Harlan Coben - The Woods

"That efficiency suite in Ramsey. The one you said Gil lived in-"

"We rented that room. I was trying to get you to admit to some thing." "And I did tell you some stuff." "Yes. But we weren't sure you were being accurate or truthful. No body really believed that Manolo Santiago was Gil Perez. We figured that he was probably a relative."

"And you?"

"I believed you, actually."

"I also told you about Lucy being my girlfriend."

"We already knew about that. In fact, we'd already found her."

"How?"

"We're a detective agency, that's how. But according to Santiago, she was lying about something that happened back then too. So we figured a direct interrogation wouldn't work."

"You sent her journals instead."

Yes.

"How did you get that information?"

"That I don't know."

"And then it was Lonnie Berger's job to spy on her."

She didn't bother replying.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"No," she said. "Actually, this is kind of a relief, you finding out. It felt okay when I thought you might be a killer. Now it just feels sleazy." I rose. "I might want you to testify." "I won't." "Yeah," I said. "I hear that all the time."

Loren Muse was doing research on the Perez family.

Funny thing she noticed right away. The Perezes owned that bar, the one where Gil Perez had met up with Cope. Muse found that interesting. They'd been a family of poor immigrants, and now they had a net worth in excess of more than four million dollars. Of course, if you start with close to a million nearly twenty years ago, even if you just invested reasonably well, that number would make sense.

She was wondering what that meant, if anything, when the phone call came in. She reached for the receiver and jammed it up between her shoulder and ear.

"Muse here."

"Yo, sweetums, its Andrew."

Andrew Barrett was her connection at JohnJay College, the lab guy. He was supposed to go out this morning to the old campsite and start searching for the body with his new radar machine. "Sweetums?"

"I only work with machines," he said. "I'm not good with people."

"I see. So is there a problem?"

"Uh, not really."

There was a funny hum in his voice.

"Have you gotten out to the site yet?" she asked.

"You kidding? Of course we did. Soon as you gave me the okay, I was, like, so there. We drove out last night, stayed at some Motel 6, started working at first light."

"So?"

"So we're in the woods, right? And we start searching. The XRJ- that's the name of the machine, the XRJ-was acting a little funny, but we got it revved up pretty good. Oh, I brought a couple of the students with me. That's okay, right?"

"I don't care."

"I didn't think you would. You don't know them. I mean, why would you? They're good kids, you know, excited about getting some field-work. You remember how it is. A real case. They were Googling the case all night, reading up on the camp and stuff."

"Andrew?"

"Right, sorry. Like I said, good with machines, not so good with people. Of course, I don't teach machines, do I? I mean the students are people, flesh and blood, but still." He cleared his throat. "So anyway, you know how I said this new radar machine-the XRJ-is a miracle worker?"

"Yes."

"Well, I was right."

Muse switched hands. "Are you saying…?"

"I'm saying you should get out here pronto. The ME is on her way, but you'll want to see this for yourself."

Detective York's phone rang. He picked it up. "York." "Hey, it's Max down at the lab."

Max Reynolds was their lab liaison on this case. This was a new thing down at the lab. Lab liaison. Every time you had a murder case, you got a new one. York liked this kid. He was smart and knew to just give him the information. Some of the new lab guys watched too many TV shows and thought an explanation monologue was mandatory.

"What's up, Max?" "I got the results back on the carpet-fiber test. You know, the one on your Manolo Santiago corpse."

Okay

Usually the liaison just sent a report.

"Something unusual?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"The fibers are old."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"This test is usually a given. Car manufacturers all use the same carpet sources. So you might find GM and maybe a five-year window of when it might have been. Sometimes you get luckier. The color was only used in one kind of model and only for one year. That sorta thing. So the report, well, you know this, the report will read Ford-manufactured car, gray interior, 1999 through 2004. Something like that."

"Right."

"This carpet fiber is old."

"Maybe it isn't from a car. Maybe someone wrapped him up in an old carpet."

"That's what we thought at first. But we did a little more checking. It is from a car. But the car has to be more than thirty years old."

"Wow."

"This particular carpeting was used between 1968 and 1974."

"Anything else?"

"The manufacturer," Reynolds said, "was German."

"Mercedes-Benz?" "Not that upscale," he said. "My guess? The manufacturer was probably Volkswagen."

Lucy decided to give it one more try with her father.

Ira was painting when she arrived. Nurse Rebecca was with him. The nurse gave Lucy a look when she entered the room. Her father had his back to her.

"Ira?"

When he turned, she almost took a step back. He looked horrible. The color was gone from his face. His shaving was spotty so that there were spiky tufts on his cheeks and neck. His hair had always maintained an unruly air that somehow worked for him. Not today. Today his hair looked like too many years of living among the homeless.

"How are you feeling?" Lucy asked.

Nurse Rebecca gave her an I-warned-you glare.

"Not so good," he said.

"What are you working on?"

Lucy walked over to the canvas. She pulled up when she saw what it was. Woods. It took her back. It was their woods, of course. The old campsite.

She knew exactly where this was. He had gotten every detail right. Amazing. She knew that he no longer had any pictures, and really, you'd never take a picture from this angle. Ira had remembered. It had stayed locked in his brain.

The painting was a night view. The moon lit up the treetops.

Lucy looked at her father. Her father looked at her.

"We'd like to be alone," Lucy said to the nurse.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Nurse Rebecca thought that talking would make him worse. The truth was just the opposite. Something was locked up there, in Ira’s head. They had to confront it now, finally, after all these years.

Ira said, "Rebecca?"

"Yes, Ira?"

"Get out."

Just like that. The voice wasn't cold, but it hadn't been inviting either. Rebecca took her time smoothing her skirt and sighing and standing.

"If you need me," she said, "just call. Okay, Ira?"

Ira said nothing. Rebecca left. She did not close the door.

There was no music playing today. That surprised her.

"You want me to put some music on? Maybe a little Hendrix?"

Ira shook his head. "Not now, no."

He closed his eyes. Lucy sat next to him and took his hands in hers.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too. More than anything. Always. Forever."

Lucy waited. He just kept his eyes closed.

"You're thinking back to that summer," she said.

His eyes stayed closed.

"When Manolo Santiago came to see you-"

He squeezed his eyes tighter.

Ira?

"How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That he visited me."

"It was in the logbook."

"But…" He finally opened his eyes. "There's more to it, isn't there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did he visit you too?"

No. He seemed puzzled by this. Lucy decided to try another avenue.