Текст книги "Missing You"

Автор книги: Harlan Coben

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“What was that?”

“I asked for the ATM surveillance video. I thought maybe you’d want to see it too.” He flipped the computer monitor around on his desk so she could see the screen. Schwartz hit a few keys. The monitor came to life. The video was a split screen, two camera angles. That was the latest technology. Too many people knew about the camera on the front of the machine and would cover it with their hand. So the picture on the left was exactly that—one of those fish-eye views of an ATM machine. The second shot, the one on the right of the screen, had been shot from above, like you see in every convenience store heist. Kat understood that installing a camera near the ceiling was easier, but it was almost always useless. Criminals wore baseball caps or kept their chins tucked. Shoot from below, not above.

The videos were in color, not black and white. That was getting more and more common. Schwartz took hold of his mouse. “Ready?”

She nodded. He clicked the PLAY button.

For a few seconds, there was nothing. Then a woman came into view. There was no doubt about it. It was Dana Phelps.

“She look in much distress to you?”

Kat shook her head. Even on the surveillance camera, Dana looked rather beautiful. More than that, she looked ready to go on a vacation with a new lover. Kat couldn’t help feel a pang of something akin to envy. Dana’s hair looked as though it had just been professionally done. Her nails—Kat could see them up close when they were tapping the keys—were freshly manicured. Her outfit too looked ideal for a romantic trip to the Caribbean:

A bright yellow sundress.

Chapter 16

Aqua was pacing in front of Kat’s apartment.

His pace was done in tight two-steps-spin-180 two-steps-spin-180 formation. Kat stopped on the corner and watched for a moment. Something was clutched in his hand. Aqua kept looking at it—was it a sheet of paper? He kept talking to it—no, Kat thought, more like arguing or even pleading with it.

People gave Aqua wide berth, but this was New York. Nobody overreacted. Kat started toward him. Aqua hadn’t been to her apartment for more than a decade, so why now? When she was about ten feet away from him, she could see what was on the sheet of paper he had bunched up in his right hand.

It was the picture of Jeff she had given to him over two weeks ago.

“Aqua?”

He stopped mid-stride and spun toward her. His eyes were wide and just past the northern border of sanity. She had seen him talk to himself before, had witnessed a few of his paces and tantrums, but she had never seen him look so . . . was it agitated? No. It seemed more than that. It seemed pained.

“Why?” Aqua cried, holding up Jeff’s picture.

“Why what, Aqua?”

“I loved him,” he said, his voice a wounded wail. “You loved him.”

“I know we did.”

“Why?”

He started sobbing. Pedestrians now gave him wider berth. Kat moved closer. She opened her arms and Aqua fell right in, putting his head against her shoulder and continuing to cry.

“It’s okay,” she said softly.

Aqua kept at it, his body racked by each new sob. She shouldn’t have shown him the photograph. He was beyond fragile. He needed routine. He needed sameness, and here she had gone and given him a picture of someone he cared deeply about and never saw anymore.

Wait. How did she know Aqua never saw Jeff anymore?

Eighteen years ago, Jeff had broken up with her. That didn’t mean he had given up all his friends and connections, did it? He and Aqua could still be in touch, still doing what friends do, hang out, grab a beer, watch a game. Except, of course, it wasn’t as though Aqua had a computer or a phone or even an address.

But could they still be in touch?

It seemed doubtful. Kat let him have his cry, there on the street. He pulled himself together, but it took some time. She patted his back and cooed soothing words. She had done this for Aqua before, especially after Jeff left, but it had been a long, long time. In those days, she had both taken pity on him and been angered by his reaction. Jeff had dumped her, not him. Shouldn’t Aqua be the one comforting her?

But, man, she missed this connection. She had long ago mourned the loss of this friend, accepting the yoga-teacher relationship as being the only one he could reasonably expect to give. Right now, holding him like this, she fell back and yet again felt the pang for all she had lost eighteen years ago.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him.

Aqua nodded, lifting his head. His face was filled with tears and snot. So was Kat’s blouse. She didn’t care. She started welling up too, not just for the loss of Jeff or what she and Aqua once had, but just from physically comforting someone you care about. It had been so long. Much too long.

“A little hungry, I guess,” Aqua said.

“Do you want to get something to eat?”

“I should go.”

“No, no, let’s get something to eat, okay?”

“I don’t think so, Kat.”

“I don’t understand. Why did you come here in the first place?”

“Class tomorrow,” Aqua said. “I need to prepare.”

“Come on,” she said, holding on to his hand, trying to keep the plea from her voice. “Stay with me a little while, okay?”

He didn’t respond.

“You said you’re hungry, right?”

“Right.”

“So let’s get something to eat, okay?”

Aqua wiped his face with his sleeve. “Okay.” They started down the block, arm in arm, a rather bizarre-looking couple, she guessed, but again, this was New York. They walked in silence for a while. Aqua stopped crying. Kat didn’t want to push him, but then, she couldn’t just leave it alone.

“You miss him,” she said.

Aqua squeezed his eyes shut as if wishing the words away.

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“You don’t understand anything,” Aqua said.

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she went with “So explain it to me.”

“I miss him,” Aqua said. Then he stopped, turned, and faced her full-on. When he looked at her, the wide-eyed look had been replaced with something akin to pity. “But not like you, Kat.”

He started to walk away. She hurried to catch up.

“I’m fine,” Kat said.

“It should have been.”

“What should have been?”

“You and Jeff,” Aqua said. “It should have been.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t happen.”

“It is like you two were traveling down separate roads for your whole lives—two roads that were destined to become one. You have to see that. Both of you.”

“Well, clearly not both of us,” she said.

“You travel down those life roads. You choose journeys, but sometimes you are forced to take another route.”

She really wasn’t in the mood for the yoga woo-woo right now. “Aqua?”

“Yes?”

“Have you seen Jeff?”

He stopped again.

“I mean, since he left me. Have you seen him?”

Aqua tightened his grip on her arm. He started to walk again. She stayed with him. They made the right on Columbus Avenue and headed north.

“Twice,” he said.

“You’ve seen him twice?”

Aqua looked up toward the sky and closed his eyes. Kat let him take his time. He used to do this back at school too. He would talk about the sun on his face, how it relaxed and centered him. For a while, it had even seemed to work. But that face was weathered now. You could see the bad years in the lines around his eyes and mouth. His “mocha latte” skin had taken on the leathery cracking of those who live on the streets too long.

“He came back to the room,” Aqua said. “After he ended it with you.”

“Oh,” she said. Not the answer she’d hoped for.

Because of how he was, Aqua had always been in a single on campus. The school tried him with a roommate, but it never worked out. Some were freaked out by the cross-dressing, but the real problem was that Aqua never slept. He studied. He read. He worked in the lab, the school cafeteria—and at night, he had a job in a fetish club in Jersey City. Sometime in his junior year, Aqua lost his single room. Housing insisted on putting him with three other students. There was no way that would work out. At the same time, Jeff had found a two-bedroom on 178th Street. Serendipity, Jeff had called it.

Aqua was tearing up again. “Jeff was destroyed, you know.”

“Thanks. That means a lot eighteen years later.”

“Don’t be like that, Kat.”

Aqua may be confused, but he hadn’t missed the sarcasm.

“So when was the second time you saw him?” Kat asked.

“March twenty-first,” he said.

“What year?”

“What do you mean, what year? This year.”

Kat pulled up. “Wait. Are you telling me you saw Jeff six months ago for the first time since we broke up?”

Aqua started to fidget.

“Aqua?”

“I teach yoga.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m a good teacher.”

“The best. Where did you see Jeff exactly?”

“You were there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You took my class. On March twenty-first. You aren’t my best student. But you try. You are conscientious.”

“Aqua, where did you see Jeff?”

“At class,” Aqua said. “March twenty-first.”

“This year?”

“Yes.”

“Are you telling me that Jeff took your class six months ago?”

“He didn’t take the class,” Aqua said. “He stayed behind a tree. He watched you. He was in so much pain.”

“Did you talk to him?”

Aqua shook his head. “I taught class. I thought perhaps he spoke to you.”

“No,” she said. Then, remembering that she wasn’t dealing with the most dependable mind in the free world, she tried to let it go. There was no way Jeff was in Central Park six months ago, watching their class from behind a tree. It made no sense.

“I’m so sorry, Kat.”

“Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“It changed everything. I didn’t know it would.”

“It’s okay now.”

They were half a block from O’Malley’s. In the old days, they would all hang out here—Kat, Jeff, Aqua, a few other friends. You would think O’Malley’s would have been a rough place for a biracial cross-dresser back then. It was. In the beginning, Aqua dressed like a man at O’Malley’s, but that didn’t really stop the sneers. Dad would just shake his head. He wasn’t as bad as most from the neighborhood, but he still had no patience for “fruits.”

“Gotta stop hanging around those types,” Kat’s father would tell her. “They ain’t right.”

She would shake her head and roll her eyes at him. At all of them. People often referred to these cops now as “old school.” True enough. But it wasn’t always a compliment. They were narrow and insulated. Excuses could be made (and were), but in the end, they were bigots. Lovable bigots maybe. But bigots nonetheless. Gays were treated with derision, but to a lesser extent, so was pretty much every other group or nationality. It was part of the lexicon. If someone negotiated with you too hard, you complained that they “Jewed” you down. Any activity not deemed macho was for “fags.” A ballplayer choked because he was playing like an N-word. Kat didn’t excuse it, but when she was younger, she didn’t really let it get to her either.

To his credit (or maybe patience?), Aqua hadn’t seemed to care. “How do you think we get views to evolve?” he’d say. He took it as a challenge even. Aqua would breeze into O’Malley’s, either not caring about—or, more likely, making himself ignore—the sneers and snickers. After a while, most of the cops moved on, got bored, barely looking twice when Aqua strolled in. Dad and his buddies kept their distance.

It pissed Kat off, especially coming from her father, but Aqua would shrug and say, “Progress.”

As they reached the pub door, Aqua pulled up short. His eyes went wide again.

“What is it?” Kat asked.

“I have to teach class.”

“Right, I know. That’s tomorrow.”

He shook his head. “I need to prepare. I’m a yogi. A teacher. An instructor.”

“And a good one.”

Aqua kept shaking his head. There were tears in his eyes now. “I can’t go back.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere.”

“He loved you so much.”

She didn’t bother asking who he meant. “It’s okay, Aqua. We are just going to grab a bite to eat, okay?”

“I’m a good teacher, aren’t I?”

“The best.”

“So let me do what I do. That’s how I help. That’s how I stay centered. That’s how I contribute to society.”

“You have to eat.”

The door to O’Malley’s had a neon sign for Budweiser in the window. She could see the red light reflecting in Aqua’s eyes. She reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

Aqua screamed. “I can’t go back!”

Kat let go of the door. “It’s okay. I get it. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“No! Leave me alone! Leave him alone!”

“Aqua?”

She reached out for him, but he pulled away. “Leave him alone,” he said, his voice more a hiss this time. Then he ran down the street, back toward the park.

Chapter 17

Stacy met her at O’Malley’s an hour later.

Kat told her the entire story. Stacy listened, shook her head, and said, “Man, all I wanted to do was help you get laid.”

“I know, right?”

“No good deed goes unpunished.” Stacy stared a little too hard at her beer. She started peeling off the label.

“What is it?” Kat asked.

“I, uh, took the liberty of doing some of my own investigating on this.”

“Meaning?”

“I ran a full check on your old fiancé, Jeff Raynes.”

Kat took a quick swallow. “What did you find?”

“Not much.”

“Meaning?”

“After you two broke up, do you know where he went?”

“No.”

“You weren’t curious?”

“I was curious,” Kat said. “But he dumped my ass.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“So where did he go?”

“Cincinnati.”

Kat stared straight ahead. “That makes sense. He was from Cincinnati.”

“Right. So anyway, about three months after you two broke up, he got into a bar fight.”

“Jeff did?”

“Yes.”

“In Cincinnati?”

Stacy nodded. “I don’t know the details. The cops came. He was arrested for a misdemeanor. He paid a fine and that was that.”

“Okay. And then?”

“And then nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is nothing else on Jeff Raynes. No credit card charges. No passport. No bank accounts. Nothing.”

“Wait, this is preliminary, right?”

Stacy shook her head. “I ran it all. He’s gone in the wind.”

“That can’t be. He’s on YouAreJustMyType.”

“But didn’t your friend Brandon say he used a different name?”

“Jack. And you know what?” Kat slapped her hands down on top of the bar. “I don’t really care anymore. That’s in my past.”

Stacy smiled. “Good for you.”

“I’ve had enough of old ghosts for one night.”

“Hear, hear.”

They clinked beer bottles. Kat tried her best to dismiss it.

“His profile said he was a widower,” Kat said. “That he had a kid.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But you didn’t find that.”

“I didn’t find anything after that bar fight almost eighteen years ago.”

Kat shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

“But you don’t care, right?”

Kat gave a firm nod. “Right.”

Stacy glanced around the bar. “Is it me or is this place extra douchey tonight?”

She was trying to distract me, Kat thought, but that was okay. And no, it wasn’t just Stacy. O’Malley’s seemed to be a verifiable United Nations of Douche Baggery on this fine evening. A guy in a cowboy hat tipped the brim toward them and actually muttered, in a Brooklyn accent no less, “Howdy, ma’am.” Dancing guy—there is one in every bar who has to do the robot or moonwalk while his buddies egg him on—was working his stuff by the jukebox. One guy wore a football jersey, a look Kat disliked on men but loathed on women, especially the ones who cheer too loudly, trying too hard to prove their fandom is legitimate. It always came off as too desperate. Two steroid-inflated, overwaxed muscleheads preened in the bar’s center—those guys never went to the dark corners. They wanted to be seen. Their shirts were always the same size—Too Small. There were hipster hopefuls who smelled like pot. There were guys with tattoo sleeves. There was the sloppy drunk who had his arm over another guy he’d just met, telling him that he loved him and that even though they had just met that night, they’d be best friends forever.

One biker wannabe wearing black leather and a red bandanna—always a no—made his approach. He had a quarter in his palm. “Hey, babe,” he said, looking directly between the two women. Kat figured that this was a take-two-shots-with-one-line type deal.

“If I flip a coin,” Bandanna continued, arching an eyebrow, “will I get head?”

Stacy looked at Kat. “We have to find a new place to hang out.”

Kat nodded. “It’s dinnertime anyway. Let’s eat someplace good.”

“How about Telepan?”

“Yum.”

“We’ll get the tasting menu.”

“With the wine pairing.”

“Let’s hurry.”

They were outside and walking fast when Kat’s cell phone sounded. The call was coming from Brandon’s regular cell phone now—no need for disposables anymore. She debated letting it go—right now, all she wanted was Telepan’s tasting menu with wine pairings—but she answered it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Brandon asked. “We need to talk.”

“No, Brandon, we don’t. Guess where I went today?”

“Uh, where?”

“The Greenwich police station. I had a little chat with our friend Detective Schwartz. He told me about a text you received.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“You lied.”

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you about the texts. But I can explain that.”

“No need. I’m out of this, Brandon. Nice meeting you and all. Good luck in the future.”

She was about to thumb the END button, when she heard Brandon say, “I found out something about Jeff.”

She put the phone to her ear. “That he got in a bar fight eighteen years ago?”

“What? No. This is more recent.”

“Look, I don’t really care.” Then: “Is he with your mother?”

“It’s not what we thought.”

“What isn’t what we thought?”

“None of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jeff, for one thing.”

“What about him?”

“He isn’t what you think. We need to talk, Kat. I need to show this to you.”

 • • •

Reynaldo made sure that the blond woman—he didn’t need to know any of their names—was secure before he headed up to the same path toward the farmhouse. Night had fallen. He used his flashlight to find his way.

Reynaldo had discovered out here, at the age of nineteen, that he was afraid of the dark. The dark dark. Real dark. In the city, there was no real dark. If you were outside, there were always streetlights or lights from windows or storefronts kept alit. You never knew pure black darkness. Here, out in the woods, you could not see your hand in front of your face. Anything could be out there. Anything could be lurking.

When he reached the clearing, Reynaldo could see the porch lights on. He stood and looked at the serene surroundings. He had never really seen anything like this farm in real life before they came out here. In movies, sure, but he hadn’t believed that places like this existed, any more than he believed the Death Star in Star Wars existed. It was make-believe, these farmlands where kids could walk for miles and play in sandlots and come home to Ma and Pa and do their chores. Now he knew the land was real. The happy stories, however, were still the stuff of make-believe.

He had his orders, but first he headed to the barn to check on his chocolate Labrador retriever, Bo. As always, Bo ran out and greeted him as though he hadn’t seen him in a year. Reynaldo smiled, scratched behind his ears, and made sure Bo’s water bowl was full.

When he was finished taking care of his dog, Reynaldo made his way to the farmhouse. He opened the door. Titus was there with Dmitry. Dmitry was Titus’s computer whiz kid with the bright-colored shirts and knit cap. Titus had decided to decorate as the Amish did. Reynaldo did not know why. The furniture was all quality woodwork—sturdy, heavy, plain, unadorned. There was nothing fancy. It all gave off an aura of quiet strength.

There was a bench press and free weights in one of the upstairs bedrooms. They had originally set it up in the cellar, but after a while, no one wanted to go into anything underground. So they moved it up.

Reynaldo lifted weights every day, no matter what. He also had a steady concoction of performance-enhancing drugs in the fridge and cabinet. Most he self-administered with a needle in the upper thigh. Titus supplied them for him.

Six years ago, Titus had found Reynaldo in a garbage dump. For real. Reynaldo had been working a corner in Queens, undercutting the other hustlers by charging only fifteen dollars a pop. A john didn’t beat him on that day. His competition did. They’d had enough of his horning in on their territory. So when Reynaldo got out of the car—his sixth car that night—two of them jumped him and beat him senseless. Titus had found him there lying on the ground, bleeding. The only thing Reynaldo could feel was Bo licking his face. Titus had cleaned him up. He had taken him to a gym and taught him about lifting and ’roiding and not being anyone’s bitch anymore.

Titus had done more than save his life. He had given Reynaldo a real one.

Reynaldo started toward the stairs.

“Not yet,” Titus said to him.

Reynaldo looked back at him. Dmitry kept his face in the computer, concentrating a little too hard on the screen.

“Problem?” Reynaldo asked.

“Nothing that can’t be solved.”

Reynaldo waited. Titus walked over to him and handed him a gun.

“Wait for my signal.”

“Okay.”

Reynaldo jammed the gun into his waistband, covering it with his shirt. Titus inspected it for a second and then nodded his approval. “Dmitry?”

Dmitry looked up over his pink-tinted glasses, startled. “Yes?”

“Go get something to eat.”

Titus didn’t have to tell him twice. Dmitry was out of the room in seconds. Reynaldo and Titus were alone now. Titus stood in the doorway. Reynaldo could see a flashlight bouncing about in the woods. It came into the clearing and up the steps.

“Hey, guys.”

Claude was in his fancy black suit. Titus had two guys working transportation. Claude was one of them.

“So what’s up?” Claude asked with a big smile. “Do you need me to pick up another package already?”

“Not yet,” Titus said in that soothing voice that even made the hairs on the back of Reynaldo’s neck stand up. “We need to talk first.”

Claude’s smile started to falter. “Is there a problem?”

“Take off your jacket.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a beautiful suit. It’s a warm night. There’s no need for it. Please take it off.”

It took effort, but Claude managed a casual shrug. “Sure, why not?”

Claude took off his suit jacket.

“The pants too.”

“What?”

“Take them off, Claude.”

“What’s going on? I don’t understand.”

“Humor me, Claude. Take off the pants.”

Claude sneaked a glance at Reynaldo. Reynaldo just stared back.

“Okay, why not?” Claude said, still trying to pretend that nothing was wrong. “I mean, you’re both in shorts. I might as well be too, right?”

“Right, Claude.”

He slipped off his pants and handed them to Titus. Titus hung them neatly across the back of a chair in the far corner. He turned again toward Claude. Claude stood there in his dress shirt, tie, boxers, and socks.

“I need you to tell me about the last delivery.”

Claude’s smile flickered, but managed to stay on. “What’s there to tell? It went smoothly. She’s here, right?”

Claude forced up a chuckle. He spread his hands, looking at Reynaldo again for some kind of support. Reynaldo stayed still as a stone. He knew how this was going to end. He just wasn’t yet sure of the route.

Titus stepped closer, so he was only inches away from Claude. “Tell me about the ATM.”

“The what?” Then seeing that wasn’t going to play: “Oh. That.”

“Tell me.”

“Okay, look, it’s cool. I know you have rules, Titus, and you know I’d never break them unless, well, I absolutely had to.”

Titus stood there, patient, all the time in the world.

“So, okay, right. I started driving and then I realized like an idiot—well, not like an idiot. An idiot. I was an idiot. No like about it. A forgetful idiot. See, I left my wallet at home. Stupid, right? So anyway, I can’t make the journey without any cash, right? I mean, it’s a long ride. You get that, don’t you, Titus?”

He stopped and waited for Titus to respond. Titus did not.

“So, okay, yes, we stopped at an ATM. But don’t worry. I kept it in state. I mean, we were still within twenty miles of her house. I never got out of the car, so there was no way the surveillance camera could see me. I just kept the gun on her. I told her if she did anything, I’d go after her kid. She got the money—”

“How much?”

“What?”

Titus smiled at him. “How much money did you have her take out?”

“Uh, the max.”

“And how much was that, Claude?”

The smile flickered one more time and went out. “A thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot,” Titus said, “of cash to need for a journey.”

“Well, hey, come on. I mean, she was taking money out anyway. Why not get the max, am I right?”

Titus just looked at him.

“Oh, right, stupid me. You’re wondering why I didn’t tell you. I was going to, I swear. I just forgot.”

“You’re pretty forgetful, Claude.”

“Look, in the larger scheme of things, it’s a pretty small amount.”

“Precisely. You put all of us at risk for petty cash.”

“I’m sorry. Really. Here, I have the money. It’s in my pants pocket. Go see. It’s yours, okay? I shouldn’t have done it. It won’t happen again.”

Titus moved back across the room to the chair where he’d hung the trousers. He reached into the pocket and pulled out the bills. Titus looked pleased. He nodded—the signal—and put the money in his own pocket.

“Are we good?” Claude asked.

“We are.”

“Okay, great. Can I, uh, put my clothes back on?”

“No,” Titus said. “The suit is expensive. I don’t want to get bloodstains on it.”

“Bloodstains?”

Reynaldo was right behind Claude now. Without a word or warning, he pressed the barrel of the gun against Claude’s head and pulled the trigger.