Harlan Coben - Caught

Ed Grayson was standing by the window now. He looked out but if he was enjoying the view, he was keeping it pretty hidden. "I don't know what to do here, Hester."

"I do," she said.

"I'm listening."

"Listen to my professional legal advice: Do nothing."

Still staring out the window, Grayson smiled. "No wonder you get the big bucks."

Hester spread her hands.

"So it's that simple?"

"In this case, yep."

"You know my wife left me. She wants to move back to Quebec with E. J."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"This whole mess is my fault."

"Ed, don't take this the wrong way, but you know I'm bad at hand-holding or false platitudes, right?"

"Oh yes."

"So I'll make it clear for you: You messed up big-time."

"I never beat up someone before."

"And now you have."

"I never shot someone either."

"And now you have. Your point?"

They both went quiet. Ed Grayson was comfortable with silence. Hester Crimstein was not. She started rocking in her desk chair, played with a pen, sighed theatrically. Finally she got up and crossed the room.

"See this?"

Ed turned around. She was pointing at a statue of Lady Justice. "Yes."

"You know what it is?"

"Sure."

"What?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Who is this?"

"Lady Justice."

"Yes and no. She is known by many names. Lady Justice, Blind Justice, the Greek goddess Themis, the Roman goddess Justitia, the Egyptian goddess Ma'at-or even the daughters of Themis, Dike and Astraea."

"Uh, your point?"

"Have you ever taken a good look at the statue? Most people see the blindfold first and, well, that's an obvious reference to impartiality. It's also nonsense since everybody is partial. You can't help it. But take a look at her right hand. That's a sword. That's a kick-ass sword. That's supposed to represent swift and often brutal, even deadly punishment. But you see, only she-the system-can do that. The system, as messed up as it is, has the right to use that sword. You, my friend, do not."

"Are you telling me I shouldn't have taken the law into my own hands?" Grayson arched an eyebrow. "Wow, Hester, that's deep."

"Look at the scales, numb nuts. In her left hand. Some people think the scales are supposed to represent both sides of the argument-prosecution and defense. Others claim it is about fairness or impartiality. But think about it. Scales are really about balance, right? Look, I'm an attorney-and I know my rep. I know people think I subvert the law or use loopholes or bully or take advantage. That's all true. But I stay within the system."

"And that makes it okay?"

"Yep. Because that's the balance."

"And I, to keep within your metaphor, disturbed the balance?"

"Exactly. That's the beauty of our system. It can be tweaked and twisted-Lord knows I do it all the time-but when you keep within it, right or wrong, it somehow works. When you don't, when you lose balance even with the best of intentions, it leads to chaos and catastrophe."

"That," Ed Grayson said with a nod of his head, "sounds like an enormous load of self-rationalization."

She smiled at that. "Perhaps. But you also know I'm right. You wanted to right a wrong. But now the balance is gone."

"So maybe I should do something to set it right again."

"It doesn't work like that, Ed. You know that now. Let it be and the balance has a chance to return."

"Even if it means the bad guy goes free?"

She held out her hands and smiled at him. "Who's the bad guy now, Ed?"

Silence.

He wasn't sure how to say it, so he dived right in. "The police don't have a clue about Haley McWaid."

Hester mulled that one over. "You don't know that," she said. "Maybe we're the ones without a clue."

THE HOME BELONGING to retired Essex County investigator Frank Tremont was a two-bedroom Colonial with aluminum siding, a small but perfectly manicured lawn, and a New York Giants flag hanging to the right of the door. The peonies in the flower boxes burst with so much color that Wendy wondered whether they were plastic.

Wendy took the ten steps up from the sidewalk to the front door and knocked. A curtain in the bay window moved. A moment later the door opened. Though the funeral had ended hours ago, Frank Tremont still wore the black suit. The tie was loosened, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. He had missed spots shaving. His eyes were rummy, and Wendy got a whiff of drink coming off him.

Without a word of greeting, he stepped to the side with a heavy sigh and nodded for her to come inside. She ducked into the house. Only one lamp illuminated the dark room. She spotted a half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan on the worn coffee table. Rum. Yuck. Several open newspapers lay strewn across the couch. There was a cardboard box on the floor, loaded with what she figured were the contents of his work desk. The television played some exercise-equipment infomercial, featuring a too-enthusiastic trainer and many young, beautiful, waxed six-pack stomachs. Wendy looked back at Tremont. He shrugged.

"Now that I'm retired I figured I should get some washboard abs."

She tried to smile. There were photographs of a teenage girl on a side table. The girl's hairstyle had been in vogue maybe fifteen, twenty years ago, but the first thing you noticed was her smile-big and wide, pure dynamite, the kind of smile that rips into a parent's heart. Wendy knew the story. The girl was undoubtedly Frank's daughter who died of cancer. Wendy looked back at the bottle of Captain Morgan and wondered how he'd ever crawled out of it.

"What's up, Wendy?"

"So," she began, trying to buy a moment, "you're officially retired?"

"Yep. Went out with a bang, don't you think?"

"I'm sorry."

"Save it for the victim's family."

She nodded.

"You've been in the papers a lot," he said. "This case has made you quite the celebrity." He lifted the glass in mock salute. "Congratulations."

"Frank?"

"What?"

"Don't say something stupid you'll regret."

Tremont nodded. "Yeah, good point."

"Is this case officially closed?" she asked.

"From our perspective, pretty much. The perp is dead-probably buried out in the woods, which I guess someone smarter than me would find ironic."

"Did you pressure Ed Grayson again to give up the body?"

"As much as we could."

"And?"

"He won't talk. I wanted to offer him blanket immunity if he told us where Mercer's body was, but my big boss, Paul Copeland, wouldn't agree to that."

Wendy thought about Ed Grayson, wondered about trying to approach him again, see if maybe now he'd talk to her. Tremont knocked the newspapers off the couch and invited Wendy to sit. He fell into the BarcaLounger and picked up the remote.

"Do you know what show is on soon?"

"No."

"Crimstein's Court. You do know that she's repping Ed Grayson, right?"

"You told me."

"Right, I forgot. Anyway, she made some interesting points when we questioned him." He picked up the Captain Morgan and poured some in his glass. He offered her some, but she shook him off.

"What sort of points?"

"She made the argument that we should give Ed Grayson a medal for killing Dan Mercer."

"Because it was justice?"

"No, see, that would be one thing. But Hester was trying to make a larger point."

"That being?"

"If Grayson hadn't killed Mercer, we would never have found Haley's iPhone." He pointed the remote at the television and turned it off. "She noted that in three months of investigating, we had made no progress and that Ed Grayson had now provided us with the only clue to Haley's whereabouts. She further made the point that a good detective might have looked into a well-known pervert who had connections to the victim's neighborhood. And you know what?"