Harlan Coben (15 page)

Lydia lifted the
Sig-Sauer P226 into the air.

“I don't like how that went,” she said.

“You made the right move,” Heshy said. “We cut out now. This is over.”

She stared at the weapon. She wanted very much to pull the trigger.

“Lydia?”

“I heard you.”

“We were doing this because it was simple.”

“Simple?”

“Yes. We thought that it would be easy money.”

“Lots of money.”

“True,” he said.

“We can't just walk away.”

Heshy saw the wetness in her eyes. This was not about the money. He knew that. “He's tortured either way,” he said.

“I know.”

“Think about what you just did to him,” Heshy said. “If he never hears from us again, he will spend the rest of his life wondering, blaming himself.”

She smiled. “Are you trying to turn me on?”

Lydia moved onto Heshy's lap, curled into him like a kitten. He wrapped his giant arms around her and for a moment, Lydia calmed. She felt safe and quiet. She closed her eyes. She loved the feeling. And she knew—as did he—that it would never last. That it would never be enough.

“Heshy?”

“Yes.”

“I want to get that money.”

“I know you do.”

“And then, I think, it would be best if he died.”

Heshy pulled her close. “Then that's what will happen.”

I don't know
what I expected from the offices of Most Valuable Detection. A pebbled-glass door à la Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe maybe. A soiled building of faded brick. A walk-up, for sure. A buxom secretary with a bad dye job.

But the office of Most Valuable Detection had none of that. The building was shiny and bright, part of the “urban renewal” program of Newark. I keep hearing about Newark's renaissance, but I don't see it. Yes, there are several beautiful office buildings—like this one—and a stunning Performing Arts Center conveniently located so that those who can afford to attend (read: those who don't live in Newark) can get to it without, well, driving through the city. But these sleek edifices are flowers among the weeds, scant stars in an otherwise black sky. They do not change the basic color. They do not blend or bleed. They remain removed. Their sterile beauty is not contagious.

We stepped off the elevator. I still held the bag with two million dollars in it. It felt weird in my hand. There were three headphone-clad receptionists behind a wall of glass. Their desk was high. We stated our names into an intercom. Rachel showed an ID that listed her as a retired FBI agent. We were buzzed in.

Rachel pushed open the door. I trailed behind her. I felt empty, but I was functioning. The horror of what had happened—the hang-up—was so great that I had pushed beyond paralysis to a strange state of focus. Again I compare all this to the surgery room. I enter that room, I cross that gateway, and I shed the world. I had a patient once, a six-year-old boy, who was getting a fairly routine cleft palate repair. While
on the table, his vitals dropped suddenly. His heart stopped. I didn't panic. I fell into a state of focus, not unlike this one. The boy pulled through.

Still flashing the ID, Rachel explained that we wanted to see someone in charge. The receptionist smiled and nodded in that way people do when they aren't listening. She never took off the headphones. Her fingers pressed some buttons. Another woman appeared. She led us down the corridor and into a private office.

For a moment, I couldn't tell if we were in the presence of a man or a woman. The bronze nameplate on the desk read Conrad Dorfman. Conclusion: a man. He rose theatrically. He was too slim in a blue suit with
Guys and Dolls
–wide pinstripes, tapered at the waist so that the bottom of the jacket flared out almost enough to be mistaken for a skirt. His fingers were thin like a pianist's, his hair slicked down like Julie Andrews's in
Victor/Victoria
, and his face had a blotchy smoothness I usually associate with a cosmetic foundation.

“Please,” he said in a voice with too much affect. “My name is Conrad Dorfman. I'm the executive vice president of MVD.” We shook his hand. He held our hands a second too long, putting the free hand over the shake and peering intently into our eyes. Conrad invited us to sit. We did. He asked us if we'd enjoy a cup of tea. Rachel, taking the lead, said that we would.

There were a few more minutes of chitchat. Conrad asked Rachel questions about her time with the FBI. Rachel was vague. She implied that she, too, worked in the private detection biz and was thus his colleague and worthy of professional courtesy. I said nothing, letting her work. There was a knock on the door. The woman who had escorted us down the corridor opened the door and wheeled in a silver teacart. Conrad began to pour. Rachel got to the point.

“We were hoping you could help us,” Rachel said. “Dr. Seidman's wife was a client of yours.”

Conrad Dorfman concentrated on the tea. He used one of those screen-door sifters that seemed all the rage nowadays. He shook out some leaves and slowly poured.

“You folks provided her with a CD that's password protected. We need to get into it.”

Conrad handed a cup of tea to Rachel first, then me. He settled back
and took a deep sip. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I can't help you. The password is set by the client on their own.”

“The client is dead.”

Conrad Dorfman did not blink. “That really doesn't change anything.”

“Her husband here is next of kin. That makes the CD his.”

“I wouldn't know,” Conrad said. “I don't practice estate law. But we have no control over any of that. As I said before, the client sets the password. We may have given her the CD—I really can't confirm or deny that at this stage—but we would have no idea what numbers or letters she programmed in for the password.”

Rachel waited a beat. She stared at Conrad Dorfman. He stared back but dropped his eyes first. He picked up his tea and took another sip. “Can we find out why she came to you in the first place?”

“Without a court order? No, I don't think so.”

“Your CD,” she said. “There's a back entry.”

“Excuse me?”

“Every company has one,” Rachel said. “The info isn't lost forever. Your company programs in its own password so that you folks can get on the CD.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I used to be an FBI agent, Mr. Dorfman.”

“So?”

“So I know these things. Please don't insult my intelligence.”

“That was not my intent, Ms. Mills. But I simply can't help.”

I looked at Rachel. She seemed to be weighing her options. “I still have friends, Mr. Dorfman. In the department. We can ask questions. We can poke around. The feds don't much like private eyes. You know that. I don't want trouble. I just want to know what's on the CD.”

Dorfman put down his cup. He strummed his fingers. There was a knock, and the same woman opened the door. She beckoned Conrad Dorfman. He rose, again too theatrically, and practically leapt across the floor. “Excuse me a moment.”

When he left the office, I looked at Rachel. She wouldn't turn toward me. “Rachel?”

“Let's just see how it plays out, Marc.”

But there really wasn't much more to play. Conrad came back into
the office. He crossed the room and stood over Rachel, waiting for her to look up. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

“Our president, Malcolm Deward, is a former federal agent himself. Did you know that?”

Rachel said nothing.

“He made some calls while we chatted.” Conrad waited. “Ms. Mills?” Rachel finally looked up. “Your threats are impotent. You have no friends at the agency. Mr. Deward, alas, does. Get out of my office. Now.”

I said, “What
the hell was that all about?”

“I told you before. I'm not an agent anymore.”

“What happened, Rachel?”

She kept her eyes forward. “You haven't been a part of my life in a long time.”

There was nothing to add. Rachel drove now. I held on to the cell phone, again willing it to ring. When we arrived back at my house, dusk had settled in. We went inside. I debated calling Tickner or Regan, but what good would that do now?

“We need to get that DNA checked,” Rachel said. “My theory might sound implausible, but does the idea of your daughter being held all this time sound any more so?”

So I called Edgar. I told him that I wanted to run some additional tests on the hair. He said that would be fine. I hung up without telling him that I had already endangered the drop by enlisting the help of a former FBI agent. The less said on that, the better. Rachel called someone she knew to pick up the samples from Edgar, as well as a blood sample from me. He ran a private lab, she said. We would know something within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, which would probably be, in terms of a ransom demand, too late.

I settled into a chair in the den. Rachel sat on the floor. She opened her bag and pulled out wires and electronic contraptions of all sorts. Being a surgeon makes me pretty good with my hands, but when it comes to high-tech gizmos, I'm totally lost. She carefully spread the contents of the bag across the carpet, giving this action her full attention. Again I was
reminded of the way she'd do the same thing with textbooks when we were in college. She reached into the bag and pulled out a razor.

“The bag of money?” she said.

I handed it to her. “What are you going to do?”

She opened it. The money was in packs of hundred-dollar bills. She grabbed a wad and slowly slipped the money out, not breaking the band around it. She cut the bills like they were a deck of cards.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I'm going to cut a hole.”

“In the actual currency?”

“Yup.”

She did it with the straight razor. She dug out a circle about the perimeter of a silver dollar, maybe a quarter inch thick. She scanned the floor, found a black device that was about the same size, fit it into the bills. Then she put the wrapping back on it. The device was totally hidden in the middle of the money wad.

“A Q-Logger,” she said in way of explanation. “It's a GPS device.”

“You say so.”

“GPS stands for Global Positioning System. Put simply, it will track the money. I'll put one in the lining of the bag too, but most criminals know about that. They usually dump the cash into a bag of their own. But with all this money, they won't have time right away to search through every pack.”

“How small do those things come?”

“The Q-Loggers?”

“Yes.”

“They can make them even thinner, but the problem is the power source. You need a battery. That's where we lose out. I need something that can travel at least eight miles. This will do it.”

“And where does it go to?”

“You mean where do I keep track of the movements?”

“Yes.”

“Most of the time it goes to a laptop, but this is state of the art.” Rachel lifted a device into the air, one I see too often in the world of medicine. In fact, I think I'm the only doctor on the planet without one.

“A Palm Pilot?”

“Designed with a special tracking screen. I'll have it on me if I have to move.” She went back to work.

“What's all the other stuff?” I asked.

“Surveillance equipment. I don't know how much I'll be able to use, but I'd like to put a Q-Logger in your shoe. I want to get a camera on the car. I'd like to see if I can hook up some fiber-optics on you, but that could be riskier.” She started to organize her equipment, lost in the activity. Her eyes were down when she spoke again. “Something else I want to explain to you.”

I leaned forward.

“Do you remember when my parents got divorced?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure.” It had been when we first met.

“Close as we were, we never talked about it.”

“I always got the impression you didn't want to.”

“I didn't,” she said too quickly.

And, I thought, neither had I. I was selfish. We were supposedly in love for two years—and yet I never so much as nudged her to open up about her parents' divorce. It was more than an “impression” that made me hold my tongue. I knew something dark and unhappy lay there. I did not want to poke at it, disturb it, have it possibly turn its attention in my direction.

“It was my father's fault.”

I almost said something really stupid like “It's never anyone's fault” or “There are two sides to every story,” but a flyby of good sense kept my tongue in check. Rachel still hadn't looked up. “My father destroyed my mother. Crushed her soul. Do you know how?”

“No.”

“He cheated on her.”

She lifted her head and held my gaze. I did not look away. “It was a destructive cycle,” she said. “He'd cheat, he'd get caught, he'd swear he'd never do it again. But he always did. It wormed into my mother, ate away at her.” Rachel swallowed, turned back to her high-tech toys. “So when I was away in Italy and I heard you'd been with someone else . . .”

I thought of a million different things to say, but they were all meaningless. Frankly so was what she was telling me. It explained a lot, I guess, but it was the ultimate too-little-too-late. I stayed where I was, not moving from the chair.

“I overreacted,” she said.

“We were young.”

“I just wanted . . . I should have told you about this back then.”

She was reaching out. I started to say something, but I pulled up short. Too much. Just all too much. It had been six hours since the ransom call. The seconds tick-ticked, a deep, painful pounding in the well of my chest.

I jumped when the phone rang, but it was my regular line, not the kidnapper's cell. I picked it up. It was Lenny.

“What's wrong?” he said without preamble.

I looked at Rachel. She shook her head. I nodded back that I understood. “Nothing,” I said.

“Your mom told me you saw Edgar in the park.”

“Don't worry.”

“That old bastard will screw you, you know that.”

There was no reasoning with Lenny when it came to Edgar Portman. He also might be right. “I know.”

There was brief silence.

“You called Rachel,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Nothing important.”

There was another pause. Then Lenny said, “You're lying to me, right?”

“Like a Vegas toupee.”

“Yeah, okay. Hey, we still on for racquetball tomorrow morning?”

“I better cancel.”

“No problem. Marc?”

“Yeah.”

“If you need me . . .”

“Thanks, Lenny.”

I hung up. Rachel was busy with her electronic gizmos. The words she had said were gone now, dissipated smoke. She looked up and saw something in my face.

“Marc?”

I didn't speak.

“If your daughter is alive, we'll bring her home. I promise.”

And for the first time, I was not sure that I believed her.