Харлан Кобен - Win

The ladies all smile at the male interloper, save one. Elena Randolph is tall and slender. Despite being sixty-five years old, she wears tight slacks and a sleeveless top, and it works well enough on her. Her hair is gray and spiky, her face birdlike, her expression harsh. Reading glasses hang from a chain around her neck.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“We need to talk,” I say.

“I’m with a client right now.”

“It’s important.”

“We close at five.”

“No, sorry, that won’t do for me.”

There is what some might call an uncomfortable silence, but as I think we’ve established by now, I find no silences uncomfortable.

The fleshy redheaded beautician working the chair next to Elena’s says, “Uh, I can finish Gertie for you.”

Elena Randolph just stares at me.

The redhead bends down to an old woman whose hair is covered in tinfoil. “I can finish you up, can’t I, Gertie?”

Gertie shouts, “Huh?”

Elena Randolph slowly puts down a comb and scissors, places both hands on Gertie’s shoulders, bends down, and says, “I’ll be right back, Gertie.”

“Huh?”

Elena’s eyes shoot daggers at me. I deflect them with a smile that could best be described as disarming. She marches out the door so that we are now both in front of the window of her salon. All eyes stay on us. No one goes back to work.

“And you are?” Elena asks.

“Windsor Horne Lockwood the Third,” I say.

“Am I supposed to know you?”

“I believe you spoke to my assistant Kabir on the telephone.”

She nods as though she expected this. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“It would be wonderful if we could just skip this part,” I say.

“Pardon?”

“The part where you say you won’t talk to me and then I start my barrage. It really is such a waste, and in the end, you will cave.”

She puts her hands on her narrow hips. “Are you a cop?”

I frown. “In these threads?”

That almost makes her smile.

“Tell me about Ralph Lewis.” I hand her the scan from the yearbook with the medieval band. “You two dated at Oral Roberts University.”

Elena doesn’t so much as glance at the page. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I sigh dramatically. I had hoped to avoid this, but my patience is wearing thin. I raise my hand and snap my fingers. Two seconds later, the tow truck pulls into the lot and stops behind her Honda Odyssey. Gino jumps out, slips on a thick pair of gloves, and pulls a lever to start lowering the flatbed.

“Hey,” Elena shouts. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“That’s my main man Gino,” I say. “He’s repossessing your car.”

“He can’t—”

I hand her the orders. “You are in heavy debt, Ms. Randolph. On your vehicle. On your house.” I point to the salon. “On your place of business.”

“I’ve made arrangements,” she says.

“Yes, with the old collection agency. But I’ve purchased your debt, and so now you owe me. I’ve examined your financial situation and feel that you are a bad risk, ergo, per my rights, I’m foreclosing on your assets as of right now. Gino here will take the Honda. I have two men who are at this moment padlocking the front door of your home. In ten seconds, I will open the door to your business and inform your customers that they will have to vacate the premises immediately.”

Elena Randolph’s wide eyes scan down the first page. “You can’t do this.”

I sigh, though this time with a tad less spectacle. “Your denials are tiresome.” I reach for the salon’s door. Elena shifts her body to block me.

“I don’t know where Ralph is, I swear.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I would put my hand on my chest and say, ‘The truth,’ but I feel it would be over the top, don’t you?”

Elena is not in the mood. I don’t blame her. I’m not naturally a needler, but this is something else I learned from Myron. Needling keeps your adversary off-balance. “And if I don’t cooperate?” she asks.

“Really? Have I not made this obvious? Your car, your house, your business will all be mine. By the way, what’s the redhead’s name? I’m going to fire her first.”

“There are laws.”

“Yes, I’m aware. They favor me.”

“I know my rights. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“That’s correct.”

The flatbed reaches the ground. Gino looks at me. I nod for him to go ahead.

“You can’t...” Tears spring to Elena’s eyes. “This is bullying. You just can’t...”

“Of course, I can.”

I don’t enjoy this, but I don’t mind much either. People used to buy the “everyone is equal” rationale we Americans brilliantly sold throughout our esteemed history, though lately more and more get what has always been obvious: Money tilts all scales. Money is power. This isn’t a John Grisham man-against-the-system novel — in reality, the little man can’t stand up to it. As I warned Elena Randolph at the get-go, she will eventually cave.

I’m not sounding like the hero of this story, am I?

Is it right that the wealthy can wield this power over you? Of course not. The system isn’t fair. Reality is a bothersome thing. I have no interest in hurting Elena Randolph, but I won’t lose sleep over this either. She may be harboring a fugitive. At the very least, she has information that I require. The sooner I get it, the sooner she goes back to her own life.

“You won’t quit, will you?” she says.

My disarming smile returns.

“Let’s go sit in the Subway.”

“Subway?” I am appropriately aghast. “I’d rather have my kidney removed with a grapefruit spoon. We can talk here, so let’s get to it, shall we? You knew Ralph Lewis at Oral Roberts University, correct?”

Elena wipes her eyes and nods.

“When did you last see him?”

“More than forty years ago.”

“If we skip the lies—”

“I’m not lying. Let me ask you something before we get into this.”

I don’t like it, but it may take longer to express that point. “Go on.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“We’ve already established that.”

“So why are you after Ralph?”

Sometimes you play vague. Sometimes you go right for the throat. Right now, I choose the throat. “You mean Arlo Sugarman, don’t you?”

The remark draws blood. Conclusion: Elena Randolph knew that Ralph Lewis was really Arlo Sugarman.

“How did you—?” She stops, sees that there’s no point, shakes her head. “Never mind. He didn’t do anything, you know.”

I wait.

“Why are you after him? After all these years.”

“You heard about Ry Strauss being found.”

“Of course.” She narrows her eyes. “Wait, I saw your picture on the news. You owned that painting.”

“Own,” I correct. “Present tense.”

“I don’t get why you’d be looking for Arlo.”

“The art heist was not a solo job,” I say.

“And you think, what, that Arlo has your other missing painting?”

“Perhaps.”

“He doesn’t.”

“You haven’t seen him in over forty years.”

“Still. Arlo would not be involved in something like that.”

I try dropping the bomb: “Would he be involved in the abduction and murder of young girls?”

Her mouth drops open.

“In all likelihood,” I say, “Ry Strauss and an accomplice murdered my uncle and kidnapped my cousin.”

“You can’t think—”

“Did you meet Ry Strauss when he came to campus?”

“Listen to me,” Elena says. “Arlo was a good man. He was the best man I ever knew.”

“Cool,” I say. “So where is he?”