by Harlan Coben
“This whole thing,” Jessica said when he had finished, “is just too weird.”
“Yep,” he said. They had barely talked last night. He had assured her that he was all right and they had both gone to sleep. “I guess I should thank you.”
“For what?”
“You were the one who called Win.”
She nodded. “After those goons jumped you.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to interfere.”
“Wrong. I said I wasn’t going to try to stop you. There’s a difference.”
“True enough.”
Jessica started chewing on her bottom lip. She was wearing jeans and a Duke sweatshirt several sizes too large on her. Her hair was still wet from a recent shower. “I think you should move in,” she said.
Her words hit him square in the jaw. “What?”
“I didn’t mean to just blurt it out like that,” she said. “I’m not very good at beating around the bush.”
“That’s my job anyway,” he said.
She shook her head. “You pick the strangest times to be crude.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.”
“Look, I’m not good at this stuff, Myron. You know that.”
He nodded. He knew.
She tilted her head to the side, shrugged, smiled nervously. “It’s just that I like having you here. It feels right.”
His heart soared and sung and quivered in fear. “It’s a big step.”
“Not really,” she said. “You’re here most of the time anyway. And I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
The pause lingered a bit longer than it should. Jessica jumped into it before it could do irreparable harm. “Don’t say anything now,” she said, rushing the words out in a gush. “I want you to think about it. It was a dumb time to bring it up, with all this stuff going on. Or maybe that’s why I chose now, I don’t know. But don’t say anything. Just think about it. Don’t call me today. Or tonight. I’m going to your game, but then I’m taking Audrey out for a few drinks. It’s her birthday. Sleep at your house tonight. Maybe we’ll talk tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Myron agreed.
Chapter 20
Big Cyndi sat at the reception desk. “Sat” was probably the wrong word. Talk about the proverbial camel trying to squeeze through the eye of the needle. The desk’s four legs were off the floor, the top teetering on Big Cyndi’s knees like a seesaw. Her coffee mug disappeared into fleshy hands that resembled couch cushions. Her short spikes of hair had more of a pinkish hue today. Her makeup reminded him of a childhood incident involving melted Crayola crayons. She wore white lipstick, like something out of an Elvis documentary. Her size-3XL T-shirt read CLUB SODA NOT SEALS. It took Myron a few seconds to get it. Politically correct but cute.
Usually she growled when she saw Myron. Today she smiled sweetly and batted her eyes at him. The sight was far more frightening, like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, only on steroids. Big Cyndi pointed up her middle finger and bounced it up and down.
“Line one?” he tried.
She shook her head. The up and down gesture became more hurried. She looked up at the ceiling. Myron followed her gaze but he saw nothing. Cyndi rolled her eyes. The smile was frozen on her face, like a clown’s.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“Win wants to see you,” she said.
It was the first time Myron had heard her voice, and it startled him. She sounded like one of those perky hostesses on a cable shopping network, the one where people call up and describe in far too much detail how much their lives were improved by purchasing a green vase shaped like Mount Rushmore.
“Where’s Esperanza?” he asked.
“Win’s cute.”
“Is she here?”
“Win seemed to think it was important.”
“I’m just—”
“You’re going to see Win,” Cyndi interrupted. “You’re certainly not checking up on your most valued associate.” The sweet smile.
“I’m not checking up. I just want to know—”
“Where Win’s office is. It’s two stories up.” She made a sound with her coffee that some might loosely label “slurping.” Moose in the tri-state area scattered in search of mates.
“Tell her I’ll be back,” Myron said.
“But of course.” She batted her eyelashes. They looked like two tarantulas in death throes. “Have a nice day.”
Win’s corner office faced Fifty-second Street and Park Avenue. Major league view for Lock-Horne Securities’ golden boy. Myron sank into one of the lush burgundy leather chairs. There were several paintings of fox hunts on the richly paneled walls. Dozens of manly men on horseback, dressed in black hats, red blazers, white pants, black boots, rode out armed with only rifles and dogs to chase down a small furry creature until they caught and killed it. Ah, gamesmanship. A tad overkill maybe. Like using a flamethrower to light a cigarette.
Win typed on a laptop computer that looked lonely on the mono-expanse he called a desk. “I found something of interest on the computer disks we made at Greg’s house.”
“Oh?”
“It appears our friend Mr. Downing had an e-mail address with America Online,” Win said. “He downloaded this particular piece of mail on Saturday.” Win spun the laptop around so Myron could read the screen:
Subj: Sex!
Date: 3-11 14:51:36 EST
From: Sepbabe
To: Downing22
Meet you tonight at ten. The place we discussed. Come. I promise you the greatest night of ecstasy imaginable.
—F
Myron looked up. “Greatest night of ecstasy imaginable?”
“She has quite the writing flair, no?” Win said.
Myron made a face.
Win put a sincere hand to his heart. “Even if she could not live up to such a promise,” he continued, “one has to admire her ability to take risk, her dedication to her craft.”
“Uh huh,” Myron said. “So who is F?”
“There is no profile for the screen name Sepbabe on line,” Win explained. “That doesn’t mean anything, of course. Many users don’t have a profile. They don’t want everyone knowing their real name. I would assume however that F is yet another alias for our dearly departed friend Carla.”
“We have Carla’s real name now,” Myron said.
“Oh?”
“Liz Gorman.”
Win arched an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“Liz Gorman. As in the Raven Brigade.” He told Win about Fred Higgins’s call. Win leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. As usual his face gave away nothing.
When Myron finished, Win said, “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“It comes down to this,” Myron said. “What connection could there possibly be between Greg Downing and Liz Gorman?”
“A strong one,” Win said, nodding toward the screen. “The possibility of the greatest night of ecstasy imaginable, if one is to buy into the hyperbole.”
“But with Liz Gorman?”
“Why not?” Win almost sounded defensive. “You shouldn’t discriminate on the basis of age or implants. It wouldn’t be right.”
Mr. Equal Rights. “It’s not that,” Myron said. “Let’s pretend that Greg has the hots for Liz Gorman, even though nobody described her as much of a looker …”
“You’re so shallow, Myron,” Win said with a disenchanted shake of the head. “Did you ever consider the possibility that Greg saw beneath that? She did, after all, have large breasts.”
“As usual when discussing sex,” Myron replied, “you’ve missed the point.”
“Which is?”
“How would they have hooked up in the first place?”
Win steepled his fingers again, bouncing the tips against his nose. “Ah,” he said.
“Right, ah. Here’s a woman who’s been living underground for more than twenty years. She’s traveled all over the world, probably never staying in
one spot for very long. She was in Arizona robbing a bank two months ago. She’s working as a waitress in a tiny diner on Dyckman Street. How does this woman hook up with Greg Downing?”
“Difficult,” Win allowed, “but not impossible. There is plenty of evidence to support that.”
“Like?”
Win motioned to the computer screen. “This e-mail is talking about last Saturday night, for one—the same night Greg and Liz Gorman met in a New York City bar.”
“In a dive bar,” Myron corrected. “Why there? Why not go to a hotel or her place?”
“Perhaps because it is out of the way. Perhaps, as you implied, Liz Gorman would want to keep out of the public eye. Such a bar might be a good alternative.” He stopped steepling and lightly drummed his fingers on the desk. “But you, my friend, are forgetting something else.”
“What?”
“The woman’s clothes in Greg’s house,” Win said. “Your investigation has led us to conclude that Downing has a lover he was keeping secret. The question, of course is: why? Why would he work so hard to keep a love affair clandestine? One possible explanation is that the secret love was the infamous Liz Gorman.”
Myron wasn’t sure what to think. Audrey had seen Greg at a restaurant with a woman that did not fit Liz Gorman’s description. But what did that mean? It might have been another date. It might have been something innocent. It might have been a side affair, who knows? Still, Myron had trouble buying a romantic entanglement involving Greg Downing and Liz Gorman. Something about it just didn’t wash. “There must be a way of tracing down this screen name and finding out the user’s real identity,” he said. “Let’s make sure it checks back to Liz Gorman or one of her aliases.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I don’t have any contacts with America Online, but someone we know must.” Win reached behind him. He opened up the paneled door on his minifridge. He tossed Myron a can of Yoo-Hoo and poured himself a Brooklyn Lager. Win never drank beer, only lager. “Greg’s money has been difficult to locate,” he said. “I’m not sure there is very much.”
“That would fit into what Emily said.”
“However,” Win continued, “I did find one major withdrawal.”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars in cash. It took some time because it came out of an account that Martin Felder holds for him.”
“When did he withdraw it?”
“Four days before he disappeared,” Win said.
“Paying off a gambling debt?”
“Perhaps.”
Win’s phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Articulate. Okay, put it through.” Two seconds later he handed the phone to Myron.
“For me?” Myron asked.
Win gave him flat eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m handing you the phone because it’s too heavy for me.”
Everyone’s a wiseass. Myron took the phone. “Hello?”
“I got a squad car downstairs.” It was Dimonte in full bark. “Get your ass in it now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m at fucking Downing’s house, that’s what’s wrong. I had to practically suck off a judge to get the warrant.”
“Nice imagery, Rolly.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Bolitar. You said there was blood in the house.”
“In the basement,” Myron corrected.
“Well, I’m in the basement right now,” he countered. “And it’s as clean as a baby’s ass.”
Chapter 21
The basement was indeed clean. No blood anywhere.
“There’s got to be traces,” Myron said.
Dimonte’s toothpick looked like it was about to snap between his clenched teeth. “Traces?”
“Yeah. With a microscope or something.”
“With a …” Dimonte flapped his arms, his face crimson. “What the hell good is traces going to do me? They don’t prove a damn thing. You can’t test traces.”
“It’ll prove there was blood.”
“So what?” he shouted. “You go through any house in America with a microscope and you’re bound to find traces of blood. Who the fuck cares?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Rolly. The blood was there.”
There were maybe five lab cops—no uniforms, no marked cars—going through the house. Krinsky was there too. The video-camera in his hand was off right now. He also had what looked like manila files jammed into his armpit. Myron motioned to them. “That the coroner’s report?”
Roland Dimonte stepped in to block Myron’s view. “That ain’t none of your business, Bolitar.”
“I know about Liz Gorman, Rolly.”
The toothpick hit the floor on that one. “How the hell …?”
“It’s not important.”
“The fuck it ain’t. What else do you know? If you’re holding out on me, Bolitar—”
“I’m not holding out on you, but I think I can help.”
Dimonte narrowed his eyes. Señor Suspicious. “Help how?”
“Just tell me Gorman’s blood type. That’s all I want to know. Her blood type.”
“Why the hell should I?”
“Because you’re not a total numb nut, Rolly.”
“Don’t give me that shit. Why do you want to know?”
“Remember I told you about finding blood in the basement?” Myron said.
“Yeah.”
“I left something out.”
Dimonte gave him the glare. “What?”
“We tested some of the blood.”
“We? Who the fuck is …” His voice trailed off. “Oh Christ, don’t tell me that psycho-yuppie is in on all this?”
To know Win was to love him. “I’d like to make a little trade.”
“What kind of trade?”
“You tell me the blood type in the report. I tell you the blood type we found in the basement.”
“Fuck you, Bolitar. I can arrest your ass for tampering with evidence in a police investigation.”
“What tampering? There was no investigation.”
“I could still nail your ass for breaking and entering.”
“If you could prove it. And if Greg were around to press charges. Look, Rolly—”
“AB positive,” Krinsky said. He ignored Dimonte’s renewed glare and continued. “It’s fairly rare. Four percent of the populace.”
They both turned their attention to Myron. Myron nodded. “AB positive. It’s the same.”
Dimonte put up both hands and scrunched his face into perplexed. “Whoa, hold up here. Just what the fuck are you trying to say? That she was killed down here and moved?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Myron said.
“Cause we didn’t see any evidence of the body being moved,” Dimonte went on. “None at all. Not that we were looking for it. But the bleeding pattern—I mean, if she was killed down here, there wouldn’t have been so much blood like that at her apartment. You saw the mess there, right?”
Myron nodded.
Dimonte’s eyes darted aimlessly. Myron could practically see the gears inside his head grinding to a halt. “You know what that means, don’t you, Bolitar?”
“No, Rolly, why don’t you enlighten me?”
“It means the killer came back here after the murder. It’s the only explanation. And you know who all this is starting to point to? Your pal Downing. First we found his fingerprints in the victim’s apartment—”
“What’s this?”
Dimonte nodded. “That’s right. Downing’s fingerprints were by the door frame.”
“But not inside?”
“Yeah, inside. Inside the door frame.”
“But nowhere else?”
“What the hell’s the difference? The fingerprints prove he was at the scene. What more do you need? Anyway, here’s how it must have happened.” He stuck a new toothpick in his mouth. New toothpick for a new theory. “Downing kills her. He comes back to his house to pack or something. He’s in a rush so he leaves a little mess in the b
asement. Then he runs away. A few days later he comes back and cleans it up.”
Myron shook his head. “Why come down to the basement in the first place?”
“The laundry room,” Dimonte answered. “He was coming down here to wash his clothes.”
“The laundry room is upstairs off the kitchen,” Myron said.
Dimonte shrugged. “So maybe he was getting a suitcase.”
“They’re in the bedroom closet. This is just a kids’ playroom, Rolly. Why did he come down here?”
That stopped Dimonte for a moment. It stopped Myron too. None of this made much sense. Had Liz Gorman been killed here and dragged to her apartment in Manhattan? That didn’t seem to make much sense based on the physical evidence. Could she have been injured down here?
Whoa, hold the phone.
Maybe the attack started here. Maybe there had been a scuffle in the basement. In the course of subduing or knocking her out, blood was spilled. But then what? Did the killer stick her in a car and drive to Manhattan? And then—what?—on a fairly active street, the killer parked a car, dragged her injured body up the stairs, entered her apartment, killed her?
Did that make any sense?
From the first level a voice cried down, “Detective! We found something! Quick!”
Dimonte wet his lips. “Turn on the video,” he told Krinsky. Videotaping all the relevant moments. Just like Myron had told him. “Stay here, Bolitar. I don’t want to have to explain your ugly mug being on the film.”
Myron followed but at a discreet distance. Krinsky and Dimonte headed up the stairs into the kitchen. They turned left. The laundry room. Vinyl yellow wallpaper with white chicks blanketed all four walls. Emily’s taste? Probably not. Knowing Emily she’d probably never even seen the inside of a laundry room.
“Over here,” someone said. Myron stayed back. He could see that the dryer had been pushed away from the wall. Dimonte bent down and looked behind it. Krinsky arched over to make sure the whole thing was being filmed. Dimonte stood back up. He was trying like hell to look grim—a smile wouldn’t look good on film—but he was having a rough time of it. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and lifted the item into view.
