the Innocent (2005)

by Harlan Coben

  There were forms for class trips, child vaccinations, a soccer league.

  And, of course, there were family snapshots.

  Loren had been an only child and no matter how often she saw them-- this m agnetized swirl of smiles-- it always seemed slightly unreal to her, like she w as watching a bad TV show or reading a corny greeting card.

  Loren stepped toward the photograph that had caught her eye. More pieces started t o pour into place now.

  How could she have missed this?

  She should have put it together right away. Hunter. The name wasn't rare but it w asn't overly common either. Her eyes scanned the other pictures, but they kept c oming back to the first one, the one on the left taken at what looked like a b aseball game. Loren was still staring at the picture when Marsha returned.

  "Is everything okay, Inspector Muse?"

  Loren startled up at the voice. She tried to conjure up the details, but only a s ketch came to mind. "Did you find your calendar?"

  "There's nothing there. I really don't remember where I was that day."

  Loren nodded and turned back to the refrigerator. "This man"-- she pointed and l ooked back at Marsha--"this is Matt Hunter, right?"

  Marsha's face closed like a metal gate.

  "Mrs. Hunter?"

  "What do you want?"

  There had been hints of warmth before. There were none now.

  "I knew him," Loren said. "A long time ago."

  Nothing.

  "In elementary school. We both went to Burnet Hill."

  Marsha crossed her arms. She was having none of it.

  "How are you two related?"

  "He's my brother-in-law," Marsha said. "And a good man."

  Right, sure, Loren thought. A real prince. She'd read about the manslaughter c onviction. Matt Hunter had served time at a max-security facility. Serious hard t ime, as she recalled. She remembered the folded blanket and sheets on the c ouch.

  "Does Matt visit here a lot? I mean, he's the boys' uncle and all."

  "Inspector Muse?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'd like you to leave now."

  "Why's that?"

  "Matt Hunter is not a criminal. What happened was an accident. He has more than p aid for it."

  Loren kept quiet, hoping she'd go on. She didn't. After a few moments she r ealized that this line of questioning would probably not take her anywhere.

  Better to try a less defensive route.

  "I liked him," Loren said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "When we were kids. He was nice."

  That was true enough. Matt Hunter had been a pretty good guy, another Livingston w anna-fit-in who probably shouldn't have tried so hard.

  "I'll leave now," Loren said.

  "Thank you."

  "If you learn anything about that phone call on June second--"

  "I'll let you know."

  "Do you mind if I speak to your sitter on the way out?"

  Marsha sighed, shrugged.

  "Thank you." Loren reached for the door.

  Marsha called out, "Can I ask you something?"

  Loren faced her.

  "Was this nun murdered?"

  "Why would you ask that?"

  Marsha shrugged again. "It's a natural question, I guess. Why else would you be h ere?"

  "I can't discuss details with you. I'm sorry."

  Marsha said nothing. Loren opened the door and headed into the yard. The sun was s till high, the long days of June. The boys ran and played with such wonderful a bandonment. Adults could never play like that. Never in a million years. Loren r emembered her tomboy youth, the days when you could play Running Bases for h ours and never, not for a second, be bored. She wondered if Marsha Hunter ever d id that, ever came out and played Running Bases with her sons, and thinking a bout that Loren felt another pang.

  No time for that now.

  Marsha would be watching from the kitchen window. Loren needed to do this fast.

  She approached the girl-- what was her name? Kylie, Kyra? Kelsey?-- and waved.

  "Hi."

  The girl cupped her hands over her eyes and blinked. She was pretty enough, with b londe highlights that you can only find in youth or a bottle. "Hi."

  Loren didn't waste time with preamble. "Does Matt Hunter come over a lot?"

  "Matt? Sure."

  The girl had answered without hesitation. Loren muffled a smile. Ah, youth.

  "How often?"

  Kyra-- that was definitely the name-- shifted now, slightly more wary, but she was s till young. As long as Loren remained the authority figure, she'd talk. "I d on't know. Few times a week, I guess."

  "Good guy?"

  "What?"

  "Matt Hunter. Is he a good guy?"

  Kyra gave a huge smile. "He's great."

  "Good with the kids?"

  "The best."

  Loren nodded, feigning disinterest. "Was he here last night?" she asked as c asually as she could.

  But now Kyra cocked her head to the side. "Didn't you ask Mrs. Hunter these q uestions?"

  "I'm just reconfirming. He was here, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "All night?"

  "I was in the city with some friends. I don't know."

  "There were sheets on the couch. Who stayed on it?"

  She gave a shrug. "I guess it was Matt."

  Loren risked a glance behind her. Marsha Hunter disappeared from the window.

  She'd be moving toward the back door now. The girl would not remember June 2.

  Loren had enough for now, though she didn't have a clue what it meant.

  "Do you know where Matt lives?"

  "In Irvington, I think."

  The back door opened. Enough, Loren thought. Finding Matt Hunter shouldn't be a p roblem. She smiled and started away then, trying not to give Marsha a reason to c all and warn her brother-in-law. She tried to walk away as casually as p ossible. She waved a good-bye at Marsha. Marsha's return wave was slow.

  Loren hit the driveway and headed toward her car, but another face from her d istant past-- wow, this case was turning into a bad episode of Loren Muse, This Is Your Life-- stood by her car. He leaned against the hood, a cigarette dangling f rom his lips.

  "Hey, Loren."

  "As I live and breathe," she said. "Detective Lance Banner."

  "In the flesh." He tossed the cigarette onto the ground and stomped on it.

  She pointed to the stub. "I may write you up for that."

  "I thought you were county homicide."

  "Cigarettes kill. Don't you read the carton?"

  Lance Banner gave her a crooked smile. His car, an obvious unmarked police v ehicle, was parked across the street. "Been a long time."

  "That firearm safety convention in Trenton," Loren said. "What, six, seven years a go?"

  "Something like that." He folded his arms, kept leaning against her hood. "You h ere on official business?"

  "I am."

  "It involve a former school chum of ours?"

  "It might."

  "Wanna tell me about it?"

  "Wanna tell me why you're here?"

  "I live near here."

  "So?"

  "So I spotted a county vehicle. Figured I might be able to be of some a ssistance."

  "How's that?"

  "Matt Hunter wants to move back to town," Lance said. "He's closing on a house n ot far from here."

  Loren said nothing.

  "Does that work into your case?"

  "I don't see how."

  Lance smiled and opened the car door. "Why don't you tell me what's going on?

  Maybe we can figure out how together."

  Chapter 16

  "HEY, GUESS WHAT I'm doing to your wife right now?"

  Matt held the phone to his ear.

  The man whispered, "Matt? You still there?"

  Matt said nothing.

  "Yo, Matt, did you tattle on me? I mean, did you tell the wife about me sending y ou those pictures?"

&n
bsp; He couldn't move.

  "Because Olivia is being much more protective with her phone. Oh, she won't stop d oing me. That ain't gonna happen. She's addicted, you know what I'm saying?"

  Matt's eyes closed.

  "But all of a sudden she says she wants to be more careful. So I'm wondering, y ou know, guy to guy here, did you say something? Let her in on our little s ecret?"

  Matt's hand clamped down so hard he thought the phone might crack in his hand.

  He tried to take in deep breaths, but his chest kept hitching up. He found his v oice and said, "When I find you, Charles Talley, I'm going to rip off your head a nd crap down your neck."

  Silence.

  "You still there, Charles?"

  The voice on the phone was a whisper. "Gotta run. She's coming back."

  And then he was gone.

  Matt told Rolanda to cancel his afternoon appointments.

  "You don't have any appointments," she said.

  "Don't be a wiseass."

  "You want to tell me what's wrong?"

  "Later."

  He started home. The camera phone was still in his hand. He waited until he p ulled up to their place off Main Street in Irvington. The already-sparse grass h ad pretty much died in the recent drought-- there had been no rainfall on the East Coast for three weeks. In suburbs like Livingston, the lushness of one's l awn is taken seriously. Banning it, sitting by idly as one's green deadened to b rown, was worthy of a good neighborly teeth-gnashing over the new Weber Genesis Gold B backyard grill. Here, in Irvington, nobody cared.

  Lawns were a rich man's game.

  Matt and Olivia lived in a declining two-family held together by aluminum s iding. They had the right side of the dwelling; the Owens, an African-American f amily of five, had the left. Both sides had two bedrooms and one and a half b aths.

  He took the stoop two steps at a time. When he got inside he hit the s peed-dial-one spot for Olivia. It went into her voice mail again. He wasn't s urprised. He waited for the beep.

  "I know you're not at the Ritz," Matt said. "I know it was you in the blonde w ig. I know it wasn't a big joke. I even know about Charles Talley. So call me a nd explain."

  He hung up and looked out the window. There was a Shell gas station on the c orner. He watched it. His breaths were coming in shallow gulps. He tried to s low them down. He grabbed a suitcase from the closet, threw it on the bed, s tarted stuffing his clothes into it.

  He stopped. Packing a suitcase. A stupid and histrionic move. Cut it out.

  Olivia would be home tomorrow.

  And if she wasn't?

  No use thinking about it. She would be home. It would all come together, one way o r the other, in a few hours.

  But he was no longer above snooping. He started in Olivia's drawers. He barely h ated himself for doing it. That voice on the phone had set him off. Best-case s cenario now: Olivia was hiding something from him. He might as well find out w hat.

  But he found nothing.

  Not in the drawers, not in the closets. He thought about other possible hiding s pots when he remembered something.

  The computer.

  He headed upstairs and hit the power switch. The computer booted up, came to l ife. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time. Matt's right leg started s haking up and down. He put his palm on the knee to slow it down.

  They'd finally gotten a cable modem-- dial-ups going the way of the Betamax-- and h e was on the Web in seconds. He knew Olivia's password, though he had never d reamed of using it like this. He logged onto her e-mail and scanned the m essages. The new stuff held no surprises. He tried the old mail.

  The directory was empty.

  He tried looking under her "Sent Mail" folder. Same thing-- everything had been d eleted. He tried the section called "Deleted Mail." It too had been cleaned o ut. He checked through the browser's "History," hoping to see where Olivia had l ast surfed. That, too, had been erased.

  Matt sat back and drew an obvious conclusion: Olivia had been covering her t racks. And the obvious follow-up question was: Why?

  There was one more area to check: the cookies.

  People often erased their surfing history or their mailbox, but the cookies were s omething different. If Olivia had wiped out the cookies, Matt would a utomatically know something had gone awry. His Yahoo! home page wouldn't a utomatically come up, for instance. Amazon wouldn't know who he was. A person t rying to cover their tracks would not want that.

  Clearing out the cookies would be too noticeable.

  He went through Explorer and found the folder that held the Web's cookies. There w ere tons of them. He clicked the date button, thereby putting them in date o rder, the most recent at the top. His eyes ran down them. Most of them he r ecognized-- Google, OfficeMax, Shutterfly-- but there were two unfamiliar d omains. He wrote them down, minimized the Explorer window, went back to the Web.

  He typed in the first address and hit return. It was for the Nevada Sun News-- a n ewspaper that required you to sign up in order to access the archives. The p aper's home office was in Las Vegas. He checked the "personal profile." Olivia h ad signed up using a fake name and e-mail address. No surprise there. They both d id that, to prevent spam and protect privacy.

  But what had she been looking up?

  There was no way to tell.

  Strange, maybe, but the second Web address was far more so.

  It took a while for the Web to recognize what he'd typed in. The address bounced f rom one spot to another before finally landing on something called: Stripper-Fandom.com.

  Matt frowned. There was a warning on the home page that nobody under the age of e ighteen should continue. That didn't bode well. He clicked the enter icon. The p ictures that appeared were, as one might expect, provocative. Stripper-Fandom w as an "appreciation" site for . . .

  . . . for female strippers?

  Matt shook his head. There were countless thumbnails of topless women. He c licked one. There were biographies listed for each girl: Bunny's career as an exotic dancer started in Atlantic City, but with her i mpressive dance moves and slinky costumes, she quickly rose to stardom and m oved to Vegas. "I love it out here! And I love rich men!" Bunny's specialty is w earing bunny ears and doing a hop-dance using the pole . . .

  Matt clicked the link. An e-mail address came up, in case you wanted to write Bunny and request rates for a "private audience." It actually said that-- private a udience. Like Bunny was the pope.

  What the hell was going on here?

  Matt searched through the stripper fan site until he could take no more. Nothing j umped out at him. Nothing fell into place. He just felt more confused. Maybe t he site meant nothing at all. Most of the strippers were from the Vegas area.

  Maybe Olivia had gotten there by clicking an advertising link at that Nevada n ewspaper. Maybe the link wasn't even marked as a stripper site and just led t here.

  But why was she on a Nevada newspaper site in the first place? Why had she e rased all her e-mails?

  No answer.

  Matt thought about Charles Talley. He Googled the name. Nothing interesting came u p. He shut down the browser and moved back downstairs, that whisper from the p hone call still echoing in his head, shredding all reason: "Hey, guess what I'm doing to your wife right now?"

  Time to get some air. Air and something more potent.

  He headed outside and started for South Orange Avenue. From the Garden State Parkway, you couldn't miss the giant brown beer bottle rising up and dominating t he skyline. But when you traveled this section of the GSP, the other thing you n oticed-- maybe even more than the old water tank-- was the sprawling cemetery on b oth sides of the road. The parkway cut smack through the middle of a burial g round. You were encased left and right by unending rows of weather-beaten g ravestones. But the effect of driving through was not so much splitting a c emetery in half as much as zipping it together, of making something whole. And t here, in the not-so-far distance, this strange giant beer bottle stood, hi
gh in t he air, a silent sentinel guarding or maybe mocking the buried inhabitants.

  The damage to the brewery was somewhat mystifying. Every window was only p artially broken, not fully smashed, as if someone had taken the time to throw o ne rock and only one rock at every single window in the twelve-story structure.

  Shards lay everywhere. Every opening was a yawning, jangled threat. The c ombination of erosion and pride, the strong skeleton against the missing-teeth s hattered-eye look from the broken glass, gave the place a strange d owntrodden-warrior bearing.

  Soon they would tear the old factory down and build an upscale mall. Just what Jersey needed, he thought-- another mall.

  Matt turned down the alley and headed for the faded red door. The tavern did not h ave a name on it. There was one window with a Pabst Blue Ribbon neon sign in i t. Like the brewery-- like this city?-- the sign no longer lit up.

  Matt opened the door, forcing sunlight into a place bathed in darkness. The men--t here was only one woman here right now and she'd hit you if you called her a l ady-- blinked like bats who'd had a flashlight shined on them. There was no j ukebox playing, no music at all. The conversations were kept as low as the l ights.

  Mel was still behind the bar. Matt hadn't been here in, what, two, three years a t least, but Mel still knew him by name. The tavern was a classic dive. You see t hem everywhere across the United States. Men-- mostly, anyway-- finishing up w hatever job they grinded out were now looking to get a buzz on. If that i ncluded some boasting or banter, so be it, but places like this were much more a bout inebriation than consolation or conversation.

  Before his stint in prison Matt would have never gone into a dump like Mel's. He n ow liked rougher spots. He was not sure why. The men in here were big with u ndefined muscle. They wore flannel shirts in the fall and winter, and b owling-gut-emphasizing T-shirts in the spring and summer. They wore jeans y ear-round. There weren't many fights in here, but you didn't walk in a place l ike this unless you knew how to use your fists.

  Matt took a seat on a stool. Mel nodded at him. "Beer?"