Harlan Coben - Caught

More police arrived. Her dad greeted them, forcing up a smile, shaking hands like he was running for office. Patricia was more like her father-go with the flow. But her father had changed. They all had, she guessed, but something inside of her dad had shattered, and she wasn't sure whether, even if Haley came home, it would ever be right again. He still looked the same, smiled the same, tried to laugh and act goofy and do those little things that made him, well, him, but it was as if he were empty, like everything inside of him had been scooped out or like some movie in which the aliens replace people with soulless clones.

There were police dogs, Great Danes, and Patricia walked over to them.

"Is it okay if I pet them?" she asked.

"Sure," the officer said after a brief hesitation.

Patricia scratched one behind the ears. His tongue flopped out in appreciation.

People talk about how much parents shape you, but Haley was the most dominant person in her life. When girls in second grade started picking on Patricia, Haley beat up one as a warning to the others. When some guys catcalled at them by Madison Square Garden-Haley had taken her little sister to see Taylor Swift-Haley had slid in front of her and told them to shut the hell up. At Disney World, their parents had let Haley and Patricia go out alone one night. They ended up meeting some older boys and getting drunk in the All-Star Sports Resort. The good girl could get away with stuff like that. Not that she wasn't good-Haley was-but she was still a teenager. That night, after having her first beer, Patricia had made out with a guy named Parker, but Haley made sure that Parker went no further.

"We'll start deep in the woods," she overheard Investigator Tremont say to the officer handling the dogs.

"Why deep?"

"If she's alive, if the bastard has built some kind of shelter to hide her, it has to be pretty far off the path or someone would have noticed already. But if she's near the trail…"

His voice trailed off as he realized, Patricia was sure, that she was in earshot. She looked off into the woods and petted the dog and pretended that she didn't hear. For the past three months, Patricia had blocked everything out. Haley was strong. She would survive. It was as though her big sister had just gone on some weird adventure and would be home soon.

But now, looking out in the woods and petting this dog, she pictured the unfathomable: Haley, alone, scared, hurt, crying. Patricia squeezed her eyes shut. Frank Tremont walked toward her. He stood in front of her, cleared his throat, waited for her to open her eyes. After a few moments she did. She waited for his words of comfort. But he didn't offer any. He just stood there, shuffling his feet, indecisive.

So Patricia closed her eyes again and kept petting that dog.

WENDY STOOD IN FRONT of the crime scene tape and spoke into the microphone with the NTC News logo near the mouthpiece. "And so we wait for some word," she said, trying to add gravitas to her voice without that TV-news melodrama. "From Ringwood State Park in northern New Jersey, this is Wendy Tynes, NTC News."

She lowered the microphone. Sam, her cameraman, said, "We should probably do that again."

"Why?"

"Your ponytail is loose."

"It's fine."

"Come on, tighten the band. It'll take two minutes. Vic will want another take."

"Screw Vic."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're kidding, right?"

She said nothing.

"Hey, you're the one who gets all pissed when we air a take with a makeup smudge," he went on. "All of a sudden you got religion? Come on, let's do one more take."

Wendy handed him the microphone and walked away. Sam was right, of course. She was a television news reporter. Anyone who thinks looks don't matter in this industry is somewhere between naive and brain-dead. Of course looks matter-and Wendy had primped for the camera and done repeated takes in equally grim situations.

In short, add "hypocrite" to her growing list of failures.

"Where you going?" Sam asked.

"I have my cell. Call me if something happens."

She headed to her car. She had planned on calling Phil Turnball, but then she remembered that his wife, Sherry, had said that Phil spent every morning alone with the classifieds at the Suburban Diner on Route 17. It was only about twenty minutes from here.

The classic New Jersey diners of yore had these wonderful shiny aluminum walls. The newer ones-"newer" meaning circa 1968-had a faux stone facade that made Wendy long for, well, aluminum. The interiors had, however, changed very little. There were still small jukeboxes at every table; a counter with spin stools; doughnuts under Batphone-style glass covers; signed, sun-faded autographed photos of local celebrities you never heard of; a surly guy with hairy ears behind the cash register; and a waitress who called you "hon" and you loved her for it.

The jukebox played the eighties hit "True" by Spandau Ballet, a curious six AM song selection. Phil Turnball sat in a corner booth. He wore a gray pinstripe suit with a yellow tie they used to call a "power tie." He was not reading the paper. He stared down at his coffee as though it hid an answer.

Wendy approached and waited for him to look up. He didn't.

Still looking down: "How did you know I was here?" Phil asked.

"Your wife mentioned you hang out here."

He smiled but there was no joy in it. "Did she now?"

Wendy said nothing.

"Tell me, how did that conversation go exactly-oh, pathetic Phil goes to this diner every morning and feels sorry for himself?"

"Not at all," Wendy said.

"Right."

This was not a subject worth mining. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"I have nothing to say to you."

The newspaper was open to the story on Haley's iPhone being found in Dan Mercer's motel room. "You read about Dan?"

"Yep. You still here to defend him? Or was that a crock from the beginning?"

"I'm not following."

"Did you know about Dan abducting this girl before yesterday? Did you figure I wouldn't talk if you told me your real agenda, so you pretended you were going to restore his reputation?"

Wendy slid in across the table from him. "I never said I wanted to restore his reputation. I said I wanted to find out the truth."

"Very noble," he said.

"Why are you being so hostile?"

"I saw you talking to Sherry last night."

"Yeah, so?"

Phil Turnball took the coffee with both hands, one finger in the handle, the other for balance. "You wanted her to persuade me to cooperate."

"And again I say: Yeah, so?"

He took a sip, gently put the coffee back down. "I didn't know what to think. I mean, some of what you said about Dan being set up made sense. But now"-he pointed with his chin toward the article on Haley's iPhone-"what's the point?"

"Maybe you can help find a missing girl."

He shook his head and closed his eyes.

"What?"

The waitress, what Wendy's father used to call a "floozy"-a big, badly bottled blonde with a pencil tucked behind her ear-said, "Get you anything?"

Damn, Wendy thought. She didn't call her "hon."

"Nothing, thanks," Wendy said.

She sauntered away. Phil still had his eyes closed.

"Phil?"

"Off the record?" he said.

"Okay."

"I don't know how to put this without making it sound like something it's not."

Wendy waited, tried to give him space.

"Look, Dan and this sex stuff…"

His voice drifted off. Wendy was about to go after him. Sex stuff? Trying to meet up with an underage girl and maybe kidnapping another-that isn't something to dismiss as "sex stuff." But now was hardly the time for a morality play. So again she said nothing and waited.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying Dan was a pedophile. It wasn't like that."