Washington Bridge. Behind his sunglasses, Tyrese studied my face. Finally he asked, "Where we going?"
"My in-laws'."
Tyrese waited for me to say more.
"He's a city cop," I added.
"What's his name?"
"Hoyt Parker."
Brutus smiled. Tyrese did likewise.
"You know him?"
"Never worked with the man myself, but, yeah, I heard the name."
"What do you mean, worked with the man?"
Tyrese waved me off. We hit the town border. I had gone through several surreal experiences over the past three days-chalk "driving through my old neighborhood with two drug dealers in a car with tinted windows" as another. I gave Brutus a few more directions before we pulled up to the memory-laden split-level on Goodhart.
I stepped out. Brutus and Tyrese sped off. I made it to the door and listened to the long chime. The clouds grew darker. A lightning bolt ripped the sky at the seam. I pressed the chime again. Pain traveled down my arm. I still ached all over hell from yesterday's combination of torture and over exertion For a moment, I let myself wonder what would have happened if Tyrese and Brutus hadn't shown up. Then I shoved that thought away hard.
Finally I heard Hoyt say, "Who is it?"
"Beck," I said.
"It's open."
I reached for the knob. My hand stopped an inch before touching the brass. Weird. I had visited here countless times in my life, but I never remembered Hoyt asking who it was at the door. He was one of the guys who preferred direct confrontation. No hiding in the bushes for Hoyt Parker. He feared nothing, and dammit, he would prove it every step of the way. You ring his bell, he opens the door and faces you full.
I looked behind me. Tyrese and Brutus were gone ' no smarts in loitering in front of a cop's house in a white suburb.
"Beck?"
No choice. I thought about the Glock. As I put my left hand on the knob, I put my right closer to my hip. Just in case. I turned the knob and pushed the door. My head leaned through the crack.
"I'm in the kitchen," Hoyt called out.
I stepped all the way inside and closed the door behind me. The room smelled of a lemon disinfectant, one of those plug-in-a socket cover-up brands. I found the odor cloying.
"You want something to eat?" Hoyt asked.
I still couldn't see him. "No, thanks."
I waded across the semi-shag toward the kitchen. I spotted the old photographs on the mantel, but this time I didn't wince. When my feet reached linoleum, I let my eyes take in the room. Empty. I was about to turn back when I f
elt the cold metal against my temple. A hand suddenly snaked around my neck and jerked back hard.
"You armed, Beck?"
I didn't move or speak.
With the gun still in place, Hoyt dropped the arm from my neck and patted me down. He found the Glock, pulled it out, skidded it across the linoleum.
"Who dropped you off?"
"A couple of friends," I managed to say.
"What sort of friends?"
"What the hell is this, Hoyt?"
He backed off. I turned around. The gun was pointed at my chest. The muzzle looked enormous to me, widening like a giant mouth readying to swallow me whole. It was hard to wrest my gaze from that cold, dark tunnel.
"You come here to kill me?" Hoyt asked.
"What? No." I forced myself to look up, Hoyt was unshaven. His eyes were red-tinged, his body was swaying. Drinking. Drinking a lot.
"Where's Mrs. Parker?" I asked.
"She's safe." An odd reply. "I sent her away."
"Why?"
"I think you know."
Maybe I did. Or was starting to.
"Why would I want to hurt you, Hoyt?"
He kept the gun pointed at my chest. "Do you always carry a concealed weapon, Beck? I could have you thrown in jail for that."
"You've done worse to me," I replied.
His face fell. A low groan escaped his lips.
"Whose body did we cremate, Hoyt?"
"You don't know shit."
"I know that Elizabeth is still alive," I said.
His shoulders slumped, but the weapon stayed right in place. I saw his gun hand tense, and for a moment, I was sure he was going to shoot. I debated jumping away, but it wasn't as though he couldn't nail me with the second round.
"Sit down," he said softly.
"Shauna saw the autopsy report. We know it wasn't Elizabeth in that morgue."
"Sit down," he repeated, raising the gun a bit, and I believe that he might have shot me if I didn't obey. He led me back to the living room. I sat on the hideous couch that had witnessed so many memorable moments, but I had the feeling that they would be pretty much Bic flicks next to the bonfire about to engulf this room.
Hoyt sat across from me. The weapon was still up and centered at my middle. He never let his hand rest. Part of his training, I supposed. Exhaustion bled from him. He looked like a balloon with a slow leak, deflating almost imperceptibly.
