“Maitland was right about one thing,” Samuels said. “The fucking introduction goes on and on. She runs down just about every book the guy ever wrote. Go to nine minutes and thirty seconds. That’s where she winds it up.”
Ralph slid his finger along the counter at the bottom of the vid, now sure of what he was going to see. He didn’t want to see it, and yet he did. The fascination was undeniable.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to today’s guest speaker, Mr. Harlan Coben!”
From the wings strode a bald gentleman so tall that when he bent to shake hands with Ms. McDermott, he looked like a guy greeting a child in a grown-up’s dress. Channel 81 had deemed this event interesting enough to spring for two cameras, and the picture now switched to the audience, which was giving Coben a standing O. And there, at a table near the front, were three men and a woman. Ralph felt his stomach take the express elevator down. He tapped the video, pausing it.
“Christ,” he said. “It’s him. Terry Maitland with Roundhill, Quade, and Grant.”
“Based on the evidence we have in hand, I don’t see how it can be, but it sure as hell looks like him.”
“Bill . . .” For a moment Ralph couldn’t go on. He was utterly flabbergasted. “Bill, the guy coached my son. It doesn’t just look like him, it is him.”
“Coben speaks for about forty minutes. It’s mostly just him at the podium, but every now and then there are shots of the audience, laughing at some of the witty stuff he says—he’s a witty guy, I’ll give him that—or just listening attentively. Maitland—if it is Maitland—is in most of those shots. But the nail in the coffin is right around minute fifty-six. Go there.”
Ralph went to minute fifty-four, just to be safe. By then Coben was taking questions from the audience. “I never use profanity in my books for profanity’s sake,” he was saying, “but under certain circumstances, it seems absolutely appropriate. A man who hits his thumb with a hammer doesn’t say, ‘Oh, pickles.’ ” Laughter from the audience. “I have time for one or two more. How about you, sir?”
The picture switched from Coben to the next questioner. It was Terry Maitland, in a big fat close-up, and Ralph’s last hope that they were dealing with a double, as Jeannie had suggested, evaporated. “Do you always know who did it when you sit down to write, Mr. Coben, or is it sometimes a surprise even to you?”
The picture switched back to Coben, who smiled and said, “That’s a very good question.”
Before he could give a very good answer, Ralph backed up to Terry, standing to ask his question. He stared at the image for twenty seconds, then handed the iPad back to the district attorney.
“Poof,” Samuels said. “There goes our case.”
“DNA’s still pending,” Ralph said . . . or rather, heard himself say. He felt divorced from his own body. He supposed it was how boxers felt just before the ref stopped the fight. “And I still need to talk to Deborah Grant. After that I’m going up to Cap City to do some old-school detective work. Get off my ass and knock on doors, like the man said. Talk to people at the hotel, and at the Firepit, where they went to dinner.” Then, thinking of Jeannie: “I want to look into the possibility of forensic evidence, as well.”
“Do you know how unlikely that is in a big city hotel, the best part of a week after the day in question?”
“I do.”
“As for the restaurant, it probably won’t even be open.” Samuels sounded like a kid who’s just been pushed down on the sidewalk by a bigger kid and scraped his knee. Ralph was coming to realize he didn’t like this guy very much. He came across more and more as a quitter.
“If it’s near the hotel, chances are they’ll be open for brunch.”
Samuels shook his head, still peering at the frozen image of Terry Maitland. “Even if we get a DNA match . . . which I’m starting to doubt . . . you’ve been in this job long enough to know that juries rarely convict based on DNA and fingerprints. The OJ trial is an excellent case in point.”
“The eye-wits—”
“Gold will demolish them on cross. Stanhope? Old and half-blind. ‘Isn’t it true you gave up your driver’s license three years ago, Mrs. Stanhope?’ June Morris? A kid who saw a bloody man from across the street. Scowcroft was drinking, and so was his buddy. Claude Bolton’s got a drug jacket. The best you’ve got is Willow Rainwater, and I’ve got news for you, buddy, in this state people still don’t care much for Indians. Don’t much trust them.”
“But we’re in too deep to back out,” Ralph said.
“That happens to be the dirty truth.”
They sat silently for a bit. Ralph’s office door was open, and the station’s main room was almost deserted, as it usually was on Sunday mornings in this small southwestern city. Ralph thought of telling Samuels that the video had jolted them away from the elephant in the room: a child had been murdered, and according to every bit of evidence they had gleaned, they had the man who’d done it. That Maitland appeared to have been seventy miles away was something that had to be addressed and clarified. There could be no rest for either of them until it was.
“Come up to Cap City with me, if you want to.”
“Not going to happen,” Samuels said. “I’m taking my ex-wife and the kids to Lake Ocoma. She’s bringing a picnic. We’re finally back on good terms, and I’d like not to jeopardize that.”
“Okay.” The offer had been half-hearted, anyway. Ralph wanted to be by himself. He wanted to try to get his head around what had seemed so straightforward and was now looking like a colossal clusterfuck.
He stood up. Bill Samuels put his iPad back in his briefcase and then stood up beside him. “I think we could lose our jobs over this, Ralph. And if Maitland walks, he’ll sue. You know he will.”
“Go on to your picnic. Eat some sandwiches. This isn’t over yet.”
Samuels left the office ahead of him, and something about his walk—the slumped shoulders, the briefcase banging dispiritedly at his knee—infuriated Ralph. “Bill?”
Samuels turned.
“A child in this town was viciously raped. Either before or just after, he may have been bitten to death. I’m still trying to get my head around that. Do you think his parents give a rodent’s behind if we lose our jobs or the city gets sued?”
Samuels made no reply, only crossed the deserted squadroom and went out into the early morning sunshine. It was going to be a great day for a picnic, but Ralph had an idea the DA wasn’t going to enjoy it much.
12
Fred and Ollie had arrived in the Mercy Hospital ER waiting room shortly before Saturday night became Sunday morning, no more than three minutes behind the ambulance carrying Arlene Peterson. At that hour, the big waiting room had been jammed with the bruised and bleeding, the drunk and complaining, the crying and coughing. Like most ERs, the one at Mercy was extremely busy on Saturday nights, but by nine o’clock on Sunday morning, it was almost deserted. A man was holding a makeshift bandage over a bleeding hand. A woman sat with a feverish child in her lap, both of them watching Elmo caper on the TV set bolted high in one corner. A teenage girl with frizzy hair sat with her head back and her eyes closed and her hands clasped to her midriff.