Harlan Coben - Just One Look

She debated telling him about Jimmy’s late night visit, decided now was not the time. “It’s okay.”

“I know you don’t care, but it looks like Wade Larue is going to get released.”

“Maybe it’s the right thing,” she said.

“Maybe.” But Vespa sounded far from convinced. “You sure you don’t need any protection?”

“Positive.”

“If you change your mind…”

“I’ll call.”

There was a funny pause. “Any word from your husband?”

“No.”

“Does he have a sister?”

Grace changed hands. “Yes. Why?”

“Her name Sandra Koval?”

“Yes. What does she have to do with this?”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

He hung up. Grace stared at the phone. What the hell was that all about? She shook her head. It would be useless to call back. She tried to refocus.

Grace grabbed her purse and hurry-limped toward the Photomat. Her leg hurt. Walking was a chore. It felt as though someone were on the ground clinging to her ankle and she had to drag him along. Grace kept moving. She was three stores away when a man in a business suit stepped in her path.

“Ms. Lawson?”

A weird thought struck Grace as she looked at this stranger: His sandy hair was nearly the same color as his suit. It almost looked liked they were both made from the same material.

“May I help you?” she said.

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph. He held it up to her face so that she could see it. “Did you post this on the Web?”

It was the cropped mystery photograph of the blonde and the redhead.

“Who are you?”

The sandy-haired man said, “My name is Scott Duncan. I’m with the U.S. attorney’s office.” He pointed to the blonde, the one who’d been looking up at Jack, the one with the X across her face.

“And this,” Scott Duncan said, “is a picture of my sister.”

Perlmutter had broken the news to Lorraine Conwell as gently as he could.

He had delivered bad news plenty of times. Usually it involved car accidents on Route 4 or the Garden State Parkway. Lorraine Conwell had exploded into tears when he told her, but now the numb had seeped in and dried her eyes.

The stages of grief: Supposedly the first is denial. That was wrong. The first is just the opposite: Total acceptance. You hear the bad news and you understand exactly what is being said to you. You understand that your loved one-your spouse, your parent, your child-will never come home, that they are gone for good, that their life is over, and that you will never, ever, see them again. You understand that in a flash. Your legs buckle. Your heart gives out.

That was the first step-not just acceptance, not just understanding, but total truth. Human beings are not built to withstand that kind of hurt. That then is when the denial begins. Denial floods in quickly, salving the wounds or at least covering them. But there is still that moment, mercifully quick, the real Stage One, when you hear the news and stare into the abyss, and horrible as it is, you understand everything.

Lorraine Conwell sat ramrod. There was a quiver in her lips. Her eyes were dry. She looked small and alone and it took all Perlmutter had not to put his arms around her and pull her in close.

“Rocky and me,” she said. “We were going to get back together.”

Perlmutter nodded, encouraging.

“It’s my fault, you know. I made Rocky leave. I shouldn’t have.” She looked up at him with those violet eyes. “He was different when we met, you know? He had dreams then. He was so sure of himself. But when he couldn’t play ball anymore, it just ate away at him. I couldn’t live with that.”

Perlmutter nodded again. He wanted to help her out, wanted to stay in her company, but he really did not have time for the unabridged life story. He needed to move this along and get out of here. “Was there anyone who wanted to hurt Rocky? Did he have enemies or anything like that?”

She shook her head. “No. No one.”

“He spent time in prison.”

“Yes. It was stupid. He got into a fight in a bar. It got out of hand.”

Perlmutter looked over at Daley. They knew about the fight. They were already on that, seeing if his victim had sought late revenge. It seemed doubtful.

“Was Rocky working?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In Newark. He worked at the Budweiser plant. The one near the airport.”

“You called our office yesterday,” Perlmutter said.

She nodded, her eyes staring straight ahead.

“You spoke to an Officer DiBartola.”

“Yes. He was very nice.”

Right. “You told him that Rocky hadn’t come home from work.”

She nodded.

“You called in the early morning. You said he’d been working the night before.”

“That’s right.”

“Did he work a night shift at the plant?”

“No. He’d taken a second job.” She squirmed a little. “It was off the books.”

“Doing what?”

“He worked for this lady.”

“Doing what?”

She used one finger to wipe a tear. “Rocky didn’t talk about it much. He delivered subpoenas, I think, stuff like that.”

“Do you know the lady’s name?”

“Something foreign. I can’t pronounce it.”

Perlmutter did not need to think about it long. “Indira Khariwalla?”

“That’s it.” Lorraine Conwell looked up at him. “You know her?”

He did. It had been a long time, but yes, Perlmutter knew her very well.

Grace had handed Scott Duncan the photograph, the one with all five people in it. He could not stop staring, especially at the image of his sister. He ran his finger over her face. Grace could barely look at him.

They were back at Grace’s house now, sitting in the kitchen. They had been talking for the better part of half an hour.

“You got this two days ago?” Scott Duncan asked.

“Yes.”

“And then your husband… He’s this one, right?” Scott Duncan pointed to Jack’s image.

“Yes.”

“He ran off?”

“He vanished,” she said. “He didn’t run off.”

“Right. You think he was, what, kidnapped?”

“I don’t know what happened to him. I only know he’s in trouble.”

Scott Duncan’s eyes stayed on the old photograph. “Because he gave you some kind of warning? Something about needing space?”

“Mr. Duncan, I’d like to know how you came across this picture. And how you found me, for that matter.”

“You sent it out via some kind of spam. Someone recognized the picture and forwarded it to me. I traced back the spammer and put a little pressure on him.”

“Was that why we didn’t receive any answers?”

Duncan nodded. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

“I’ve told you everything I know. I was on my way to confront the guy in the Photomat when you showed up.”

“We’ll question him, don’t worry about that.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the picture. She had done all the talking. He had told her nothing, except that the woman in the photograph was his sister. Grace pointed at the crossed-out face. “Tell me about her,” she said.

“Her name was Geri. Does her name mean anything to you?”

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t.”

“Your husband never mentioned her? Geri Duncan.”

“Not that I remember.” Then: “You said was.”

“What?”

“You said was. Her name was Geri.”

Scott Duncan nodded. “She died in a fire when she was twenty-one years old. In her dorm room.”

Grace froze. “She went to Tufts, right?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

Now it made sense-why the girl’s face had seemed familiar. Grace hadn’t known her, but there had been pictures in the newspapers at the time. Grace had been undergoing physical therapy and ripping through way too many periodicals. “I remember reading about it. Wasn’t it an accident? Electrical fire or something?”