Harlan Coben - Hold Tight

“The floor is yours.”

Cope sat back now and put his hands behind his head.

“Let’s start with the fact that I don’t think the victim was a prostitute.”

Cope raised his eyebrows as though this were the most stunning sentence anyone had ever uttered. “You don’t?”

“No.”

“But I saw her clothes,” Cope said. “I heard Frank’s report just now. And the location of the body-everyone knows that’s where hookers hang out.”

“Including the killer,” Muse said. “That’s why he dumped her there.”

Frank Tremont burst out laughing. “Muse, you’re full of crap. You need evidence, sweetie, not just intuition.”

“You want evidence, Frank?”

“Sure, let’s hear it. You got nothing.”

“How about her skin color.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she is Caucasian.”

“Oh, this is precious,” Tremont said, holding up both palms. “Oh, I love this.” He looked at Gaughan. “You getting this down, Tom, because this is simply priceless. I suggest that maybe, just maybe, a prostitute isn’t priority one and I’m a bigoted Neanderthal. But when she claims that our victim can’t possibly be a whore because she’s white, well, that’s solid police work.”

He wagged a finger in her direction. “Muse, you need a little more time on the streets.”

“You said that there were six other murdered prostitutes.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Do you know that all six were African American?”

“That don’t mean squat. Maybe the other six were-I don’t know- tall. And this one was short. That mean she wasn’t a hooker?”

Muse walked over to the bulletin board on Cope’s wall. She pulled a photograph from her envelope and tacked it up. “This was taken at the crime scene.”

They all looked.

“It’s the crowd behind the police tape,” Tremont said.

“Very good, Frank. But next time raise your hand and wait until I call on you.”

Tremont crossed his arms. “What are we supposed to be looking at?”

“What do you see here?” she asked.

“Hookers,” Tremont said.

“Exactly. How many?”

“I don’t know. You want me to count?”

“Just an estimate.”

“Maybe twenty.”

“Twenty-three. That’s good, Frank.”

“And your point?”

“Please count how many of them are white.”

No one had to look long to see the answer: zero.

“Are you now trying to tell me, Muse, that there are no white hookers?”

“There are. But very few in that area. I went back three months. According to the arrest files, no Caucasian has been arrested for solicitation within a three-block radius during that entire time period. And as you pointed out, her fingerprints aren’t on file. How many local prostitutes can you say that about?”

“Plenty,” Tremont said. “They come in from out of state, stay a while, die or move on to Atlantic City.” Tremont spread his hands. “Wow, Muse, you’re great. I might as well quit now.”

He chuckled. Muse did not.

Muse pulled out more photographs and put them up. “Take a look at the victim’s arms.”

“Right, so?”

“No needle marks, not one. Prelim tox shows no illegal drugs in her system. So again, Frank, you tell me: How many white hookers in the Fifth Ward aren’t junkies?”

That slowed him down.

“She’s well nourished,” Muse went on, “which means a little but not much today. Plenty of hookers are well nourished. No major bruises or breaks prior to this incident, also unusual for a hooker working this area. We can’t tell much about her dental work because most of her teeth were knocked out-those that are left were well taken care of. But take a look at this.”

She put up another huge photograph on the bulletin board.

“Shoes?” Tremont said.

“Gold star, Frank.”

Cope’s glance told her to tone down the sarcasm.

“And hooker shoes,” Tremont continued. “Stiletto heel, do-me pumps. Look at those ugly puppies you’re wearing, Muse. You ever wear heels like those?”

“No, I don’t, Frank. How about you?”

That got a chuckle from the room. Cope shook his head.

“So what’s your point?” Tremont asked. “They’re straight out of the hooker catalog.”

“Look at the bottom of the soles.”

She used a pencil to point.

“What am I supposed to see?”

“Nothing. That’s the point. No scuff marks. Not one.”

“So they’re new.”

“Too new. I had the photo enlarged.” She put up another photograph. “Not one single scratch. No one has walked in them. Not even once.”

The room went quiet.

“So?”

“Good comeback, Frank.”

“Up yours, Muse, this doesn’t mean-”

“By the way, she had no semen in her.”

“So? Maybe this was her first trick of the night.”

“Maybe. She also has a tan that you need to examine.”

“A what?”

“A tan.”

He tried to look incredulous, but he was losing his support. “There’s a reason, Muse, why these girls are called street hookers. Streets, you see, are outside. These girls work outside. A lot.”

“Forgetting the fact that we really haven’t had much sun lately, the tan lines are wrong. They cut up over here”-she pointed to the shoul- ders-“and there’s no tan near the abdomen-the area is totally pale. In short, this woman wore shirts, not bikini tops. And then there’s that bandana found clutched in her hand.”

“Grabbed off the perp during the attack.”

“No, not grabbed off. It’s an obvious plant. The body was moved, Frank. So we’re supposed to believe that she clutched it off his head while she struggled-and they just left it there when they dumped her body? Does that sound credible?”

“Could be the gang was sending a message.”

“Could be. But then there’s the beating itself.”

“What about it?”

“It’s overdone. No one beats up someone with that much precision.”

“You have a theory?”

“An obvious one. Someone didn’t want us to recognize her. And something else. Look where she was dumped.”

“At a well-known spot for whores.”

“Exactly. We know she wasn’t murdered there. She was dumped there. Why that spot? If she was a hooker, why would you want us to know that? Why dump a hooker in a well-known hooker locale? I will tell you why. Because if she’s mistaken early for a hooker and some lazy fat-assed investigator takes the case and sees the easiest route-”

“Who you calling fat-assed?”

Frank Tremont stood. And Cope quietly said, “Sit down, Frank.”

“Are you going to let her-?”

“Shh,” Cope said. “Hear that sound?”

Everyone stopped.

“What?”

Cope cupped his hand to his ear. “Listen, Frank. Hear it?” His voice was a whisper. “That’s the sound of your incompetence being made obvious to the masses. Not just your incompetence, but your suicidal stupidity at going after your superior when the facts do not back you up.”

“I don’t have to take this-”

“Shh, listen. Just listen.”

Muse was trying hard not to laugh.

“Were you listening, Mr. Gaughan?” Cope asked.

Gaughan cleared his throat. “I heard what I had to.”

“Good, because so did I. And since you asked to record this meeting, well, I felt obliged to do so too.” Cope produced a small tape recorder from behind a book on his desk. “Just in case, you know, your boss wanted to hear exactly what happened in here and your recorder malfunctioned or something. We wouldn’t want anyone to think you’d slant the story in favor of your brother-in-law, would we?”

Cope smiled at them. They did not smile back.

“Gentlemen, any other comments? No, good. Back to work, then. Frank, you take the rest of the day off. I want you to think about your options and maybe check out some of the great retirement packages we offer.”