Harlan Coben - The Innocent

In the end he'd been forced to betray what he had always believed in, the liberal suburban lie about skin color not mattering. In prison, skin color was all that mattered. Out here, in a whole different way, it mattered just as much.

His gaze glided over the scenery. It got snagged on an interesting chunk of graffiti. On a wall of chipped brick, someone had spray-painted two words in four-foot-high letters:

BITCHES LIE!

Normally Matt would not stop and study something like this. Today he did. The letters were red and slanted. Even if you couldn't read, you could feel the rage here. Matt wondered about the creator- what inspired him to write this. He wondered if this act of vandalism had diluted the creator's wrath- or been the first step toward greater destruction.

He walked toward Eva's building. Pastor Jill's car, a fully loaded Mercedes 560, was there. One of her sons stood guard with his arms crossed, his face set on scowl. Matt's eyes started their sweep again. The neighbors were out and about. One small child of maybe two sat atop an old lawn mower. His mother was using it as a stroller. She muttered to herself and looked strung out. People stared at Matt- a white man was not unfamiliar here but still a curiosity.

Pastor Jill's sons glared as he approached. The street went quiet, like in a Western. The people were ready for a showdown.

Matt said, "How are you doing?"

The brothers might have been twins. One kept up the stare. The other started loading Eva's belongings into the trunk. Matt did not blink. He kept smiling and walking.

"I'd like you to stop that now."

Crossed-Tree-Trunk-Arms said, "Who are you?"

Pastor Jill came out. She looked over at Matt and scowled too.

"You can't throw her out," Matt said.

Pastor Jill gave him the high-and-mighty. "I own this residence."

"No, the state owns it. You claim it's charitable housing for the city's youths."

"Eva didn't follow the rules."

"What rules are those?"

"We are a religious institution. We have a strict moral code here. Eva here broke it."

"How?"

Pastor Jill smiled. "I'm not sure that's any of your concern. May I ask your name?"

Her two sons exchanged a glance. One put down Eva's stuff. They turned toward him.

Matt pointed at Pastor Jill's Mercedes. "Sweet wheels."

The brothers frowned and strolled toward him. One cracked his neck as he strutted. The other opened and closed fists. Matt felt his blood hum. Strangely enough the death of Stephen McGrath- the "slip"- hadn't made him fearful of violence. Perhaps if he had been more aggressive that night, not less… but that wasn't what mattered now. He had learned a valuable lesson about physical confrontations: You can predict nothing. Sure, whoever lands the first blow usually wins. The bigger man was usually victorious too. But once it got going, once the red tornado took hold of the combatants, anything could happen.

The Neck Cracker said, "Who are you?" again.

Matt would not risk it. He sighed and took out his camera phone. "I'm Bob Smiley, Channel Nine News."

That stopped them.

He pointed the camera in their direction and pretended to turn it on. "If you don't mind, I'm going to film what you're doing here. The Channel Nine News van will be here for clearer shots in three minutes."

The brothers looked back at their mother. Pastor Jill's face broke into a beatific albeit phony smile.

"We're helping Eva move," she said. "To better quarters."

"Uh huh."

"But if she'd rather just stay here…"

"She'd rather stay here," Matt said.

"Milo, move her things back into the apartment."

Milo, the Neck Cracker, gave Matt the fish eye. Matt held up the camera. "Hold that pose, Milo." Milo and Fist Flex started to take the stuff out of the van. Pastor Jill hurried to her Mercedes and waited in the back. Eva looked down at Matt from the window and mouthed a thank-you. Matt nodded and turned away.

It was then, turning away, not really looking at anything, that Matt saw the gray Ford Taurus.

The car was idling about thirty yards behind him. Matt froze. Gray Ford Tauruses were plentiful, of course, perhaps the most popular car in the country. Seeing two in a day would hardly be uncommon. Matt figured that there was probably another Ford Taurus on this very block. Maybe two or three. And he would not be surprised to learn that another one might even be gray.

But would it have a license plate that started with MLH, so close to his own initials of MKH?

His eyes stayed glued to the license plate.

MLH-472.

The same car he'd seen outside his office.

Matt tried to keep his breathing even. It could, he knew, be nothing more than a coincidence. Taking a step back, that was indeed a strong possibility. A person could see the same car twice in a day. He was only, what, half a mile away from his office. This was a fairly congested neighborhood. There was no big shock here.

On a normal day- check that: On pretty much any other day- Matt would have let that logic win him over.

But not today. He hesitated, but not for very long. Then he headed toward the car.

"Hey," Milo shouted, "where you going?"

"Just keep unloading, big man."

Matt hadn't moved five steps when the front wheels of the Ford Taurus started to angle themselves to move out of the spot. Matt hurried his pace.

Without warning, the Taurus jumped forward and cut across the street. The white taillights came on and the car jerked back. Matt realized that the driver planned on making a K turn. The driver hit the brake and turned the steering wheel hard and fast. Matt was only a few feet from the back window.

Matt yelled, "Wait!"- as if that would do any good- and broke into a sprint. He leapt in front of the car.

Bad move.

The Taurus's tire grabbed gravel, made a little shriek, and shot toward him.

There was no slowdown, no hesitation. Matt jumped to the side. The Taurus accelerated. Matt was off the ground now, horizontal. The bumper clipped his ankle. A burst of pain exploded through the bone. The momentum swung Matt around in midair. He landed face-first and tucked into a roll. He ended up on his back.

For a few moments Matt lay there blinking into the sunlight. People gathered around him. "You all right?" someone asked. He nodded and sat up. He checked his ankle. Bruised hard but no break. Someone helped him to his feet.

The whole thing- from the moment he saw the car to the moment it tried to run him down- had maybe taken five, maybe ten seconds. Certainly no more. Matt stared off.

Someone had been- at the very least- following him.

He checked his pocket. The cell phone was still there. He limped back toward Eva's apartment. Pastor Jill and her sons were gone. He checked to make sure Eva was okay. Then he got into his own car and took a deep breath. He thought about what to do and realized that the first step was fairly obvious.

He dialed her private line number. When Cingle answered, he asked, "You in your office?"

"Yup," Cingle said.

"I'll be there in five minutes."

AS SOON AS COUNTY HOMICIDE INVESTIGATOR Loren Muse opened her apartment door, the waft of cigarette smoke attacked. Loren let it. She stood there and sucked in a deep breath.

Her garden apartment was on Morris Avenue in Union, New Jersey. She never understood the term "garden." The place was a pit- all brick, no personality, and nothing resembling green. This was New Jersey's version of purgatory, a way station, the place people stayed on the way up or down economic and social ladders. Young couples lived here until they could afford the house. Unlucky pensioners returned here after the kids flew the coop.

And, of course, single women on the verge of old-maidhood who worked too hard and entertained too little- they ended up here too.