Harlan Coben - The Innocent

There are several Olivia Murrays.

You search a little deeper and find one that might be her. This Olivia Murray is the sales director for DataBetter, a consulting business that designs computer systems for small-to-midsize companies. DataBetter's Web site has employee biographies. Hers is brief but it does mention that she is a graduate of the University of Virginia. That was where your Olivia Murray was going when you met all those years ago.

You try to forget about it.

You are not one who believes in fate or kismet- just the opposite- but six months later, the partners at Carter Sturgis decide that the firm's computer system needs to be overhauled. Midlife knows that you learned about computer programming during your tenure in prison. He suggests that you be on the committee to develop a new office network. You suggest several firms come in and make bids.

One of those firms is DataBetter.

Two people from DataBetter arrive at the offices of Carter Sturgis. You are in a panic. In the end, you fake an emergency and don't attend the presentation. That would be too much- showing up like that. You let the other three men on the committee handle the interview. You stay in your office. Your leg shakes. You bite your nails. You feel like an idiot.

At noon, there is a knock on your office door.

You turn and Olivia is there.

You recognize her right away. It hits you like a physical blow. The warm twang is back. You can barely speak. You look at her left hand. At her ring finger.

There is nothing there.

Olivia smiles and tells you that she's here at Carter Sturgis doing a presentation. You try to nod. Her company is bidding to set up the firm's computer systems, she says. She spotted your name on the list of people who were supposed to be at the meeting and wondered if you were the same Matt Hunter she met all those years ago.

Still stunned, you ask her if she wants to grab a cup of coffee. She hesitates but says yes. When you rise and walk past her, you smell her hair. The lilacs and berries are still there, and you worry that your eyes will well up.

You both gloss over the phony catch-up preliminaries, which, of course, works well for you. Over the years she has thought about you too, you find out. The fiancé is long gone. She has never been married.

Your heart soars even as you shake your head. You know that this is all too impossible. Neither of you believes in concepts like love at first sight.

But there you are.

In the weeks that follow you learn what true love is. She teaches it to you. You eventually tell her the truth about your past. She gets over it. You get married. She becomes pregnant. You are happy. You both celebrate the news by buying matching camera phones.

And then, one day, you get a call and see the woman you met during that long-ago spring break- the only woman you ever loved- in a hotel room with another man.

Why the hell would someone be following him?

Matt kept his hands steady on the wheel as his head spun with possibilities. He sorted through them. Nothing stuck.

He needed help, big-time. And that meant visiting Cingle.

He was going to be late for his appointment with the home inspector. He didn't much care. Suddenly the future he had allowed himself to imagine- house, picket fence, the always-beautiful Olivia, the 2.4 kids, the Lab retriever- seemed frighteningly unrealistic. More fooling himself, he guessed. A convicted murderer returning to the suburbs he grew up in and raising the ideal family- it suddenly sounded like a bad sitcom pitch.

Matt called Marsha, his sister-in-law, to tell her he wouldn't get out there until later, but her machine picked up. He left a message and pulled into the lot.

Housed in a building of sleek glass not far from Matt's office is MVD- Most Valuable Detection, a large private-eye firm Carter Sturgis uses. By and large Matt was not a huge fan of private detectives. In fiction they were pretty cool dudes. In reality they were, at best, retired (emphasis on the "tired") cops and at worst, guys who couldn't become cops and thus are that dangerous creation known as the "cop wannabe." Matt had seen plenty of wannabes working as prison guards. The mixture of failure and imagined testosterone produced volatile and often ugly consequences.

Matt sat in the office of one of the exceptions to this rule- the lovely and controversial Ms. Cingle Shaker. Matt didn't think that was her real name, but it was the one she used professionally. Cingle was six feet tall with blue eyes and honey-colored hair. Her face was fairly attractive. Her body caused heart arrhythmia- a total, no-let-up traffic-stopper. Even Olivia said "Wow" when she met her. Rumor had it that Cingle had been a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall, but that the other girls complained that she ruined their "symmetry." Matt did not doubt it.

Cingle had her feet up on her desk. She had on cowboy boots that added another two inches to her height and dark jeans that fit like leggings. Up top, she wore a black turtleneck that on some women would be considered clingy but on Cingle could legitimately draw a citation for indecency.

"It was a New Jersey plate," Matt told her for the third time. "MLH-472."

Cingle hadn't moved. She rested her chin in the L made by her thumb and index finger. She stared at him.

"What?" Matt said.

"What client am I supposed to bill for this?"

"No client," he said. "You bill me."

"This is for you then."

"Yes."

"Hmm." Cingle dropped her feet to the floor, stretched back, smiled. "So this is personal?"

"Man," Matt said, "you are good. I tell you to bill me, that it's for me, and bang, you figure out that it's personal."

"Years of detecting, Hunter. Don't be intimidated."

Matt tried to force up a smile.

She kept her eyes on him. "Want to hear one of the ten rules from the Cingle Shaker Book of Detection?"

"No, not really."

"Rule Six: When a man asks you to look up a license plate for personal reasons, it can be only one of two things. One"- Cingle raised a finger-"he thinks his wife is cheating and he wants to know who with."

"And two?"

"There's no two. I lied. There's only one."

"That's not it."

Cingle shook her head.

"What?"

"Ex-cons usually lie better."

He let that one alone.

"Okay, so let's say I believe you. Why, pray tell, do we want me to trace this down?"

"It's personal. Remember? Bill me, for me, personal?"

Cingle stood up, waaay up, and put her hands on her hips. She glared down at him. Unlike Olivia, Matt did not say "Wow" out loud, but maybe he thought it.

"Think of me as your religious advisor," she said. "Confession is good for the soul, you know."

"Yeah," Matt said. "Religion. That's what comes to mind." He sat up. "Will you just do this for me?"

"Okeydokey." She stared at him another beat. Matt did not cringe. Cingle sat back down and threw her feet back on the desk. "The standing up with the hands on the hips. That usually weakens a guy."

"I'm stone."

"Well, yes, that's part of it."

"Ha, ha."

She gave him the curious look again. "You love Olivia, right?"

"I'm not getting into this with you, Cingle."

"You don't have to answer. I've seen you with her. And her with you."

"So you know then."

She sighed. "Give me the plate number again."

He did. This time Cingle wrote it down.

"Shouldn't take more than an hour. I'll call you on your cell."

"Thanks." He started for the door.

"Matt?"

He turned back toward her.

"I've had some experience in stuff like this."

"I'm sure."

"Opening this door." Cingle held up the slip of paper with the license plate. "It's kinda like trying to break up a fight. Once you jump in, you don't know what could happen."