Harlan Coben - Just One Look

He stared at her hard.

“What’s going on, Carl?”

“Wade Larue is getting out.”

“So you said.”

“Tomorrow his lawyer is holding a press conference in New York. The families will be there. I want you there.”

She waited. She knew there was more.

“His lawyer was terrific. She really dazzled the parole board. I bet she’ll dazzle the press too.”

He stopped and waited. Grace was puzzled for a few moments, but then something cold started in the center of her chest and spread through her limbs. Carl Vespa saw it. He nodded and stepped back.

“Tell me about Sandra Koval,” he said. “Because, see, I can’t understand how your sister-in-law, of all people, ended up representing someone like Wade Larue.”

Indira Khariwalla waited for the visitor.

Her office was dark. All the private detection was done for the day. Indira liked sitting with the lights out. The problem with the West, she was convinced, was overstimulation. She fell prey to it too, of course. That was the thing. No one was above it. The West seduced you with stimulation, a constant barrage of color and light and sound. It never stopped. So whenever possible, especially at the end of the day, Indira liked to sit with the lights off. Not to meditate, as one might assume because of her heritage. Not sitting in lotus position with her thumbs and forefingers making two circles.

No, just darkness.

At 10 P.M., there was a light rap on the door. “Come on in.”

Scott Duncan entered the room. He did not bother turning on the light. Indira was glad. It would make this easier.

“What’s so important?” he asked.

“Rocky Conwell was murdered,” Indira said.

“I heard about that on the radio. Who is he?”

“The man I hired to follow Jack Lawson.”

Scott Duncan said nothing.

“Do you know who Stu Perlmutter is?” she continued.

“The cop?”

“Yes. He visited me yesterday. He asked about Conwell.”

“Did you claim attorney-client?”

“I did. He wants to get a judge to compel me to answer.”

Scott Duncan turned away.

“Scott?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You don’t know anything.”

Indira was not so sure. “What are you going to do?”

Duncan stepped out of the office. He reached behind him, grabbed the knob, and started closing the door behind him. “Nip this in the bud,” he said.

The press conference was at 10 A.M. Grace took the children to school first. Cram drove. He wore an oversized flannel shirt left untucked. He had a gun under it, she knew. The children hopped out. They said good-bye to Cram and hurried away. Cram shifted the car into gear.

“Don’t go yet,” Grace said.

She watched until they were safely inside. Then she nodded that it was okay for the car to start moving again.

“Don’t worry,” Cram said. “I have a man watching.”

She turned to him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“How long have you been with Mr. Vespa?”

“You were there when Ryan died, right?”

The question threw her. “Yes.”

“He was my godson.”

The streets were quiet. She looked at him. She had no idea what to do. She could not trust them – not with her children, not after she’d seen Vespa’s face last night. But what choice did she have? Maybe she should try the police again, but would they really be willing or able to protect them? And Scott Duncan, well, even he had admitted that their alliance only went so far.

As if reading her thoughts, Cram said, “Mr. Vespa still trusts you.”

“And what if he decides he doesn’t anymore?”

“He’d never hurt you.”

“You’re that sure?”

“Mr. Vespa will meet us in the city. At the press conference. You want to listen to the radio?”

The traffic was not bad, considering the hour. The George Washington Bridge was still crawling with cops, a hangover from September 11 that Grace could not get over. The press conference was being held at the Crowne Plaza Hotel near Times Square. Vespa told her that there’d been talk about conducting it in Boston – that would seem more appropriate – but someone in the Larue camp realized that it might be too emotionally jarring to return so close to the scene. They also hoped that fewer family members would show up if it were held in New York.

Cram dropped her off on the sidewalk and headed into the lot next door. Grace stood on the street for a moment and tried to gather herself. Her cell phone sounded. She checked the Caller ID. The number was unfamiliar. Six-one-seven area code. That was the Boston area, if she remembered correctly.

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is David Roff.”

She was near Times Square in New York. People were, of course, everywhere. No one seemed to be talking. No horns were honking. But the roar in her ear was still deafening. “Who?”

“Uh, well, I guess you might know me better as Crazy Davey. From my blog. I got your e-mail. Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all.” Grace realized that she was shouting to be heard. She stuck a finger in her free ear. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“I know you said to call collect, but I got some new phone service where all long distance is included, so I figured what the hell, you know.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You made it sound kind of important.”

“It is. On your blog you mentioned a band named Allaw.”

“Right.”

“I’m trying to find out anything I can about them.”

“I figured that, yeah, but I don’t think I can really help you. I mean, I just saw them that one night. Me and some buddies got totally wasted, spent the whole night there. We met some girls, did a lot of dancing, did a lot more drinking. We talked to the band afterward. That’s why I remember it so well.”

“My name is Grace Lawson. My husband was Jack.”

“Lawson? That was the lead guy, right? I remember him.”

“Were they any good?”

“The band? Truth is, I don’t remember, but I think so. I remember having a blast and getting wasted. Had a hangover that still makes me cringe to this day. You trying to put a surprise together for him?”

“A surprise?”

“Yeah, like a surprise party or a scrapbook about his old days.”

“I’m just trying to find out anything I can about the people in the group.”

“I wish I could help. I don’t think they lasted that long. Never heard them again, though I know they had another gig at the Lost Tavern. That was in Manchester. That’s all I know, I’m sorry.”

“I appreciate your calling me back.”

“Sure, no problem. Oh wait. This might be fun trivia for a scrapbook.”

“What’s that?”

“The gig Allaw played in Manchester? They opened for Still Night.”

Waves of pedestrians rushed past her. Grace huddled near a wall, trying to avoid the masses. “I’m not familiar with Still Night.”

“Well, only real music buffs would be, I guess. Still Night didn’t last too long either. At least not in that incarnation.” There was a static crackle, but Grace still heard Crazy Davey’s next words too clearly: “But their lead singer was Jimmy X.”

Grace felt her grip on the phone go slack.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here,” Grace said.

“You know who Jimmy X is, right? ‘Pale Ink’? The Boston Massacre?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded very far away. “I remember.”

Cram came out of the parking lot. He spotted her face and picked up his pace again. Grace thanked Crazy Davey and hung up. She had his number on her cell phone now. She could always call him back.

“Everything okay?”