by Harlan Coben
Grace tried to take this in. "Someone is spying on us?"
"Yup."
"Who?"
"No idea. I don't think it's the cops. It's a little too amateur for that. My boys have given the rest of the house a quick sweep. Nothing else so far."
"How long . . ." She tried to comprehend what he was telling her. "How long has the camera and--listening device, did you say?--how long have they been here?"
"No way to know. That's why I dragged you out here. So we could talk freely. I know you've been hit with a lot, but you're ready to deal with this now?"
She nodded, though her head was swimming.
"Okay, first off. The equipment. It's not all that sophisticated. It only has a range of maybe a hundred feet. If it's a live feed, it goes to a van or something. Have you noticed any vans parked on the street for long periods of time?"
"No."
"I didn't think so. It probably just goes to a video recorder."
"Like a VCR?"
"Exactly like a VCR."
"And it has to be within a hundred feet of the house?"
"Yep."
She looked around as if it might be in the garden. "How often would they need to change tape?"
"Every twenty-four hours tops."
"Any idea where it is?"
"Not yet. Sometimes they keep the recorder in the basement or garage. They probably have access to the house, so they can fetch the tape and put in a new one."
"Wait a second. What do you mean, they have access to the house?"
He shrugged. "They got that camera and bug in somehow, right?"
The rage was back now, rising, smoldering behind her eyes. Grace started looking at her neighbors. Access to the house. Who had access to the house? she asked herself. And a small voice replied . . .
Cora.
Uh-uh, no way. Grace shook it off. "So we need to find that recorder."
"Yes."
"And then we wait and watch," she said. "We see who picks up the tape."
"That's one way of doing it," Cram said.
"You have a better suggestion?"
"Not really."
"Then, what, we follow the guy, see where it leads?"
"That's a possibility."
"But . . . ?"
"It's risky. We could lose him."
"What would you do?"
"If it were up to me, I'd grab him. I'd ask him some hard questions."
"And if he refused to answer?"
Cram still wore the sea-predator smile. It was always a horrific sight, this man's face, but Grace was getting used to it. She also realized that he was not intentionally scaring her; whatever had been done to his mouth had made that become his permanent, natural expression. It spoke volumes, that face. It rendered her question rhetorical.
Grace wanted to protest, to tell him that she was civil and that they would handle this legally and ethically. But instead she said, "They threatened my daughter."
"So they did."
She looked at him. "I can't do what they asked. Even if I wanted to. I can't just walk away and leave it alone."
He said nothing.
"I have no choice, do I? I have to fight them."
"I don't see any other way."
"You knew that all along."
Cram cocked his head to the right. "So did you."
His cell phone went off. Cram flipped it open but did not speak, not even a hello. A few seconds later he snapped the phone shut and said, "Someone is pulling up the drive."
She looked out the screen door. A Ford Taurus came to a stop. Scott Duncan stepped out and approached the house.
"You know him?" Cram asked.
"That," she said, "is Scott Duncan."
"The guy who lied about working for the U.S. attorney?" Grace nodded.
"Maybe," Cram said, "I'll stick around."
* * *
They remained outside. Scott Duncan stood next to Grace. Cram had stepped away. Duncan kept sneaking glances at Cram. "Who is that?"
"You don't want to know."
Grace gave Cram a look. He got the hint and headed back inside. She and Scott Duncan were alone now.
"What do you want?" she asked.
Duncan picked up on her tone. "Something wrong, Grace?"
"I'm just surprised you got out of work already. I figured it'd be busier at the U.S. attorney's office."
He said nothing.
"Cat got your tongue, Mr. Duncan?"
"You called my office."
She touched her nose with her pointer, indicating a direct hit. Then: "Oh wait, correction: I called the United States attorney's office. Apparently you don't work there."
"It's not what you think."
"How enlightening."
"I should have told you up front."
"Do tell."
"Look, everything I said was true."
"Except the part about working for the United States attorney. I mean, that wasn't true, was it? Or was Ms. Goldberg lying?"
"Do you want me to explain or not?"
Now his voice had a little steel. Grace gestured for him to continue.
"What I told you was true. I worked there. Three months ago this killer, this Monte Scanlon, he insisted on seeing me. No one could understand why. I was a low-level lawyer on political corruption. Why would a hit man insist on talking only to me? That was when he told me."
"That he killed your sister."
"Yes."
She waited. They moved toward the porch furniture and sat down. Cram stood in a window watching them. He let his gaze wander toward Scott Duncan, hang there for a few heavy seconds, survey the grounds, go back to Duncan.
"He looks familiar," Duncan said, gesturing toward Cram. "Or maybe I'm flashing back to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World. Shouldn't he have an eye patch?"
Grace shifted in her seat. "You were telling me about why you lied?"
Duncan ran his hand through the sandy hair. "When Scanlon said the fire was no accident . . . You can't understand what it did to me. I mean, one moment my life was one thing. The next . . ." He snapped his finger with a magician's flourish. "It wasn't so much that everything was different now--it was more like the past fifteen years had all been different. Like someone had gone back in time and changed one event and it changed everything else. I wasn't the same guy. I wasn't a guy whose sister died in a tragic fire. I was a guy whose sister had been murdered and never avenged."
"But now you have the killer," Grace said. "He confessed."
Duncan smiled, but there was no joy there. "Scanlon said it best. He was just a weapon. Like a gun. I wanted the person who pulled the trigger. It became an obsession. I tried to do it part-time, you know, work my job while searching for the killer. But I started to neglect my cases. So my boss, she strongly suggested I take a leave." He looked up at her.
"Why didn't you just tell me?"
"I didn't think it would be a great opening line, you know, telling you I was forced out like that. I still have connections in the office. I still have friends in law enforcement. But just so we're clear, everything I'm doing is off the books."
Their eyes locked. Grace said, "You're still holding something back."
He hesitated.
"What is it?"
"We should get one thing straight." Duncan stood, did the run through the sandy hair bit again, turned away from her. "Right now we're both trying to find your husband. It's a temporary alliance. The truth is, we have separate agendas. I won't lie to you. What happens after we find Jack, well, do we both want the truth?"
"I just want my husband."
He nodded. "That's what I mean about separate agendas. About our alliance being temporary. You want your husband. I want my sister's killer."
He looked at her now. She understood.
"So now what?" Grace asked.
He took out the mystery photograph and held it up. There was a hint of a smile on his face.
"What?"
Scott Duncan sai
d, "I know the name of the redhead in the photograph." She waited.
"Her name is Sheila Lambert. Attended Vermont University the same time as your husband"--he pointed at Jack and then slid his finger to the right--"and Shane Alworth."
"Where is she now?"
"That's just the thing, Grace. No one knows."
She closed her eyes. A shudder ran through her.
"I sent the photograph up to the school. A retired dean identified her. I ran a full check, but she's gone. There is no sign of Sheila Lambert's existence over the past decade--no payroll tax, no social security number hit, nothing."
"Just like with Shane Alworth."
"Exactly like Shane."
Grace tried to put it together. "Five people in the photograph. One, your sister, was murdered. Two others, Shane Alworth and Sheila Lambert, haven't been heard of in years. The fourth, my husband, ran overseas and is missing now. And the last one, well, we still don't know who she is."
Duncan nodded.
"So where do we go from here?"
"You remember I said I talked to Shane Alworth's mother?"
"The one with the fuzzy Amazonian geography."
"When I visited her the first time, I didn't know about this picture or your husband or any of that. I want to show her the picture now. I want to gauge her reaction. And I want you there."
"Why?"
"I just have a feeling, that's all. Evelyn Alworth is an old woman. She's emotional and I think she's scared. I went in there the first time as an investigator. Maybe, I don't know, but maybe if you go in as a concerned mother, something will shake loose."
Grace hesitated. "Where does she live?"
"A condo in Bedminster. Shouldn't take us more than thirty minutes to get there."
Cram came back into view. Scott Duncan nodded toward him.
"So what's with that scary guy?" Duncan asked.
"I can't go with you now."
"Why not?"
"I have the kids. I can't just leave them here."
"Bring them along. There's a playground right there. We won't take long."
Cram came to the door now. He beckoned with his hand for Grace. She said, "Excuse me" and headed toward Cram. Scott Duncan stayed where he was.
"What is it?" she asked Cram.
"Emma. She's upstairs crying."
Grace found her daughter in classic cry position--facedown on her bed, pillow over her head. The sound was muted. It had been a while since Emma had cried like this. Grace sat on the edge of the bed. She knew what was coming. When Emma could speak, she asked where Daddy was. Grace told her that he was on a business trip. Emma said that she didn't believe her. That it was a lie. Emma demanded to know the truth. Grace repeated that Jack was just on a business trip. That everything was fine. Emma pushed. Where was he? Why hadn't Daddy called? When was he coming home? Grace made up rationales that sounded pretty believable in her ears--he was really busy, he was traveling in Europe, London right now, didn't know how long he'd be gone, he had called but Emma had been sleeping, remember that London is in a different time zone.
Did Emma buy it? Who knew?
Child-rearing experts--those namby-pamby, lobotomy-voiced Ph.D.s on cable TV--would probably tsk-tsk, but Grace was not one of those tell-kids-everything parents. Above all else a mother's job was to protect. Emma was not old enough to handle the truth. Plain and simple. Deception was a necessary part of parenting. Of course Grace could be wrong--she knew that--but the old adage is true: Kids don't come with instructions. We all mess up. Raising a child is pure impromptu.
A few minutes later she told Max and Emma to get ready. They were going for a ride. Both children grabbed their Game Boys and piled into the back of the car. Scott Duncan moved toward the passenger seat. Cram cut him off.
"Problem?" Duncan said.
"I want to talk to Ms. Lawson before you go. Stay here."
Duncan snapped a sarcastic salute. Cram gave him a look that could have held back a weather front. He and Grace stepped into the back room. Cram closed the door.
"You know you shouldn't go with him."
"Maybe not. But I have to."
Cram chewed on his lower lip. He didn't like it, but he understood. "Do you carry a purse?"
"Yes."
"Let me see it."
She showed it to him. Cram pulled a gun out of his waist. It was small, almost toylike. "This is a Glock nine-millimeter, model 26."
Grace held up her hands. "I don't want that."
"Keep it in your purse. You can also wear it in an ankle holster but you'll need long pants."
"I've never fired a gun in my life."
"Experience is overrated. You aim for the middle of the chest, you squeeze the trigger. It's not complicated."
"I don't like weapons."
Cram shook his head.
"What?"
"Maybe I'm mistaken, but didn't somebody threaten your daughter today?"
That made her pause. Cram put the gun in her purse. She did not fight him.
"How long are you going to be gone?" Cram asked.
"Couple of hours, tops."
"Mr. Vespa will be here at 7 P.M. He says it's important that he speaks to you."
"I'll be here."
"You sure you trust this Duncan guy?"
"I'm not sure. But I think we're safe with him."
Cram nodded. "Let me add a little insurance on that front."
"How?"
Cram said nothing. He escorted her back. Scott Duncan was on his cell phone. Grace did not like what she saw on Duncan's face. He finished up his call when he spotted them.
"What?"
Scott Duncan shook his head. "Can we go now?"
Cram walked toward him. Duncan did not back down, but there was definitely an understandable flinch. Cram stopped directly in front of him, stuck out his hand, wiggled his fingers. "Let me see your wallet."
"Pardon me?"
"Do I look like the kind of guy who enjoys repeating himself?"
Scott Duncan glanced at Grace. She nodded. Cram still had the fingers wiggling. Duncan handed Cram his wallet. Cram brought it over to a table and sat down. He quickly rifled through the contents, taking notes.
"What are you doing?" Duncan asked.
"While you're gone, Mr. Duncan, I'm going to learn everything about you." He looked up. "If Ms. Lawson is harmed in any way, my response will be"--Cram stopped, looked up as though searching for the word--"disproportionate. I make myself clear?"
Duncan looked at Grace. "Who the hell is this guy?"
Grace was already moving toward the door. "We'll be fine, Cram."
Cram shrugged, tossed Duncan his wallet. "Have a delightful drive."
No one talked for the first five minutes of the ride. Max and Emma used their headphones with the Game Boys. Grace had bought the headphones recently because the beeps and buzzes and Luigi shouting "Mamma Mia!" every two minutes gave her a headache. Scott Duncan sat next to her with his hands in his lap.
"So who was on the phone?" Grace asked.
"A coroner."
Grace waited.
"Remember how I told you that I had my sister's body exhumed?" he said.
"Yes."
"The police didn't really see a need for it. Too expensive. I understand, I guess. Anyway I paid for it myself. I know this person, used to work for a country M.E., who does private autopsies."
"And he's the one who called you?"
"It's a she. Her name is Sally Li."
"And?"
"And she says she needs to see me right away." Duncan looked over at her. "Her office is in Livingston. We can hit it on the way back." He turned back away. "I'd like you to come with me, if that's okay."
"To a morgue?"
"No, nothing like that. Sally does the actual autopsy work at St. Barnabas Hospital. This is just an office where she does her paperwork. There's a waiting room we can stick the kids in."
