Harlan Coben - Don’t Let Go

The law offices of Elbe, Baroche and Fraser are located in a nondescript glass high-rise among a series of nondescript glass high-rises in a development I assume is being satirically labeled “Country Club Campus.” I park in a lot slightly larger than a European principality and find Reynolds waiting for me by the door. She’s wearing a blazer over a green turtleneck.

“Simon Fraser is here,” she says.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been staking the place out since I called you. I saw him come in, I haven’t seen him leave, his car is still here. From those observations, I deduced that Simon Fraser is here.”

“You’re good,” I say.

“Don’t be intimidated by my law enforcement prowess.”

The lobby is colorless and cold, like Mr. Freeze’s lair. Several law firms and investment entities, and even one of those for-too-much-profit pseudo colleges, are housed in here. We take the elevator up to the sixth floor. The thin kid at reception sports two-day-old stubble, fashionable glasses, and a headset with a microphone. He lifts a finger to indicate we should give him a second.

Then: “May I help you?”

Reynolds takes out her badge. “We’re here to see Simon Fraser.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

For a moment I think Reynolds is going to spit out, “This badge is my appointment,” which would, I confess, disappoint me. Instead she says no but that we would very much appreciate a moment of Mr. Fraser’s time. The thin kid hits a button and whispers. Then he asks us to have a seat. We do. There are no magazines, just glossy law firm brochures. I page through one and find a photograph and bio for Simon Fraser. He is a Pennsylvania boy through and through. He attended the local high school, then traveled to the western part of the state to get his BA at the University of Pittsburgh before heading to the far eastern part of the state for his law degree at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. He is a “nationally recognized family law practitioner.” My eyes blur with boredom as I read about how he chaired this and that, authored this and that, served on this and that board, received this and that award for excellence in his chosen field.

A tall woman in a gray pencil skirt saunters toward us. “This way, please.”

We follow her down the corridor to a conference room with one glass wall and what I guess is supposed to be a breathtaking view of the parking lot and, if you look farther in the distance, a Wendy’s and an Olive Garden. There is a long conference table with one of those speakerphones that looks like a gray tarantula in the center.

Reynolds and I cool our heels for fifteen minutes before the tall woman returns.

“Lieutenant Reynolds?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a call for you on line three.”

The tall woman leaves. Reynolds frowns at me. She puts a finger to her lips indicating that I should keep quiet and hits the speakerphone.

“Reynolds,” she says.

A male voice replies, “Stacy?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell are you doing at Simon Fraser’s office, Stacy?”

“I’m working on a case, Captain.”

“What case might that be?”

“The murder of Officer Rex Canton.”

“Which our office is not handling because it’s been passed on to county.”

I had not known that.

“Just following up a lead,” Reynolds tells him.

“No, Stacy, you’re not following up a lead. You’re bothering a prominent citizen who is friends with at least two local judges. Both of the judges called to inform me that one of my lieutenants is harassing a practicing attorney who has already invoked attorney-client privilege.”

Reynolds gives me “See what I’m dealing with?” eyes. I nod that I do.

“Do I need to continue, Stacy?”

“No, Captain, I get the message. I’m out of here.”

“Oh, and they said you were with someone. Who would—?”

“Bye now.”

Reynolds disconnects the call. As though cued, the tall woman opens the conference room door to escort us out. We rise and follow her to the end of the corridor. As we get in the elevator, Reynolds says, “Sorry to make you drive all the way up.”

“Yeah,” I say to her. “Shame.”

When we head outside Reynolds says, “I better get back to the station. Make it okay with my captain.”

“Good idea.”

We shake hands. She turns and starts to walk away.

“You going to head straight back to Westbridge?” she asks me.

I shrug. “Might have lunch first. How’s the Olive Garden?”

“How do you think?”

I don’t go to the Olive Garden.

There is an area of the parking lot for reserved parking. I find the sign that reads RESERVED FOR SIMON FRASER, ESQ, which is currently occupied by a shiny red Tesla. I frown but try not to judge. The spot to his left, which is normally reserved for BENJAMIN BAROCHE, ESQ, is open.

Good.

I head back to my car. As I do, I pass a guy in his midforties smoking a cigarette. He’s wearing a business suit and a wedding ring, and for some reason, the wedding ring matters to me.

“Please don’t smoke,” I say to him.

The guy gives me the same look — a hybrid of befuddled and annoyed — I always get when I do this. “Huh?”

“You have people who care about you,” I say. “I just don’t want you to get sick or die.”

“Mind your goddamn business,” he snaps, tossing the butt to the ground like it offended him and storming back inside.

But part of me thinks, Who knows — maybe that’ll be his last cigarette ever.

And they say I’m not an optimist.

I check the entrance. No sign of Simon Fraser. I quickly get in my car and pull it into the BAROCHE spot, hugging the right so that mere inches separate my passenger side from his Tesla’s driver’s side. There is no way Simon Fraser could squeeze in and reach his door, forget opening it.

I wait. I’m good with waiting. Waiting doesn’t bother me. I don’t really have to do true surveillance here — he’s not going to be able to get into his car in a hurry — so I break out the novel I brought, ease my car seat all the way back, and start to read.

It doesn’t take long.

At 12:15 P.M., I spot Simon Fraser exiting the building in my rearview mirror. I stick my bookmark between pages 312 and 313 and place the book on the passenger seat. I wait. Simon is talking animatedly on the phone. He draws closer to the car. With his free hand, he fishes into his pocket and grabs his key fob. I hear the little beep-beep noise of the door unlocking. I wait some more.

When he stops short, I know he’s realized the parking situation. I hear his muffled “What the hell?”

I lift my phone and put it to my ear and pretend I’m talking to someone. With my other hand, I take hold of the door handle.

“Hey... hey, you!”

I ignore Simon Fraser and keep the phone to my ear. This angers him. He comes around my side of the car and, using what I assume is his college ring, he raps on the driver’s-side window.

“Hey, you can’t park here.”

I turn toward him and gesture with the phone to indicate I’m kinda busy. His face reddens. Simon Fraser knocks harder with the school ring. I regrip the door handle.

“Listen, assho—”

I open my car door fast, smacking him in the face. Simon Fraser falls back. His phone flies from his hand and crashes against the pavement. I don’t know if it’s broken or not. I get out of the car before he has time to recover and say, “I’ve been waiting for you, Simon.”

Simon Fraser gently puts his hand to his face as if checking for...

“No blood,” I say, “yet.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yeah, could be.” I put my hand out to help him up. “Here, let me help you up.”