Harlan Coben - Just One Look

“Ten years.”

“And in all that time, how many times has Jack talked about me?”

“Pretty much never.”

Sandra Koval spread her hands. “Precisely. So why would I know where he is?”

“Because he called you.”

“So you say.”

“I hit the redial button.”

“Right, you told me that on the phone.”

“Are you saying he didn’t call you?”

“When did this call purportedly take place?”

“Purportedly?”

Sandra Koval shrugged. “Always the lawyer.”

“Last night. Around ten o’clock.”

“Well, there’s your answer then. I wasn’t here.”

“Where were you?”

“At my hotel.”

“But Jack called your line.”

“If he did, nobody would have answered. Not at that hour. It would have gone into voice mail.”

“You checked the messages today?”

“Of course. And no, none from Jack.”

Grace tried to digest that. “When was the last time you spoke to Jack?”

“A long time ago.”

“How long?”

Her gaze flicked away. “We haven’t spoken since he went overseas.”

“That was fifteen years ago.”

Sandra Koval took another sip.

“How would he still know your phone number?” Grace asked.

She didn’t reply.

“Sandra?”

“You live at 221 North End Ave in Kasselton. You have two phone lines, one the phone, one the fax.” Sandra repeated the two numbers from memory.

The two women looked at each other. “But you’ve never called?”

Her voice was soft. “Never.”

The speakerphone squawked. “Sandra?”

“Yes.”

“Hester wants to see you in her office.”

“On my way.” Sandra Koval broke the eye contact. “I have to go now.”

“Why would Jack try to call you?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s in trouble.”

“So you say.”

“He’s disappeared.”

“Not for the first time, Grace.”

The room felt smaller now. “What happened between you and Jack?”

“It’s not my place to say.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

Sandra shifted in her seat. “You said he disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“And Jack hasn’t called?”

“Actually, he has.”

That puzzled her. “And when he called, what did he say?”

“That he needed space. But he didn’t mean it. It was code.”

Sandra made a face. Grace took out the photograph and placed it on the table. The air rushed out of the room. Sandra Koval looked down and Grace could see her body jolt.

“What the hell is this?”

“Funny,” Grace said.

“What?”

“Those are the exact words Jack used when he saw it.”

Sandra was still staring at the picture.

“That’s him, right? In the middle with the beard?” Grace asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do. Who’s the blonde next to him?”

Grace dropped the blowup of the young woman onto the table. Sandra Koval looked up. “Where did you get these?”

“The Photomat.” Grace quickly explained. Sandra Koval’s face clouded over. She wasn’t buying it. “Is it Jack, yes or no?”

“I really can’t say. I’ve never seen him with a beard.”

“Why would he call you immediately after seeing this picture?”

“I don’t know, Grace.”

“You’re lying.”

Sandra Koval pushed herself to a stand. “I have a meeting.”

“What happened to Jack?”

“What makes you so sure he didn’t just run away?”

“We’re married. We have two kids. You, Sandra, have a niece and nephew.”

“And I had a brother,” she countered. “Maybe neither one of us knows him that well.”

“Do you love him?”

Sandra stood there, shoulders slumped. “Leave it alone, Grace.”

“I can’t.”

Shaking her head, Sandra turned toward the door.

“I’m going to find him,” Grace said.

“Don’t count on it.”

And then she was gone.

Okay, Charlaine thought, mind your own business.

She drew the curtains and changed back into her jeans and sweater. She put the babydoll back in the bottom of her drawer, taking her time, folding it very carefully for some reason. As if Freddy would notice if it was wrinkled. Right.

She took a bottle of seltzer water and mixed in a little of her son’s fruit punch Twister. Charlaine sat on a stool at the marble kitchen block. She stared at the glass. Her finger traced loops in the condensation. She glanced at the Sub-Zero refrigerator, the new 690 model with the stainless steel front. There was nothing on it-no kid pictures, no family photographs, no finger smears, not even magnets. When they had the old yellow Westinghouse, the front had been blanketed with that stuff. There had been vitality and color. The remodeled kitchen, the one she had wanted so much, was sterile, lifeless.

Who was the Asian man driving Freddy’s car?

Not that she kept tabs on him, but Freddy had very few visitors. She could, in fact, recall none. That didn’t mean he didn’t have any, of course. She did not spend her entire day watching his house. Still a neighborhood has a routine of its own. A vibe, if you will. A neighborhood is an entity, a body, and you can feel when something is out of place.

The ice in her drink was melting. Charlaine had not yet taken a sip. There was food shopping to be done. Mike’s shirts would be ready at the cleaner. She was having lunch with her friend Myrna at Baumgart’s on Franklin Avenue. Clay had karate with Master Kim after school.

She mentally ran through the rest of her to-do list and tried to come up with an order. Mindless stuff. Would there be time before lunch to do the food shopping and get back to the house? Probably not. The frozen goods would melt in the car. That errand would have to wait.

She stopped. To hell with this.

Freddy should be at work now.

That was how it’d always worked. Their perverted little dance lasted from around ten to ten-thirty. By ten-forty-five, Charlaine always heard that garage door open. She’d watch his Honda Accord pull out. Freddy worked, she knew, for H amp;R Block. It was in the same strip mall as the Blockbuster where she rented the DVDs. His desk was near the window. She avoided walking past it, but some days, when she parked, she would look over and see Freddy staring out the window, pencil resting against his lips, lost.

Charlaine found the yellow pages and looked up the number. A man identifying himself as a supervisor said that Mr. Sykes was not in but was expected at any moment. She pretended to be put out. “He told me he’d be in by now. Doesn’t he normally get in at eleven?”

The supervisor admitted that he did.

“So where is he? I really need those figures.”

The supervisor apologized and assured her that Mr. Sykes would call the moment he arrived at his desk. She hung up.

Now what?

Something still felt very wrong here.

But so what? Who was Freddy Sykes to her anyway? Nothing. In a way, less than nothing. He was a reminder of her failures. He was a symptom of how pathetic she had become. She owed him nothing. More than that, imagine, just imagine, if poking around got her caught. Imagine if somehow the truth came out.

Charlaine looked over at Freddy’s place. The truth coming out.

Somehow that no longer bothered her all that much.

She grabbed her coat and headed toward Freddy’s house.

Eric Wu had seen the lingerie-clad woman in the window. The previous night had been a long one for Wu. He had not anticipated any interference, and while the large man-his wallet said his name was Rocky Conwell-had presented no threat, Wu now had to get rid of a body and another car. That meant an extra trip back up to Central Valley, New York.