Харлан Кобен - Win

On my right, I see a multihued playroom of sorts — slides, tunnels, ramps, chew toys. There are rainbows painted on the walls. The floor is made of large rubber tiles that snap together in green, yellow, red, and orange. The place is bursting with more color than a preschool.

A big man comes out led by his big gut. He frowns at me. “Can I help you?”

I point to the playroom. “Aren’t dogs color-blind?”

He looks confused. Then he asks again, this time allowing a little more irritation into his cadence, “Can I help you?”

“Are you Jane Dorchester?” I ask.

Big Gut doesn’t like that. “Do I look like a Jane Dorchester?”

“Maybe in the boob area.”

He doesn’t like that either. “If you want to sign up your dog for a stay—”

“I don’t,” I say.

“Then I think you better leave.”

“No, thank you. I’m here to see Jane Dorchester.”

“She isn’t available.”

“Tell her I was sent here by a Miss Davies. Miss Lake Davies.”

His reaction would have been about the same if I’d landed a roundhouse kick on the gut. No doubt. He knows Jane Dorchester’s true identity. I’m thinking that this man must be her husband, Ross.

“Debbie,” he says to the toothy young woman at the desk, “go out back and help with the spa baths.”

“But Dad—”

“Just go, honey.”

Merely from her use of the word “Dad,” I infer that Debbie of the Desk must be one of Ross’s daughters. Don’t be too impressed. It’s bad form to toot your own horn, but I’m pretty adept at deductive reasoning. My phone buzzes. Three short beeps. Surprising. Three short beeps indicate an incoming request from my no-name rendezvous app. I’m tempted to glance at it now. Requests don’t come in that often without the male being the instigator. I am intrigued.

But the Ellen Bolitar wisdom comes to me again: One horse, one behind.

“You should leave,” Big Gut says when Debbie is out of earshot.

“No, Ross, that’s not going to happen.”

“Just get in your car—”

“It’s a truck, not a car. Very manly, don’t you think?”

“We don’t know anyone named Lake Davies.”

I offer him my patented skeptical eyebrow arch. When applied correctly, words like “Oh please” become superfluous.

“We don’t,” Ross insists.

“Fine, then you won’t mind if I go to the media and tell them that Lake Davies, famed flamethrower from the Jane Street Six, is now hiding in West Virginia under the pseudonym Jane Dorchester.”

He steps toward me, the big gut swinging. “Look,” he says in movie-tough-guy sotto voce, “she served her time.”

“So she did.”

“And this is still the United States of America.”

“So it is.”

“We don’t have to talk to you.”

“You don’t, Ross. Your wife does.”

“I know the law, pal, okay? My wife doesn’t have to say a word to you or anyone else. She has rights, including the right to remain silent. We are going to exercise that right.”

His belly is so close I’m tempted to pat it. “And you don’t exercise that often, do you, Ross?”

He doesn’t like that, but to be fair, it isn’t my best work. He inches closer. The belly is almost touching me now. He looks down on me. Big men so often make this mistake, don’t they?

“Do you have a warrant?” he asks me.

“I do not.”

“Then you’re on a private property. We have rights.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Saying what?”

“About having rights. Can we cut to the chase? I’m not with law enforcement. They need to follow rules. I don’t.”

“Don’t have to...” He shakes his head in amazement. “Are you for real?”

“Let me explain. If Jane refuses to talk to me, I will go to the press and reveal her true identity as the notorious Lake Davies. I have no problem with that. But it won’t end there. I will hire subordinates to hang around your home, your businesses, your upscale canine auberge, barraging her with questions wherever she goes—”

“That’s harassment!”

“Shh, don’t interrupt. I already spotted a one-star review for your hotel on Yelp from a woman who claims her poodle was bitten by a bichon frise whilst in your care. I’ll encourage her to sue, give her my personal attorney to handle the case pro bono, perhaps locate others to join a class action lawsuit against you. I will hire investigators to look into every aspect of your personal and business life. Everyone has something to hide, and if I can’t find something, I’ll make it up. I will be relentless in my attempt to destroy you both, and I will be effective. Eventually, after much unnecessary suffering, you will both realize the only way to stop the hemorrhaging is to talk to me.”

Ross Dorchester’s face reddens. “That’s... that’s blackmail.”

“Hold on, let me find my line in the script.” I mime flipping pages. “Here it is.” I clear my throat. “‘Blackmail is such an ugly word.’”

For a moment Ross looks as though he might take a swing at me. I feel that rush in my veins. I want him to, of course — to make a move so I can counter. I learned a long time ago that I cannot quiet that part of me, even as I recognize that in this instance, violence would be counterproductive to my interests.

When he speaks again, I hear pain in his voice. “You don’t know what she’s been through.”

I give him nothing in return. This, I think to myself. This is why PT wanted me to handle this. This is why he did not want to rely on his colleagues.

“To have you barge in here like this, after all the work she’s done to put the past behind her, to build a good life for us and our family...”

Part of me wants to break out one of my top-ten mime moves: playing the world’s smallest violin. But again: counterproductive. “I have no intention of hurting anyone,” I assure him. “I need to speak to your wife. After that, I will probably suggest you both pack a bag and take a trip for a little while.”

“Why?”

“Because, like it or not, the past is coming back.”

He blinks a few times and looks away. “Get out.”

“No.”

“I said—”

Then another voice says, “Ross?”

I turn. Her hair is short and white. She wears denim pants, an oversized brown work shirt rolled to the elbows, tired-gray sneakers. Her gloves are latex and she’s carrying a bucket. Her eyes find me, perhaps hoping for mercy or understanding. When I don’t give her any, I can see the resignation slowly cross her face. She turns her gaze back to her husband.

“You don’t have to,” Ross begins, but Jane-Lake shakes him off.

“We always knew this day would come.”

Now he too has the look of surrender.

“What’s your name?” she asks me.

“Call me Win.”

“Let’s take a walk out back, Win.”

How did you find me?”

We are in the backyard now. The dogs run free in two large pens — one apparently for smaller dogs, one for larger. A bearded collie is being groomed on a table. A bullmastiff is taking a bath. The sun is bright.

She waits for my answer, so I simply say, “I have my ways.”

“It was a long time ago. I don’t say this as an excuse. And my role was small. I don’t say that as an excuse either. But not a day goes by that I don’t think about that night.”

I feign a yawn. She gives me a little laugh.

“Okay, yeah, maybe I deserve that. Maybe that was a bit sanctimonious.”

“Oh, just a bit,” I reply.

She strips off the gloves, washes her hands thoroughly, dries them with a towel. She beckons me with her head to follow her toward a path in the woods.

“Why are you here, Win?”