Harlan Coben - Don’t Let Go

“I appreciate that, Carl.”

“Brothers of the badge and all that. Anyway, Dr. Fletcher called out of the blue last week and said she was taking a sabbatical. She canceled all her appointments and transferred as many as she could to a Dr. Paul Simpson. That’s her partner.”

I look over at the tree. No movement. “Has she done this kind of thing before?”

“No. According to Cassie, Dr. Fletcher is a very private person but completely dedicated to her patients. Canceling suddenly like this was out of character. I then spoke to her husband.”

“What did he say?”

“He said they’re separated and he has no idea where she is. He said she called him and said the same thing about a sabbatical. He agreed it was out of character, but he also said that since the separation, she’s been — and I quote — ‘discovering herself.’”

I start my car and pull out of the lot. “Okay, Carl, thanks.”

“You could take it to the next level, of course. Get her phone records, her credit card statements, that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, I might do that.”

Except that means legalities like getting warrants, and I’m not sure I want to go that route. I thank Carl Legg again and hang up. I start driving toward Augie’s apartment on Oak Street. I go slow because I need to clear my head and think this through.

Augie was told Maura had gone to Ellie’s that night to hide.

What did that mean, exactly? I’m really not sure. Did Augie follow up? Did he do anything with that information?

Most of all, why didn’t Augie tell me?

My mobile rings again, and this time it’s my boss, Loren Muse.

“Tomorrow morning,” Muse says. “Nine A.M. My office.”

“What’s this about?”

“Nine A.M.”

She hangs up.

Great. I wonder now if maybe one of the old-timers at the Rusty Nail did report the testicular assault on Andy Reeves. Nothing to be gained by worrying about that now. I hit Augie’s number on my speed dial. No answer. I’m surprised that he hasn’t called me back since I sent him a copy of Hank’s videotape.

The turn for Oak Street is already upon me. So much for head clearing. I pull into the lot behind the brick apartments and turn off my car. I sit and stare out the window at nothing. That doesn’t help. I get out and circle toward the front of the building. The streetlights are a dull amber. A hundred yards ahead of me I see an older woman walking an enormous dog. A Great Dane maybe. Something like that. I can only really see her in silhouette. When I make out what looks like a cigarette in her hand, I sigh and debate calling her out.

Nah. I’m a nosy pain in the ass, but I’m not a crusader.

Still, as I watch her stoop down with a plastic bag in her hand to clean up, something catches my eye.

A yellow car.

Or at least it looks yellow. I’ve seen those amber streetlights play havoc with the colors of white and cream, and even certain light metallic colors. I get to the sidewalk and hurry toward it. As I rush past the older woman, I figure it won’t cost me anything not to be a total hypocrite.

“Please don’t smoke,” I say.

The woman just watches me rush by, which is fine by me. I’ve had every kind of response. One smoker was a vegan who lectured me on how my eating habits were far worse than anything tobacco and nicotine could do to me. Maybe he had a point.

The car is yellow. It’s also a Ford Mustang.

Just like the car parked in front of the Rusty Nail.

I get right up next to it and see the license plate: EBNY-IVRY.

I didn’t think about it before, but I get it now.

EBONY and IVORY. Piano terminology.

This yellow Ford Mustang belongs to Andy Reeves.

Again I reach and touch my gun. Not sure why. I do that sometimes. I wonder where Andy Reeves is right now, but I think the answer is obvious:

Augie’s.

I start back toward Augie’s apartment. As I pass by the old woman, she says, “Thank you.”

Her voice is thick with phlegm. I stop.

“Too late to do me any good,” she says, and I see something heavy in her eyes. “But I appreciate the kindness. Keep it up.”

I think of several things to say, none of them in the slightest way profound, all of them ruining this moment, so I just nod and head off.

This apartment development is old-school and utilitarian, so there are no fancy names for the buildings. Buildings A, B, and C line the road from left to right. Buildings D, E, and F are in the row behind them. Buildings G, H, I, you get the drift. Each building houses four apartments, two on the first floor (Apartments 1 and 2) and two on the second floor (Apartments 3 and 4). Augie is in Building G, Apartment 2. I sprint up the path and turn left.

I almost run right into him.

Andy Reeves is leaving Augie’s apartment, his back to me, closing the door behind him. I move back down the path. Out of sight. Then I realize that chances are, he’ll take this path and see me.

I move off the pavement and duck behind a bush. When I glance at the window behind me — Building E, Apartment 1 — I see a black woman with big hair staring out at me.

Great.

I try to smile at her reassuringly. She doesn’t look reassured.

I hop away and move down toward Building D. I’m not overly concerned about someone dialing 911 on me. By the time anyone responds, this will have been played out. I’m also a cop, and Augie is our captain.

Andy Reeves does indeed saunter down the path where I had recently been standing. If he looks to his right, there is a slight chance he’ll see me, but I’m mostly blocked by a nonfunctioning lamppost. I pick up my phone and hit Augie’s number again. It goes right into voice mail.

I don’t like that.

Suppose Andy Reeves has done something to Augie. Am I just going to let him go?

My mind whirs. Two choices here — check on Augie or stop Andy Reeves. Decision made, I spin around Building D and head for Augie’s apartment. Here is the way I look at it: If I rush in now and find Augie... whatever... either there will still be time to run back and catch the sauntering Andy Reeves before he gets to his car — or if not, if I get there a little late, the guy is making his escape in a neon-yellow Ford Mustang. Need I say more?

The windows at Augie’s apartment are dark, meaning the lights are out. I don’t like that either. I rush to the door and pound on it hard.

“Wow, relax. It’s open.”

Relief courses through me. The voice belongs to Augie.

I turn the knob and push the door open. No lights are on. Augie sits in the dark with his back to me. Without turning around, he says, “What were you thinking?”

“About?”

“Did you really assault Reeves?”

“I might have squeezed his balls.”

“Jesus, are you out of your mind?”

“He threatened me. He threatened you too, actually.”

“What did he say?”

“That he’d kill me and everyone I loved.”

Augie sighs. He still hasn’t turned around. “Sit down, Nap.”

“Can we turn a light on? This is kind of spooky.”

Augie reaches his hand out and flicks on a table lamp. It’s not a lot of illumination, but it’s enough. I move to my familiar seat and take it. Augie stays in his.

“How did you know about the ball grab?” I ask.

“Reeves was just here. He’s really upset.”

“I bet he is.”

I notice now that there is a glass in Augie’s hand. Augie notices me noticing. “Pour yourself one,” he says.

“I’m good.”

“That tape you sent me,” he says. “The ones the kids took of the copter.”

“What about it?”

“You can’t show it to anybody.”

No need to ask why, so I take another approach. “You watched it?”