Харлан Кобен - Win

I stay very still. I do not have a weapon on me, which is foolish. I also do not have my customary reflexes or strength or timing. I carefully open my eyes just a smidge, but between the drugs and the late hour, my vision is that of a man looking through gauze.

I do, however, see movement.

I could perhaps open my eyes a bit wider, but I don’t want whoever is entering to know that I’m awake.

Still, I make out a man. My first thought is one that makes my pulse spike.

It’s Trey Lyons.

But I can see now that this man is too large. He stays in the doorway. I can feel his eyes on me. I consider my next move.

The call button.

Every hospital room has one, of course, but being that I am not good about asking for help, I had paid little heed when the nurse explained it all to me. Hadn’t she wrapped the cord about the bed railing? Yes. Had that been on my left or right?

Left.

With my body still under the covers, I try to snake my left hand toward the call button without being seen.

A male voice says, “Don’t do that, Win.”

So much for playing possum. I open my eyes all the way now. My vision is still murky, and the lights are low, but I can see the big man — and he’s very big, I see now — standing by the door. I make out a long beard and a cap of some kind atop his head. Another man — swept-back gray hair, expensive suit — steps fully into the room. He is the one who warned me off the call button. He nods at the big guy. The big guy steps out of the room and closes the door behind him. Swept Back grabs a chair and pulls it up to me.

“You know who I am?” he asks me.

“The Tooth Fairy?”

It’s not my best line, but Gray Hair still smiles. “My name is Leo Staunch.”

I had guessed that.

“My men were following you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You picked up the tail fast.”

“Amateurish move,” I reply. “Almost insulting.”

“My apologies,” Staunch says. “What’s your involvement with Ry Strauss?”

“He had my painting.”

“Yeah, we heard. What else?”

“That’s it,” I say.

“So all your snooping. It’s just about an art heist?”

“It’s just about an art heist,” I repeat. “Also: Did you just use the word ‘snooping’?”

He smiles, leans closer to me. “We all know your rep,” he whispers.

“Do tell.”

“People describe you as crazy, dangerous, a psycho.”

“Nothing about my natural good looks or supernatural charisma?”

I realize my rather feeble attempts at humor may seem out of place. If you think these lines are cringeworthy, you really must meet Myron. But they do serve a purpose. You never show fear. Not ever. My reputation, which I’ve carefully cultivated, is to appear unhinged. That’s intentional. Cracking wise during moments like this lets your opposition know that you will not be easily intimidated.

Staunch pulls the chair a little closer. “You’re looking for Arlo Sugarman, aren’t you?”

I don’t answer. Instead I ask, “Did you kill Ry Strauss?”

And he predictably replies: “I’m the one asking questions.”

“Can’t we both?”

Staunch likes that one, though Lord knows why. “I had nothing to do with Ry Strauss’s murder, though I can’t say I’m sorry.”

I try to read his face. I can’t.

Staunch says, “You know they murdered my sister, right?”

“I do, yes.”

“So where is Arlo Sugarman?”

“Why?” I ask.

His eyes turn black. “You know why.”

“And yet,” I continue, “you want me to believe you had nothing to do with Ry Strauss?”

“Didn’t you just tell me this is only about an art heist to you?”

“I did, yes.”

Leo Staunch turns both palms to the sky and shrugs. “Then you don’t give a shit who killed Strauss, do you?”

Staunch has me there.

We sit in silence for a moment. In the distance, I can hear a beeping noise. I wonder how they got in, but I imagine hospital security is nothing for a man like Leo Staunch.

When he speaks again, I can hear the anguish in his voice. “She was my only sister. You get that?”

I wait.

“Sophia, she had her whole life in front of her. And then, poof, gone. Our poor mother, happiest woman you ever met before that day, she cried every day for the rest of her life. Every. Single. Day. For thirty years. When Mom finally died, all everybody kept saying at the funeral was, ‘At least, she’s with her Sophia again.’” Staunch looks down at me. “You believe in that stuff? That my mom and my sister are reunited somewhere?”

“No,” I say.

“Me neither. It’s just the here and now.” He straightens his back and puts his hand on my forearm. “So I’m going to ask you one more time. Do you know where Arlo Sugarman is?”

“No.”

The door opens, and the big guy leans his head in. Leo Staunch nods at him and rises. “When you find him, you’ll let me know first.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Why Sugarman?” I ask. “What about the others?”

Leo Staunch moves to the door. “Like I said before, I know your rep. If we go to war, you’ll probably take a few of my men down. But I don’t care about the casualties. You don’t want to cross me, Win. The price will be too high.”

Three days later, I am transported by helicopter to Lockwood Manor.

I am better, of course, but I recognize that I am nowhere near one hundred percent. I would estimate that I am working somewhere between sixty-five and seventy percent capacity, and modesty prevents me from saying that I, at sixty-five percent, am still a potent force.

Nigel Duncan greets me by saying, “You look better than I thought.”

“Charmed,” I reply, and because I have no more time to waste: “Tell me about the Armitage LLC.”

We stroll toward the house in silence.

“Nigel?”

“I heard you.”

“And?”

“And I won’t respond. I won’t even bother responding whether I know what you’re talking about or not.”

“Loyal to the end.”

“It isn’t loyalty. It’s legality.”

“Attorney-client privilege?”

“Precisely.”

“No, sorry, that doesn’t play here. You are already listed as the attorney on the holding.”

“Am I?”

“Duncan and Associates.”

“There are probably other firms with that name.”

“Do you know who benefits from Armitage LLC?” I ask.

The main house grows ominous as we draw closer. It has always been thus for me, since I was a young child. Every home is its own independent country. I stare at Nigel. I see his mouth is set. His jowls bounce with every step.

“Ry Strauss,” I say. “It paid his bills.”

Nigel’s expression does not change.

“You need to tell me what’s going on,” I say.

“No, Win, I don’t. Even if I knew — and again I won’t confirm whether I have a clue what you’re talking about — I don’t need to tell you anything.”

“It could be connected to Uncle Aldrich’s murder. And Cousin Patricia’s abduction. It could give us the answer to the Hut of Horrors. It could save lives.”

He almost smiles. “Save lives,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“You’re usually not one for hyperbole.”

“I’m still not.”

“Ah, Win, I love you. I’ve loved you all your life.” He stops and turns to me for the briefest of moments. “But if you want my advice, I would stay out of this.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Want your advice.”

Nigel lowers his head, smiles. “You want to right wrongs, Win. But you always seem to leave collateral damage in your wake.”

“There is collateral damage in everything.”