Harlan Coben - Just One Look

“So I’m going to ask you one more time: Do you know anything about this photograph?”

“No. I swear.” He looked around. “I gotta get back to work now.”

He stood. Grace blocked his path. “Why did you leave work early the other day?”

“Huh?”

“About an hour after I picked up my roll of film, I went back to the store. You were gone. And the next morning too. So what happened?”

“I got sick,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Feeling better now?”

“Guess so.” He started pushing past her.

“Because,” Grace went on, “your manager said you had a family emergency. Is that what you told him?”

“I gotta get back to work,” he said, and this time he pushed past her and nearly ran out the door.

Beatrice Smith was not home.

Eric Wu broke in without any trouble. He checked through the house. No one was there. With the gloves still on Wu flicked on the computer. Her software PIM-a fancy term for a date and phone book-was Time amp; Chaos. He opened it and checked her calendar.

Beatrice Smith was visiting her son, the doctor, in San Diego. She’d be home in two days-far enough away to save her life. Wu considered that, the fickle winds of fate. He couldn’t help it. He glanced through Beatrice Smith’s calendar two months in the past and two months in the future. There were no overnight trips. If he had come at any other time, Beatrice Smith would be dead. Wu liked to think about things like that, about how it was often the little things, the unconscious things, the things we can’t know or control, that alter our lives. Call it fate, luck, odds, God. Wu found it fascinating.

Beatrice Smith had a two-car garage. Her tan Land Rover took up the right side. The left side was empty. There was an oil stain on the ground. This, Wu figured, had been where Maury parked his car. She kept it empty now-Wu couldn’t help but think of Freddy Sykes’s mother-as if it was his side of the bed. Wu parked there. He opened the back. Jack Lawson looked shaky. Wu untied his legs so he could walk. The hands remained bound at the wrist. Wu led him inside. Jack Lawson fell twice. The blood had not fully circulated through the legs. Wu held him up by the scruff of his shirt.

“I’m taking the gag off,” Wu said.

Jack Lawson nodded. Wu could see it in his eyes. Lawson was broken. Wu had not hurt him much-not yet anyway-but when you spend enough time in the dark, alone with your thoughts, your mind turns inward and feasts. That was always a dangerous thing. The key to serenity, Wu knew, was to keep working, keep moving forward. When you’re moving, you don’t think about guilt or innocence. You don’t think about your past or your dreams, your joys or disappointments. You just worry about survival. Hurt or be hurt. Kill or be killed.

Wu removed the gag. Lawson did not plead and beg or ask questions. That stage was over. Wu tied his legs to a chair. He searched the pantry and refrigerator. They both ate in silence. When they finished, Wu washed off the dishes and cleaned up. Jack Lawson stayed tied to the chair.

Wu’s cell phone rang. “Yes.”

“We have a problem.”

Wu waited.

“When you picked him up, he had a copy of that photograph, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he said there were no other copies?”

“Yes.”

“He was wrong.”

Wu said nothing.

“His wife has a copy of the picture. She’s flashing it everywhere.”

“I see.”

“Will you take care of it?”

“No,” Wu said. “I can’t return to the area.”

“Why not?”

Wu did not respond.

“Forget I asked that. We’ll use Martin. He has the information on her children.”

Wu said nothing. He did not like the idea, but he kept it to himself.

The voice on the phone said, “We’ll take care of it,” before hanging up.

Grace said, “Josh is lying.”

They were back on Main Street. Clouds threatened, but for now humidity ruled the day. Scott Duncan gestured a few stores up with his chin. “I could use a Starbucks,” he said.

“Wait. You don’t think he’s lying?”

“He’s nervous. There’s a difference.”

Scott Duncan pulled open the glass door. Grace entered. There was a line at Starbucks. There always seemed to be a line at Starbucks. The sound system played something old from a female warbly blues singer, a Billie Holiday or Dinah Washington or Nina Simone. The song ended and a girl-with-acoustic-guitar came on, Jewel or Aimee Mann or Lucinda Williams.

“What about his inconsistencies?” she asked.

Scott Duncan frowned.

“What?”

“Does our friend Josh look like the type who willingly cooperates with authority?”

“No.”

“So what would you expect him to say?”

“His boss said that he had a family emergency. He told us he was sick.”

“It is an inconsistency,” he agreed.

“But?”

Scott Duncan gave an exaggerated shrug, mimicking Josh. “I’ve worked a lot of cases. You know what I’ve learned about inconsistencies?”

She shook her head. In the background the milk did that froth thing, the machine making a noise like a car-wash vacuum.

“They exist. I’d be more suspicious if there weren’t a few. The truth is always fuzzy. If his story had been clean, I’d be more concerned. I’d wonder if he rehearsed it. Keeping a lie consistent isn’t that difficult, but in this guy’s case, if you asked him what he ate for breakfast twice he’d mess it up.”

They moved forward in line. The barista asked for a drink order. Duncan looked at Grace. She ordered a venti iced Americano, no water. He nodded and said, “Make that two.” He paid using one of those Starbucks debit cards. They waited for the drinks at the bar.

“So you think he was being truthful?” Grace asked.

“I don’t know. But nothing he said raised much of a red flag.”

Grace wasn’t so sure. “It had to be him.”

“Why?”

“There was no one else.”

They picked up their drinks and found a table near the window. “Run it through for me,” he said.

“Run what?”

“Go back. You picked up the pictures. Josh handed them to you. Did you look at them right away?”

Grace’s eyes went up and to the right. She tried to remember the details. “No.”

“Okay, so you took the packet. Did you stick it in your purse or something?”

“I held it.”

“And then what?”

“I got in my car.”

“The packet was still with you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“On the console. Between the two front seats.”

“Where did you go?”

“To pick up Max from school.”

“Did you stop on the way?”

“No.”

“Were the pictures in your possession the whole time?”

Grace smiled in spite of herself. “You sound like I’m checking in for a flight.”

“They don’t ask that anymore.”

“It’s been a while since I flew anywhere.” She smiled stupidly and realized why she had taken this inane detour in their conversation. He did too. She had spotted something-something she really didn’t want to pursue.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I might not have been able to tell if Josh was hiding something. You, however, make for an easier interrogation. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Grace.”

“The pictures were never out of my possession.”

“But?”

“Look, this is a waste of time. I know it was Josh. It had to be.”

“But?”

She took a deep breath. “I’m just going to say this once, so we can dismiss it and get on with our lives.”

Duncan nodded.