Harlan Coben - The Innocent

Paul stopped. "I want to be Strahan!" he demanded.

Ethan would have none of that. "No, I want to be Strahan!"

"Hey, you both can be Strahan," Matt said.

The two youngsters squinted at their uncle as if he were the slow kid sitting in the back. "You can't have two Michael Strahans," Paul said.

"Yeah," his brother chimed in.

Then they lowered their shoulders and hit him again. Matt performed a near Pacino-esque performance of a quarterback about to be sacked. He stutter-stepped, he looked desperately for imaginary receivers, he pump-faked a pass with his invisible football, and ultimately he went down in a slow-motion heap.

"Woo-hoo!" The boys stood, high-fived each other, bumped chests. Matt groaned into a sitting position. Kyra was smothering a giggle.

Paul and Ethan were still doing a celebration dance when Marsha appeared at the door. She looked, Matt thought, very nice. She wore a dress and makeup. Her hair had that carefully mussed thing going on. The car keys were already jiggling in her hand.

When Bernie died, Matt and Marsha had both been so devastated, so desperate, that they tried to knit something together where Matt could maybe take over as husband and father.

It was a disaster.

Matt and Marsha had waited a proper amount of time- six months- and then one night, without discussing it but knowing what was about to happen, they both got drunk. Marsha made the first move. She kissed him, kissed him hard, and then she started to sob. That had been the end.

Before "the slip," Matt's family had been strangely blessed or maybe just blessedly naïve. Matt had been twenty years old and all four of his grandparents were alive and in good health- two in Miami, two in Scottsdale. Tragedy had visited other families, but the Hunters had been left alone. The slip changed all that. It left them ill prepared for what followed.

Tragedy sort of works this way: Once it snakes its way in, it cuts down all your defenses and allows its brethren easy access to feed. Three of his four grandparents died during Matt's stint in prison. The burden killed his father and sapped his mother. Mom fled to Florida. Their sister ran west to Seattle. Bernie had the aneurysm.

Just like that, they were all gone.

Matt stood up. He waved to Marsha. She waved back. Kyra said, "Is it okay if I go?"

Marsha nodded. "Thanks, Kyra."

"No problem." Kyra slipped on the backpack. "Bye, Matt."

"Bye, kiddo."

Matt's cell phone rang. The caller ID told him it was Cingle Shaker. He signaled to Marsha that he needed to take it. She gestured for him to go ahead. Matt moved toward the curb and picked it up.

"Hello."

"Got some info on the license plate," Cingle said.

"Go ahead."

"It's a rental. Avis at Newark Airport."

"So does that mean it's a dead end?"

"For most private investigators, most definitely. But you're dealing with a near legend in the business."

"Near?"

"I'm trying to be modest."

"Doesn't work on you, Cingle."

"Yeah, but the effort is there. I called a contact at the airport. He ran it down for me. The car was rented by one Charles Talley. You know him?"

"No."

"I figured the name might mean something to you."

"It doesn't."

"You want me to check this Talley guy out?"

"Yes."

"Call you back."

She hung up. Matt started to lower the phone when he spotted the same police cruiser turning onto the block. It slowed as it passed Marsha's house. The uniformed cop who'd been with Lance eyed him. Matt eyed him back and felt his face flush.

Paul and Ethan stood and watched the cruiser. Matt turned back to Marsha. She saw it too. He tried to smile and wave it off. Marsha frowned.

That was when his phone rang again.

Still watching Marsha, Matt put the phone to his ear without checking the caller ID.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi, hon, how was your day?"

It was Olivia.

TELEVISION SHOWS, Loren knew, had convinced people that cops commonly meet with medical examiners in a morgue over a corpse. In reality that pretty much never happens. Loren was grateful for that. She was not squeamish or any of that, but she wanted death to be a constant shock to her. She didn't make jokes at the scene. She didn't try to block or use other defense mechanisms to look past it. For Loren a morgue was too matter-of-fact, too casual, too mundane about murder.

Loren was about to open Eldon's office door when Trevor Wine, a fellow homicide investigator, stepped out. Trevor was overweight and old-school. He tolerated Loren as one might a cute pet that sometimes pees on the good carpet.

"Hey, Squirt," he said to her.

"You catch a homicide?"

"Yup." Trevor Wine pulled up his belt. He had that weird kind of fat where you can never get the waist to perch and stay. "Gunshot victim. Two to the head at close range."

"Robbery, gang, what?"

"Maybe a robbery, definitely not a gang. The vic was a retired white guy."

"Where did you find the body?"

"Near the Hebrew cemetery off Fourteenth Avenue. We think he's a tourist."

"A tourist in that neighborhood?" Loren made a face. "What's there to see?"

Trevor faked a laugh and put a meaty hand on her shoulder. "I'll let you know when I know." He didn't add "little lady" but he might as well have. "See you later, Squirt."

"Yeah, later."

He moved away. Loren opened the door.

Eldon sat at his desk. He wore a pair of clean scrubs. Eldon always wore scrubs. His office had absolutely no personality or color. When Eldon first took the job he wanted to change that, but when people came into this room to hear the details of the death, they wanted nothing stimulating any of the senses. So Eldon shifted the décor into neutral.

"Here," Eldon said, "catch."

He tossed her something. Instinctively Loren caught it. It was a plastic bag, filmy and yellow. There was some sort of gel inside it. Eldon held a matching bag in his hand.

"Is this…?"

Eldon nodded. "A well-used and thus well-soiled breast implant."

"Can I just say for the record, 'Eeuw'?"

"You may."

Loren held the bag up to the light and frowned. "I thought implants were clear."

"They start off that way- at least the saline ones."

"These aren't saline?"

"Nope. Silicone. And they've been marinating in bosom for well over a decade."

Loren tried not to make a face. There was some sort of gel inside them. Eldon arched an eyebrow and started to knead the implant.

"Cut that out."

He shrugged. "Anyway, these belong to your Sister of the Immaculate Hooters."

"And you're showing them to me because…?"

"Because they offer us clues."

"I'm listening."

"First off, they're silicone."

"So you said."

"Remember, what, five, ten years ago when they had the big cancer scare?"

"The implants were leaking."

"Right. So the companies were forced to move to saline."

"Aren't some people moving back now to silicone?"

"Yes, but the point remains: These are old. Very old. Well over a decade."

She nodded. "Okay, good, that's a start."

"There's more." Eldon took out a magnifying glass. He flipped one of the implants over. "See this here?"

Loren took the magnifying glass. "It's a tag."

"See that number over on the bottom?"

"Yes."

"That's the serial number. This is true with pretty much any surgical implant- knees, hips, breasts, pacemaker, whatever. The device has to have a serial number."

Loren nodded. "And the manufacturer keeps records."

"Exactly."

"So if we call the manufacturer and give them the serial number…"

"We learn the real name of Mother with the Superiors."

Loren looked up. "Thanks."

"There's a problem."