by Harlan Coben
"Yup. Pillow over the face."
"God, how the hell did they miss that?"
"How the hell did who miss that?"
"Wasn't she originally listed as death by natural causes?"
"Yes."
"Well, Eldon, see, that's what I mean when I say, how the hell did they miss t hat?"
"And I asked you who you meant."
"Whoever originally examined her."
"No one originally examined her. That's the point."
"Why not?"
"You're kidding, right?"
"No. I mean, shouldn't that have shown up right away?"
"You watch too much TV. Every day zillions of people die, right? Wife finds the h usband dead on the floor. You think we do an autopsy? You think we check to see i f it's murder? Most of the time cops don't even come in. My old man croaked, w hat, ten years ago. My mom called the funeral home, a doc declares him dead, t hey pick him up. That's how it normally works, you know that. So here a nun d ies, looks like natural causes to anyone who doesn't know exactly what to look f or. I would have never gotten her on the table if your Mother Superior doesn't s ay something."
"You sure it was a pillow?"
"Yup. Pillow in her room, matter of fact. Plenty of fibers in the throat."
"How about under her fingernails?"
"They're clean."
"Isn't that unusual?"
"Depends."
Loren shook her head, tried to put it together. "You have an ID?"
"An ID on what?"
"On the victim?"
"I thought she was Sister Silicon or something. What do we need an ID for?"
Loren checked her watch. "How much longer are you in the office?"
"Another two hours," Eldon Teak said.
"I'm on my way."
Chapter 7
HERE IS HOW you find your soul mate.
It is spring break your freshman year of college. Most of your friends head down t o Daytona Beach, but your high school bud Rick has a mother in the travel b usiness. She gets you super-low rates to Vegas, so you and six friends go for a f ive-night stay at the Flamingo Hotel.
On the last night, you head to a nightclub at Caesars Palace because you hear i t's supposed to be a great hangout for coeds on vacation. The nightclub, no s urprise, is noisy and crowded. There is too much neon. It is not your scene.
You are with your friends, trying to hear them over the loud crush of music, w hen you look across the bar.
That is when you see Olivia for the first time.
No, the music doesn't stop or segue to angelic harps. But something happens to y ou. You look at her and feel it in your chest, a warm twang, and you can see t hat she feels it too.
You are normally shy, not good with approaches, but tonight you can do no wrong.
You make your way over to her and introduce yourself. We all have special nights l ike this, you think. You're at a party and you see a beautiful girl and she's l ooking at you and you start talking and you just click in a way that makes you t hink about lifetimes instead of one-nights.
You talk to her. You talk for hours. She looks at you as if you're the only p erson in the world. You go somewhere quieter. You kiss her. She responds. You s tart to make out. You make out all night and have no real desire to push it any f urther. You hold her. You talk some more. You love her laugh. You love her f ace. You love everything about her.
You fall asleep in each other's arms, fully clothed, and you wonder if you will e ver be this happy again. Her hair smells like lilacs and berries. You will n ever forget that smell.
You'd do anything to make this last, but you know it won't. These sorts of i nteractions aren't built for the long term. You have a life, and Olivia has a "serious" boyfriend, a fiance really, back home. This isn't about that. It is a bout the two of you, your own world, for just too brief a time. You pack a s mall life span into that night, a complete cycle of courtship, relationship, b reakup into those few hours.
In the end, you will go back to your life and she'll go back to hers.
You don't bother trading phone numbers-- neither one of you wants to pretend like t hat-- but she takes you to the airport and you passionately kiss good-bye. Her e yes are wet when you release her. You return to school.
You go on, of course, but you never quite forget her or that night or the way it f elt to kiss her or the smell of her hair. She stays with you. You think of her.
Not every day, maybe not even every week. But she's there. The memory is s omething you take out every now and then, when you're feeling alone, and you d on't know if it comforts or stings.
You wonder if she ever does the same.
Eleven years pass. You don't see her in all that time.
You are no longer the same person, of course. The death of Stephen McGrath had s et you off the rails. You have spent time in prison. But you're free now. Your l ife has been given back to you, you guess. You work at the Carter Sturgis law f irm.
One day you sign onto the computer and Google her name.
You know it is stupid and immature. You realize that she probably married the f iance, has three or four kids by now, maybe taken her husband's name. But this i s harmless. You will take it no further. You are simply curious.
There are several Olivia Murrays.
You search a little deeper and find one that might be her. This Olivia Murray is t he sales director for DataBetter, a consulting business that designs computer s ystems for small-to-midsize companies. DataBetter's Web site has employee b iographies. Hers is brief but it does mention that she is a graduate of the University of Virginia. That was where your Olivia Murray was going when you met a ll those years ago.
You try to forget about it.
You are not one who believes in fate or kismet-- just the opposite-- but six m onths later, the partners at Carter Sturgis decide that the firm's computer s ystem needs to be overhauled. Midlife knows that you learned about computer p rogramming during your tenure in prison. He suggests that you be on the c ommittee to develop a new office network. You suggest several firms come in and m ake bids.
One of those firms is DataBetter.
Two people from DataBetter arrive at the offices of Carter Sturgis. You are in a p anic. In the end, you fake an emergency and don't attend the presentation. That w ould be too much-- showing up like that. You let the other three men on the c ommittee handle the interview. You stay in your office. Your leg shakes. You b ite your nails. You feel like an idiot.
At noon, there is a knock on your office door.
You turn and Olivia is there.
You recognize her right away. It hits you like a physical blow. The warm twang i s back. You can barely speak. You look at her left hand. At her ring finger.
There is nothing there.
Olivia smiles and tells you that she's here at Carter Sturgis doing a p resentation. You try to nod. Her company is bidding to set up the firm's c omputer systems, she says. She spotted your name on the list of people who were s upposed to be at the meeting and wondered if you were the same Matt Hunter she m et all those years ago.
Still stunned, you ask her if she wants to grab a cup of coffee. She hesitates b ut says yes. When you rise and walk past her, you smell her hair. The lilacs a nd berries are still there, and you worry that your eyes will well up.
You both gloss over the phony catch-up preliminaries, which, of course, works w ell for you. Over the years she has thought about you too, you find out. The f iance is long gone. She has never been married.
Your heart soars even as you shake your head. You know that this is all too i mpossible. Neither of you believes in concepts like love at first sight.
But there you are.
In the weeks that follow you learn what true love is. She teaches it to you. You e ventually tell her the truth about your past. She gets over it. You get m arried. She becomes pregnant. You are happy. You both celebrate the news by b uying matching camera phones.
And then, one day, you
get a call and see the woman you met during that long-ago s pring break-- the only woman you ever loved-- in a hotel room with another man.
Why the hell would someone be following him?
Matt kept his hands steady on the wheel as his head spun with possibilities. He s orted through them. Nothing stuck.
He needed help, big-time. And that meant visiting Cingle.
He was going to be late for his appointment with the home inspector. He didn't m uch care. Suddenly the future he had allowed himself to imagine-- house, picket f ence, the always-beautiful Olivia, the 2.4 kids, the Lab retriever-- seemed f righteningly unrealistic. More fooling himself, he guessed. A convicted m urderer returning to the suburbs he grew up in and raising the ideal family-- it s uddenly sounded like a bad sitcom pitch.
Matt called Marsha, his sister-in-law, to tell her he wouldn't get out there u ntil later, but her machine picked up. He left a message and pulled into the l ot.
Housed in a building of sleek glass not far from Matt's office is MVD-- Most Valuable Detection, a large private-eye firm Carter Sturgis uses. By and large Matt was not a huge fan of private detectives. In fiction they were pretty cool d udes. In reality they were, at best, retired (emphasis on the "tired") cops and a t worst, guys who couldn't become cops and thus are that dangerous creation k nown as the "cop wannabe." Matt had seen plenty of wannabes working as prison g uards. The mixture of failure and imagined testosterone produced volatile and o ften ugly consequences.
Matt sat in the office of one of the exceptions to this rule-- the lovely and c ontroversial Ms. Cingle Shaker. Matt didn't think that was her real name, but i t was the one she used professionally. Cingle was six feet tall with blue eyes a nd honey-colored hair. Her face was fairly attractive. Her body caused heart a rrhythmia-- a total, no-let-up traffic-stopper. Even Olivia said "Wow" when she m et her. Rumor had it that Cingle had been a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall, b ut that the other girls complained that she ruined their "symmetry." Matt did n ot doubt it.
Cingle had her feet up on her desk. She had on cowboy boots that added another t wo inches to her height and dark jeans that fit like leggings. Up top, she wore a black turtleneck that on some women would be considered clingy but on Cingle c ould legitimately draw a citation for indecency.
"It was a New Jersey plate," Matt told her for the third time. "MLH-472."
Cingle hadn't moved. She rested her chin in the L made by her thumb and index f inger. She stared at him.
"What?" Matt said.
"What client am I supposed to bill for this?"
"No client," he said. "You bill me."
"This is for you then."
"Yes."
"Hmm." Cingle dropped her feet to the floor, stretched back, smiled. "So this is p ersonal?"
"Man," Matt said, "you are good. I tell you to bill me, that it's for me, and b ang, you figure out that it's personal."
"Years of detecting, Hunter. Don't be intimidated."
Matt tried to force up a smile.
She kept her eyes on him. "Want to hear one of the ten rules from the Cingle Shaker Book of Detection?"
"No, not really."
"Rule Six: When a man asks you to look up a license plate for personal reasons, i t can be only one of two things. One"-- Cingle raised a finger--"he thinks his w ife is cheating and he wants to know who with."
"And two?"
"There's no two. I lied. There's only one."
"That's not it."
Cingle shook her head.
"What?"
"Ex-cons usually lie better."
He let that one alone.
"Okay, so let's say I believe you. Why, pray tell, do we want me to trace this d own?"
"It's personal. Remember? Bill me, for me, personal?"
Cingle stood up, waaay up, and put her hands on her hips. She glared down at h im. Unlike Olivia, Matt did not say "Wow" out loud, but maybe he thought it.
"Think of me as your religious advisor," she said. "Confession is good for the s oul, you know."
"Yeah," Matt said. "Religion. That's what comes to mind." He sat up. "Will you j ust do this for me?"
"Okeydokey." She stared at him another beat. Matt did not cringe. Cingle sat b ack down and threw her feet back on the desk. "The standing up with the hands o n the hips. That usually weakens a guy."
"I'm stone."
"Well, yes, that's part of it."
"Ha, ha."
She gave him the curious look again. "You love Olivia, right?"
"I'm not getting into this with you, Cingle."
"You don't have to answer. I've seen you with her. And her with you."
"So you know then."
She sighed. "Give me the plate number again."
He did. This time Cingle wrote it down.
"Shouldn't take more than an hour. I'll call you on your cell."
"Thanks." He started for the door.
"Matt?"
He turned back toward her.
"I've had some experience in stuff like this."
"I'm sure."
"Opening this door." Cingle held up the slip of paper with the license plate.
"It's kinda like trying to break up a fight. Once you jump in, you don't know w hat could happen."
"Gee, Cingle, that's pretty subtle."
She spread her arms. "Subtlety ended for me the day I hit puberty."
"Just do this for me, okay?"
"I will."
"Thank you."
"But"-- she put up her index finger--"should you feel the need to take it further, I want you to promise to let me help."
"I won't take it further," he said, and the look on her face told him all he n eeded to know about how much she believed him.
Matt was just entering his old hometown of Livingston when his cell phone rang a gain. It was Jamie Suh, Olivia's assistant, finally calling back. "Sorry, Matt, I can't find a hotel contact."
"How can that be?" he snapped without thinking.
There was too long a pause.
He tried to backtrack. "I mean, doesn't she usually leave one? Suppose there was a n emergency."
"She has her cell phone."
He didn't know what to say.
"And most of the time," Jamie went on, "I book the hotel for her."
"You didn't this time?"
"No." Then she hurriedly added: "But that's not unusual or anything. Olivia does i t herself sometimes too."
He didn't know what to make of that. "Have you heard from her today?"
"She called in this morning."
"Did she say where she was going to be?"
There was another pause. Matt knew that his behavior would be considered beyond t he scope of normal husbandly curiosity, but he figured it was worth the risk.
"She just said she had some meetings. Nothing specific."
"Okay, if she calls back--"
"I'll tell her you're looking for her."
Then Jamie hung up.
Another memory struck him. He and Olivia had a huge fight, one of those n o-holds-barred verbal brawls where you know you're wrong and you just keep p ushing. She ran out in tears and didn't call for two days. Two full days. He w ould call, she wouldn't answer. He searched, but he couldn't find her. It p unched a huge hole in his heart. That was what he remembered right now. The i dea that she would never come back to him hurt so much he could barely breathe.
The home inspector was just finishing up when he arrived at the house. Nine y ears ago Matt walked out of jail after serving four years for killing a man.
Now, incredible as it might seem, he was on the verge of buying a home, sharing i t with the woman he loved, raising a child.
He shook his head.
The house was part of a suburban tract built in 1965. Like most of Livingston, t he area used to be a farm. All the houses were pretty much the same, but if t hat discouraged Olivia, she hid it pretty well. She'd stared at the house with a nearly religious fervor and whispered, "It's perfect." Her enthusiasm h
ad s wept away any doubts he'd had about moving back.
Matt stood on what would soon be his front yard and tried to imagine himself l iving here. It felt odd. He didn't belong here anymore. He had known that u ntil, well, until Olivia. Now he was back.
Behind him a police cruiser pulled up. Two men got out. The first one was in u niform. He was young and in shape. He gave Matt the cop squint. The second man w as in plainclothes.
"Hey, Matt," the man in the brown suit called out. "Long time, no see."
It had been a long time, since Livingston High at least, but he recognized Lance Banner right away.
"Hi, Lance."
Both men slammed their doors closed as if they'd coordinated the move. The u niform crossed his arms and remained silent. Lance moved toward Matt.
"You know," Lance said, "I live on this street."
"That a fact."
"It is."
Matt said nothing.
"I'm a detective on the force now."
"Congrats."
"Thanks."
How long had he known Lance Banner? Since second grade, at least. They were n ever friends, never enemies. They played on the same Little League team for t hree years running. They shared a gym class in eighth grade and a study hall j unior year of high school. Livingston High School had been big-- six hundred k ids per grade. They'd simply traveled in different circles.
"How's it been going for you?" Lance asked.
"Super."
The home inspector stepped outside. He had a clipboard. Lance said, "How's it l ook, Harold?"
Harold looked up from his clipboard and nodded. "Pretty solid, Lance."
"You sure?"
Something in his tone made Harold take a step back. Lance looked back at Matt.
"We have a nice neighborhood here."
"It's why we picked it."
"You really think it's a good idea, Matt?"
"What's that, Lance?"
"Moving back."
"Done my time."
"And you think that's the end of it?"
Matt didn't say anything.
"That boy you killed. He's still dead, isn't he?"
"Lance?"
"I'm Detective Banner now," he said.
"Detective Banner, I'm going inside now."
"I read all about your case. I even called a couple of cop buddies, got the w hole scoop on what happened."
