by Harlan Coben
"Did Ms. Mills show you an ID?" he asked.
"Yes," Dorfman replied. "But it was stamped 'Retired.' "
"And she was with Dr. Seidman?"
"Yes."
"They arrived together."
"I think so. I mean, yes, when they came in here, they were together."
Tickner nodded. "What did they want?"
"A password. For a CDROM."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"They claimed that they had a CD-ROM we provided to a client. Our CDs are password protected. They wanted us to give them the password."
"Did you?"
Dorfman looked properly shocked. "Of course not. We had a call put in to your agency. They explained to us ... well, they never quite explained to us anything really. They just stressed that we should not cooperate with Agent Mills in any way."
"Ex-agent," Tickner said.
How? Tickner wondered. How the hell had Rachel Mills hooked up with Seidman? He had tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. Unlike his fellow agents, he had known her, had seen her in action. She'd been a good agent, maybe even a great one. But now he wondered. He wondered about the timing. He wondered about her being here. He wondered about her flashing her badge and trying to apply pressure.
"Did they tell you how they came by this CDROM?"
"They claimed that it belonged to Dr. Seidman's wife."
"Does it?"
"I believe so, yes."
"Are you aware that his wife died more than a year and a half ago, Mr. Dorfman?"
"I know that now."
"But you didn't when they were here?"
"Right."
"Why did Seidman wait eighteen months to ask for the password?"
"He didn't say."
"Did you ask?"
Dorfman shifted in his seat. "No."
Tickner smiled, buddy-to-buddy. "No reason you should," he said, faux-genteel. "Did you give them any information at all?"
"None."
"You didn't tell them why Mrs. Seidman hired your agency in the first place?"
"That's correct."
"Okay, very good." Tickner leaned forward, his elbows on his knees now. He was about to ask another question when his cell phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, reaching into his pocket.
"Is this going to take much longer?" Dorfman asked. "I have plans."
He didn't even bother responding. Rising, he put the phone to his ear. "Tickner."
"It's Agent O'Malley," the young kid said.
"Did you find anything?"
"Oh yeah."
"I'm listening."
"We checked the phone records going back three years. Seidman never called her--at least, not from his house or office--until today."
"Am I about to hear a but?"
"You are. But Rachel Mills called him--once."
"When?"
"June two years ago."
Tickner did the math. That would have been about three months before the murder and kidnapping. "Anything else?"
"Something big, I think. I had one of our agents check Rachel's apartment in Falls Church. He's still poking around, but guess what he found in her night-table drawer?"
"Does this look like a quiz show, O'Ryan?"
"O'Malley."
Tickner rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What did the agent find?"
"A prom photo."
"What?"
"I mean, I don't know if it's from the prom exactly. It's some kind of old formal. Photo gotta be fifteen, twenty years old. She's wearing her hair in some flip-style and she's got one of those flower bands on her arm. What do you call those?"
"A corsage?"
"Right."
"What the hell does this have to do with--"
"The guy in the picture."
"What about him?"
"Our agent is sure. The guy she's with--her date, I mean--is our own Dr. Seidman."
Tickner felt the thrum rush through him. "Keep digging," he said. "Call me when you get more."
"On it."
He hung up the phone. Rachel and Seidman went to a prom together? What the hell was going on? She was from Vermont, if he remembered correctly. Seidman lived in New Jersey. They didn't go to high school together. How about college? They'd have to look into it.
"Something wrong?"
Tickner turned. It was Dorfman. "Let me see if I have this straight, Mr. Dorfman. This CD-ROM belonged to Monica Seidman?"
"That's what we were told, yes."
"Yes or no, Mr. Dorfman."
He cleared his throat. "We believe the answer is yes."
"So she was a client here?"
"Yes, that we've been able to confirm."
"So to sum up, a murder victim was a client of yours."
Silence.
"Her name was in every paper in the state," Tickner went on, giving him the hard stare. "How come you never came forward?"
"We didn't know."
Tickner kept with the hard stare.
"The guy who handled that case is no longer employed by us," he added quickly. "See, he was gone by the time Mrs. Seidman was killed. So no one here put the pieces together."
Defensive. Tickner liked that. He believed him, but he didn't show it. Make the guy anxious to please.
"What was on the CD?"
"Photographs, we think."
"Think?"
"That's usually the case. Not always. We use the CD to store photographs, but there could be some scanned documents too. I really couldn't tell you."
"Why the hell not?"
He put up both hands. "Don't worry. We have a backup. But any file more than a year old is stored in the basement. The office was closed, but when I heard you were interested, I got someone to come in. He's running off the material on the backup CD right now."
"Where?"
"He's on the lower level." Dorfman checked his watch. "He should be done or just about by now. Do you want to go down and see?"
Tickner stood. "Let's rumble."
Chapter 25
"TherP dfC Still things we can do," Rachel said. "This stuff is state of the art. Even if they pat you down, we can get away with it. I have a bulletproof vest that has a pinhole camera right in the center."
"And you don't think they'll find that with a pat-down?"
"Yeah, okay, look, I know you're worried about them finding out, but let's be realistic here. There's an excellent chance this is all a setup. Don't give up the money until you see Tara. Don't get yourself stuck somewhere alone. Don't worry about the Q-Logger--if they're being up front, we'll have Tara before they can search the stacks of money. I know this isn't an easy decision, Marc."
"No, you're right. I played it safe last time. I think we need to take some chances. But the vest is out."
"Okay, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to be in the trunk. They may check the backseat to see if someone is lying there. The trunk will be a safer bet. I'll disconnect the wires back there so when the trunk opens, no lights will come on. I'll try to keep up with you, but I have to stay at a safe distance. Make no mistake here. I'm not Wonder Woman. I might lose you, but remember: Don't look for me. Not even casually. These guys are probably pretty good. They'll spot that."
"I understand." She was dressed totally in black. I said, "You look like you're going to do a reading in the Village."
"Kumbaya, my Lord. You ready?"
We both heard the car pull up. I looked out the window and felt my panic needle jump. "Damn," I said.
"What?"
"That's Regan, the cop on the case. I haven't seen him in more than a month." I looked at her. Her face was stark white against the black outfit. "Coincidence?"
"No coincidence," she said.
"How the hell did he find out about the ransom?"
She moved back from the window. "He's probably not here for that."
"Then what?"
"My guess would be that they got word of my involvement from MVD."
I frowned. "So?"
"No time to explain. Look, I'm going to go out to the garage and hide. He's going to ask about me. Tell him I went back to D. C. If he presses, tell him I'm an old friend and leave it at that. He's going to want to interrogate you."
"Why?"
But she was already moving away from me. "Just be firm and get him out of there. I'll wait for you by the car."
I didn't like it, but now was not the time. "Okay."
Rachel headed to the garage via the door in the den. I waited until she was out of sight. When Regan hit my front walkway, I opened the door, trying to cut him off at the pass.
Regan smiled. "Were you expecting me?" he asked.
"I heard your car."
He nodded as if I'd said something that required serious analysis. "Do you have a few moments, Dr. Seidman?"
"Actually, it's a bad time."
"Oh." Regan did not break stride. He slid past me and into my front foyer, his eyes taking in everything. "Heading out, are we?"
"What do you want, Detective?"
"Some new information has come to our attention." I waited for him to say more.
"Don't you want to know what it is?"
"Of course."
Regan had a strange, almost serene look on his face. He looked up at the ceiling, as if he were considering what color to paint it. "Where have you been today?"
"'Get out, please."
His eyes were still on the ceiling. "Your hostility surprises me." But he did not look surprised.
"You said you had some new information. If you do, say it. If not, get out. I'm not in the mood to be questioned."
He made a well-well face. "We hear that you visited a private detective agency in Newark today."
"So?"
"So what were you doing there?"
"Tell you what, Detective. I'm going to ask you to leave because I know answering your questions will bring me no closer to finding my daughter."
He looked at me. "You sure about that?"
"Kindly get the hell out of my house. Now."
"Suit yourself." Regan started for the door. When we reached it, he asked, "Where's Rachel Mills?" "Don't know."
"She's not here?"
"Nope."
"No idea at all where she could be?"
"I think she's on her way back to Washington."
"Hmm. How do you two know each other?"
"Good night, Detective."
"Okay, sure. But one last question."
I stifled a sigh. "You've watched too many episodes of Columbo, Detective."
"Indeed I have." He smiled. "But let me ask it anyway."
I spread my hands for him to go ahead.
"Do you know how her husband died?"
"He was shot," I said too quickly, and immediately regretted it. He leaned a little more into my space and kept on me.
"And do you know who shot him?"
I stood without moving.
"Do you, Marc?"
"Good night, Detective."
"She killed him, Marc. A bullet to the head at close range."
"That," I said, "is a load of bull."
"Is it? 1 mean, are you sure?"
"If she killed him, why isn't she in jail?" "Good question," Regan said, backing down the walkway. When he reached the end of the walkway, he added, "Maybe you should ask her."
Chapter 26
Regan was in the garage. She looked up at me. She suddenly looked small, I thought. And I saw fear in her face. The car trunk was open. I moved toward the driver-side door.
"What did he want?" she asked.
"What you said."
"He knew about the CD?"
"He knew we'd been at MVD. He didn't say anything about the CD."
I slid into the car. She let it drop. Now was not the time to raise any new issues. We both knew that. But again I questioned my judgment here. My wife had been murdered. So had my sister. Someone had tried very hard to kill me. Stripping it bare, I was trusting a woman I really didn't know. I was trusting her not only with my life, but with my daughter's. How stupid when you think about it. Lenny had been right. It was not so simple. In truth, I had no idea who she was or what she'd become. I had deluded myself into making her something she might not be, and now I wondered what it might cost me.
Her voice cut through my haze. "Marc?"
"What?"
"I still think you should wear the bulletproof vest."
"No."
My tone was firmer than I'd wanted. Or maybe not. Rachel climbed into the trunk and closed it. I put the duffel bag with the money on the seat next to me. I hit the garage-door opener under the sun-visor and started the car.
We were on our way.
When Tickner was nine years old, his mother bought him a book of optical illusions. You'd look at a drawing of, say, an old lady with a big nose. You'd look a little longer and then, poof, it appeared now to be a young woman with her head turned. Tickner had loved the book. When he got a little older, he moved on to those Magic Eyes, staring for however long it took for the horsey or whatever to appear in the swirling colors. Sometimes it would take a long time. You'd even start to wonder if there was anything there at all. And then, suddenly, the image surfaced.
That was what was happening here.
There were moments in a case, Tickner knew, that altered everything-- just like those old optical illusions. You are viewing one reality and then, with a gentle tilt, reality changes. Nothing is as it appeared.
He had never really bought the conventional theories on the Seid man murder-kidnapping. They all felt too much like reading a book with missing pages.
Over the years, Tickner had not dealt with that many murders. They were, for the most part, left to the local cops. But he knew plenty of homicide investigators. The best ones were always off center, overly theatrical, ridiculously imaginative. Tickner had heard them talk about a point in the case where the victim "reaches out" from the grave. The victim "talks" to them somehow, pointing them toward the killer. Tickner would listen to his nonsense and nod politely. It always sounded like a load of hyperbole, just one of those meaningless things cops say because the general public laps it up.
The printer still whirred. Tickner had seen twelve photos already.
"How many more?" he asked.
Dorfman looked at the computer screen. "Six more."
"Same as these?"
"Pretty much, yeah. I mean, same person."
Tickner stared down at the photographs. Yes, the same person was featured in all of them. They were all in black and white, all taken without the subject knowing, probably from a distance with a zoom lens.
The reach-from-the-grave stuff--it no longer sounded so silly. Monica Seidman had been dead for eighteen months. Her murderer had gone free. And now, with all hope lost, she seemed to have risen from the dead to point a finger. Tickner looked again and tried to understand.
The subject of the pictures, the person Monica Seidman was pointing at, was Rachel Mills.
When you take the eastern spur of the New Jersey Turnpike north, the night skyline of Manhattan beckons. Like most people who see it nearly every day, I used to take it for granted. No more. For a while afterward, I thought I could still see the Towers. It was as though they were bright lights I'd stared at for a long time, so that even when I closed my eyes, their images were still there, imbedded. But like any sunspot, the images eventually began to fade. It is different now. When I drive this route, I still make myself look for them. Even tonight. But sometimes I forget precisely where those towers stood. And that angers me more than I can express.
Out of habit, I took the lower level of the George Washington Bridge. There was no traffic at this hour. I drove through the E-Z Pass. I had managed to keep myself distracted. I flipped stations between two talk radio shows. One was a sports station where lots of guys named Vinny from Bayside called up and complained about inept coaches and how much better they'd be at the job. The other station featured two beyond-puerile Howard Stern rip-offs who thought it w
as funny for a college freshman to call his mother and tell her he had testicular cancer. Both were, if not entertaining, mildly distracting.
Rachel was in the trunk, which was totally weird if I thought about it. I reached for the cell phone and flipped on the two-way radio feature. My ringer pressed down on the call button and almost instantly I heard the robotic voice say, "Take the Henry Hudson north."
I put the phone to mouth, walkie-talkie style. "Okay."
"Tell me the moment you get on the Hudson."
"Right."
I got into the left lane. I knew the way. This area was familiar to me. I had done a fellowship at New York Presbyterian, which resided about ten blocks south. Zia and I had roomed with a cardiac resident named Lester in an Art Deco building at the tail end of Fort Washington Avenue in upper, upper Manhattan. When I lived here, this section of the city was known as the far northern point of Washington Heights. Now I had noticed several realtors redubbing it "Hudson Heights" so as to differentiate it, in both substance and cost, from its lower-class roots.
"Okay, I'm on the Hudson," I said.
"Take your next exit."
"Fort Try on Park?"
"Yes."
Again I knew it. Fort Tryon floats cloudlike high above the Hudson River. It is a quiet and restful jagged cliff, New Jersey on its west, Riverdale-Bronx on its east. The park is a mishmash of terrains-- walkways of harsh stone, fauna from a bygone era, terraces of stone, nooks and crannies of cement and brick, thick brush, rocky slopes, open grass. I had spent plenty of summer days on her green lawns, adorned in shorts and T-shirt, Zia and unread medical books my companions. My favorite time here: summer, right before dark. The orange glow bathing the park in something almost ethereal.
I put on my blinker and glided onto the exit ramp. There were no cars and few lights. The park was closed at night, but the roadway stayed open for through traffic. My car chugged up the steep road and entered what felt like a medieval fortress. The Cloisters, a former quasi French monastery that was now part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, held middle ground. It houses a fabulous collection of medieval artifacts. Or so I'm told. I've been in this park a hundred times. I've never been inside the Cloisters.
It was, I thought, a smart place for a ransom drop--dark, quiet, filled with serpentine trails, stone cliffs, sudden drops, thick woods, paved and unpaved walks. You could get lost here. You could hide here for a very long time and never be found.
The robotic voice asked, "Are you there yet?"
"I'm in Fort Tryon, yes."
"Park near the cafe. Get out and walk up to the circle."
Riding in the trunk was noisy and jarring. Rachel had brought a padded blanket, but there was not much she could do about the noise. A flashlight stayed in her satchel. She had no interest in turning it on. Rachel had never minded the dark.
