Harlan Coben 3 Novel Collection Page 31

  Was one of these girls her daughter?

  She looked at their faces for any sort of resemblance and saw none. That meant nothing, of course. She knew that. The waitress delivered the Coke. Olivia just let it sit there. There was no way she’d drink from any of these glasses.

  Ten minutes later the girls rotated again. Another new girl. Probably running a five shift—three girls on, two girls off, fairly steady rotation. Could be a six shift. She wondered about Matt, about how he’d find his way out here. He had seemed so confident that he’d be able to make it, or had that been false bravado for her sake?

  The dancer in the two spot worked some guy with a toupee so bad it looked like it had a zipper. Probably handing him that old favorite about working her way through school, Olivia thought. Why guys got off on the idea that a girl was a student always amazed her. Did they need a spot of purity to offset their filth?

  The girl who’d been in the one spot when Olivia entered came out from the back. She approached a man who had a chicken wing sticking out of his mouth. The man dropped the chicken wing, wiped his hands on his jeans. The girl took the man by the hand and disappeared into a corner. Olivia wanted to follow her. She wanted to grab all of these girls and drag them out into the sunshine.

  Enough.

  She signaled to the waitress to bring over a check. The waitress broke away from a bunch of laughing locals. “Three-fifty,” she said.

  Olivia stood, reached into her purse, and took out a five. She was just about to hand it to the waitress, just about ready to leave this dark, awful place, when the dancers shifted again. A new girl came out from the back.

  Olivia froze. Then a small groan, a groan of quiet, strong anguish, escaped from her lips.

  The waitress said, “Miss, you okay?”

  Walking on the stage, taking the number three position.

  It was Kimmy.

  “Miss?”

  Olivia’s legs almost gave way. She sat back down. “Get me another Coke.”

  She had not touched her last one but if that bothered the waitress, she hid it pretty well. Olivia simply stared. For several seconds, she let the swirl of emotions twist through her. Regret, of course. Deep sadness to see Kimmy still up on that stage after all this time. Guilt for what Olivia had been forced to leave behind. But there was joy too at seeing her old friend. Olivia had visited a couple of Web sites in recent weeks, trying to see if Kimmy was dancing. She’d found nothing, which, Olivia had hoped, meant that Kimmy was no longer in the business. Now she could see the truth: Kimmy had just been too low-level to earn even a mention.

  Olivia could not move.

  Despite what one might think, it was not hard to forge friendships in that life. Most of the girls genuinely liked one another. They were like army buddies, bonding while trying to stay alive. But no one had been like Kimmy Dale. Kimmy had been her closest friend, the only one she still missed, still thought about, still wished that she could talk to. Kimmy had made her laugh. Kimmy had kept her off cocaine. Kimmy had even kept the gun in their trailer that ended up saving Olivia’s life.

  Olivia smiled in the dark. Kimmy Dale, the clean freak, her sometimes dance partner, her confidante.

  And then the guilt and sadness roared back.

  The years hadn’t been kind, but then again no years ever had been to Kimmy Dale. Her skin sagged. There were lines around her mouth and eyes. A pattern of small bruises dotted her thighs. She wore too much makeup now, like the old “hangers-on” they used to dread becoming. That had been their greatest fear: being one of the old hangers-on who couldn’t see it was time to get out of the business.

  Kimmy’s stage dance hadn’t changed—the same few steps, the moves a little slower now, more lethargic. The same high black boots she had always favored. There was a time when Kimmy would work the crowd better than anyone—she had a terrific smile—but there was no posturing anymore. Olivia kept back.

  Kimmy thinks I’m dead.

  How, she wondered, would Kimmy react to seeing this . . . this ghost? Olivia wondered what to do. Should she reveal herself—or just stay here in the shadows, wait another thirty minutes, slip out when she was sure Kimmy couldn’t see her?

  She sat there and watched her friend and considered her next step. It was obvious. Everything was coming out now. The pact with Emma was over. Yates and Dollinger knew who she was. There was no reason to hide anymore. There was no one left to protect and maybe, just maybe, there was still someone she could save.

  When Kimmy was on the final leg of her rotation, Olivia waved over the waitress.

  “The dancer on the right,” Olivia said.

  “The black one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We call her Magic.”

  “Okay, good. I want a private session with her.”

  The waitress cocked an eyebrow. “You mean in the back?”

  “Right. A private room.”

  “Fifty bucks extra.”

  “No problem,” Olivia said. She had picked up cash at the ATM in Elizabeth. She handed the girl an extra ten for her own troubles.

  The waitress stuffed the bill in her cleavage and shrugged. “Go back and to the right. Second door. It’s got a B on it. I’ll send Magic over in five minutes.”

  It took longer. There was a couch and a bed in the room. Olivia did not sit. She stood there and waited. She was shaking. She heard people walking past her door. On the sound system, Tears for Fears noted that everybody wants to rule the world. No kidding.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “You in there?”

  The voice. No question who it was. Olivia wiped her eyes.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened. Kimmy stepped inside. “Okay, let me tell you the price—”

  She stopped.

  For several seconds, they both just stood there and let the tears roll down their cheeks. Kimmy shook her head in disbelief.

  “It can’t be . . .”

  Candi—not Olivia now—finally nodded. “It’s me.”

  “But . . .”

  Kimmy put a hand to her mouth and began to sob. Candi spread her arms. Kimmy nearly collapsed. Candi grabbed her and held on.

  “It’s okay,” she said softly.

  “It can’t be . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Olivia said again, stroking her friend’s hair. “I’m here. I’m back.”

  Chapter 52

  LOREN’S FLIGHT WENT to Reno via Houston.

  She had bought the ticket with her own money. She was taking a huge chance—the kind of chance that might indeed force her to leave her job and move out to someplace like New Mexico or Arizona—but the facts were there. Steinberg needed to play it more by the book. She understood that, agreed with it on some level.

  But in the end she knew that this was the only way to go.

  Yates, a powerful fed, was up to something.

  Her suspicions first took flight when Yates abruptly turned nasty after leaving Len Friedman’s house. He had suddenly pretended to be an irrational ass—not an unusual thing for a big-time federal agent, she knew—but it just didn’t ring true. It seemed forced to her. Yates feigned control, but she sensed a panic there. You could almost smell it on him.

  Yates clearly did not want her to see or talk to Olivia Hunter.

  Why?

  And when she thought about it, what had brought on that hissy fit in the first place? She remembered something that had happened in Friedman’s basement—something that had seemed small and unimportant at the time. Yates had gone out of his way to steer the conversation away from what Rangor and Lemay used to do that Friedman had referred to as “worse” than telling on their clientele. At the time she’d just been annoyed by Yates’s interruption. But then you add in the way he threw her off the case and you had . . .

  Well, okay, you still had nothing.

  After visiting Mother Katherine, Loren had called Yates’s cell phone. She had not gotten an answer. She had tried Olivia Hunter’s residence.
No answer there either. And then a report came over the radio, about a murder in Irvington, in a tavern not far from where the Hunters lived. There was not much yet, but there was some talk about a huge man running down the street chasing a woman.

  A huge man. Cal Dollinger, whom Yates said he was bringing with him to question Olivia Hunter, was a huge man.

  Again, on its own it meant very little.

  But add it to what she knew.

  She’d called Steinberg then and asked, “Do you know where Yates is?”

  “No.”

  “I do,” she said. “I checked with my airport source.” Newark Airport was, after all, in Essex County. The office had several contacts there. “He and that Goliath are on a plane heading to the Reno-Tahoe airport.”

  “And I care because?”

  “I’d like to follow them,” she said.

  “Come again?”

  “Yates is up to something.”

  She told Steinberg what she knew. She could almost see him frowning.

  “So let me get this straight,” her boss said. “You think that Yates is somehow involved in all this? Adam Yates, a decorated FBI agent. Wait, no, scratch that: a dedicated Special Agent in Charge, the top fed in Nevada. You base this on—A—his mood. B, that a big person might have been seen somewhere near but not even at a murder scene in Irvington. And C, that he’s flying back to his home state. That about cover it?”

  “You should have heard him playing good cop-bad cop, boss.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “He wanted me off the case and away from Olivia Hunter. I’m telling you: Yates is bad, boss. I know it.”

  “And you know what I’m going to say, right?”

  Loren did. “Gather evidence.”

  “You got it.”

  “Do me one favor, boss.”

  “What?”

  “Check on Yates’s story about Rangor and Lemay turning state’s witness.”

  “What about it?”

  “See if it’s true.”

  “What, you think he made that up?”

  “Just check it.”

  He hesitated. “I doubt it’ll do any good. I’m a county guy. That’s RICO. They don’t like to talk.”

  “Ask Joan Thurston then.”

  “She’ll think I’m nuts.”

  “Doesn’t she already?”

  “Yeah, well, that’s a point,” he said. He cleared his throat. “One more thing.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “You thinking of doing something stupid?”

  “Who, me?”

  “As your boss, you know I won’t authorize anything. But if you’re off the clock and I’m none the wiser . . .”

  “Say no more.”

  She hung up. Loren knew that the answers were in Reno. Charles Talley worked at the Eager Beaver in Reno. Kimmy Dale did too. Now Yates and Dollinger were on their way there. So Loren made sure that she was off the clock. Then she booked a flight and rushed to the airport. Before she boarded, she made one more phone call. Len Friedman was still in his basement office.

  “Hey,” Friedman said. “Is this about getting me Candi Cane’s autopsy?”

  “It’s yours, if you answer a few more questions. You said something about ‘what goes on in Vegas stays in Vegas.’ ”

  “Yes.”

  “When I asked if you meant that Clyde Rangor and Emma Lemay were telling on patrons, you said, ‘Worse.’ ”

  There was silence.

  “What did you mean, Mr. Friedman?”

  “It’s just something I heard,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That Rangor had a scheme going.”

  “You mean like a blackmail scheme?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  He went quiet.

  “How like that?” she asked.

  “He made tapes.”

  “Of?”

  “Of what you think.”

  “His clients having sex with women?”

  Again there was a brief silence.

  “Mr. Friedman?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But”—his voice grew soft—“I’m not sure you’d call them women.”

  She frowned. “They were men?”

  “No, not like that,” Friedman said. “Look, I don’t even know if it’s true. People make stuff up all the time.”

  “And you think that’s the case here?”

  “I don’t know, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “But you heard rumors?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what are these rumors?” Loren asked. “What did Rangor have on those tapes?”

  Chapter 53

  MATT GOT OFF the plane and hurried out of the airport. Nobody stopped him. He felt a rush. He’d done it. He’d made it to Reno with hours to spare.

  He grabbed a taxi. “488 Center Lane Drive.”

  They drove in silence. When they pulled up to the address, Matt stared out the window at the Eager Beaver. He paid the driver, got out, and headed inside.

  Fitting, he thought to himself.

  While he had not expected 488 Center Lane Drive to be a strip joint, he was not all that surprised either. Olivia was missing something in all of this. He understood that. He even understood why. She wanted to find her child. It had blinded her a bit. She couldn’t see what was so obvious to him: This was about more than an adoption or even a scam to extort money.

  It all came back to the pictures on his camera phone.

  If you’re the family with a sick daughter, you are not interested in making a husband jealous. If you’re a lowlife crook after a big payday, you don’t care about breaking up a marriage.

  But this had to be about more than that. Matt wasn’t sure what exactly, but he knew that it was something bad—something that made whoever was behind this want to drag them back to a place like this.

  He headed inside and found a table in the corner. He looked around, hoping to see Olivia. He didn’t. Three girls slowly undulated onstage. He tried to imagine his beautiful wife, the one who made everyone lucky enough to encounter her feel somehow blessed, up there like that. Oddly enough it wasn’t that hard to picture. Rather than confusing him, something about Olivia’s shocking confessions made it all click. It was why she had such a zest for things most found too ordinary, why she so badly wanted a family, a home, the life in the suburbs. She yearned for what we consider both our normalcy and our dream. He understood that better now. It made more sense to him.

  That life. The life they were trying to make together. She was right: It was worth fighting for.

  A waitress came by and Matt asked for coffee. He needed the caffeine fix. She brought it over. It was surprisingly good. He sipped it and watched the girls and tried to put some of the facts together. Nothing was really coming to him.

  He stood and asked if there was a pay phone. The bouncer, a fat man with a pockmarked face, pointed with his thumb. Matt had a prepaid phone card. He always carried it—another holdover from what he’d learned in the pen, he guessed. The truth was, you could trace a phone card. You could find out where it came from and even who bought it. Eventually. Best example was when prosecutors traced a call made with a phone card in the Oklahoma bombing case. But it took time. It could be used to prosecute, but Matt wasn’t worried about that anymore.

  His cell phone was off. If you keep it on, there are ways to figure out where you are. Cell-phone tracking, even without making a call, is a reality. He pressed in the digits for the 800 number, then his code, then Midlife’s private line at the office.

  “Ike Kier.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Don’t say anything you don’t want someone else to hear.”

  “Then you do the talking, Ike.”

  “Olivia is okay.”

  “Did they hold her?”

  “No. She’s, uh, gone.”

  That was good to hear. “And?”

  “Hold on.” He passed
the phone.

  “Hey, Matt.”

  It was Cingle.

  “I talked to that investigator friend of yours. I hope you don’t mind, but they had my ass over a barrel.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Nothing I said will hurt you anyway.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  Matt was looking off in the direction of the club’s entrance. Cingle was telling him something else, something about Darrow and Talley, but there was a sudden rush in his ears.

  Matt almost dropped the phone when he saw who’d just walked into the Eager Beaver.

  It was Loren Muse.

  Loren Muse flashed her badge at the fat guy at the door.

  “I’m looking for one of your dancers. Her name is Kimmy Dale.”

  The fat man just stared at her.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So?”

  “So your ID says New Jersey.”

  “I’m still a law enforcement officer.”

  The fat man shook his head. “You’re out of your jurisdiction.”

  “What are you, a lawyer?”

  The fat man pointed at her. “Good one. Bye, bye now.”

  “I said I’m looking for Kimmy Dale.”

  “And I said you have no jurisdiction here.”

  “You want me to bring someone more local?”

  He shrugged. “If that gets you off, honey, do whatever.”

  “I can make trouble.”

  “This.” The fat man smiled and pointed at his own face. “This is me scared.”

  Loren’s cell phone rang. She took a step to the right. The music blared. She put the phone to her right ear and stuck a finger in her left. Her eyes squinted, as if that’d make the connection better.

  “Hello?”

  “I want to make a deal with you.”

  It was Matt Hunter.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I surrender to you and only you. We go somewhere and wait until at least one in the morning.”

  “Why one in the morning?”

  “Do you think I killed Darrow or Talley?”

  “You’re certainly wanted for questioning.”