Harlan Coben 3 Novel Collection Page 28

  “Yeah, moving, I get it,” Loren interrupted. “Anything else?”

  “Sure, of course, what do you want to know? The Sayers-Piccolo number was usually the opening act for Countess Allison Beth Weiss IV, better known as Jewish Royalty. Her act—get this—was called ‘Tell Mom It’s Kosher.’ You’ve probably heard of it.”

  A waft of banana bread was reaching them down here. The smell was wonderful, even in this appetite-reducing atmosphere. Loren tried to get Friedman back on track. “I mean anything else about Candace Potter. Anything that can illuminate what happened to her.”

  Friedman shrugged. “She and Kimmy Dale were not only dance partners but also real-life roommates. In fact, Kimmy Dale paid for the funeral to save Candi from—pardon the unintentional pun here—a potter’s grave. Candi is buried at Holy Mother in Coaldale, I think. I’ve visited the tombstone to pay my respects. It’s quite a moving experience.”

  “I bet. Do you keep track of what happens to exotic dancers after they leave the business?”

  “Of course,” he said, as if she’d asked a priest if he ever went to Mass. “That’s often the most interesting part. You wouldn’t believe the variety of life roads they take.”

  “Right, so what happened to this Kimmy Dale?”

  “She’s still in the business. A true warhorse. She no longer has the looks. She’s—again pardon the unintentional pun—slid down the pole, if you will. The headline days are over. But Kimmy still has a small following. What she loses in not being, say, toned or hard-bodied she makes up for in experience. She’s out of Vegas though.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Reno, last I heard.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not really,” Friedman said. Then he snapped his fingers. “Hold on, I have something to show you. I’m quite proud of this.”

  They waited. Len Friedman had three tall file cabinets in the corner. He opened the second drawer of the middle one and began to finger through it. “The Piccolo and Sayers act. This is a rare piece and it’s only a color reproduction off a Polaroid. I’d really like to find more.” He cleared his throat as he continued his search. “Do you think, Investigator Muse, that I could get a copy of that autopsy?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “It would really add to my studies.”

  “Studies. Right.”

  “Here it is.” He took out a photograph and placed it on the table in front of them. Yates looked at it and nodded. He turned to Loren and saw the expression on her face.

  “What?” Yates said.

  Friedman added, “Investigator Muse?”

  Not in here, Loren thought. Not a word. She stared at the late Candace Potter aka Candi Cane aka Brianna Piccolo aka the Murder Victim.

  “This is definitely Candace Potter?” she managed.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course.”

  Yates looked a question at her. Loren tried to blink it away.

  Candace Potter. If this really was Candace Potter, then she wasn’t a murder victim. She wasn’t dead at all. She was alive and well and living in Irvington, New Jersey, with her ex-con husband Matt.

  They’d had it all wrong. Matt Hunter wasn’t the connection here. Things were finally starting to make some sense.

  Because Candace Potter had a new alias now.

  She was Olivia Hunter.

  Chapter 47

  ADAM YATES TRIED to maintain his cool.

  They were back outside now, on the Friedmans’ front lawn. That had been much too close a call. When that Friedman cuckoo had started yammering about never ever telling, well, it could have ended right there—Yates’s career, his marriage, even his freedom. Everything.

  Yates needed to take control.

  He waited until he and Loren Muse were back in the car. Then, calmly as he could, Yates asked, “So what was that all about?”

  “Candace Potter is still alive,” Muse said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “She’s alive and well and married to Matt Hunter.”

  Yates listened to Loren’s explanation. He felt his insides tremor. When she finished he asked to see the autopsy. She handed it to him.

  “No photos of the victim?”

  “It’s not the whole file,” Loren said. “It’s just the pages that concerned Max Darrow. My guess is he somehow learned the truth—that Candace Potter hadn’t been killed all these years ago. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the real victim was an AIS female.”

  “Why would Darrow have checked that now? I mean, after ten years?”

  “I don’t know. But we need to talk to Olivia Hunter.”

  Adam Yates nodded, trying to take this in. It was impossible for him to fathom. Olivia Hunter was the dead stripper named Candace Potter. Candi Cane. She had been there that night, he was sure of it.

  It was likely now, very likely, that Olivia Hunter had the videotape.

  That meant he had to take Loren Muse out of the equation. Right now.

  Yates glanced at the autopsy report again. Muse drove. The height, weight, and hair color matched, but the truth seemed obvious now. The real victim had been Cassandra Meadows. She’d been dead all along. He should have figured that. She wouldn’t have been smart enough to vanish.

  Len Friedman had been right when he talked about the honor of thieves. Yates had counted on that, he guessed, which in hindsight was beyond stupid. People in that business respect confidentiality not out of any sense of honor but because of profit. If you get a reputation for talking, you lose your clientele. Simple as that. The only thing was, Clyde Rangor and Emma Lemay had found a way to make even more money. Ergo the “honor of thieves” nonsense went right out the window.

  Yates didn’t do it a lot, but over the years, he’d cheated on Bess. Yates never really considered it a big deal. It was beyond compartmentalizing—beyond the usual “sex was one thing, making love another.” Sex with Bess was fine. Even after all these years. But a man needs more. Check all the history books—that one is a given. No great men were sexually monogamous. It was as simple and as complicated as that.

  And in truth there was nothing wrong with it. Do wives really get upset if their husband occasionally watches, for example, an X-rated film? Was that a crime? An act worthy of divorce? A betrayal?

  Of course not.

  Hiring a prostitute was really no different. A man might use pictures or 900-lines or whatever as outside stimuli. That was all this was. Many wives understood this. Yates might even be able to explain it to Bess.

  If that was all it had been.

  Rangor and Lemay—they should rot in hell.

  Yates had been looking for Rangor, Lemay, Cassandra, and that damn tape for ten years. Now there was a twist. At least two of them were dead. And Candace Potter was suddenly in the mix.

  What did she know?

  He cleared his throat and looked at Loren Muse. First step: Remove her from the case. So how to handle this . . . ? “You said you knew Matt Hunter?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t do the interview with his wife then.”

  Loren frowned. “Because I used to know him?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was in elementary school, Adam. I don’t think I’ve spoken to him since we were ten.”

  “Still. There’s a connection.”

  “So?”

  “So the defense can use it.”

  “How?”

  Yates shook his head.

  “What?”

  “You seem like a decent investigator, Muse. But every once in a while, your naïveté is absolutely startling.”

  Her grip on the wheel tightened. He knew that his words had stung.

  “Go back to the office,” he said. “Cal and I will take over this part of the investigation.”

  “Cal? Was he that lug in Joan Thurston’s office this morning?”

  “He’s a damn good agent.”

  “I’m sure.”<
br />
  They fell into silence. Loren was trying to think of a way out of this. Yates waited, knowing how to work this now.

  “Look, I know the way,” Loren said. “I’ll drive you to Hunter’s house and stay outside in case—”

  “No.”

  “But I want—”

  “Want?” Yates cut her off. “Who do you think you’re talking to, Investigator Muse?”

  She fumed in silence.

  “This is now a federal investigation. Most of this case, in fact, seems to lead back to Nevada. Either way it clearly crosses state lines and certainly pissant county lines. You’re a county investigator. You get that? There’s county, then state, then federal. I’ll demonstrate this with a bar graph, if you’d like. But you don’t give the orders here. I do. You’ll go back to your office and if I deem it appropriate, I’ll keep you informed of what is occurring in my investigation. Do I make myself clear?”

  Loren fought to keep her voice steady. “You wouldn’t even know about Olivia Hunter being Candace Potter if it wasn’t for me.”

  “Oh, I see. Is that what this is about, Muse? Your ego? You want the credit? Fine, it’s yours. I’ll put a gold star next to your name on the board, if you like.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “That’s sure as hell how it sounded to me. Naïve and a glory hound. Quite a winning combination.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “That’s not . . .” Yates laughed. “Are you kidding me? Fair? How old are you, Muse, twelve? This is a federal investigation into murder and racketeering and you’re worried about my playing fair with a lowly county investigator? You’ll drive me back to your office immediately and”—enough stick, a little carrot—“if you want to participate in this investigation, your current assignment will be to find out anything you can on that other whore, the black one she roomed with.”

  “Kimmy Dale.”

  “Yes. Find out exactly where she is, what her story is, everything you can. You will not talk to her, however, without talking to me first. If you don’t like it, I’ll have you removed from the case. Understood?”

  She responded as if there were nails in her mouth: “Understood.”

  He knew that she would take it. Loren wanted to remain in the loop. She’d settle for marginalized, hoping she’d make it back onto the center stage. Truth was, she was a damn fine investigator. Yates would try to steal her away when this was all over. He’d flatter her and let her have all the credit and then, good as she was, she probably wouldn’t look too closely at the details.

  At least that was what he hoped.

  Because so far, those who had died had not been innocent—they’d been trying to hurt him. Loren Muse was different. He really didn’t want her harmed. But as old a philosophy as it was, in the end, if it comes down to us or them, it is always us.

  Loren Muse pulled the car into the lot and got out without a word. Yates let her huff off. He called Cal Dollinger, the only man he trusted with this sort of information. He quickly explained what he needed to. Cal did not need much detail.

  Adam flashed on a painful memory—the hospital when Sam had meningitis. What he left out of the story he’d told Loren was Cal’s part in the nightmare. Cal, too, had refused to leave the hospital. Adam’s oldest friend had pulled up a stiff metal chair and stayed outside Sam’s door for three straight days, not saying a word, just sitting there on guard, making certain that if Adam needed anything, he’d be ready.

  “You want me to go alone?” Cal asked.

  “No, I’ll meet you at the Hunters’ house,” Yates said, his voice soft. “We’ll get the tape. Then we end this.”

  Chapter 48

  OLIVIA HUNTER HELD IT TOGETHER until Midlife had been able to extricate her from Detective Lance Banner. Now that she was back in her own home she let her defenses down. She cried silently. Tears ran down her cheeks. Olivia could not stop them. She did not know if they came from joy, relief, fear, what. She only knew that sitting down and trying to stop them would be a waste of time.

  She had to move.

  Her suitcase was still at the Howard Johnson’s. She simply packed another. She knew better than to wait. The police would be back. They would want answers.

  She had to get to Reno right now.

  She couldn’t stop crying, which was unlike her yet understandable, she guessed, under the circumstances. Olivia was physically and emotionally spent. She was pregnant, for one thing. For another, she was worried about her adopted daughter. And finally, after all this time, she had told Matt the truth about her past.

  The pact was over. Olivia had broken it when she responded to that online post—more than that, she had been directly responsible for the death of Emma Lemay. It was Olivia’s fault. Emma had done a lot wrong in her life. She had hurt many people. Olivia knew that she’d tried to make up for it, that she’d truly spent her last years making amends. She didn’t know where that put Emma on the Great Ledger in the Sky, but if anyone earned redemption, she assumed that Emma Lemay had.

  But the thing Olivia could not get over, the thing that was really making the tears waterfall down her cheeks, was the look on Matt’s face when she told him the truth.

  It had not been what she’d imagined at all.

  He should have been upset. He probably was. How could he not be? From the first time they met in Vegas, Olivia had always loved the way he looked at her—as if God had never created anything more spectacular, more—for lack of a better word—pure. Olivia naturally expected that look to vanish or at least dim once he learned the truth. She figured that his faded-blue eyes would harden, grow cold.

  But that hadn’t happened.

  Nothing had changed. Matt had learned that his wife was a lie, that she had done things that would make most men turn away forever in disgust. And he had reacted with unconditional love.

  Over the years Olivia had gained enough distance to see that her awful upbringing made her, like so many of the girls she worked with, lean toward self-destruction. Men who grew up like that, in different foster homes and under what could best be described as poor situations, usually reacted with violence. That was how abused men showed rage—by striking out, with physical brutality.

  Women were different. They used more subtle forms of cruelty or, as in most cases, directed the rage inward—they cannot hurt someone else so they hurt themselves. Kimmy had been like that. Olivia—no, Candi—had been like that too.

  Until Matt.

  Maybe it was because of the years he spent in jail. Maybe, like she said before, it had to do with their mutual wounds. But Matt was the finest man she had ever known. He truly didn’t sweat the small stuff. He lived in the moment. He paid attention to what mattered. He didn’t let the trappings get in the way. He ignored the superfluous and saw what was really there. It made her see past it too—at least, in herself.

  Matt didn’t see the ugly in her—still didn’t see it!—ergo, it was not there.

  But as Olivia packed, the cold hard truth was obvious. After all the years and all the pretending, she had not rid herself of that self-destructive bent. How else to explain her actions? How stupid had she been—searching online for Candace Potter like that?

  Look at the damage she’d wrought. To Emma, of course. To herself, yes, but more to the point, to the only man she’d ever loved.

  Why had she insisted on poking at the past?

  Because, in truth, she couldn’t help herself. You can read all the pro-choice, pro-adoption, pro-life arguments—over the years, Olivia had ad nauseam—but there was one basic truth: Getting pregnant is the ultimate fork in the road. Whatever you choose, you will always wonder about the path not taken. Even though she was very young, even though keeping the child would have been impossible, even though the decision was ultimately made by others, no day passed without Olivia wondering about that gigantic what-if.

  No woman simply skates by that one.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Olivia w
aited. A second knock. There was no peephole, so she went to a nearby window, pushed the lace curtain to the side, and peered out.

  There were two men at her door. One looked like he’d just walked out of an L.L. Bean catalogue. The second man was enormous. He wore a suit that didn’t seem to fit him quite right, but then again, judging by his looks, no suit would. He had a military buzz cut and no neck.

  The enormous man turned to the window and caught her eye. He nudged the smaller man. The smaller man turned too.

  “FBI,” the normal-size one said. “We’d like to speak to you for a moment.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  The L.L. Bean man stepped toward her. “I don’t think that’s a wise position to take, Mrs. Hunter.”

  “Please refer all questions to my attorney, Ike Kier.”

  The man smiled. “Maybe we should try again.”

  Olivia did not like the way he said that.

  “My name is Special Agent in Charge Adam Yates from the Las Vegas office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This”—he gestured to the big man—“is Special Agent Cal Dollinger. We would very much like to speak with Olivia Hunter or, if she prefers, we can arrest one Candace Potter.”

  Olivia’s knees buckled at the sound of her old name. A smile cracked the big man’s rock face. He was enjoying the moment.

  “Up to you, Mrs. Hunter.”

  There was no choice now. She was trapped. She’d have to let them in, would have to talk.

  “Let me see your identification please.”

  The big man walked over toward the window. Olivia had to fight off the desire to step back. He reached into his pocket, took out his ID, slammed it hard enough against the glass to make her jump. The other man, the one named Yates, did likewise. The IDs looked legitimate, though she knew how easy it was to buy fakes.