Harlan Coben - Fool Me Once

“No, you didn’t.”

“Pardon?”

He pointed with his beefy finger back the other way. “You parked over there. On the other side.”

“Oh, did I? I’m such an airhead sometimes.”

She stood there. He stood there.

“We don’t let no one into the employee area,” he said. “Company policy. See, some of the guys, they’ll come out and they’ll wait by a dancer’s car. You know what I mean? Or they’ll try to get the license plate and call her. We gotta escort the girls out here sometimes so they can avoid the creepy guys. You get my drift?”

“Yes, but I’m not a creepy guy.”

“No, ma’am, you certainly are not.”

She stood there. He stood there.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll escort you to your car.”

There was one of those giant warehouse stores across the street and maybe a hundred yards down the road. Maya parked in the lot, positioning her car so she could stake out the employee lot of Leather and Lace. Her hope was that someone would eventually get into the red Buick Verano and then she could follow him.

And then what?

One step at a time.

But what about all that nonsense about looking several steps down the road when you make a plan?

She didn’t know. Preparedness was all well and good, but there was also a little something called improvisation. Her next move would be dependent on where that red Buick went. If, say, the car stopped for the night at a residence, then maybe her move would be to figure out who lived at that house.

A strip club gets a fairly varied clientele in dress, if not gender. There were the blue-collar guys in work boots and jeans. There were business suits. There were guys in cargo shorts and T-shirts. There was even a group of guys in golf clothes, looking like they just came off the links. Hey, maybe the food was good, who knew?

An hour passed. Four people left the employee area of the lot; three entered. None involved the red Buick Verano parked against the fence.

Maya had time to sort through all the recent developments, but time wasn’t helping her. She didn’t need time. She needed more information.

The red Buick was leased by a company called WTC Limited. Was that something the Burketts held? Caroline had talked about payouts to and from offshore accounts and anonymous companies. Could WTC Limited be something like that? Had Claire known the driver of the red Buick Verano? Had Joe?

Maya and Joe had several joint accounts. She opened them on her phone app and brought up the credit charge charges. Had Joe visited Leather and Lace? If so, it wasn’t showing up on the statements. Then again, would Joe be that stupid? Didn’t places like Leather and Lace know that prying wives might check their husbands’ credit card charges and, knowing Lulu’s desire for discretion, use another name?

Maybe WTC Limited?

With new hope, she searched for any charge to WTC Limited. Nothing. The club was in Carlstadt, New Jersey. She searched for any charges made to that city. Again nothing.

Someone parked two spots away from the red Buick. The car door opened, and a pole dancer got out. Yes, Maya knew her occupation. Long blond hair, shorts that barely covered half a cheek, a boob job that lifted them high enough to double as earrings — you didn’t need the pole dancing equivalent of gaydar to see that this woman was either a pole dancer or a sixteen-year-old boy’s fantasy come to life.

When the shapely pole dancer entered through the employee side door, a man stepped out. The man wore a Yankees baseball cap pulled down low over his sunglass-covered eyes. He kept his head down, his shoulders hunched, the way one does when they want to blend in or hide. Maya sat up. The man sported one of those unruly beards superstitious athletes grow when they’re on a playoff run.

She couldn’t get a look at him obviously, but still there was something familiar...

Maya started up her car. The man kept his head down, hurried his step, and slid into the red Buick Verano.

So this was her man.

Following him would be risky. Maybe her best move was to confront him now. He might spot a tail. She might lose him. So maybe she should stop with the subtlety, pull back into Leather and Lace’s parking lot, block his car, demand answers. But there were problems with that scenario too. There was security there, probably a fair amount of it. Meathead would interfere. Others too. Strip clubs were used to handling incidents. Shane’s work as an MP backed up what Meathead had said. Men often hung out after the club closed, hoping to approach some dancer they sincerely believed was interested in more than what was in their wallet, though that was never, ever the case. Guys who lack confidence in so many ways still manage to delude themselves into thinking they are irresistible to all women.

In short, there would be security. Better to get him alone, no?

The red Buick backed out of the space and started toward the exit. Maya was on it. She merged onto Paterson Plank Road and immediately felt unsettled. Why? Was it her imagination, or did the red Buick hesitate, as if somehow she had already been spotted? That was hard to fathom. She was a full three cars back.

Two minutes into the ride, Maya realized that tailing him wouldn’t work.

She hadn’t quite realized it before, but now that her plan was in action, she could see more issues raising their heads. Problem One: He clearly knew her car. He had, in fact, tailed it himself on numerous occasions. One look in the rearview mirror would be all he’d need to put it together.

Problem Two: Lulu or Billy or Meathead or someone else at the club could have warned him about her visit, in fact probably had. So Buick Yankees Cap would be on guard. He might, in fact, have already spotted her.

Problem Three: Depending on how long he had been following Maya, Buick Yankees Cap could have done the same thing Maya did with Hector’s truck — put a GPS tracker on it. For all she knew, he had known that she was parked outside the club from the moment she arrived.

This could all be a setup. This could all be a trap.

She could back off, figure out a better way in, and come back to Leather and Lace with a plan. But uh-uh, no way. Enough with the passive approach. She needed answers, and if that meant using a little less caution and erring on the side of boldness, so be it.

They were still in the industrial area, a few miles from the major highway. Once the Buick was there, she’d have no chance. Maya reached into her purse. The handgun was within easy reach. The traffic light turned red. The Buick glided to a stop, first car in line in the right lane. Maya hit the accelerator and veered first left, then back to the right. She knew that she would have to move fast. She passed the Buick on its left, spun the wheel, and angled her car so she blocked him.

She was out of the car, keeping the gun low and out of sight. Yes, this was ridiculously risky, but she had done the calculations. If he tried to back up or make a run for it, she would shoot his tires. Would someone call the police? Probably. But she was willing to take that risk. Worst-case scenario: The police arrest her. She would then tell them about her husband’s murder and that this guy had started following her. She might then have to play the hysterical widow a bit, but there was little chance she would be convicted of something serious.

Within seconds, Maya was at the red Buick. The glare on the windshield prevented her from seeing the driver, but that wouldn’t last. She considered going to the driver’s-side window and threatening him with the gun through the glass, but in the end, she opted for the passenger-side door. It might be unlocked, in which case she could just slip inside. If it wasn’t, she could make the same threat through that window.