by Harlan Coben
Wendy slid into the booth. Phil wore a lime green golf shirt with both buttons undone. Tufts of gray chest hair peeked out. He sported a half smile and a thousand-yard stare. "We had a company softball team," he said. "Years ago. When I first started. We'd come to a bar like this after the game. Sherry would come too. She would wear one of those sexy softball shirts, you know the tight white ones with dark three-quarter sleeves?"
Wendy nodded. There was a slur in his speech.
"God, she looked so beautiful."
She waited for him to say more. Most people did. The secret in any interview was the ability to not fill the silence. A few seconds passed. Then a few more. Okay, so much for silence. Sometimes you need to goose your subject too.
"Sherry is still beautiful," Wendy said.
"Oh yes." The half smile remained frozen on Phil's face. His beer was empty. His eyes were glossy, his face red from drink. "But she doesn't look at me the same anymore. Don't get me wrong. She's supportive. She loves me. She says and does all the right things. But I can see it in her eyes. I'm less of a man to her now."
Wendy wondered what to say here, what wouldn't sound patronizing, but "I'm sure that's not true" or "I'm sorry" didn't make the cut. She again opted for silence.
"Do you want a drink?" he asked.
"Sure."
"I've been pounding down Bud Lights."
"Sounds good," she said. "But let me just have a plain Budweiser."
"How about some nachos?"
"Have you eaten?"
"No."
She nodded, thinking he could use something in his stomach. "Nachos sounds like a good idea."
Phil waved over a waitress. She was dressed in a low-cut referee shirt, ergo the bar name Love the Zebra. Her name tag informed them that her name was Ariel. There was a whistle around her neck and, to complete the look, black greasepaint under her eyes. Of course, Wendy had never seen a referee with the black greasepaint, only players, but the mixed metaphor in the outfit seemed to be a mild issue at best.
They placed the order.
"You know something?" Phil said, watching the waitress leave.
Again she waited.
"I worked in a bar like this. Well, not exactly like this. It was one of those chain restaurants with a bar in the middle. You know the ones. They always have green trim and wall decorations that are supposed to reflect a more innocent time."
Wendy nodded. She knew.
"It's where I met Sherry. I worked as a bartender. She was that bubbly waitress who introduced herself right away and asked if you wanted to start with whatever appetizer corporate was pushing."
"I thought you were a rich kid."
Phil gave a half chuckle, tilted back the already-empty Bud Light to drain out the last sip. She half expected him to hit the side of the bottle. "My parents believed we should work, I guess. Where were you tonight?"
"My kid's high school."
"Why?"
"A graduation orientation," she said.
"Did your kid get accepted to college yet?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
She shifted in her seat. "Why did you want to see me, Phil?"
"Was that too personal? I'm sorry."
"I'd just like to get to the point. It's late."
"I was just being contemplative, I guess. I see these kids today, and they're sold the same stupid dream we were. Study hard. Get good grades. Prepare for the SATs. Play a sport, if you can. Colleges love that. Make sure you have enough extracurricular activities. Do all these things so you can matriculate at the most prestigious school possible. It's like the first seventeen years of your life are just an audition for the Ivy Leagues."
It was true, Wendy knew. You live in any of the suburbs around here and during the high school years, the world becomes a ticker-tape parade of collegiate acceptance and rejection letters.
"And look at my old roomies," Phil went on, the slur more prominent now. "Princeton University. The creme de la creme. Kelvin was a black kid. Dan was an orphan. Steve was dirtpoor. Farley was one of eight kids--big Catholic blue-collar family. All of us made it--and all of us were insecure and unhappy. The happiest guy I knew in high school went down the road to Montclair State and dropped out his sophomore year. He still bartends. Still the most content son of a bitch I know."
The shapely young waitress dropped off the beers. "The nachos will be a few more minutes."
"No problem, dear," Phil said with a smile. It was a nice smile. A few years ago, it might have been returned, but nope, not today. Phil kept his eyes on her for maybe a second too long, though Wendy didn't think the girl noticed. Once the waitress was out of sight, Phil lifted his bottle toward Wendy. She picked up hers and clinked bottles and decided to stop this dance.
"Phil, what's the term 'scar face' mean to you?"
He tried very hard not to show anything. He frowned to buy time, even went so far as to say, "Huh?"
"Scar face."
"What about it?"
"What does it mean to you?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
"Scar face?" He scrunched up his face. "Wasn't that a movie? With Al Pacino, right?" He threw on a horrible accent and did a terrible impression: " ' Say hello to my little friend.' "
He tried to laugh it off.
"How about going on a hunt?"
"Where are you getting this from, Wendy?"
"Kelvin."
Silence.
"I saw him today."
What Phil said next surprised her. "Yeah, I know."
"How?"
He leaned forward. Behind them came a happy whoop. Someone shouted, "Go! Go!" Two Yankee runners sprinted for home off a hit to shallow center. The first made it easy. There was a throw to the plate for the second, but he slid safely under the tag. Another whoop from the partisan crowd.
"I don't understand," Phil said, "what you're trying to do."
"What do you mean?"
"That poor girl is dead. Dan is dead."
"So?"
"So it's done. It's over, right?"
She said nothing.
"What are you still after?"
"Phil, did you embezzle money?"
"What difference does that make?"
"Did you?"
"Is that what you're trying to do--prove I'm innocent?"
"In part."
"Don't help me, okay? For my sake. For your sake. For everyone's sake. Please drop this."
He looked away. His hands found the bottle, brought it up to his lips quickly; he took a deep, hard gulp. Wendy looked at him. For a moment she saw maybe what Sherry saw. He was something of a shell. Something inside of him--a light, a flicker, whatever you want to come up with--had dimmed. She remembered what Pops said, about men losing their jobs and how it affected them. There was a line in a play she saw once, about how a man who has no job can't hold his head up, can't look his kids in the eye.
His voice was an urgent hush. "Please. I need you to let this go."
"You don't want the truth?"
He started peeling the label off the beer bottle. His eyes studied his handiwork as though he were an artist working with marble. "You think they've hurt us," he said, his voice low. "They haven't. This stuff so far--it's just a slap down. If we let it go, it will all stop. If we keep pushing--if you keep pushing--it will get much, much worse."
The label came all the way off and slid toward the floor. Phil watched it fall.
"Phil?"
His eyes rose toward her.
"I don't understand what you are talking about."
"Please listen to me, okay? Listen closely. It will get worse."
"Who's going to make it worse?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Like hell it doesn't."
The young waitress appeared with nachos piled so high it looked like she was carrying a small child. She dropped it on the table and said, "Can I get you guys anything else?" They both declined. She spun and left them alone. Wendy le
aned across the table.
"Who is doing this, Phil?"
"It's not like that."
"Not like what? They may have killed a girl."
He shook his head. "Dan did that."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive." He raised his eyes to hers. "You need to trust me on this. It is over if you let it be."
She said nothing.
"Wendy?"
"Tell me what's up," she said. "I won't tell a soul. I promise. It will be just between you and me."
"Leave it alone."
"At least tell me who is behind it."
He shook his head. "I don't know."
That made her sit up. "How can you not know?"
He threw two twenties on the table and started to rise.
"Where are you going?"
"Home."
"You can't drive."
"I'm fine."
"No, Phil, you're not."
"Now?" he shouted, startling her. "Now you're interested in my well-being?"
He started to sob. In a normal bar, this might have drawn a few curious glances, but what with the blaring televisions and the focus on the games, it barely made a blip.
"What the hell is going on?" she asked.
"Drop this. Do you hear me? I'm telling you this not just for our sake--but yours too."
"Mine?"
"You're putting yourself in harm's way. Your son too."
She gripped his arm hard. "Phil?"
He tried to stand, but the drinks had weakened him.
"You just sort of threatened my kid."
"You got it backward," he said. "You're putting mine in danger."
She let go of him. "How?"
He shook his head. "You just need to leave this alone, okay? All of us do. Stop trying to reach Farley and Steve--they won't talk to you anyway. Leave Kelvin alone. There is nothing to gain here. It's over. Dan is dead. And if you keep pressing, more people will die."
Caught
Chapter 29
SHE TRIED TO PRESS PHIL for more information, but he just shut down. She ended up giving him a ride home. When she arrived back at her house, Pops and Charlie were watching TV.
"Time for bed," she said.
Pops groaned. "Aww, can't I just stay up till the end?"
"Funny."
Pops shrugged. "Not my best work, but it's late."
"Charlie?"
He kept his eyes on the screen. "I thought it was pretty funny."
Great, she thought. A comedy team. "Bed."
"Do you know what movie this is?"
She looked. "It looks like the wildly inappropriate Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle."
"Exactly," Pops said. "And in our family, we don't stop in the middle of Harold and Kumar. It's disrespectful."
He had a point, and she did love this movie. So she sat with them and laughed and for a little while she tried to forget about dead girls and possible pedophiles and Princeton roommates and threats to her son. The last one, selfish as it sounded, would not leave. Phil Turnball did not hit her as an alarmist, yet he had been willing to--again to quote the teenage vernacular--"go there."
Maybe Phil had a point. Her story had been on Dan Mercer and maybe Haley McWaid. That part of the story was indeed over. She had her job back. She had come out of the whole thing rather well, in fact--the reporter who had exposed not only a pedophile but a murderer. Follow up on that angle maybe. Work with the police to see if there were other victims.
She looked at Charlie lounging on the couch. He laughed at something Neil Patrick Harris playing Neil Patrick Harris said. She loved the sound of his laugh. What parent doesn't? She stared at him for a few more moments and thought about Ted and Marcia McWaid and how they would never hear Haley laugh again and then her mind made her stop.
When the alarm went off in the morning--seemingly after eight minutes of sleep--Wendy dragged herself out of bed. She called for Charlie. No answer. She called again. Nothing.
She hopped out of bed. "Charlie!"
Still no answer.
Panic gripped her, made it hard to breathe. "Charlie!" She ran down the corridor, her heart beating wildly against her rib cage. She turned the corner, opening the door without knocking.
He was there, of course, still in bed, the covers pulled over his head.
"Charlie!"
He groaned. "Go away."
"Get up."
"Can't I sleep in?"
"I warned you last night. Now get up."
"First period is health class. Can't I skip it? Please?"
"Get. Up. Now."
"Health class," he said again. "They teach sex stuff to us impressionable youngsters. It makes us more promiscuous. Really, I think for my moral well-being you should let me stay in bed."
She tried not to smile. "Get. The. F. Up."
"Five more minutes? Please?"
She sighed. "Okay, five more minutes. No more."
An hour and a half later, as health class ended, she drove him to school. What the heck. Senior year and he'd already been accepted to college. It was okay to coast a little, she reasoned.
When she got back home, she checked her e-mail. There was a message from Lawrence Cherston, the administrator of the Princeton class Web site. He would be "delighted" to meet with her at her "earliest convenience." His address: Princeton, New Jersey. She called him back and asked him whether they could meet today at three PM. Lawrence Cherston again said that he'd be "delighted."
After hanging up, Wendy decided to check her fake Facebook profile, Sharon Hait. Of course, whatever had spooked Phil had nothing to do with the Kirby Sennett side of the case. Then again what did this have to do with anything?
Still, no harm in checking Facebook. She signed in and was pleased to see that Kirby Sennett had friended her. Okay, good. Now what? Kirby had also sent her an invitation to a Red Bull party. She clicked the link. There was a photograph of a smiling Kirby holding up a big can of Red Bull.
There was an address and a time and a brief note from ol' Kirby. "Hi, Sharon, would love you to come!"
So much for mourning. She wondered what a Red Bull party was. Probably just that--a party that served the "energy drink" Red Bull, though maybe spiked with something stronger-but she would ask Charlie.
So now what? Should she start up a relationship, see if she could get him to open up? No. Too creepy. It was one thing to pretend you're a young girl to trap a depraved pervert. It was another for the mother of a teenage boy to pretend to be a teenager to get one of his classmates to talk.
So what was the point here?
No idea.
Her phone rang. She checked the caller ID and saw it was coming from the NTC Network office.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Wendy Tynes?" The voice was pinched and female.
"Yes."
"I'm calling from human resources and legal. We'd like you to come in today at twelve sharp."
"What's this regarding?"
"We are located on the sixth floor. Mr. Frederick Montague's office. Twelve sharp. Please don't be tardy."
Wendy frowned. "Did you just say 'tardy'?"
Click.
What on earth could this be about? And who uses the term "tardy" outside of high school? She sat back. Probably not a big deal. Probably needed to fill out some paperwork now that she'd been rehired. Still, why does HR always have to be so damn officious?
She considered her next move. Last night she had learned that Jenna Wheeler had moved into a nearby Marriott. Time to put on her reporter hat and figure out where. She checked online. The three closest Marriott Courtyards were in Secaucus, Paramus, and Mahwah. She called the Secaucus one first.
"Could you patch me through to a guest named Wheeler, please?"
She figured that they wouldn't think to check in under a pseudonym.
The operator asked for a spelling. Wendy gave it.
"We have no guest by that name."
She hung up and tried Paramus next. Again she asked for a gues
t named Wheeler. Three seconds later, the operator said, "Please hold while I connect you."
Bingo.
The phone was picked up on the third ring. Jenna Wheeler said, "Hello?"
Wendy hung up and headed to her car. The Marriott Courtyard in Paramus was only ten minutes away. Better to do this in person. When Wendy was only two minutes away she called the room again.
Jenna's voice was more tentative this time. "Hello?"
"It's Wendy Tynes."
"What do you want?"
"To meet."
"I don't want to meet."
"I'm not looking to hurt you or your family, Jenna."
"Then leave us alone."
Wendy pulled the car into the Courtyard's parking lot. "No can do."
"I've got nothing to say to you."
She found a spot, pulled in, turned off the engine. "Too bad. Come down. I'm in the lobby. I'm not leaving until you do."
Wendy hung up. The Paramus Marriott Courtyard was scenically located on both Route 17 and the Garden State Parkway. Room views featured either a P. C. Richard electronics store or a window-less warehouse store called Syms, with a quasi-bragging sign that read: AN EDUCATED CONSUMER IS OUR BEST CUSTOMER.
A vacation spot this was not.
Wendy entered the hotel. She waited in a lobby of beige--a sea of beige walls really, countered by a dull forest green carpet, a room enmeshed in the blandest of bland colors, hues so plain they screamed that the hotel was competent and fine, but expect absolutely no frills. Issues of USA Today were scattered about the coffee table. Wendy glanced at the headline and checked out a reader survey.
Jenna appeared five minutes later. She wore an oversize sweat-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, making her already-high cheekbones look sharp enough to slice.
"Did you come here to gloat?" Jenna asked.
"Yes, Jenna, that's exactly why I came here. I was sitting at home this morning, thinking about a dead girl found in the woods, and I said to myself, 'You know what would be great right now? The icing on the cake? A little gloating.' So that's why I'm here. Oh, and after this I'm going to go to the pound to kick a puppy."
Jenna sat down. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
Wendy thought about last night, about something as inane as Project Graduation, and how Jenna and Noel Wheeler should have been there, how much they probably wished now that they could have attended. "I'm sorry too. I imagine this has all been hard on you."
