Harlan Coben - Caught

"Nothing to say. If you need any help, I'm here for you. That's all. I'm going now. We're covering that story I told you about-the perv Arthur Lemaine who had both knees shot."

"A new development?"

"Not really. The guy hopefully got what he deserved, but it's still pretty amazing-a convicted child pornographer coaching a kids' hockey team."

Wendy felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

Hockey?

She remembered now watching the story with Charlie and his friends. "Wait, he was shot in front of South Mountain Arena, right?"

"Right."

"But I don't get it. I remembered reading that the arena does background checks on the coaches."

Michele nodded. "Yes. But in Lemaine's case, the convictions didn't show up."

"Why not?"

"Because the background checks only turn up crimes committed on U.S. soil," Michele said. "But see, Lemaine is Canadian. From Quebec, I think."

IT DIDN'T TAKE Wendy long to put it together.

Michele Feisler helped. She already had plenty of background on sex criminal Arthur Lemaine, including a family tree. Wendy was impressed with the work Michele had put in already. And okay, maybe Michele's head was a little on the large side, but that was probably accentuated by the fact that she had really narrow shoulders.

"What now?" Michele asked her.

"I think we should get in touch with Sheriff Walker. He's in charge of the Dan Mercer murder."

"Okay, why don't you make the call? You know him." Wendy found Walker's cell phone number and hit send. Michele sat next to her. She dutifully took out her little reporter pad, pen poised. Walker answered on the fourth ring. Wendy heard him clear his voice and say, "Sheriff Mickey Walker."

"It's Wendy."

"Oh, uh, hi. How are you?"

Oh, uh, hi? His voice sounded stiff. And now that Wendy thought of it, wouldn't he have seen it was her on his caller ID?

"I see you've heard those new stories about me," Wendy said.

"Yep."

"Super." This was not the time to go into it. It didn't matter anyway-screw him, right?-but she still felt the pang. "Have you heard about this case of Arthur Lemaine? The guy who got shot in both kneecaps?"

"Yes," he said. "But it's not my jurisdiction."

"Did you hear that Arthur Lemaine is a convicted child pornographer?"

"I think I heard that, yes."

"Did you also hear that Arthur Lemaine is Ed Grayson's brother-in-law?"

There was a brief pause. Then Walker said, "Whoa."

"Whoa indeed. Want more whoa? Lemaine coached his nephew's hockey team. For those who aren't good at family trees, that would be E. J., Ed Grayson's son, the victim of child pornography."

"That is another whoa," Walker agreed.

"And-maybe 'whoa' here-whoever shot Lemaine's knees did so from a distance."

"The work of an expert marksman," Walker said.

"Isn't that what the owner of the Gun-O-Rama said about Grayson?"

"He did indeed. My God. But I don't get it. I thought you saw Grayson kill Dan Mercer because Mercer took the pictures of his son."

"I did."

"So he shot both guys?"

"Well, yes, I think so. Remember how Ed Grayson showed up at Ringwood State Park to help find Haley McWaid's body?"

"Yes."

"He said I didn't get it. But I think I do now. The guilt is haunting him, because he killed an innocent man."

Michele was steadily taking notes-on what, Wendy couldn't imagine.

"Here is how I think it went," Wendy continued. "Dan Mercer is freed. Ed Grayson goes nuts. He kills Mercer and gets rid of the evidence. When he gets home, his wife, Maggie, sees what he's done. I don't know what happens then exactly. Maybe Maggie freaks out. Maybe she says, 'What did you do, it wasn't Dan, it was my brother.' Or maybe E. J. now tells him the truth about his uncle. I don't know. But imagine what must have gone through Grayson's mind. For months he has shown up at every hearing, talking to the media, putting a face to the victims, demanding that Dan Mercer be punished."

"And then he finds out that he killed the wrong guy."

"Right. Plus he now knows that Arthur Lemaine, his brother-in-law, will never be brought to justice. And if he is somehow brought to trial, well, that might destroy his family."

"The scandal of that," Walker said. "Putting his family through it all again. Having to admit to the world that he'd been wrong this whole time. So, what, Grayson maims him instead?"

"Yes. I don't think he was strong enough to murder again. Not after what happened the first time."

"And like it or not, it's his wife's brother."

"Right."

Wendy looked across the table at Michele. She was on her cell now, talking low into the phone.

Walker said, "Word is, Grayson's wife left him. She took the kid."

"Maybe it was because of what he did to Dan."

"Or maybe because he shot her brother."

"Right."

Walker sighed. "So how do we prove any of this?"

"I don't know. Lemaine probably isn't going to talk, but maybe you guys can push him."

"Even so. He was shot in the dark. No other witnesses. And we already know that Grayson is damn good about getting rid of evidence."

They sat in silence. Michele hung up. She took some more notes, drew big long arrows. She stopped, looked at the pad, and frowned.

Wendy asked, "What is it?"

Michele started writing again. "I'm not sure yet. But there's something wrong with this theory."

"What?"

"It might not be a big deal but the timeline is off. Lemaine was shot the day before Dan Mercer."

Wendy's phone vibrated. Call waiting. She checked the incoming number. It was Win. "I have to go," she said to Walker. "Another call coming."

"I'm sorry about my tone before."

"Don't worry about it."

"I still want to call you when this is over."

She tried not to smile. "When this is over," she repeated. Then she clicked over to the other line. "Hello?"

"Per your request," Win said, "I looked into the matter of Phil Turnball's termination."

"Do you know who set him up?"

"Where are you?"

"Home."

"Come to my office. I think you may need to see this."

WIN WAS RICH. Superrich.

Example: "Win" was short for Windsor Horne Lock wood III. His office was located on Forty-sixth Street and Park Avenue in the Lock- Horne high-rise.

You do the math.

Wendy parked in the lot in the MetLife Building. Her father had worked not far from here. She thought about him now, the way he always rolled up his sleeves to the elbow, the act doubly symbolic-he was always ready to pitch in and never wanted to be thought of as a suit. Her father had tremendous forearms. He made her feel safe. Right now, even though he'd been dead for years, she wanted to collapse in her father's big arms and hear him tell her that everything would be all right. Do we ever outgrow that need? John had done that too-made Wendy feel safe. That may seem antifeminist-this warm feeling of security coming from a man-but there it was. Pops was great, but this wasn't his job. Charlie, well, he would always be her little boy and it would always be her job to take care of him, not the other way around. The two men who had made her feel safe were both dead. They had never failed her, but now, with all the trouble swirling around her, she wondered whether a little voice wasn't whispering that she had failed them.

Win had moved his office down a floor. The elevator opened up to a sign reading MB REPS. The receptionist said in a high-pitched squeal: "Welcome, Ms. Tynes."

Wendy nearly stepped back into the elevator. The receptionist was the size of an NFL nose tackle. She was squeezed into a coal black unitard that was like the nightmare version of Adrienne Bar-beau's in Cannonball Run . Her makeup looked as though it had been layered on with a snow shovel.