by Harlan Coben
"It isn't just his daughter," Berleand said, gesturing toward the blonde on the screen. "It's also Terese Collins's."
11
IT took me a while to find my voice.
"You said preliminary."
Berleand nodded. "The final DNA test will take a few more hours."
"So it could be wrong."
"Unlikely."
"But there have been cases?"
"Yes. I had one case where we grabbed a man based on a preliminary like this. It turns out it was his brother. I also know about a paternity case where a woman sued her boyfriend for child custody. He claimed that the baby wasn't his. The preliminary DNA test was a dead match--but when the lab looked closer, it turned out that it was the boyfriend's father."
I thought about it.
"Does Terese Collins have any sisters?" Berleand asked.
"I don't know."
Berleand made a face.
"What?" I said.
"You two really have a special relationship, don't you?"
I ignored the jab. "So what's next?"
"We need you to call Terese Collins," Berleand said. "So we can question her some more."
"Why don't you call her yourself?"
"We did. She won't pick up."
He handed me back my cell phone. I turned it on. One missed call. I didn't click to see who it was from just yet. There was what appeared to be junk mail, the subject reading: When Peggy Lee sang, "Is that all there is?" was she talking about your trouser snake? Your Small Pee-Pee Needs Viagra at 86BR22.com.
Berleand read it over my shoulder. "What does that mean?"
"One of my old girlfriends has been talking out of school."
"Your self-deprecation," Berleand said. "It's very charming."
I hit Terese's number. It rang for a while and then the voice mail picked up. I left her a message and hung up.
"Now what?"
"Do you know anything about tracing cell phone locations?" Berleand asked.
"Yes."
"And you probably know that as long as the phone is on, even if no call is being made, we can triangulate coordinates and know where she is."
"Yes."
"So we weren't worried about following Ms. Collins. We have that technology. But about an hour ago, she turned her phone off."
"Maybe she ran out of battery," I said.
Berleand frowned at me.
"Or maybe she just needed downtime. You know how hard it must have been to tell me about her car accident."
"So she--what?--turned her phone off to get away from it all?"
"Sure."
"Instead of just silencing the ringer or whatever," he went on, "Ms. Collins turned the phone all the way off?"
"You don't buy it?"
"Please. We can still run her call logs--see who called her or whom she called. About an hour ago, Ms. Collins received her only call of the day."
"From?"
"Don't know. The number bounced to some phone in Hungary and then a Web site and then we lost it. The call lasted two minutes. After that, she turned off her phone. At the time she was at the Rodin Museum. Now we have no idea where she is."
I said nothing.
"Do you have any thoughts?"
"About Rodin? I love The Thinker."
"You're killing me, Myron. Really."
"Are you going to hold me?"
"I have your passport. You can go, but please stay in your hotel."
"Where you can listen in," I said.
"Think of it this way," Berleand said. "If you finally get lucky, maybe I can pick up a few pointers."
The processing to release me took about twenty minutes. I started back down the Quai des Orfevres toward the Pont Neuf. I wondered how long it would take. There was a chance, of course, that Berleand already had me under surveillance, but I considered it unlikely.
Up ahead was a car with the license plate 97 CS 33.
The code, of course, couldn't have been simpler. The junk e-mail read 86 BR 22. Just add one to each one. Eight becomes a nine. B becomes a C. As I approached the car a piece of paper dropped out of the driver's-side window. The piece of paper was attached to a coin so it wouldn't blow away.
I sighed. First the overly simple code, now this. Would James Bond go so low tech?
I picked up the note.
1 RUE DU PONT NEUF, FIFTH FLOOR. TOSS PHONE IN CAR BACK WINDOW.
I did. The car took off, phone on and in tow. Let them track that. I turned right. It was the Louis Vuitton Building, the one with the glass dome on the top. The Kenzo department store was on the bottom floor, and I felt hopelessly unhip just opening the door. I stepped into the glass elevator and saw that the fifth floor was a restaurant called Kong.
When the elevator stopped, a hostess in black greeted me. She was over six feet tall, dressed in tourniquet-tight black and looked about as fat as your average lamp cord. "Mr. Bolitar?" she said.
"Yes."
"Right this way."
She led me up a staircase that glowed fluorescent green and into the glass dome. I would call Kong "ultra-hip" but it was almost beyond that--like postmodern ultra-hip. The decor was futuristic geisha. There were plasma TVs with sleek Asian women winking as you passed. The chairs were acrylic and see-through except for the printed faces of beautiful women with strange hairstyles. The faces actually glowed, as though there were a light in each one. The effect was kind of eerie.
Above my head was a giant tapestry of a geisha. The patrons were dressed like, well, the hostess--trendy and black. What made the place work though, what threw it all together, was the killer view of the Seine, almost as great as the one at police headquarters--and there, at the front table with the absolute best view, was Win.
"I ordered you foie gras," he said.
"Someone's going to catch on to our old trick one of these days."
"They haven't yet."
I sat across from him. "This place looks familiar."
"It was featured in a French film with Francois Cluzet and Kristin Scott Thomas," Win said. "They sat at this very table."
"Kristin Scott Thomas in a French film?"
"She's lived here for years and speaks fluent French."
Win knows stuff like this, I don't know how.
"Anyway," Win continued, "perhaps that's why the restaurant is causing--to remain in our French environs--deja vu."
I shook my head. "I don't watch French films."
"Or," Win said with a deep sigh, "perhaps you recall Sarah Jessica Parker eating here in the series finale of Sex and the City."
"Bingo," I said.
The foie gras--goose liver for the uninitiated--arrived. I was indeed starving and dug in. I know the animal-rights people would crucify me, but I can't help it. I love foie gras. Win had red wine already poured. I took a sip. I'm no expert, but it tasted like a deity had personally squeezed the grapes.
"So I assume you now know Terese's secret," Win said.
I nodded.
"I told you it was a doozy."
"How did you learn about it?"
"It wasn't that hard to discover," Win said.
"Let me rephrase. Why did you learn about it?"
"Nine years ago you ran away with her," Win said.
"So?"
"You didn't even tell me you were going."
"Again I say, so?"
"You were vulnerable, so I did a background check."
"Not your place," I said.
"Probably not."
We ate some more.
"When did you arrive?" I asked.
"Esperanza called after you spoke. I turned the plane around and headed this way. When I got to your hotel, you'd just been arrested. I made some calls."
"Where is Terese?"
I figured that Win had been the one to call her to get her off the grid.
"We'll meet up with her soon enough. Fill me in."
I did. He said nothing, steepling his fingers. Win always steepled his fingers. On me it looks ridic
ulous. On him, with those manicured nails, it somehow works. When I finished, Win said, "Yowza."
"Nice summation."
"How much do you know about her car accident?" he asked.
"Just what I told you now."
"Terese never saw the body," Win said. "That is rather curious."
"She was unconscious for two weeks. You can't keep a body out of the ground for that long."
"Still." Win bounced his fingertips. "Didn't her now-deceased ex say that whatever he had to tell her would change everything?"
I had thought about that too. I had thought about the strange tone in his voice, his near panic.
"There has to be some other explanation. Like I said, the DNA tests are preliminary."
"You realize, of course, that the cops let you go in the hopes you'd lead them to Terese."
"I know."
"But that won't happen," Win said.
"I know that too."
"So what next?" Win asked.
That surprised me. "You're not going to try to talk me out of helping her?"
"Would it help if I did?"
"Probably not."
"It may be fun then," Win said. "And there is one more big reason to continue this quest."
"That being?"
"I'll tell you later. So where to now, kemosabe?"
"I'm not sure. I'd like to question Rick Collins's wife--she lives in London--but Berleand has my passport."
Win's cell phone chirped. He picked it up and said, "Articulate."
I hate when he says that.
He hung up. "London it is then."
"I just told you--"
Win stood. "There is a tunnel in the basement of this building. It leads to the Samaritaine Building next door. I have a car waiting. My plane is at a small airport near Versailles. Terese is there. I have IDs for you both. Please hurry."
"What happened?"
"My big reason for wanting to continue this quest. The man you shot a few hours ago just died. The police want to pick you up for murder. I think perhaps we need to be proactive in clearing your name."
12
WHEN I told Terese about the DNA test, I expected a different reaction.
Terese and I sat in the lounge area on Win's plane, a Boeing Business Jet he'd recently purchased from a rap artist. The seats were leather and oversize. There was a wide-screen TV, a couch, plush carpeting, wood trim. The jet also had a dining room and in the back a separate bedroom.
In case you didn't figure it out, Win is loaded.
He earned his money the old-fashioned way: He inherited it. His family owned Lock-Horne Investments, still one of the leading lights on Wall Street, and Win had taken its billions and par-layed them into more billions.
The "flight attendant"--I put that in quotes because I doubt she's had much safety training--was stunning, Asian, young, and, if I knew Win, probably very limber. Her name tag read "Mee." Her attire looked like something out of a Pan Am ad from 1968, with the tailored suit, fitted puffy blouse, even the pillbox hat.
When we started to board, Win said, "The pillbox hat."
"Yeah," I said. "It really throws the whole look together."
"I like her to wear the pillbox hat all the time."
"Please don't go into any more details," I said.
Win grinned. "Her name is Mee."
"I read the name tag."
"As in, it's not just about you, Myron, it's about Mee. Or, I enjoy having carnal knowledge alone with Mee."
I just looked at him.
"Mee and I will stay in the back so you and Terese can have some privacy."
"In the back, as in the bedroom?"
Win slapped my back. "Feel good about yourself, Myron. After all, I feel good about Mee."
"Please stop."
I boarded behind him. Terese was there. When I told her about being jumped and the ensuing shoot-out, she was obviously concerned. When I segued into the DNA test vis-a-vis her being the blond girl's mother--first using words like "preliminary" and "incomplete" to the point where I feared it might cause an eye roll--she shocked me.
She barely reacted.
"You're saying that the blood test shows I could be the girl's mother?"
In fact, the preliminary DNA test showed that she was the girl's mother, but maybe that was a bit much to state at this point. So I simply said, "Yes."
Again it didn't seem to be reaching her. Terese squinted as though she were having trouble hearing. There was a small and nearly imperceptible wince in the eyes. But that was about it.
"How can that be?"
I said nothing, gave a little shrug.
Never underestimate the power of denial. Terese shook it off, snapped into reporter mode, and peppered me with follow-up questions. I told her everything I knew. Her breathing grew shallow. She was trying to hold it together, so much so that I could see the quake in her lips.
But there were no tears.
I wanted to reach out and touch her, but I couldn't. I'm not sure why. So I sat there and waited. Neither of us said it, as if the very words might burst that particularly fragile bubble of hope. But it was there, the proverbial elephant in the room, and we both saw it and avoided it.
Sometimes Terese's questions seemed too pointed, anger slipping through over what perhaps her ex, Rick, had done here or maybe simply to stave off the hope. Finally she leaned back and bit down on her bottom lip and blinked.
"So where are we going now?" she asked.
"London. I thought maybe we should talk to Rick's wife."
"Karen."
"You know her?"
"Knew her, yes." She looked at me. "Remember I told you I was dropping Miriam off at a friend's house when I got in the car accident?"
"Yes." Then: "Karen Tower was that friend?"
She nodded.
The plane had reached its cruising level. The pilot made an announcement to that effect. I had a million more questions, but Terese closed her eyes. I waited.
"Myron?"
"Yes."
"We don't say it. Not yet. We both know it's here with us. But we don't voice it, okay?"
"Okay."
She opened her eyes and looked away. I understood. The moment was too raw even for eye contact. As if on cue, Win opened the bedroom door. Mee, the flight attendant, had on her pillbox hat and everything else. Win was also fully dressed and waved for me to join him in the bedroom.
"I like the pillbox hat," he said.
"So you said."
"It suits Mee."
I looked at him. He led me into the bedroom and closed the door. The room had tiger-print wallpaper with zebra-skin bedding. I looked at Win. "You channeling your inner Elvis?"
"The rapper decorated the room. It's growing on me."
"Did you want something?"
Win pointed to the TV set. "I was watching you talk to her."
I looked up. Terese was on the screen sitting in the chair.
"That's how I knew it would be a good time for me to interject." He opened a drawer and reached in. "Here."
It was a BlackBerry cell phone.
"Your number still works--all your calls will come in, but they will be untraceable. And if they try to track you down, they'll end up someplace in southwest Hungary. By the way, Captain Berleand left you a message."
"Is it safe to call him back?"
Win frowned. "What part of 'untraceable' confuses you?"
Berleand answered on the first ring. "My colleagues want to lock you up."
"But I'm such a charming fellow."
"That's what I told them, but they're not convinced that charm trumps a murder charge."
"But charm is in such short supply." Then: "I told you, Berleand. It was in self-defense."
"So you did. And we have courts and lawyers and investigators who may eventually come to that conclusion too."
"I really don't have the time to waste."
"So you won't tell me where you are?"
"I won't."
"I find the Kong restaurant a tad touristy," he said. "Next time I will take you to this little bistro off Saint Michel that serves only foie gras. You'll love it."
"Next time," I said.
"Are you still in my jurisdiction?"
"No."
"Pity. May I request a favor?"
"Sure," I said.
"Does your new cell phone have the capability to view photographs?"
I looked at Win. He nodded. I told Berleand that it did.
"I'm sending you a photograph as we speak. Please tell me if you recognize the man in it."
I handed the phone to Win. He pressed a Home key and then found the photograph. I took a good hard look, but I knew right away.
"It's probably him," I said.
"The man you hit with the table?"
"Yes."
"You're positive?"
"I said probably."
"Make sure."
I took a longer look. "I'm assuming this is an old photograph. The guy I hit today is at least ten years older than the one in this picture. There are changes--the head shaven, the nose is different. But overall, I'd say I'm fairly positive."
Silence.
"Berleand?"
"I would really like you to come back to Paris."
I didn't like the way he said that.
"No can do, sorry."
More silence.
"Who is he?" I asked.
"This is not something you can handle on your own," he said.
I looked over at Win. "I have some help."
"It won't be enough."
"You wouldn't be the first to underestimate us."
"I know who you're with. I know his wealth and reputation. It's not enough. You may be good at finding people or helping athletes in trouble with the law. But you're not equipped to handle this."
"If I were less of a tough guy," I said, "you might be scaring me right now."
"If you were less of a head case, you'd listen to me. Be careful, Myron. Stay in touch."
He hung up. I turned to Win. "Maybe we can forward this picture to someone back home, someone who can tell us who he is."
"I have a contact at Interpol," Win said.
But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking over my shoulder. I turned to follow his gaze. He was watching the TV monitor again.
Terese was there, but her resolve was gone. She was doubled over, sobbing. I tried to make out her words, but they were garbled by the anguish. Win took the remote and turned up the volume. Terese was repeating the same thing over and over, and as she slid off the couch I finally thought I could make out what she was saying:
"Please," Terese begged to some higher power. "Please let her be alive."
13
IT was late by the time we arrived at the Claridge's hotel in the center of London. Win had rented the Davies penthouse. There was a spacious sitting room and three huge bedrooms, all with four-poster king-size beds and those wonderfully deep marble tubs and showerheads the size of manhole covers. We threw open the French windows. The terrace offered up a wonderful view of the London rooftops, but frankly I'd had my fill of views. Terese stood out there in dead-woman-walking mode. She went from numb to emotional. She was devastated, sure, but there was hope. I think hope scared her the most.
