Authors: Harlan Coben
Ed Grayson was standing by the window now. He looked out but if he was enjoying the view, he was keeping it pretty hidden. "I don't know what to do here, Hester."
"I do," she said.
"I'm listening."
"Listen to my professional legal advice: Do nothing."
Still staring out the window, Grayson smiled. "No wonder you get the big bucks."
Hester spread her hands.
"So it's that simple?"
"In this case, yep."
"You know my wife left me. She wants to move back to Quebec with E. J."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"This whole mess is my fault."
"Ed, don't take this the wrong way, but you know I'm bad at hand-holding or false platitudes, right?"
"Oh yes."
"So I'll make it clear for you: You messed up big-time."
"I never beat up someone before."
"And now you have."
"I never shot someone either."
"And now you have. Your point?"
They both went quiet. Ed Grayson was comfortable with silence. Hester Crimstein was not. She started rocking in her desk chair, played with a pen, sighed theatrically. Finally she got up and crossed the room.
"See this?"
Ed turned around. She was pointing at a statue of Lady Justice. "Yes."
"You know what it is?"
"Sure."
"What?"
"Are you kidding?"
"Who is this?"
"Lady Justice."
"Yes and no. She is known by many names. Lady Justice, Blind Justice, the Greek goddess Themis, the Roman goddess Justitia, the Egyptian goddess Ma'at--or even the daughters of Themis, Dike and Astraea."
"Uh, your point?"
"Have you ever taken a good look at the statue? Most people see the blindfold first and, well, that's an obvious reference to impartiality. It's also nonsense since everybody is partial. You can't help it. But take a look at her right hand. That's a sword. That's a kick-ass sword. That's supposed to represent swift and often brutal, even deadly punishment. But you see, only she--the system--can do that. The system, as messed up as it is, has the right to use that sword. You, my friend, do not."
"Are you telling me I shouldn't have taken the law into my own hands?" Grayson arched an eyebrow. "Wow, Hester, that's deep."
"Look at the scales, numb nuts. In her left hand. Some people think the scales are supposed to represent both sides of the argument--prosecution and defense. Others claim it is about fairness or impartiality. But think about it. Scales are really about balance, right? Look, I'm an attorney--and I know my rep. I know people think I subvert the law or use loopholes or bully or take advantage. That's all true. But I stay within the system."
"And that makes it okay?"
"Yep. Because that's the balance."
"And I, to keep within your metaphor, disturbed the balance?"
"Exactly. That's the beauty of our system. It can be tweaked and twisted--Lord knows I do it all the time--but when you keep within it, right or wrong, it somehow works. When you don't, when you lose balance even with the best of intentions, it leads to chaos and catastrophe."
"That," Ed Grayson said with a nod of his head, "sounds like an enormous load of self-rationalization."
She smiled at that. "Perhaps. But you also know I'm right. You wanted to right a wrong. But now the balance is gone."
"So maybe I should do something to set it right again."
"It doesn't work like that, Ed. You know that now. Let it be and the balance has a chance to return."
"Even if it means the bad guy goes free?"
She held out her hands and smiled at him. "Who's the bad guy now, Ed?"
Silence.
He wasn't sure how to say it, so he dived right in. "The police don't have a clue about Haley McWaid."
Hester mulled that one over. "You don't know that," she said. "Maybe we're the ones without a clue."
CHAPTER 26
THE HOME BELONGING to retired Essex County investigator Frank Tremont was a two-bedroom Colonial with aluminum siding, a small but perfectly manicured lawn, and a New York Giants flag hanging to the right of the door. The peonies in the flower boxes burst with so much color that Wendy wondered whether they were plastic.
Wendy took the ten steps up from the sidewalk to the front door and knocked. A curtain in the bay window moved. A moment later the door opened. Though the funeral had ended hours ago, Frank Tremont still wore the black suit. The tie was loosened, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. He had missed spots shaving. His eyes were rummy, and Wendy got a whiff of drink coming off him.
Without a word of greeting, he stepped to the side with a heavy sigh and nodded for her to come inside. She ducked into the house. Only one lamp illuminated the dark room. She spotted a half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan on the worn coffee table. Rum. Yuck. Several open newspapers lay strewn across the couch. There was a cardboard box on the floor, loaded with what she figured were the contents of his work desk. The television played some exercise-equipment infomercial, featuring a too-enthusiastic trainer and many young, beautiful, waxed six-pack stomachs. Wendy looked back at Tremont. He shrugged.
"Now that I'm retired I figured I should get some washboard abs."
She tried to smile. There were photographs of a teenage girl on a side table. The girl's hairstyle had been in vogue maybe fifteen, twenty years ago, but the first thing you noticed was her smile--big and wide, pure dynamite, the kind of smile that rips into a parent's heart. Wendy knew the story. The girl was undoubtedly Frank's daughter who died of cancer. Wendy looked back at the bottle of Captain Morgan and wondered how he'd ever crawled out of it.
"What's up, Wendy?"
"So," she began, trying to buy a moment, "you're officially retired?"
"Yep. Went out with a bang, don't you think?"
"I'm sorry."
"Save it for the victim's family."
She nodded.
"You've been in the papers a lot," he said. "This case has made you quite the celebrity." He lifted the glass in mock salute. "Congratulations."
"Frank?"
"What?"
"Don't say something stupid you'll regret."
Tremont nodded. "Yeah, good point."
"Is this case officially closed?" she asked.
"From our perspective, pretty much. The perp is dead--probably buried out in the woods, which I guess someone smarter than me would find ironic."
"Did you pressure Ed Grayson again to give up the body?"
"As much as we could."
"And?"
"He won't talk. I wanted to offer him blanket immunity if he told us where Mercer's body was, but my big boss, Paul Copeland, wouldn't agree to that."
Wendy thought about Ed Grayson, wondered about trying to approach him again, see if maybe now he'd talk to her. Tremont knocked the newspapers off the couch and invited Wendy to sit. He fell into the BarcaLounger and picked up the remote.
"Do you know what show is on soon?"
"No."
"
Crimstein's Court
. You do know that she's repping Ed Grayson, right?"
"You told me."
"Right, I forgot. Anyway, she made some interesting points when we questioned him." He picked up the Captain Morgan and poured some in his glass. He offered her some, but she shook him off.
"What sort of points?"
"She made the argument that we should give Ed Grayson a medal for killing Dan Mercer."
"Because it was justice?"
"No, see, that would be one thing. But Hester was trying to make a larger point."
"That being?"
"If Grayson hadn't killed Mercer, we would never have found Haley's iPhone." He pointed the remote at the television and turned it off. "She noted that in three months of investigating, we had made no progress and that Ed Grayson had now provided us with the only clue to Haley's whereabouts. She further made the point that a good detective might have looked into a well-known pervert who had connections to the victim's neighborhood. And you know what?"
Wendy shook her head.
"Hester was right--how did I overlook an indicted sex offender with ties to Haley's town? Maybe Haley was alive for a few days. Maybe I could have saved her."
Wendy looked at the confident, if not creepy, depiction of Captain Morgan on the bottle's label. What a frightening companion to be alone with while you drank. She opened her mouth to argue his point, but he stopped her with a wave of his hand.
"Please don't say something patronizing. It'd be insulting."
He was right.
"So I doubt you came here to watch me wallow in self-pity."
"I don't know, Frank. It's pretty entertaining."
That made him almost smile. "What do you need, Wendy?"
"Why do you think Dan Mercer killed her?"
"You mean motive?"
"Yeah, that's exactly what I mean."
"Do you want the list in alphabetical order? As you somewhat proved, he was a sexual predator."
"Okay, I get that. But in this case, well, so what? Haley McWaid was seventeen years old. The age of consent in New Jersey is sixteen."
"Maybe he was afraid she'd talk."
"About what? She was legal."
"Still. It would be devastating to his case."
"So he killed her to keep it quiet?" She shook her head. "Did you find any sign of a previous relationship between Mercer and Haley?"
"No. I know you tried to peddle that at the park--that maybe they met at his ex's house and started something up. Maybe, but there is absolutely no evidence of that, and I'm not sure I want to go there for the parents' sake. Best bet is that, yeah, he saw her at the Wheeler house, became obsessed with her, grabbed her, did whatever, and killed her."
Wendy frowned. "I just don't buy that."
"Why not? You remember the maybe-boyfriend Kirby Sennett?"
"Yes."
"After we found the body, Kirby's lawyer let him be more, shall we say, forthcoming. Yes, they dated secretly, though it was rocky. He said she was really wound up, especially when she didn't get into Virginia. He thought that she might have even been on something."
"Drugs?"
He shrugged. "The parents don't need to hear about this either."
"I don't get it though. Why didn't Kirby tell you all this right from the get-go?"
"Because his lawyer was afraid if we knew the nature of his relationship with her, we'd look at the kid hard. Which, of course, is true."
"But if Kirby had nothing to hide?"
"First, who said he has nothing to hide? He is a low-level drug dealer. If she was on something, my guess is, he provided it. Second, most lawyers will tell you that innocence doesn't necessarily mean anything. If Kirby had said, yeah, we had this rocky romance and she was maybe popping or smoking something I gave her, we would have crawled straight up his ass and built a tent. And when the body was found, well, we'd have really started probing, if you know what I mean. Now that Kirby is in the clear, it makes sense he'd talk."
"Nice system," she said. "Not to mention anal analogy."
He shrugged.
"Are you sure this Kirby didn't have anything to do with it?"
"And, what, planted her phone in Dan Mercer's hotel room?"
She thought about that. "Good point."
"He also has an airtight alibi. Look, Kirby is a typical rich-kid punk--the kind who thinks he's badass because maybe he toilet-papers a house on Mischief Night. He didn't do anything here."
She sat back. Her gaze found the picture of Tremont's dead daughter, but it didn't stay there long. She looked away fast, maybe too fast. Frank saw it.
"My daughter," he said.
"I know."
"We're not going to talk about it, okay?"
"Okay."
"So what's your problem with this case, Wendy?"
"I guess I need more of a why."
"Take another look at that picture. The world doesn't work that way." He sat up. His eyes bore into hers. "Sometimes--most times maybe--there isn't any why."
WHEN SHE GOT BACK TO HER CAR, Wendy saw a message from Ten-A-Fly. She called him back.
"We may have something on Kelvin Tilfer."
The Fathers Club had spent the last several days working on locating the Princeton classmates. The easiest to find, of course, was Farley Parks. Wendy had called the former politico six times. Farley had not called her back. No surprise. Farley lived in Pittsburgh, making a drop-by difficult. So for right now, he was sort of out.
Second, Dr. Steve Miciano. She had reached him by phone and asked for a meeting. If she could help it, Wendy didn't want to tell them what it was about over the phone. Miciano hadn't asked. He said that he was on shift and would be available tomorrow afternoon. Wendy figured that she could wait.
But third, and in Wendy's view, the big priority, was the elusive Kelvin Tilfer. There was nothing on him so far. As far as the Internet was concerned, the man had simply dropped off the planet.
"What?" she asked.
"A brother. Ronald Tilfer works deliveries for UPS in Manhattan. He's the only relative we've been able to locate. The parents are dead."
"Where does he live?"
"In Queens, but we can do you one better. See, when Doug worked at Lehman they did big business with UPS. Doug called his old contact in sales and got the brother's delivery schedule. It's all computerized now, so we can pretty much track his movements online if you want to find him."
"I do."
"Okay, head into the city toward the Upper West Side. I'll e-mail you updates as he makes deliveries."
Forty-five minutes later, she found the brown truck double-parked in front of a restaurant called Telepan on West Sixty-ninth Street off Columbus. She parked her car in an hour space, threw in some quarters, leaned against the fender. She looked at the truck, flashing to that UPS commercial with that guy with long hair drawing on a whiteboard, and while the message "UPS" and "Brown" did indeed come through, she didn't have a clue what the guy was drawing about. Charlie would always shake his head when that commercial came on, usually during a crucial time in a football game, and say, "That guy needs a beat-down."
Funny what occupies the mind.
Ronald Tilfer--at least, she assumed the man in the brown UPS uniform was him--smiled and waved behind him as he exited from the restaurant. He was short with tightly cropped salt 'n' pepper hair and, as you noticed in these uniforms with shorts, nice legs. Wendy pushed herself off her car and cut him off before he reached the vehicle.