Harlan Coben - Don’t Let Go

“Eddie Murphy, Dan Aykroyd, Jamie Lee Curtis,” I say.

He’s very pleased that I know it. “That’s the one. If you remember, the Duke brothers were trying to corner the orange juice market, right?”

“Right.”

“Do you remember how?” Reeves smiles as he sees on my face that I do. “The Dukes were bribing a government official to obtain an advance copy of the USDA’s monthly crop report. The USDA, Detective Dumas. That was us. Many of our studies were that important. We needed privacy and tight security.”

I nod. “So that’s why you had the fence and all the No Trespassing signs.”

“Exactly.” Reeves spreads his hands again. “Where better for us to conduct our testing than a former military base?”

“Anybody ever defy those signs?”

For the first time I think I see the smile flicker. “What do you mean?”

“Did you ever have trespassers?”

“Sometimes,” Reeves says as casually as he can muster. “Kids would sneak into the woods to drink or smoke pot.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would the kids ignore the warning signs?”

“Something like that.”

“What would they do then?”

“Nothing. They’d just walk past the signs.”

“And what would you do about that?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“We might tell them that this was private property.”

“Might?” I ask. “Or did?”

“Sometimes we did, I guess.”

“How would you do that exactly?”

“Pardon?”

“Walk me through it. A kid goes past your sign. What would you do?”

“Why are you asking?”

I put a little snap in my voice. “Just answer the question, please.”

“We’d tell him to go back. We’d remind him that he was trespassing.”

“Who would remind him?” I ask.

“I don’t understand.”

“Would you be the one to remind him?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then who?”

“One of our security guards.”

“Were they guarding the woods?”

“What?”

“The signs started probably fifty yards away from your fence.”

Andy Reeves considers this. “No, the guards wouldn’t be that far out. They would be more interested in controlling the perimeter.”

“So you probably wouldn’t see a trespasser until he reached your fence, is that correct?”

“I don’t see the relevance—”

“How would you spot this trespassing kid?” I ask, changing gears. “Would you rely on the guard’s vision, or did you have cameras?”

“I think we may have had a few...”

“ Think you had cameras? You don’t remember?”

I’m testing his patience. That’s not unintentional. Reeves starts tapping the top of the table with a fingernail. A long fingernail, I notice. Then he gives me a toothy grin and whispers again: “I’m really not going to take much more badgering, Detective.”

“Yeah, okay, sorry,” I say. I tilt my head. “So let me ask you this: Why would stealth Black Hawks be landing at a ‘USDA’” — I do finger quotes — “‘office complex’ at night?”

Drop the mic, as one of my goddaughters might say.

Andy Reeves hadn’t been expecting that one. His mouth drops open, though not for long. His eyes harden. The big wide smile has been replaced with something closemouthed and far more reptilian.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he whispers.

I try to stare him down, but he has no problem with too much eye contact. I don’t like that. We all think eye contact is great or a sign of honesty, but like most things, too much indicates an issue.

“It’s been fifteen years, Reeves.”

He doesn’t stop staring.

“I don’t care what you guys were doing.” I try to keep the pleading out of my voice. “I just need to know what happened to my brother.”

Exact same volume, exact same cadence, exact same words: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My brother’s name was Leo Dumas.”

He pretends to be thinking about it, trying to dredge up the name from his memory bank.

“He was hit by a train with a girl named Diana Styles.”

“Oh, Augie’s daughter.” Andy Reeves shakes his head the way people do when they speak of someone else’s tragedy. “Your brother was the young man killed with her?”

He knows this. I know this. He knows I know.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The condescension drips off his voice like maple syrup off a stack of pancakes. Intentionally, of course. Striking back at me.

“I already told you I don’t care what you were doing at the base,” I try. “So if you want me to stop digging into this, all you have to do is tell me the truth. Unless.”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you killed my brother,” I say.

Reeves doesn’t take the bait. Instead he makes a scene out of checking his watch. He looks over at the old folks starting to meander back toward the piano. “My break is over.”

He stands.

“Before you go,” I say.

I take out my phone. The video is already up. It’s cued to the first time the helicopter appears. I click the play button and hold it up for him. Even the fake tan is leaving his face now.

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to be,” he says, but his voice just isn’t making it.

“Sure you do. It’s a Sikorsky Black Hawk stealth helicopter flying over what you claim is a Department of Agriculture office complex. If you watch a few more moments, that helicopter will land. And after that, you’ll be able to see a man in a prisoner-issue orange jumpsuit get out of that copter.”

That’s a touch of an exaggeration — you really just see an orange dot — but a touch is all you need.

“You can’t verify—”

“Sure I can. There is a date stamp. The buildings and landscape are unique enough. I have the volume turned down, but the whole thing is narrated.” Another exaggeration. “The teenagers who made the tape spell out exactly where they are and what they are witnessing.”

His glare is back.

“One more thing,” I say.

“What?”

“You can hear three teenage boys on the tape. All three have died under mysterious circumstances.”

One of the old men shouts out, “Hey, Andy, can I request ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’?”

“I hate Madonna,” another says.

“That’s ‘Like a Prayer,’ you moron. ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ is Bon Jovi.”

“Who you calling a moron?”

Andy Reeves ignores them. He turns to me. The facade is gone now. The whisper is harsher. “Is that the only copy of the tape?”

“Yes,” I say, giving him flat eyes. “I was dumb enough to come here without making copies.”

He speaks through gritted teeth. “If that tape is what you claim — and I stress the word ‘ if ’ — revealing it would be a federal offense punishable by a prison sentence.”

“Andy?”

“What?”

“Do I look scared?”

“It would be treason to reveal that.”

I point to my calm face, indicating again that I do not in any way, shape, or form appear frightened by this threat.

“If you dare show it to anyone—”

“Let me stop you there, Andy. I don’t want you to worry your pretty head about it. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll definitely show it. I’ll post it all over Twitter and Facebook with your name on it.” I pretend to have a pen and paper and prepare to mime writing. “Is Reeves spelled with two e ’s or ea ?”

“I had nothing to do with your brother.”

“How about my girlfriend, then? Her name is Maura Wells. You want to tell me you had nothing to do with her either?”

“My God.” Andy Reeves slowly shakes his head. “You have no clue, do you?”