Harlan Coben (16 page)

Special Agent Tickner
stared down at the report.

The Seidman murder-kidnapping had been beyond back-burner. The FBI had realigned its priorities in recent years. Terrorism was number one on the most wanted list. Numbers two through ten were, well, terrorism. The Seidman case had only involved him when it became a kidnapping issue. Despite what you see on television, the local police are usually anxious to have the FBI involved. The feds have the resources and the know-how. Calling them too late can cost a life. Regan had been smart enough not to wait.

But once the kidnapping issue was—and he hated to use this term for it—“resolved,” Tickner's job (unofficially at least) was to back off and leave it to the locals. He still thought about it a lot—you don't forget the sight of a baby's clothing in a cabin like that—but in his mind, the case had been inactive.

Until five minutes ago.

He read the brief report for the third time. He wasn't trying to put it together. Not yet. This was too weird for that. What he was trying to do, what he hoped to accomplish, was to find some kind of angle, some sort of handle he could grip. Nothing came to him.

Rachel Mills. How the hell did she fit into this?

A young subordinate—Tickner couldn't remember if his name was Kelly or Fitzgerald, something Irish like that—stood in front of the desk, hands not sure what to do. Tickner leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. He tapped the pen against his lower lip.

“There has to be a connection between them,” he told Sean or Patrick.

“She claimed to be a private detective.”

“Is she licensed?”

“No, sir.”

Tickner shook his head. “There's more to it than that. Check phone records, find some friends, whatever. Trace it down for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call that detective agency. The MVD. Tell them I'm on my way.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Irish kid left. Tickner stared off. He and Rachel had gone through training together at Quantico. They'd both had the same mentor. Tickner thought about what to do here. While he didn't always trust the locals, he liked Regan. The guy was just off enough to be an asset. He picked up the phone and dialed Regan's cell.

“Detective Regan.”

“Long time, no speak.”

“Ah, Federal Agent Tickner. You still wearing the sunglasses?”

“You still stroking that soul patch—uh, among other things?”

“Yes. And maybe.”

Tickner could hear sitar music in the background. “You busy?”

“Not at all. I was just meditating.”

“Like Phil Jackson?”

“Exactly. Except I don't have all those pesky championship rings. You should join me sometime.”

“Yeah, I'll put that on my list of must-dos.”

“It would relax you, Agent Tickner. I hear tremendous strain in your voice.” Then: “I assume that there was a reason for this call?”

“Remember our favorite case?”

There was a funny pause. “Yes.”

“How long has it been since we had something new?”

“I don't think we ever had anything new.”

“Well, we may now.”

“I'm listening.”

“We just got a strange call from an ex–FBI agent. Guy named Deward. He's a private dick in Newark now.”

“So?”

“It seems our friend Dr. Seidman paid his office a visit today. And he had someone very special with him.”

 

Lydia dyed her hair black—the better to blend in with the night.

The plan, as it were, was simple.

“We confirm that he has the money,” she told Heshy. “Then I kill him.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. And the beauty of it is, the murder will automatically get tied to the original shooting.” Lydia smiled at him. “Even if something goes wrong, nothing ties back to us.”

“Lydia?”

“Something the matter?”

Heshy shrugged his giant shoulders. “Don't you think it would be better if I kill him?”

“I'm the better shot, Pooh Bear.”

“But”—he hesitated, shrugged again—“I don't need a weapon.”

“You're trying to protect me,” she said.

He said nothing.

“That's sweet.” And it was. But one of the reasons she wanted to do it herself was to protect Heshy. He was the vulnerable one here. Lydia never worried about getting caught. Part of it was classic overconfidence. Dumb people get caught, not those who were careful. But more than that, she knew if she did get nabbed, they'd never convict her. Forget her still girl-next-door looks, though that would undoubtedly be an asset. What no prosecutor would ever overcome would be the weepy Oprahization of her case. Lydia would remind them of her “tragic” past. She would claim abuses in many forms. She would cry on the talk shows. She would talk about the plight of the child star, of the calamity of being forced into the world of Pixie Trixie. She would look adorably victimized and innocent. And the public—not to mention the jury—would lap it up.

“I think it's best this way,” she told him. “If he sees you approach, well, he is apt to run. But if he catches sight of lil' ol' me . . .” Lydia let her voice die out with a small shrug.

Heshy nodded. She was right. This should be cake. She stroked his face and handed him the car keys.

“Does Pavel understand his part?” Lydia asked.

“He does. He'll meet us there. And yes, he'll be wearing the flannel shirt.”

“Then we might as well start on our way,” she said. “I'll call Dr. Seidman.”

Heshy used the remote to unlock the car doors.

“Oh,” she said, “I have to check something before we go.”

Lydia opened the back door. The child was fast asleep in the car seat. She checked the straps and made sure that they were secure. “I better sit in the back, Pooh Bear,” she said. “Just in case a little someone wakes up.”

Heshy angled his way into the driver's seat. Lydia took out the phone and voice changer and dialed the number.

We ordered a
pizza, which I think was a mistake. Late-night pizzas are college. It was yet another not-so-subtle reminder of the past. I kept staring at the mobile phone, wishing it to ring. Rachel was quiet, but that was okay. We had always been good with silence. That, too, was weird. In many ways, we were falling back, picking up where we'd left off. But in many more ways, we were strangers with a tenuous, awkward connection.

What was odd was that my memories were suddenly hazy. I'd thought that once I saw her again, they'd head straight to the surface. But few specifics came to me. It was more a feeling, an emotion, like the way I remembered the ruddy cold of New England. I don't know why I couldn't remember. And I wasn't sure what it meant.

Rachel's brow creased as she toyed with the electronic equipment. She took a bite of pizza and said, “Not as good as Tony's.”

“That place was awful.”

“A little greasy,” she agreed.

“A little? Didn't the large come with a coupon for a free angioplasty?”

“Well, there was that sludge-through-the-veins feel to it.”

We looked at each other.

“Rachel?”

“Yeah.”

“Suppose they don't call.”

“Then they don't have her, Marc.”

I let that settle in. I thought about Lenny's son, Conner, the things he could say and do, and I tried to apply it to the baby I'd last laid eyes on in her crib. It wouldn't compute, but that didn't mean anything. There
was hope. I held on to that. If my daughter was dead, if that phone never rang again, the hope would, I know, kill me. But I didn't care. Better to go down this way than try to go the distance.

So I had hope. And I, the cynic, let myself believe the best.

When the cell phone finally did ring, it was nearly ten. I did not even glance over to Rachel and wait for her nod. My finger was on the answer button before the first chirp could die off.

“Hello?”

“Okay,” the robotic voice said, “you'll get to see her.”

I couldn't breathe. Rachel moved over closer and put her ear near mine.

“Good,” I said.

“You have the money?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Then listen closely. Deviate from what I tell you and we disappear. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“We checked with our police sources. So far, so good. It appears that you haven't contacted the authorities. But we need to make sure. You will drive alone toward the George Washington Bridge. Once there, we will be in range. Use the two-way radio feature on the phone. I will tell you where to go and what to do. You will be searched. If we find any weapons or wires, we will disappear. Do you understand?”

I could feel Rachel's breath quicken.

“When do I see my daughter?”

“When we meet.”

“How do I know you won't just take the money?”

“How do you know I'm not going to hang up on you now?”

“I'm on my way,” I said. Then I quickly added, “But I won't hand over the money until I see Tara.”

“Then we are in agreement. You have an hour. Signal me then.”

Conrad Dorfman did
not appear happy to be dragged back into the MVD office this late. Tickner didn't care. If Seidman had come here alone, that would be an important lead, no doubt about it. But the fact that Rachel Mills had been here, too, that she was somehow involved, well, let's just say that Tickner's curiosity was more than piqued.

“Did Ms. Mills show you an ID?” he asked.

“Yes,” Dorfman replied. “But it was stamped ‘Retired.' ”

“And she was with Dr. Seidman?”

“Yes.”

“They arrived together.”

“I think so. I mean, yes, when they came in here, they were together.”

Tickner nodded. “What did they want?”

“A password. For a CD-ROM.”

“I'm not sure I follow.”

“They claimed that they had a CD-ROM we provided to a client. Our CDs are password protected. They wanted us to give them the password.”

“Did you?”

Dorfman looked properly shocked. “Of course not. We had a call put in to your agency. They explained to us . . . well, they never quite explained to us anything really. They just stressed that we should not cooperate with Agent Mills in any way.”

“
Ex
-agent,” Tickner said.

How? Tickner wondered. How the hell had Rachel Mills hooked up with Seidman? He had tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. Unlike
his fellow agents, he had known her, had seen her in action. She'd been a good agent, maybe even a great one. But now he wondered. He wondered about the timing. He wondered about her being here. He wondered about her flashing her badge and trying to apply pressure.

“Did they tell you how they came by this CD-ROM?”

“They claimed that it belonged to Dr. Seidman's wife.”

“Does it?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Are you aware that his wife died more than a year and a half ago, Mr. Dorfman?”

“I know that now.”

“But you didn't when they were here?”

“Right.”

“Why did Seidman wait eighteen months to ask for the password?”

“He didn't say.”

“Did you ask?”

Dorfman shifted in his seat. “No.”

Tickner smiled, buddy-to-buddy. “No reason you should,” he said, faux-genteel. “Did you give them any information at all?”

“None.”

“You didn't tell them why Mrs. Seidman hired your agency in the first place?”

“That's correct.”

“Okay, very good.” Tickner leaned forward, his elbows on his knees now. He was about to ask another question when his cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

“Is this going to take much longer?” Dorfman asked. “I have plans.”

He didn't even bother responding. Rising, he put the phone to his ear. “Tickner.”

“It's Agent O'Malley,” the young kid said.

“Did you find anything?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I'm listening.”

“We checked the phone records going back three years. Seidman never called her—at least, not from his house or office—until today.”

“Am I about to hear a
but
?”

“You are. But Rachel Mills called him—once.”

“When?”

“June two years ago.”

Tickner did the math. That would have been about three months before the murder and kidnapping. “Anything else?”

“Something big, I think. I had one of our agents check Rachel's apartment in Falls Church. He's still poking around, but guess what he found in her night-table drawer?”

“Does this look like a quiz show, O'Ryan?”

“O'Malley.”

Tickner rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What did the agent find?”

“A prom photo.”

“What?”

“I mean, I don't know if it's from the prom exactly. It's some kind of old formal. Photo gotta be fifteen, twenty years old. She's wearing her hair in some flip-style and she's got one of those flower bands on her arm. What do you call those?”

“A corsage?”

“Right.”

“What the hell does this have to do with—”

“The guy in the picture.”

“What about him?”

“Our agent is sure. The guy she's with—her date, I mean—is our own Dr. Seidman.”

Tickner felt the thrum rush through him. “Keep digging,” he said. “Call me when you get more.”

“On it.”

He hung up the phone. Rachel and Seidman went to a prom together? What the hell was going on? She was from Vermont, if he remembered correctly. Seidman lived in New Jersey. They didn't go to high school together. How about college? They'd have to look into it.

“Something wrong?”

Tickner turned. It was Dorfman. “Let me see if I have this straight, Mr. Dorfman. This CD-ROM belonged to Monica Seidman?”

“That's what we were told, yes.”

“Yes or no, Mr. Dorfman.”

He cleared his throat. “We believe the answer is yes.”

“So she was a client here?”

“Yes, that we've been able to confirm.”

“So to sum up, a murder victim was a client of yours.”

Silence.

“Her name was in every paper in the state,” Tickner went on, giving him the hard stare. “How come you never came forward?”

“We didn't know.”

Tickner kept with the hard stare.

“The guy who handled that case is no longer employed by us,” he added quickly. “See, he was gone by the time Mrs. Seidman was killed. So no one here put the pieces together.”

Defensive. Tickner liked that. He believed him, but he didn't show it. Make the guy anxious to please.

“What was on the CD?”

“Photographs, we think.”

“Think?”

“That's usually the case. Not always. We use the CD to store photographs, but there could be some scanned documents too. I really couldn't tell you.”

“Why the hell not?”

He put up both hands. “Don't worry. We have a backup. But any file more than a year old is stored in the basement. The office was closed, but when I heard you were interested, I got someone to come in. He's running off the material on the backup CD right now.”

“Where?”

“He's on the lower level.” Dorfman checked his watch. “He should be done or just about by now. Do you want to go down and see?”

Tickner stood. “Let's rumble.”