Текст книги "Missing You"

Автор книги: Harlan Coben

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“He was on a mess of drugs.”

“So I guess he was telling one last lie.”

“Just the opposite. They were more like a truth serum. He admitted killing others. But he said that he just took the blame for Dad’s murder because he was serving life anyway.”

Suggs took a long sip of beer. He was probably in his early sixties. He still had a full head of gray hair, but what always struck her about him—what struck most people about him—was that he had the kindest face. Not handsome or even striking. Just kind. You couldn’t help but like a man with that face. Some people look like jack-offs, even though they may be the sweetest person in the world. Suggs was the opposite—you couldn’t imagine a man with this face could be anything but trustworthy.

You had to remind yourself that it was just a face.

“I found the gun, Kat.”

“I know.”

“It was hidden in his house. In a false panel under his bed.”

“I know that too. But didn’t you ever find that odd? The guy was always so careful. He’d use his weapon and dump it. But suddenly, you find the murder weapon stashed with his unused guns.”

The quasi amused smile stayed on his lips. “You look like your old man, you know that?”

“Yeah, so I hear.”

“We had no other suspects or even theories.”

“Doesn’t mean there weren’t any.”

“Cozone put out a hit. We had a murder weapon. We had a confession. Leburne had means and opportunity. It was a righteous bust.”

“I’m not saying you guys didn’t do good work.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“There are just some pieces that don’t fit.”

“Come on, Kat. You know how these things go. It is never a perfect fit. That’s why we have trials and defense lawyers who keep telling us, even when the case is completely solid, that there are holes or inconsistencies or that the prosecution’s case doesn’t”—he made quote marks with his fingers—“fit.”

The band stopped playing. Someone took the microphone and began a long-winded toast. Suggs turned and watched. Kat leaned closer to him and said, “Can I ask you one more question?”

He kept his eyes on the speaker. “I couldn’t stop you if I still carried my piece.”

“Why did Stagger go up to see Leburne the day after he was arrested?”

Suggs blinked a few times before turning his face toward her. “Come again?”

“I saw the visitors’ logs,” Kat said. “The day after the feds arrested Leburne, Stagger interrogated him.”

Suggs mulled it over. “I would say something like ‘I think you’re mistaken,’ but my guess is, you’ve already confirmed it.”

“Did you know about it?”

“No.”

“Stagger never told you?”

“No,” Suggs said again. “Did you ask him?”

“He said he went up on his own because he was obsessed with the case. That he was impetuous.”

“Impetuous,” Suggs repeated. “Good word.”

“He also said that Leburne didn’t talk to him.”

Suggs started peeling the label off his beer. “So what’s the big deal, Kat?”

“Maybe nothing,” she said.

They both stood there, pretending to listen to the speaker.

Then Suggs asked: “When did Stagger visit exactly?”

“The day after Leburne was arrested,” Kat said.

“Interesting.”

“Why?”

“Leburne didn’t even come up on our radar until, what, a week later.”

“Yet Stagger was up there first.”

“Could have been a good hunch on his part.”

“One you and Rinsky missed, I guess.”

Suggs frowned. “You really think I’m going to take that bait, Kat?”

“Just saying. It’s bizarre, right?”

Suggs made a maybe-yes/maybe-no gesture. “Stagger was gung ho, but he was also pretty good about leaving us alone. He respected that Rinsky and I were running the investigation. The only thing we let him do was run down that fingerprint hit, but by then, we already had Leburne dead to rights.”

Kat felt a small tingle in the base of her spine. “Wait, what fingerprint?”

“It was nothing. A dead end.”

She put a hand on his sleeve. “Are you talking about the fingerprint found at the murder scene?”

“Yep.”

Kat couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I thought you never got a hit on it.”

“Not while the case was live. It was no big deal, Kat. We got an ID a few months after Leburne confessed, but the case was already closed.”

“So you just let it go?”

He looked crestfallen by her question. “You know Rinsky and me better than that. No stone unturned, right?”

“Right.”

“Like I said, Stagger checked it out for us. Turns out it was some homeless guy who offed himself. A dead end.”

Kat just stood there.

“I don’t like the expression on your face, Kat.”

“The fingerprints,” she said. “Would they still be in the file?”

“I guess so. I mean, sure. It would be in the warehouse by now, but maybe—”

“We need to run them again,” Kat said.

“I’m telling you. It’s nothing.”

“Then do it for me, okay? As a favor. To shut me up, if nothing else.”

Across the room, the speaker finished up. The crowd applauded. The tuba started up. The rest of the band followed.

“Suggs?”

He didn’t reply. He left her alone then, winding his way through the crowd. His friends called out to him. He ignored them and headed toward the exit.

Chapter 20

Brandon needed to walk it out.

His mom would be proud of that. Like every parent, Brandon’s mom bemoaned the time her child spent in front of screens—computers, televisions, smartphones, video games, whatever. It was a constant battle. His dad had understood better. “Every generation has something like this,” he’d tell Brandon’s mother. Mom would throw her hands up. “So we just surrender? We let him stay in that dark cage all day?” “No,” Dad would counter, “but we put it in perspective.”

Dad was good at that. Putting things in perspective. Offering a calming influence on friends and family. In this case, Dad would explain it to Brandon like this: Way back when, parents would bemoan the lazy child who always had their nose in a book, telling the child they should get out more, that they should experience life instead of reading it.

“Sound familiar?” Dad would say to Brandon.

Brandon would nod his head.

Then, Dad said, when he was growing up, his parents were always yelling at him to turn off the television and either get outside or—and this was kind of funny when you remember the past—read a book instead.

Brandon remembered how his dad had smiled when he told him that.

“But, Brandon, do you know what the key is?”

“No, what?”

“Balance.”

Brandon hadn’t really understood what he meant at the time. He’d been only thirteen. Maybe he would have pressed the point if he knew that his father would be dead three years later. But no matter. He got it now. Doing any one thing—even something fun—for too long isn’t good for you.

So the problem with taking long walks outside or any of that nature stuff was, well, it was boring. The worlds online may be virtual, but they were constant stimuli in constant flux. You saw, you experienced, you reacted. It never bored. It never got old because it was always changing. You were always engrossed.

Conversely, walking like this—in the wooded area of Central Park called the Ramble—was blah. He looked for birds—according to the web, the Ramble “boasted” (that was the word the website used) approximately 230 bird species. Right now, there were zero. There were sycamores and oaks and plenty of flowers and fauna. No birds. So what was the big deal about walking through trees?

He could, he guessed, understand walking through city streets a little better. At least there was stuff to see—stores and people and cars, maybe someone fighting over a taxi or arguing over a parking spot. Action, at least. The woods? Green leaves and some flowers? Nice for a minute or two, but then, well, Dullsville.

So no, Brandon wasn’t walking through this Manhattan woodland because he suddenly had an appreciation for the great outdoors or fresh air or any of that stuff. He did it because walking like this bored him. It bored him silly.

Balance for the constant stimuli.

More than that, boredom was a kind of thinking tank. It fed you. Brandon didn’t take walks in the woods to calm himself or get in tune with nature. He did it because the boredom forced him to look inward, to think hard, to concentrate solely on his own thoughts because nothing around him was worthy of his attention.

Certain problems cannot be solved if you are constantly entertained and distracted.

Still, Brandon couldn’t help it. He had his smartphone with him. He had called Kat, but the call had gone to her voice mail. He never left messages on voice mail—only old people did that—so he sent her a text to call him when she could. No rush. At least, not yet. He wanted to digest what he had just learned.

He stayed on the winding pathways. He was surprised at how few people he saw. Here he was in the heart of Manhattan, ambling between 73rd and 78th Street (again according to the website—he really had no idea where he was), and he felt virtually alone. He was missing school, but that couldn’t be helped. He had let Jayme Ratner, his lab partner, know that he was currently out of commission. She was okay with it. Her last lab partner had something like a nervous breakdown last semester, so she was just happy he wasn’t down at mental health like, it seemed, half their friends were.

His cell phone rang. The caller ID read Bork Investments. He answered.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice asked, “Is this Mr. Brandon Phelps?”

“Yes.”

“Please hold for Martin Bork.”

The hold music was an instrumental version of “Blurred Lines.” Then: “Well, hello, Brandon.”

“Hello, Uncle Marty.”

“Nice to hear from you, son. How’s school?”

“It’s fine.”

“Wonderful. Do you have plans for the summer?”

“Not yet.”

“No rush, am I right? Enjoy it, that’s my advice. You’ll be out in the real world soon enough. You hear what I’m saying?”

Martin Bork was nice enough, but all adults, when they start with the life advice, sound like blowhards. “I do, yes.”

“So I got your message, Brandon.” All business now. “What can I do for you?”

The pathway started down toward the lake. Brandon got off it and moved closer to the water’s edge. “It’s about my mother’s account.”

There was silence at the other end of the line. Brandon pressed on.

“I see she made a pretty big withdrawal.”

“How did you see that?” Bork asked.

Brandon didn’t like the change in tone. “Pardon?”

“While I won’t confirm or deny what you just said, how did you see this supposed withdrawal?”

“Online.”

More silence.

“I have her password, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Brandon, do you have any questions about your own account?”

He moved away from the lake and started over the stream. “No.”

“Then I’m afraid that I’m having to go now.”

“There’s nearly a quarter of a million dollars missing from my mother’s account.”

“I assure you that nothing is missing. If you have any questions about your mother’s account, perhaps it is best if you ask her.”

“You talked to her? She approved this transaction?”

“I can’t say any more, Brandon. I hope you understand. But talk to your mother. Good-bye.”

Martin Bork hung up.

In something of a daze, Brandon stumbled over the old stone arch into a more secluded area. The vegetation was denser up here. He finally spotted a bird—a red cardinal. He remembered reading that the Cherokees believed cardinals were daughters of the sun. If the bird flew up toward the sun, it was good luck. If the bird chose to fly downward, well, obviously the opposite would be true.

Brandon stood transfixed and waited for the cardinal to make his move.

That was why he never heard the man lurking behind him until it was too late.

 • • •

Chaz, her soon-to-be-ex-partner, called Kat’s cell phone. “I got it.”

“Got what?”

Kat had just gotten out of the Lincoln Center subway station, which smelled decidedly like piss, and onto 66th Street, which smelled almost as decidedly like cherry blossoms. Kat New York. A text from Brandon had been waiting for her. She called, but there was no answer, so she left a brief voice mail.

“You were trying to put in a request for a surveillance video,” Chaz said. “It came in.”

“Hold up, how did that happen?”

“You know how that happened, Kat.”

She did, bizarre as it was. Chaz had put in the request for her. The only consistent thing she understood about people was that they are never consistent. “You could get in trouble,” Kat said.

“Trouble is my middle name,” he said. “Actually, my middle name is Hung Stallion. Did you tell your hot friend I’m rich?”

Yep. Consistent. “Chaz.”

“Right, sorry. Do you want me to e-mail you the video?”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

“Were you trying to see what car that lady got in?”

“You watched the tape?”

“That was okay, right? I’m still your partner.”

Fair point, Kat thought.

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Dana Phelps. That was her son who came to see me the other day. He thinks she’s missing. No one believes him.”

“Including you?”

“I’m somewhat more open-minded.”

“Could you tell me why?”

“It’s a long story,” Kat said. “Can it wait?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So did Dana Phelps get in a car?”

“She did,” Chaz said. “More specifically, a black Lincoln Town Car stretch limo.”

“Was the driver wearing a black cap and suit?”

“Yes.”

“License plate?”

“Well, here’s the thing. The bank video didn’t pick up his plates. The guy kept the car on the street. Hard enough to figure out the make.”

“Damn.”

“Well, no, not really,” Chaz said.

“How’s that?”

Chaz cleared his throat, more for effect than need. “I checked Google Earth and saw that there was an Exxon station two stores down in the direction the guy was driving. I made a few calls. The gas station surveillance video captures the street.”

Most people understand on some level that there are a lot of surveillance cameras out there, but very few people really get it. There are forty million surveillance cameras in the United States alone and the number keeps growing. You never go through a day without being recorded.

“Anyway,” Chaz said, “the request may take another hour or two, but when we get it, we should be able to spot the license plate.”

“Great.”

“I’ll call you when it comes. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Okay,” Kat said. Then: “Chaz?”

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate this. I mean, you know, uh, thanks.”

“Can I have your hot friend’s phone number?”

Kat hung up. Her phone rang again. The caller ID read Brandon Phelps.

“Hey, Brandon.”

But the voice on the other end wasn’t Brandon’s. “May I ask with whom I’m speaking?”

“You called me,” Kat reminded him. “Hey, who is this? What’s going on?”

“This is Officer John Glass,” the man on the phone said. “I’m calling about Brandon Phelps.”

 • • •

Central Park’s 840 acres is policed by the 22nd Precinct, the city’s oldest, better known as the Central Park Precinct. Kat’s father had spent eight years there in the seventies. Back then, the officers of the “two-two” were housed in an old horse stable. They still were, in a way, though a sixty-one-million-dollar renovation had given the place maybe too much of a new shine. The precinct now looked more like a museum for modern art than anything to do with law enforcement. In a typically New York City move—that is, you didn’t know if it was for real or a joke—the rather impressive glass atrium had been built out of bulletproof glass. The original estimate called for the renovation to cost almost twenty million less, but in what one might also consider classically Manhattan style, the builders had unexpectedly run across old trolley tracks.

The old ghosts never quite leave this city.

Kat hurried to the front desk and asked for Officer Glass. The desk sergeant pointed at a slender black man behind her. Officer Glass was in uniform. She may have known him—Central Park Precinct was pretty close to her own 19th—but she couldn’t be sure.

Glass was talking to two elderly gentlemen who looked as though they’d just come from a gin tournament in Miami Beach. One wore a fedora and used a cane. The other wore a light blue jacket and trousers the orange of a mango. Glass was taking notes. As Kat approached, she heard him tell the two old men that they could go now.

“You have our numbers, right?” Fedora asked.

“I do, thank you.”

“You call us if you need us,” Mango Pants said.

“I’ll do that. And again, thanks for your help.”

When they started away, Glass spotted her and said, “Hey, Kat.”

“We know each other?”

“Not really, but my old man worked here with your old man. Your dad was a legend.”

You become a legend, Kat knew, by dying on the job. “So where’s Brandon?”

“He’s with the doctor in the back room. He wouldn’t let us take him to a hospital.”

“Can I see him?”

“Sure, follow me.”

“How badly was he hurt?”

Glass shrugged. “Would have been a lot worse if it hadn’t been for those two reliving their youth.” He gestured toward the two old men, Fedora and Mango Pants, slowly exiting the atrium.

“How’s that?”

“You know about the Ramble’s, uh, flamboyant past, right?”

She nodded. Even the official Central Park website referred to the Ramble as a “gay icon” and a “well-known site for private homosexual encounters throughout the twentieth century.” Back in the day, the dense vegetation and poor lighting made it perfect for so-called gay cruising. More recently, the Ramble had become not only the park’s premier woodland but something of a historical landmark for the LGBT community.

“Seems those two guys met in the Ramble fifty years ago,” Glass said. “So today they decided to celebrate their anniversary by going behind the old bushes and engaging in a little, uh, nostalgia.”

“In the daytime?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

“They told me that, at their age, it’s hard to stay up late anymore. Or even up, I guess. So anyway, they were whatevering and they heard a commotion. They ran out—I don’t want to know in what stage of undress—and saw some ‘homeless guy’ attacking your boy.”

“How did they know he was homeless?”

“That was their description, not mine. It looks like the perp sneaked up on Brandon and punched him in the face. No warning, nothing. One of our witnesses said he saw a knife. The other said he didn’t, so I don’t know. Nothing was stolen—there was probably no time—but this was either a robbery or some guy off his meds. Maybe an old-fashioned gay basher, though I doubt that. Despite the actions of Romeo and, uh, Romeo, the Ramble isn’t known for that anymore, especially not in the daytime.”

Glass opened the door. Brandon was sitting on a table, talking to the doctor. There was tape across his nose. He looked pale and skinny, but then again, he always looked that way.

The doctor turned toward Kat. “Are you his mother?”

Brandon smiled at that. For a moment, Kat was insulted, but then she realized that, first off, she was indeed old enough to have a son his age—wow, that was depressing—and second, his actual mom probably looked younger than Kat. Double depressing.

“No. Just a friend.”

“I’d like him to go to the hospital,” the doctor said to Kat.

“I’m fine,” Brandon said.

“His nose is broken, for one thing. I also believe that he probably suffered some sort of concussion in the assault.”

Kat looked over at Brandon. Brandon just shook his head.

“I’ll look after him,” Kat said.

The doctor shrugged his surrender and headed out the door. Glass helped them with the rest of the paperwork. Brandon never saw his attacker. He didn’t seem to care much, either. He hurried through the paperwork. “I have something I need to tell you,” he whispered when Glass stepped away.

“Let’s concentrate first on what just happened, okay?”

“You heard Officer Glass. It was a random attack.”

Kat wasn’t buying that. Random? Now, when they were in the throes of . . .

Of what?

There was still no evidence to suggest any crimes were taking place. Besides, what other theories were there? Had the black-suited chauffeur disguised himself as a homeless man and followed Brandon into the Ramble? That made no sense either.

When Glass walked them back into the bulletproof atrium, Kat asked him to let her know the moment they learned anything.

“Will do,” Glass promised.

He shook both of their hands. Brandon thanked him, still in a rush to get outside. He sprinted away from the front door. Kat followed him up to the huge body of water—it took up an eighth of the park—called the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. Yes, for real.

Brandon checked his watch. “There’s still time.”

“For what?”

“To get down to Wall Street.”

“Why?”

“Someone is stealing my mother’s money.”