Harlan Coben 3 Novel Collection Read online

  Cal and Jim were back and stronger than ever.

  My cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. I didn’t recognize the number. I put the phone to my ear and said, “Hello?”

  “It is Raya.”

  Raya Singh. The comely Indian waitress. I felt my throat go dry.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Did you think of something?”

  Muse looked at me. I tried to look at her as if to say, this is private. For an investigator, Muse could be slow on the pickup. Or maybe that was intentional.

  “I probably should have said something earlier,” Raya Singh said.

  I waited.

  “But you showing up like that. It surprised me. I’m still not sure what the right thing to do is.”

  “Ms. Singh?”

  “Please call me Raya.”

  “Raya,” I said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It was why I asked why you were really there. Do you remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why I asked that—about what you really wanted?”

  I thought about it and went with honest: “Because of the unprofessional way I was ogling you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Okay, I’m game. Why did you ask? And come to think of it, why did you ask if I killed him?”

  Muse arched an eyebrow. I didn’t much care.

  Raya Singh didn’t reply.

  “Miss Singh?” Then: “Raya?”

  “Because,” she said, “he mentioned your name.”

  I thought that maybe I’d heard wrong, so I asked something stupid. “Who mentioned my name?”

  Her voice had a hint of impatience. “Who are we talking about?”

  “Manolo Santiago mentioned my name?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you didn’t think you should tell me this before?”

  “I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

  “And what changed your mind?”

  “I looked you up on the Internet. You really are the county prosecutor.”

  “What did Santiago say about me?”

  “He said you lied about something.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I pushed ahead. “Who did he say it to?”

  “A man. I don’t know his name. He also had clippings about you in his apartment.”

  “His apartment? I thought you said you didn’t know where he lived.”

  “That’s when I didn’t trust you.”

  “And you do now?”

  She did not reply to that one directly. “Pick me up at the restaurant in one hour,” Raya Singh said, “and I’ll show you where Manolo lived.”

  CHAPTER 15

  WHEN LUCY CAME BACK TO HER OFFICE, LONNIE WAS there, holding up sheets of paper.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “More of that journal.”

  She tried hard not to snap the pages from his hand.

  “Did you find Sylvia?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And she went crazy on me and won’t talk.”

  Lonnie sat in the chair and threw his feet up on her desk. “You want me to try?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Lonnie gave her the winning smile. “I can be pretty persuasive.”

  “You’re willing to put out just to help me?”

  “If I must.”

  “I would worry so about your reputation.” She sat back, gripping the pages. “Did you read this already?”

  “Yep.”

  She just nodded and started in for herself:

  P broke our embrace and darted toward the scream.

  I called after him, but he didn’t stop. Two seconds later, it was like the night had swallowed him whole. I tried to follow. But it was dark. I should have known these woods better than P. This was his first year here.

  The screaming voice had been a girl’s. That much I could tell. I trekked through the woods. I didn’t call out anymore. For some reason I was scared to. I wanted to find P, but I didn’t want anyone to know where I was. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but that was how I felt.

  I was scared.

  There was moonlight. Moonlight in the woods changes the color of everything. It is like one of those poster lights my dad used to have. They called them black lights, even though they were more like purple. They changed the color of everything around them. So did the moon.

  So when I finally found P and I saw the strange color on his shirt, I didn’t recognize what it was at first. I couldn’t tell the shade of crimson. It looked more like liquid blue. He looked at me. His eyes were wide.

  “We have to go,” he said. “And we can’t tell anyone we were ever out here….”

  That was it. Lucy read it two more times. Then she put the story down. Lonnie was watching her.

  “So,” he said, dragging out the word, “I assume that you are the narrator of this little tale?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure this out, Lucy, and I’ve only come up with one possible explanation. You’re the girl in the story. Someone is writing about you.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said.

  “Come on, Luce. We have tales of incest in that pile, for crying out loud. We aren’t even searching those kids out. Yet you’re all uptight about this scream-in-the-woods story?”

  “Let it go, Lonnie.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, sweetie, not my nature. Even if you weren’t superfine and I didn’t want to get in your pants.”

  She didn’t bother with a retort.

  “I’d like to help if I can.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I know more than you think.”

  Lucy looked up at him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You, uh, you won’t get mad at me?”

  She waited.

  “I did a little research on you.”

  Her stomach dropped, but she kept it off her face.

  “Lucy Gold isn’t your real name. You changed it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Come on, Luce. You know how easy it is with a computer?”

  She said nothing.

  “Something about this journal kept bugging me,” he went on. “This stuff about a camp. I was young, but I remember hearing about the Summer Slasher. So I did a little more research.” He tried to give her the cocky smile. “You should go back to blond.”

  “It was a tough time in my life.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “That’s why I changed my name.”

  “Oh, I get that. Your family took a big hit. You wanted to get out from under that.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now, for some weird reason, it’s coming back.”

  She nodded.

  “Why?” Lonnie asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d like to help.”

  “Like I said, I’m not sure how.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  She shrugged.

  “I did a little digging. You know that the Discovery Channel did a special on the murders a few years ago.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “They don’t talk about you being there. In the woods that night, I mean.”

  She said nothing.

  “So what gives?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Who is P? It’s Paul Copeland, right? You know he’s a DA or something now.”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re not making this easy,” he said.

  She kept her mouth closed.

  “Okay,” he said, standing. “I’ll help anyway.”

  “How?”

  “Sylvia Potter.”

  “What about her?”

  “I’ll get her to talk.”

  “How?”

&
nbsp; Lonnie headed for the door. “I got my ways.”

  On the way back to the Indian restaurant, I took a detour and visited Jane’s grave.

  I was not sure why. I did not do it that often—maybe three times a year. I don’t really feel my wife’s presence here. Her parents picked out the burial site with Jane. “It means a lot to them,” she’d explained on her deathbed. And it did. It distracted her parents, especially her mother, and made them feel as though they were doing something useful.

  I didn’t much care. I was in denial about Jane’s ever dying—even when it got bad, really bad, I still thought she’d somehow pull through. And to me death is death—final, the end, nothing coming after, the finish line, no more. Fancy caskets and well-tended graveyards, even ones as well tended as Jane’s, don’t change that.

  I parked in the lot and walked the path. Her grave had fresh flowers on it. We of the Hebrew faith do not do that. We put stones on the marker. I liked that, though I am not sure why. Flowers, something so alive and bright, seemed obscene against the gray of her tomb. My wife, my beautiful Jane, was rotting six feet below those freshly cut lilies. That seemed like an outrage to me.

  I sat on a concrete bench. I didn’t talk to her. It was so bad in the end. Jane suffered. I watched. For a while anyway. We got hospice—Jane wanted to die at home—but then there was her weight loss and the smell and the decay and the groans. The sound that I remembered most, the one that still invaded my sleep, was the awful coughing noise, more a choke really, when Jane couldn’t get the phlegm up and it would hurt so much and she would be so uncomfortable and it went on for months and months and I tried to be strong but I wasn’t as strong as Jane and she knew that.

  There was a time early in our relationship when she knew that I was having doubts. I had lost a sister. My mother had run off on me. And now, for the first time in a long time, I was letting a woman into my life. I remember late one night when I couldn’t sleep and I was staring at the ceiling and Jane was sleeping next to me. I remember that I heard her deep breath, then so sweet and perfect and so different from what it would be in the end. Her breathing shortened as she slowly came awake. She put her arms around me and moved close.

  “I’m not her,” she said softly, as if she could read my thoughts. “I will never abandon you.”

  But in the end, she did.

  I had dated since her death. I have even had some fairly intense emotional commitments. One day I hope to find someone and remarry. But right now, as I thought about that night in our bed, I realized that it would probably not happen.

  I’m not her, my wife had said.

  And of course, she meant my mother.

  I looked at the tombstone. I read my wife’s name. Loving Mother, Daughter and Wife. There were some kind of angel wings on the sides. I pictured my in-laws picking those out, just the right size angel wings, just the right design, all that. They had bought the plot next to Jane’s without telling me. If I didn’t remarry, I guess, it would be mine. If I did, well, I don’t know what my in-laws would do with it.

  I wanted to ask my Jane for help. I wanted to ask her to search around up wherever she was and see if she could find my sister and let me know if Camille was alive or dead. I smiled like a dope. Then I stopped.

  I’m sure cell phones in graveyards are no-nos. But I didn’t think Jane would mind. I took the phone out of my pocket and pressed down on that six button again.

  Sosh answered on the first ring.

  “I have a favor to ask,” I said.

  “I told you before. Not on the phone.”

  “Find my mother, Sosh.”

  Silence.

  “You can do it. I’m asking. In the memory of my father and sister. Find my mother for me.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “You can.”

  “Your mother has been gone a long time.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you considered the fact that maybe she doesn’t want to be found?”

  “I have,” I said.

  “And?”

  “And tough,” I said. “We don’t always get what we want. So find her for me, Sosh. Please.”

  I hung up the phone. I looked at my wife’s stone again.

  “We miss you,” I said out loud to my dead wife. “Cara and I. We miss you very, very much.”

  Then I stood up and walked back to my car.

  CHAPTER 16

  RAYA SINGH WAS WAITING FOR ME IN THE RESTAURANT parking lot. She had turned in the aqua waitress uniform for jeans and a dark blue blouse. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The effect was no less dazzling. I shook my head. I had just visited my wife’s grave. Now I was inappropriately admiring the beauty of a young woman.

  It was an interesting world.

  She slipped into the passenger seat. She smelled great.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “Do you know where Route 17 is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take it north.”

  I pulled out of the lot. “Do you want to start telling me the truth?” I asked.

  “I have never lied to you,” she said. “I decided not to tell you certain things.”

  “Are you still claiming you just met Santiago on the street?”

  “I am.”

  I didn’t believe her.

  “Have you ever heard him mention the name Perez?”

  She did not reply.

  I pressed. “Gil Perez?”

  “The exit for 17 is on the right.”

  “I know where the exit is, Raya.”

  I glanced at her in perfect profile. She stared out the window, looking achingly beautiful.

  “Tell me about hearing him say my name,” I said.

  “I told you already.”

  “Tell me again.”

  She took a deep, silent breath. Her eyes closed for a moment.

  “Manolo said you lied.”

  “Lied about what?”

  “Lied about something involving”—she hesitated—“involving woods or a forest or something like that.”

  I felt my heart lurch across my chest. “He said that? About woods or a forest?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were his exact words?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Try.”

  “‘Paul Copeland lied about what happened in those woods.’” Then she tilted her head. “Oh, wait.”

  I did.

  Then she said something that almost made me turn off the road. She said, “Lucy.”

  “What?”

  “That was the other name. He said, ‘Paul Copeland lied about what happened in those woods. So did Lucy.’”

  Now it was my turn to be struck silent.

  “Paul,” Raya said, “who is this Lucy?”

  We took the rest of the ride in silence.

  I was lost in thoughts of Lucy. I tried to remember the feel of her flaxen hair, the wondrous smell of it. But I couldn’t. That was the thing. The memories seemed so clouded. I couldn’t remember what was real and what my imagination had conjured up. I just remembered the wonder. I remembered the lust. We were both new, both clumsy, both inexperienced, but it was like something in a Bob Seger song or maybe Meat Loaf’s “Bat Out of Hell.” God, that lust. How had it started? And when did that lust seemingly segue into something approaching love?

  Summer romances come to an end. That was part of the deal. They are built like certain plants or insects, not able to survive more than one season. I thought Luce and I would be different. We were, I guess, but not in the way that I thought. I truly believed that we would never let each other go.

  The young are so dumb.

  The AmeriSuites efficiency unit was in Ramsey, New Jersey. Raya had a key. She opened the door to a room on the third floor. I would describe the decor to you except that the only word to describe it would be nondescript. The furnishing had all the personality of, well, an efficiency unit on a road called Route 17 in northern New Jersey.

  When w
e stepped into the room, Raya let out a little gasp.

  “What?” I said.

  Her eyes took in the whole room. “There were tons of papers on that table,” she said. “Files, magazines, pens, pencils.”

  “It’s empty now.”

  Raya opened a drawer. “His clothes are gone.”

  We did a pretty thorough search. Everything was gone—there were no papers, no files, no magazine articles, no toothbrush, no personal items, nothing. Raya sat on the couch. “Someone came back and cleared this place out.”

  “When were you here last?”

  “Three days ago.”

  I started for the door. “Come on.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to talk to someone at the front desk.”

  But there was a kid working there. He gave us pretty much nothing. The occupant had signed in as Manolo Santiago. He had paid in cash, leaving a cash deposit. The room was paid for until the end of the month. And no, the kid didn’t remember what Mr. Santiago looked like or anything about him. That was one of the problems with these kinds of units. You don’t have to go in through the lobby. It was easy to be anonymous.

  Raya and I headed back to Santiago’s room.

  “You said there were papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I didn’t pry.”

  “Raya,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I have to be honest here. I’m not fully buying the ignorant act.”

  She just looked at me with those damn eyes.

  “What?”

  “You want me to trust you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why should I?”

  I thought about that.

  “You lied to me when we met,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “You said you were just investigating his murder. Like a regular detective or something. But that wasn’t true, was it?”

  I said nothing.

  “Manolo,” she went on. “He didn’t trust you. I read those articles. I know something happened to all of you in those woods twenty years ago. He thought you lied about it.”

  I still said nothing.

  “And now you expect me to tell you everything. Would you? If you were in my position, would you tell everything you knew?”

  I took a second, gathered my thoughts. She had a point. “So you saw those articles?”