by Harlan Coben
"Or what? Marc, we don't have time for this."
"His dental work."
"What about it?"
"Look at his crowns. They're tin cans."
"They're what?"
I lifted my head. "On his upper right molar and upper left cuspid. See, our crowns used to be made of gold, though most are now porcelain. Your dentist makes a mold so you can get an exact fitting. But this is just an aluminum, ready-made cap. You put it over the teeth and squeeze it on with pliers. I did two oral rotations overseas, mostly dealing with reconstruction, but I saw lots of mouths with these things in them. They call them tin cans. And they don't do it here in the USA, except maybe as a temporary."
She took a knee next to me. "He's foreign?"
I nodded. "I'd bet he's from the old Soviet bloc, something like that. The Balkans, maybe."
"That would make sense," she said. "Whatever prints they'd find they'd send down to NCIC. Same with any sort of face ID. Our files and computers wouldn't pick him up. Hell, it'll take the police forever to ID him unless someone comes forward."
"Which probably won't happen."
"My God, that's why they killed him. They know that we won't be able to trace him back."
The sirens sounded. Our eyes locked.
"You got a choice to make here, Marc. We stay, we're going to jail. They'll think he was part of our plot and we killed him. My guess is, the kidnappers knew that. Your neighbors will claim it was quiet until we drove up. Suddenly there's shrieking tires and gunfire. I'm not saying that we won't be able to explain it eventually."
"But it will take time," I said.
"Yes."
"And whatever opening we have here, it will close. The cops will pursue it their own way. Even if they can help, even if they believe us, they'll make a lot of noise."
"One more thing," she said.
"What?"
"The kidnappers set us up. They knew about the Q-Logger."
"We figured that out already."
"But now I'm wondering, Marc. How did they find it?"
I looked up, remembering the warning in the ransom note. "A leak?"
"I wouldn't rule it out anymore."
We both started toward the car. I put my hand on her arm. She was still bleeding. Her eye was almost swollen shut now. I looked at her, and again something primitive took over: I wanted to protect her. "If we run, it'll make us look guilty," I said. "I don't mind that--I don't have anything to lose here--but what about you?"
Her voice was soft. "I don't have anything to lose either."
"You need a doctor," I said.
Rachel almost smiled. "Aren't you one?"
"True enough."
There was no time to discuss the pros and cons. We had to act. We got into Zia's car. I swerved it around and headed out the back way, the Woodland Road exit. Thoughts--rational, clear thoughts--were startin g to filter in now. When I really considered where we were and what we were doing, the truth nearly crushed me. I almost pulled over. Rachel saw it.
"What?" she said.
"Why are we running?"
"I don't understand."
"We hoped to find my daughter or at least who did this to her. We said there was a small opening."
"Yes."
"But don't you see? The opening, if there ever really was one, is gone. That guy back there is dead. We know he's foreign, but so what? We don't know who he is. We've reached a dead end. We don't have any other clues."
There was suddenly a trace of mischief on Rachel's face. She reached into her pocket and pulled something into a view. A cell phone. It wasn't mine. It wasn't hers. "Maybe," she said, "we do."
Chapter 34
"First thing/' RdChel said, "we need to get rid of this car."
"The car," I said, shaking my head at the damage. "If this search doesn't kill me, Zia will."
Rachel managed another smile. We were in the zone now, so deep in, so far past scared that we had found a little quiet. I debated where we should go, but really there was only one alternative.
"Lenny and Cheryl," I said.
"What about them?"
"They live four blocks from here."
It was five in the morning. Dark had begun to surrender to the inevitable. I dialed Lenny's home number and hoped that he hadn't gone back to the hospital. He answered on the first ring and barked a hello.
"I got a problem," I said.
"I hear sirens."
"That would be part of the problem."
"The police called me," he said. "After you took off."
"I need your help."
"Is Rachel with you?" he asked.
"Yes."
There was an awkward silence. Rachel riddled with the dead man's cell phone. I had no idea what she was looking for. Then Lenny said, "What are you trying to do here, Marc?"
"Find Tara. Are you going to help me or not?"
Now there was no hesitation. "What do you need?"
"To hide the car we're using and borrow another."
"And then what are you going to do?"
I turned the car to the right. "We'll be there in a minute. I'll try to explain it to you then."
Lenny wore a pair of old gray sweatpants, the kind with the tie waist, a pair of slippers, and a Big Dog T-shirt. He pressed a button and the garage door slid to a smooth close as soon as we entered. Lenny looked exhausted, but then again, I don't think Rachel and I were ready for our close-ups either.
When Lenny saw the blood on Rachel, he took a step back. "What the hell happened?"
"Do you have any bandages?" I asked.
"Cabinet over the kitchen sink."
Rachel still had the cell phone in her hand. "I need to get on the Internet," she said.
"Look," Lenny said, "we have to discuss this."
"Discuss it with him," Rachel said. "I need Web access."
"In my office. You know where it is."
Rachel hurried inside. I followed, staying in the kitchen. She continued on to the den. We both knew this house well. Lenny stayed with me. They had recently renovated the kitchen into something French Farmesque and added a second refrigerator because four kids ate like four kids. The fronts of both fridges were overloaded with artwork and family photos and a brightly colored alphabet. The new one had one of those magnetic poetry sets. The words I STAND alone around the sea ran down the handle. I started going through the cabinet over the sink.
"You want to tell me what's going on?"
I found Cheryl's first aid kit and pulled it out. "There was a shooting at our house."
I gave him the bare bones, opening the first aid kit and checking the supplies. There'd be enough in here for now. I finally glanced at him. Lenny just gaped at me. "You ran away from a murder scene?"
"If I stayed, what would have happened?"
"The police would have picked you up."
"Exactly."
He shook his head and kept his voice low. "They don't think you did it anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"They think it was Rachel."
I blinked, not sure how to react.
"Has she explained those photos to you?"
"Not yet," I said. Then, "I don't understand. How did they figure it was Rachel?"
Lenny rapidly outlined a theory involving jealousy and rage and my forgetting key moments before the shooting. I stood there too stunned to respond. When I did, I said, "That's nuts."
Lenny did not reply.
"That guy with the flannel shirt just tried to kill us."
"And what ended up happening to him?"
"I told you. Someone else was with him. He was shot." "You saw someone else?"
"No. Rachel..." I saw where he was going. "Come on, Lenny. You know better."
"I want to know about those photos on the CD, Marc."
"Fine, let's go ask her."
When we left the kitchen, I spotted Cheryl on the stairwell. She looked down at me, arms crossed. I don't think I had ever seen that look on her face befor
e. It made me pause. There was some blood on the carpet, probably from Rachel. On the wall was one of those studio photos of all four kids, trying to look casual in matching white turtlenecks against a white background. Children and all that white.
"I'll take care of it," Lenny told her. "You stay upstairs."
We hurried through the den. A DVD case from the latest Disney movie lay splayed on top of the television. I nearly tripped over a Wiffle Ball and plastic bat. A game of Monopoly featuring Pokemon characters was spread across the floor in midgame clutter. Someone, one of the kids I assumed, had scrawled do NOT touch A thing! on a piece of paper and laid it over the board. As we passed the fireplace mantel, I noticed that they'd recently updated the photographs. The kids were older now, in those images as in real life. But the oldest photograph, the "formal dance" image of the four of us, was gone. I don't know what that meant. Probably nothing. Or maybe Lenny and Cheryl were taking their own advice: It was time to move on.
Rachel sat at Lenny's desk, hovering over the keyboard. The blood had dried down the left side of her neck. Her ear was a mess. She glanced up when she saw us and then went back to typing. I examined her ear. Severe damage. The bullet had scraped along the upper region. It had skimmed the side of her head too. Another inch--hell, another quarter inch--and she'd probably be dead. Rachel ignored me, even when I applied the Bactine and threw on a bandage. It would be good enough for now. I'd fix it for real when we had the chance.
"Bang," Rachel said suddenly. She smiled and hit a key. The printer began to whir. Lenny nodded toward me. I put the finishing touches on the bandage and said, "Rachel?"
She looked up at me.
"We need to talk," I said.
"No," she countered, "we need to get out of here. I just found us a major lead."
Lenny stayed where he was. Cheryl slipped into the room now, her arms still folded. "What lead?" I asked.
"I checked the logs on the cell phone," Rachel said.
"You can do that?"
"They're in plain view, Marc," she said, and I could hear the impatience. "The dialed and received call logs. It's pretty much standard on every phone."
"Right."
"The dial log didn't help. No numbers were listed, which means, if the guy did dial out, it was to a blocked number."
I was trying to stay with her. "Okay."
"But the received log is another story. There was only one incoming call on the list. According to the internal timer, it came in at midnight. I just checked the phone number in the reverse directory at Switchboard dot-corn. It's a residence. One Verne Dayton in Hunters ville, New Jersey."
Neither the name nor the city rang any bells. "Where is Hunters ville?"
"I MapQuested it. It's near the Pennsylvania border. I zoomed in to within a few hundred yards. The house is all by itself out there. Acres of land in the heart of Nowheresville."
The chill started in my center and spread. I turned to Lenny. "I need to borrow your car."
"Hold up a second," Lenny said. "What we need here are some answers."
Rachel stood. "You want to know about the photos on the CD."
"For starters, yes."
"It's me in the pictures. Yes, I was there. The rest is none of your business. I owe Marc an explanation, not you. What else?"
For once, Lenny didn't know what to say.
"You also want to know if I killed my husband, right?" She looked at Cheryl. "Do you think I killed Jerry?"
"I don't know what to think anymore," Cheryl said. "But I want you both out of here."
"Cheryl," Lenny said.
She shot him a look that could have downed a charging rhino. "They shouldn't have brought this to our doorstep."
"He's our best friend. He's the godfather of our son."
"Which makes it that much worse. He drags this danger into our home? Into the lives of our children?"
"Come on, Cheryl. You're exaggerating."
"No," I said. "She's right. We should get out of here now. Let me have the keys."
Rachel grabbed the sheet out of the printer. "Directions," she explained.
I nodded and looked at Lenny. His head was down. His feet rocked back and forth. Again, I thought of our childhood. "Shouldn't we call Tickner and Regan?" he said.
"And tell them what?"
"I can explain it to them," Lenny said. "If Tara is at this place"--he stopped, shook his head as if he suddenly saw how ridiculous the thought was--"they'll be better equipped to go in."
I moved right up next to him. "They found out about Rachel's tracking device."
"What?"
"The kidnappers. We don't know how. But they found it. Add it up, Lenny. The ransom note warned us that they had an inside source. First time out, they knew I'd told the cops. Second time out, they learn about the tracking device."
"That doesn't prove anything."
"Do you think I have time to look for proof?"
Lenny's face sank.
"You know I can't risk that."
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
Lenny reached into his pocket and handed me the keys. We were off.
Chapter 35
When Tickner got the call about the shooting at the Seid man residence, both men leapt to their feet. They were nearing the elevator when Tickner's cell phone rang.
A stiff, overly formal female voice said, "Special Agent Tickner?"
"Speaking."
"This is Special Agent Claudia Fisher."
Tickner knew the name. He may have even met her once or twice. "What's up?" he asked.
"Where are you right now?" she asked.
"New York Presbyterian Hospital, but I'm heading out to New Jersey."
"No," she said. "Please come down to One Federal Plaza immediately. "
Tickner checked the time. It was only five in the morning. "Now?"
"That is what immediately means, yes."
"May I ask what this is about?"
"Assistant Director in Charge Joseph Pistillo would like to see you."
Pistillo? That made him pause. Pistillo was the top agent on the East Coast. He was the boss of Tickner's boss's boss. "But I'm on the way to a crime scene."
"This isn't a request," Fisher said. "Assistant Director Pistillo is waiting. He expects you here within the half hour."
The phone went dead. Tickner lowered his hand.
"What the hell was that about?" Regan asked.
"I gotta go," Tickner said, heading down the corridor.
"Where?"
"My boss wants to see me." "Now?"
"Right now." Tickner was already halfway down the hall. "Call me when you know something."
"This isn't easy to talk about," Rachel said.
1 drove. The unanswered questions had started to gather, weighing us both down, sapping our energy. I kept my eyes on the road and waited.
"Was Lenny with you when you saw the photos?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Was he surprised by them?"
"Looked that way to me."
She settled back. "Cheryl probably wouldn't have been."
"Why's that?"
"When you asked for my number, she called to warn me."
"About what?" I asked.
"About us."
No further explanation required. "She warned me too," I said.
"When Jerry died--that was my husband's name, Jerry Camp-- when he died, let's just say it was a very hard time for me."
"I understand."
"No," she said. "Not like that. Jerry and I, we hadn't worked in a very long time. I don't know if we ever did. When I went for training at Quantico, Jerry was one of my instructors. More than that, he was a legend. One of the best agents ever. You remember that KillRoy case a few years back?"
"He was a serial killer, right?"
Rachel nodded. "That capture was mostly due to Jerry. He had one of the most distinguished records in the bureau. With me ... I don't know how it happened exactly. Or maybe I do. He was older. Something of a
father figure maybe. I loved the FBI. It was my life. Jerry had a crush on me. I was flattered. But I don't know if I ever really loved him."
She stopped. I could feel her eyes on me. I kept mine on the road.
"Did you love Monica?" she asked. "I mean, really love her?"
The muscles in my shoulder bunched. "What the hell kind of a question is that?"
She was still. Then she said, "I'm sorry. That was out of line."
The silence grew. I tried to slow my breathing. "You were telling me about the photos?"
"Yes." Rachel started fidgeting. She only wore one ring. Now she twisted and tugged at it. "When Jerry died--"
"Was shot," I interjected.
Again I could feel her eyes on me. "Was shot, yes."
"Did you shoot him?"
"This isn't good, Marc."
"What isn't?"
"You're already angry."
"I just want to know if you shot your husband."
"Let me tell it my way, okay?"
There was a touch of steel in her voice now. I backed down, gave her a suit-yourself shrug. "When he died, I pretty much lost it. I was forced to resign. Everything I had--my friends, my work, hell, my life--was wrapped in the bureau. Now it was gone. I started drinking. I sank deeper into a funk. I hit bottom. And when you hit bottom, you look for a way to bounce back up. You look for anything. You get desperate."
We slowed at an interchange.
"I'm not saying this right," she said.
I surprised myself then. I reached through the red and put my hand on hers. "Just tell me, okay?"
She nodded, keeping her gaze down, staring at my hand on hers. I kept it there. "One night, when I had too much to drink, I dialed your number."
I remembered what Regan had told me about the phone records. "When was this?"
"A few months before the attack."
"Did Monica answer?" I asked.
"No. Your machine picked up. I--I know how stupid this sounds--I left a message for you."
I slowly took my hand back. "What did you say exactly?"
"I don't remember. I was drunk. I was crying. I think I said that I missed you and hoped you'd call back. I don't think I went further than that."
"I never got the message," I said.
"I realize that now."
Something clicked. "That means," I said, "that Monica listened to it."
A few months before the attack, I thought. When Monica was feeling her most insecure. When we were starting to have serious problems. I remembered other things too. I remembered how often Monica had cried at night. I remembered how Edgar had told me that she'd started seeing a psychiatrist. And there I was, in my oblivious little world, taking her to Lenny and Cheryl's house, subjecting her to that picture with my old lover in it--my old lover who had called our house late at night and said she missed me.
