Harlan Coben - The Innocent

Her cell phone rang. She startled up and put it to her ear.

It was Ed Steinberg. "Hey."

"Hey," she managed.

"The private eye talking?"

"Not yet. She's waiting for her lawyer."

"Let her wait then. Let them both wait."

"Why, what's up?"

"The feds, Loren."

"What about them?"

"We're meeting them in an hour."

"Who?"

"Joan Thurston."

That made her drop her feet to the floor. "The U.S. attorney herself?"

"In the flesh. And some hotshot SAC from Nevada. We're meeting them at Thurston's office to discuss your phony nun."

Loren checked the clock. "It's four in the morning."

"Thank you, Mistress of the Obvious."

"No, I mean, I'm surprised you'd call the U.S. attorney that early."

"Didn't have to," Steinberg said. "She called me."

When Ed Steinberg arrived, he looked at Loren and shook his head. Her hair was frizzed out from the humidity. The sweat had dried, but she was still a mess.

"You look," Steinberg said, "like something I once left in the bottom of my gym locker."

"Flattering, thank you."

He motioned at her with both his hands. "Can't you- I don't know- do something about your hair?"

"What, this a singles' club now?"

"Evidently not."

The ride from the county prosecutor's office to the U.S. attorney's was three blocks. They entered via the well-guarded private underground garage. There were very few cars at this hour. The elevator dropped them on the seventh floor. The stencil on the glass read:

UNITED STATES ATTORNEY

DISTRICT OF NEW JERSEY

JOAN THURSTON

UNITED STATES ATTORNEY

Steinberg pointed at the top line and then the bottom line. "Kinda redundant, no?"

Despite the power of the office, the waiting room was done up in Early American Dentist. The carpet was threadbare. The furniture managed to be neither fashionable nor functional. There were a dozen different issues of Sports Illustrated on the table and nothing else. The walls seemed to plead for a paint job. They were stained and barren, except for the photographs of past U.S. attorneys, a remarkable lesson in what not to wear and how not to pose when taking a picture for posterity.

No receptionist was sitting guard at this hour. They knocked and were buzzed into the inner sanctum. It was much nicer in here, a totally different feel and look, like they'd stepped through a wall into Diagon Alley.

They turned right and headed toward the corner office. A man- an enormous man- stood in the corridor. He had a buzz cut and a frown. He stood perfectly still and looked as if he could double as a squash court. Steinberg stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Ed Steinberg, county prosecutor."

Squash Court took the hand but he did not look happy about it. "Cal Dollinger, FBI. They're waiting."

That was the end of that conversation. Cal Dollinger stayed where he was. They turned the corner. Joan Thurston greeted them at the door.

Despite the early hour U.S. Attorney Joan Thurston looked resplendent in a charcoal gray business suit that seemed to have been tailored by the gods. Thurston was mid-forties and, in Loren's view, excessively attractive. She had auburn hair, broad shoulders, tapered waist. She had two sons in their early teens. Her husband worked at Morgan Stanley in Manhattan. They lived in ritzy Short Hills with a vacation home on Long Beach Island.

In short: Joan Thurston was what Loren wanted to be when she grew up.

"Good morning," Thurston said, which felt weird because outside her windows, the skies were still night black.

She shook Loren's hand firmly, meeting her eye and softening it with a smile. She gave Steinberg a hug and buss on the cheek. "I'd like you to meet Adam Yates. He's the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Las Vegas office."

Adam Yates wore freshly ironed khakis and a bright pink shirt that might be the norm on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach but not Broad Street in Newark. He wore loafers without socks, his legs too casually crossed. He had that whole Old World, came-over-on-the-Mayflower thing going on, what with the receding ash-blond hair, the high cheekbones, the eyes so ice blue she wondered if he was wearing contacts. His cologne smelled like freshly cut grass. Loren liked it.

"Please sit," Thurston said.

Thurston had a spacious corner office. On one wall- the least noticeable wall- was a smattering of diplomas and awards. They were put out of the way, almost as if to say, "Hey, I need to put them up but I don't like to put on airs." The rest of the office was personal. She had photographs of her children and her husband, all of whom- big surprise- were gorgeous. Even the dog. There was a white guitar autographed by Bruce Springsteen hanging behind her head. On the bookshelf were the usual assortment of law books, along with autographed baseballs and footballs. All the local teams, of course. Joan Thurston had no photographs of herself, no news clippings, no Lucite-block awards in view.

Loren sat down carefully. She used to tuck her heels underneath her to gain a few inches, but she'd read a business self-help book about how women sabotage their own careers, and one of the rules said that a woman must never sit on her heels. It looked unprofessional. Usually Loren forgot that rule. Something about seeing Joan Thurston brought it all back.

Thurston came around and half-sat/half-leaned against the front lip of her desk. She folded her arms and focused her attention on Loren.

"Tell me what you have so far."

Loren glanced at Ed Steinberg. He nodded.

"We have three dead people. The first, well, we don't know her real name. That's why we're here."

"This would be Sister Mary Rose?" Thurston asked.

"Yes."

"How did you stumble across her case?"

"Pardon?"

"I understand that the death was originally ruled of natural causes," Thurston said. "What made you look into it deeper?"

Steinberg took that one. "The Mother Superior personally asked Investigator Muse to look into it."

"Why?"

"Loren is an alum of St. Margaret's."

"I understand that, but what made this Mother Superior… what's her name?"

"Mother Katherine," Loren said.

"Mother Katherine, right. What made her suspect foul play in the first place?"

"I'm not sure she suspected anything," Loren said. "When Mother Katherine found Sister Mary Rose's body, she tried to resuscitate her with chest compressions and discovered that she had breast implants. That didn't mesh with Sister Mary Rose's history."

"So she came to you to find out what was up?"

"Something like that, yes."

Thurston nodded. "And the second body?"

"Max Darrow. He was a retired Vegas police officer now residing in the Reno area."

They all looked at Adam Yates. He stayed still. So, Loren thought, this would be the game. They'd roll over and maybe, just maybe, the feds would award them with a tiny doggie treat.

Thurston asked, "How did you connect Max Darrow to Sister Mary Rose?"

"Fingerprints," Loren said. "Darrow's fingerprints were found in the nun's private quarters."

"Anything else?"

"Darrow was found dead in his car. Shot twice at point-blank range. His pants were down around his ankles. We think the killer tried to make it look like a prostitute rolled him."

"Fine, we can go into the details later," Thurston said. "Tell us how Max Darrow connects to the third victim."

"The third victim is Charles Talley. For one thing, both Talley and Darrow lived in the Reno area. For another, they were both staying at the Howard Johnson's near Newark Airport. Their rooms were next door to one another's."

"And that's where you found Talley's body? At the hotel?"

"Not me. A night custodian found him in the stairwell. He'd been shot twice."

"Same as Darrow?"

"Similar, yes."