Harlan Coben - Fool Me Once

“Did she send you that first piece of evidence?”

He nodded. “That’s why you’re here.”

“What?”

But she knew, of course. He had known where she was the entire time — that she had visited the club, that she had talked to Lulu, that she was following him. Corey Rudzinski had not set this up casually. There had been a purpose to all of this.

“You’re here,” he said, “so I can show you what Claire found.”

“The name is Tom Douglass. Two S ’s.”

Corey handed her the printout. They were still in the private back room at the strip club. This was a pretty great spot for a clandestine meeting. No one paid you any attention, and no one wanted you to pay any to them.

“Does the name mean anything to you?” Corey asked.

“Should it?”

Corey shrugged. “Just a general question.”

“Never heard of him,” Maya said. “So who is he?”

According to the printout, there were monthly payments to “Tom Douglass Security” for nine thousand dollars. Maya noted the obvious: It was the same amount as the purported secret payments to Roger Kierce.

Coincidence?

“Tom Douglass worked as a private investigator in a New Jersey town called Livingston. His business was a small, one-man operation. He mostly did marital work and background checks. He retired three years ago, but the money is still coming.”

“So maybe it’s legitimate. He’s a private eye on retainer. He retired but kept his biggest client.”

“I would agree. Except your sister clearly thought that there was more to it.”

“Like what?”

Corey shrugged.

“How could you not have asked her?”

“You don’t understand how we work.”

“Oh, I think I do. So when Claire got murdered over this, did you contact the police?”

“No.”

“Or tell them what she was investigating?”

“I told you. I had to stay off the grid when she died.”

“Not ‘died,’” Maya said. “She was brutalized and murdered.”

“I know. Believe me, I get it.”

“But not enough to help find her killer.”

“Our sources demand confidentiality.”

“But your source was murdered.”

“That doesn’t change our commitment to her.”

“Ironic,” Maya said.

“How so?”

“You’re so big on a world without secrets. But you have no problem creating and keeping your own. What about your everything-out-in-the-open utopia?”

“That’s not fair, Maya. We didn’t even know her murder was connected to us.”

“Sure you did. You kept quiet because you were afraid if it got out that one of your sources was murdered, it would reflect badly on you. You were afraid that someone leaked her name and that got her killed. You were afraid — and probably still are — that maybe that leak came from your organization.”

“It didn’t,” Corey said.

“How do you know?”

“You talked about our paranoia. Our overkill. I’m the only one who knew about Claire. We have safeguards. There is no way her name was leaked by my organization.”

“You know the public wouldn’t buy that.”

He put his hand on his face. “They might misinterpret, that’s true.”

“They’d blame you.”

“Our enemies might use it against us. Our other whistle-blowers might feel threatened.”

Maya shook her head. “You really don’t see, do you?”

“What?”

“You’re justifying keeping secrets. You’re doing exactly the same thing as those governments and businesses you condemn.”

“That’s not true.”

“Sure it is. Protect the institution at all cost. You got my sister killed. And you helped her killer go free to shield your organization.”

Something ignited behind his eyes. “Maya?”

“What?”

“I don’t need lectures on morality from you.”

Fair enough. Maya had agitated him, perhaps too much. That was a mistake. She needed him to trust her. “So why are the Burketts paying Tom Douglass?”

“We have no idea. A few months ago, we hacked into Douglass’s computer, checked his browsing history, even got a list of his searches. There’s no hint. Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t just off the books. It was way off the books.”

“Did you try asking him?”

“Oh, he won’t talk to us, and if the police question him, he’ll claim attorney-client privilege. All his work product goes through the family law firm, Howell and Lamy.”

That was Heather Howell’s firm.

“So how do we find out more?” Maya asked.

“We took a run at him and got nowhere,” Corey said. “So I was thinking maybe you could give it a try.”

Unlike in the movies, Tom Douglass Investigations didn’t have pebbled glass with the name stenciled into it. The office was located in a nondescript brick building on Northfield Avenue in Livingston, New Jersey. The corridor smelled like a dentist’s office, which seemed apt based on the number of names listed with a DDS by the entrance. Maya knocked on the solid wood door. No answer. She tried the knob. Locked.

She noticed a man in hospital scrubs standing by the reception desk across the corridor. He was checking her out with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. She returned the smile, pointed at the door, and shrugged.

Scrubs walked toward her. “You have great teeth,” he said.

“Gee, wow, thanks.” Maya feigned breathless, kept the smile going. “Do you know when Mr. Douglass will be back?”

“You need some investigation help, hon?”

Hon. “Sort of. It’s confidential.” She bit her lower lip as if to indicate seriousness and yeah, okay, maybe a little coquettishness. “Have you seen him today?”

“I haven’t seen Tom in weeks. Must be nice. Just being able to take time off like that.”

Maya thanked him and headed toward the exit. Scrubs called after her. She ignored him and picked up her pace. Corey had provided her with Tom Douglass’s home address. It was only a five-minute drive. She would try there.

The Douglass house was a much-loved Cape Cod, blue with purple trim. The flower boxes burst with color. The shutters were overly decorative. It was all a bit much, but it worked. Maya parked in the street and started up the walk. A fishing boat on a wheeled rig sat on the side of the garage.

Maya knocked on the door. A woman in her midfifties wearing a black sweat suit opened it.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “May I help you?”

“Hi,” Maya said, trying to sound upbeat, “I’m looking for Tom Douglass.”

The woman — Maya assumed it was Mrs. Douglass — kept studying Maya’s face. “He’s not here.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Could be a while.”

“My name is Maya Stern.”

“Yeah,” the woman said. “I recognize you from the news. What do you want with my husband?”

Great question. “Can I come in?”

Mrs. Douglass stepped back to let her enter. Maya really hadn’t meant to ask about coming inside. She had just been buying time, trying to figure out the best way to approach it.

Mrs. Douglass led her past the foyer and into the den. The theme there was nautical. Big-time. Stuffed fish hung from the ceiling on wires. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with antique fishing rods and fishing nets and an old captain’s wheel and round life preservers. There were family photos involving the seas. Maya spotted two sons, both of whom must have been grown by now. This family of four clearly liked to fish together. Maya had never been much for fishing, but she’d noticed over the years that there were few photographed smiles as bright and authentic as those taken with caught fish.

Mrs. Douglass folded her arms and waited.