Harlan Coben 3 Novel Collection Read online

  Twenty minutes passed.

  I gave it another five, pictured her saying good-bye to students, talking to a few who loitered behind, packing her lessons and sundries in some beat-up faux leather bag.

  I picked up my office phone. I buzzed out to Jocelyn.

  “Yes?”

  “No calls,” I said. “No interruptions.”

  “Okay.”

  I pressed for an outside line. I dialed Lucy’s cell phone. On the third ring I heard her voice say, “Hello?”

  My heart leapt into my throat but I managed to say, “It’s me, Luce.”

  And then, a few seconds later, I heard her start to cry.

  CHAPTER 21

  “LUCE?” I SAID INTO THE PHONE. “YOU OKAY?”

  “I’m fine. It’s just…”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I can’t believe I did that.”

  “You always were an easy cry,” I said, regretting it the moment it came out. But she snorted a laugh.

  “Not anymore,” she said.

  Silence.

  Then I said, “Where are you?”

  “I work at Reston University. I’m walking across the commons.”

  “Oh,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.

  “I’m sorry about leaving such a cryptic message. I don’t go by Silverstein anymore.”

  I didn’t want her to know I already knew this. But I didn’t want to lie either. So again I gave a noncommittal “Oh.”

  More silence. She broke it this time.

  “Man, this is awkward.”

  I smiled. “I know.”

  “I feel like a big dope,” she said. “Like I’m sixteen again and worried about a new zit.”

  “Same here,” I said.

  “We never really change, do we? I mean, inside, we’re always a scared kid, wondering what we’re going to be when we grow up.”

  I was still smiling, but I thought about her never being married and the DUIs. We don’t change, I guess, but our path certainly does.

  “It’s good to hear your voice, Luce.”

  “Yours too.”

  Silence.

  “I was calling because…” Lucy stopped. Then: “I don’t even know how to say this, so let me ask a question. Has anything strange happened to you lately?”

  “Strange how?”

  “Strange as in about-that-night strange.”

  I should have expected her to say something like that—knew it was coming—but the smile still fled as if I’d been punched. “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “What the hell is going on, Paul?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think we need to figure it out.”

  “I agree.”

  “Do you want to meet?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s going to be weird,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “I mean, I don’t want it to be. And that’s not why I called. To see you. But I think we should meet up and discuss this, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “I’m babbling. I babble when I get nervous.”

  “I remember,” I said. And then, again, I regretted saying that, so I quickly added, “Where should we meet?”

  “Do you know where Reston University is?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have another class and then student appointments until seven-thirty,” Lucy said. “Do you want to meet me at my office? It’s in the Armstrong Building. Say, eight o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  When I arrived home I was surprised to find the press camped out in front of my house. You often hear about that—about the press doing stuff like that—but this was my first experience with it. The local cops were on hand, clearly excited to be doing something that seemed quasi–big time. They stood on either side of the driveway so that I could pull in. The press didn’t try to stop them. In fact, when I pulled in, the press barely seemed to notice.

  Greta gave me the conquering-hero welcome. She was full of kisses and quick hugs and congratulations. I love Greta. There are some people you know are pure good, who are always on your side. There aren’t many of them. But there are some. Greta would jump in the way of a bullet for me. And she made me want to protect her.

  In that way she reminded me of my sister.

  “Where’s Cara?” I asked.

  “Bob took Cara and Madison to Baumgart’s for dinner.”

  Estelle was in the kitchen, doing laundry. “I need to go out tonight,” I said to her.

  “No problem.”

  Greta said, “Cara can sleep over at our house.”

  “I think I’d rather she slept at home tonight, thanks.”

  She followed me into the den. The front door opened and Bob came in with the two girls. Again I envisioned my daughter sprinting into my arms while screaming, “Daddy! You’re home!” That didn’t happen. But she did smile and she did come over to me. I swept her up in my arms and kissed her hard. She held the smile but wiped her cheek. Hey, I’ll take it.

  Bob slapped my back. “Congrats on the trial,” he said.

  “It’s not over yet.”

  “That’s not what the media is saying. Either way it should get that Jenrette off our back.”

  “Or more desperate.”

  His face paled a little. If you were to cast Bob in a movie, he’d be the bad-guy rich Republican. His complexion was ruddy, his jowls thick, his fingers short and stubby. Here was another example of where appearances could be deceiving. Bob’s background was totally blue collar. He studied and worked hard. Nothing had ever been given to him or made easy.

  Cara came back into the room carrying a DVD. She held it up as though it were an offering. I closed my eyes, and remembering what day of the week it was, I cursed to myself. Then I said to my little girl, “It’s movie night.”

  She still held up the DVD. Her eyes were wide. She was smiling. On the cover was something animated or computer-generated with talking cars or maybe farm animals or zoo animals, something from Pixar or Disney, something I had seen a hundred times already.

  “That’s right. Will you make popcorn?”

  I took a knee so I was at her eye level. I put a hand on either shoulder. “Honey,” I said, “Daddy has to go out tonight.”

  No reaction.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

  I waited for the tears. “Can Estelle watch it with me?”

  “Sure, honey.”

  “And she can make popcorn?”

  “Of course.”

  “Cool.”

  I’d been hoping for a little crestfallen. No go.

  Cara skipped away. I looked at Bob. He looked at me as if to say, Kids—what can you do?

  “Inside,” I said, gesturing toward my daughter. “On the inside, she’s really crushed.”

  Bob laughed as my cell phone buzzed. The read-out simply said, NEW JERSEY, but I recognized the number and felt a little jolt. I picked it up and said, “Hello?”

  “Nice job today, All-Star.”

  “Mr. Governor,” I said.

  “That’s not correct.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mr. Governor. You would properly address the President of the United States as Mr. President, but governors are addressed as either Governor or by their last name, for example, Governor Stallion or Governor Chick Magnet.”

  “Or,” I said, “how about Governor Anal Compulsive.”

  “There’s that.”

  I smiled. During my freshman year at Rutgers, I first met (now Governor) Dave Markie at a party. He intimidated me. I was the immigrant’s son. His father was a United States senator. But that was the beauty of college. It is made for strange bedfellows. We ended up becoming close friends.

  Dave’s critics could not help but notice this friendship when he appointed me to my current post as Essex County prosecutor. The guv shrugged and pushed me through. I had gotten very good press already, and at the risk of caring about what I
shouldn’t care about, today should have helped my possible bid for a congressional seat.

  “So, big day, no? You da man. Woo hoo. Go, Cope, go, Cope, it’s your birthday.”

  “Trying to appeal to your hip-hop constituency?”

  “Trying to understand my teenage daughter. Anyway, congrats.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m still no-commenting this case to death.”

  “I’ve never heard you say no-comment in your life.”

  “Sure you have, just in creative ways: I believe in our judicial system, all citizens are innocent until proven guilty, the wheels of justice will turn, I am not judge and jury, we should wait for all the facts to come in.”

  “Cliché as no comment.”

  “Cliché as no comment and every comment,” he corrected. “So how is everything, Cope?”

  “Fine.”

  “You dating?”

  “Some.”

  “Dude, you’re single. You’re good-looking. You got some money in the bank. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  “You’re subtle, Dave, but I think I can follow.”

  Dave Markie had always been a lady slayer. He was okay-looking, but the man had a gift for pick-up that could be conservatively called dazzling. He had that sort of charisma where he made every woman feel as though she was the most beautiful and fascinating person in the world. It was all an act. He just wanted to nail them. Nothing but. Still, I had never seen anybody better at picking up women.

  Dave was married now, of course, had two polished children, but I had little doubt that there was some side action. Some men can’t help it. It is instinctive and primitive. The idea of Dave Markie not hitting on a woman was simply anathema.

  “Good news,” he said. “I’m coming up to Newark.”

  “What for?”

  “Newark is the largest city in my state, that’s why, and I value all my constituents.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I want to see you. It’s been too long.”

  “I’m kinda busy with this case.”

  “You can’t make time for your governor?”

  “What’s up, Dave?”

  “It involves what we talked about before.”

  My possible congressional run. “Good news?” I said.

  “No.”

  Silence.

  “I think there’s a problem,” he said.

  “What kind of problem?”

  His voice switched back to jovial. “Could be nothing, Cope. We’ll talk. Let’s make it your office. Say, lunchtime?”

  “Okay.”

  “Get those sandwiches. From that place on Brandford.”

  “Hobby’s.”

  “Exactly. The fully dressed turkey breast on homemade rye. Get yourself one too. See you then.”

  Lucy Gold’s office building was the otherwise-lovely quad’s resident eyesore, a seventies “mod” structure that was supposed to look futuristic but somehow looked dated three years after completion. The rest of the quad edifices were handsome brick that begged for more ivy. I parked in the lot in the southwest corner. I tilted the rearview mirror and then, to paraphrase Springsteen, I checked my look in that mirror and wanted to change my clothes, my hair, my face.

  I parked and walked across the commons. I passed a dozen students. The girls were much prettier than I remembered, but that was probably my aging. I nodded at them as I walked by. They didn’t nod back. When I went to college there was a guy in my class who was thirty-eight years old. He’d gone to the military and skipped getting his BA. I remembered how he stuck out on campus because he looked so goddamn old. That was my age now. Hard to fathom. I was the same age as that seemingly old geezer.

  I continued to think such inane thoughts because they helped me ignore where I was going. I wore an untucked white dress shirt, blue jeans, blue blazer, Ferragamo loafers without socks. Mr. Casual Chic.

  When I approached the building, I could actually feel my body shaking. I scolded myself. I was a grown man. I had been married. I was a father and a widower. I had last seen this woman more than half my life ago.

  When do we grow out of this?

  I checked the directory, even though Lucy had told me that her office was on the third floor, door B. There it was. Professor Lucille Gold. Three-B. I managed to press the right button in the elevator. I turned left when I got out on the third floor, even though the sign with the “A–E” had an arrow pointing right.

  I found her door. There was a sign-up sheet with her office hours. Most of the time slots were taken. There was also a class schedule and something about when assignments were due. I almost breathed into my hand and smelled it, but I was already working a peppermint Altoid.

  I knocked, two sharp raps with the knuckles. Confident, I thought. Manly.

  God, I’m pathetic.

  “Come in.”

  Her voice made my stomach drop. I opened the door and stepped into the room. She stood near the window. The sun was still out, and a shadow cut across her. She was still damn beautiful. I took the hit and stayed where I was. For a moment we just stood there, fifteen feet apart, neither moving.

  “How’s the lighting?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was trying to figure out where to be. You know, when you knocked. Do I answer the door? Nah, too much of an early close-up. Do I stay at my desk with a pencil in my hand? Should I look up at you over my half-moon reading glasses? Anyway, I had a friend of mine help me test out all the angles. He thought I looked best with this one—across the room, the shade half drawn.”

  I smiled. “You look terrific.”

  “So do you. How many outfits did you try on?”

  “Only this one,” I said. “But I’ve been told in the past it’s my A-game look. You?”

  “I tried on three blouses.”

  “I like this one,” I said. “You always looked good in green.”

  “I had blond hair back then.”

  “Yeah, but you still have the green eyes,” I said. “Can I come in?”

  She nodded. “Close the door.”

  “Should we, I don’t know, hug or something?”

  “Not yet.”

  Lucy sat at her desk chair. I sat in the chair in front of the desk.

  “This is so messed up,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “I have a million things I want to ask you.”

  “Me too.”

  “I saw online about your wife,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. “How’s your father?”

  “Not well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “All that free love and drugs—eventually they take a toll. Ira also…he never got over what happened, you know?”

  I guessed that I did.

  “How about your parents?” Lucy asked.

  “My father died a few months ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I remember him so well from that summer.”

  “It was the last time he was happy,” I said.

  “Because of your sister?”

  “Because of a lot of things. Your father gave him the chance to be a doctor again. He loved that—practicing medicine. He never got to do it again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “My father really didn’t want to be part of the lawsuit—he adored Ira—but he needed to blame someone and my mom pushed him. All the other families were on board.”

  “You don’t need to explain.”

  I stopped. She was right.

  “And your mother?” she asked.

  “Their marriage didn’t survive.”

  The answer did not seem to surprise her.

  “Do you mind if I put on my professional hat?” she asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “Losing a child is a ridiculous strain on a marriage,” Lucy said. “Most people think that only the strongest marriages survive that sort of blow. That’s not true. I’ve studied it. I’ve seen marriages on
e might describe as ‘crappy’ endure and even improve. I’ve seen ones that seemed destined to last forever crack apart like cheap plaster. Do you two have a good relationship?”

  “My mother and I?”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t seen her in eighteen years.”

  We sat there.

  “You’ve lost a lot of people, Paul.”

  “You’re not going to psychoanalyze me, are you?”

  “No, nothing like that.” She sat back and looked up and away. It was a look that sent me right back. We would sit out in the camp’s old baseball field, where the grass was overgrown, and I would hold her and she would look up and away like that.

  “When I was in college,” Lucy began, “I had this friend. She was a twin. Fraternal, not identical. I guess that doesn’t make much of a difference, but with the identical, there seems to be a stronger bond. Anyway, when we were sophomores her sister died in a car crash. My friend had the strangest reaction. She was devastated, of course, but part of her was almost relieved. She thought, well, that’s it. God got me. That was my turn. I’m okay for now. I gave at the office. You lose a twin sister like that, you’re sorta safe the rest of your life. One heartbreaking tragedy per person. You know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  “But life isn’t like that. Some get a lifetime pass. Others, like you, get more than your share. Much more. And the worst part is, it doesn’t make you immune to even more.”

  “Life ain’t fair,” I said.

  “Amen.” Then she smiled at me. “This is so weird, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know we were together for, what, six weeks?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And it was just a summer fling, when you think about it. You’ve probably had dozens of girls since then.”

  “Dozens?” I repeated.

  “What, more like hundreds?”

  “At the very least,” I said.

  Silence. I felt something well up in my chest.

  “But you were special, Lucy. You were…”

  I stopped.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “So were you. That’s why this is awkward. I want to know everything about you. But I’m not sure now is the time.”

  It was as if a surgeon was at work, a time-warping plastic surgeon maybe. He had snipped off the last twenty years, pulled my eighteen-year-old self up to meet my thirty-eight-year-old one, done it almost seamlessly.