WIN Coben, Harlan (best ebook reader for surface pro .TXT) 📖

needed a safe place to keep the various IDs and, who knows, maybe his real passport and birth certificate too. You wouldn’t throw those things out.”

“No,” I say, “you wouldn’t.” I mull this over. “Are you saying that the bank robbers weren’t really after money—that they broke into those boxes because they wanted to find Ry Strauss?”

“Possible,” Ema says.

“But unlikely?”

“Unlikely,” Ema repeats. “I have another theory.”

I confess that I am enjoying this conversation tremendously. “I’m listening.”

“Your FBI mentor, PT.”

“What about him?”

Ema checks her phone for the time. “Is it too late to call him?”

“It’s never too late to call him. Tell me why.”

“PT said they caught one of the robbers.”

“Right.”

“Can you get to him?”

“Get to him?”

“Ask him questions,” Ema says. “Interrogate him. Can you use your Mr. Super-Rich Guy persona to get access to this bank robber?”

I frown. “I’ll pretend you didn’t ask.”

“Then that’s our first step, Win.” Her face breaks into a smile that reaches deep into my chest. “Call PT and set up the meet.”

CHAPTER 28

If you’d expect an FBI interrogation room to look like what you see on TV, you would be correct. We are in a tight windowless/airless room with a generic table in the middle. There are four generic metal chairs of which three are taken. I sit alone on one side of the table. Steve, the captured robber, and his attorney Fred are across from me.

“My client has already cut a deal in respect to the alleged bank robbery,” Fred begins.

“I don’t get it,” Steve says. Steve is petite and small boned with the hands of a pianist or perhaps a safecracker, who’s to say? His enormous bushy mustache dominates his diminutive face and monopolizes your attention. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Fred puts a hand on his forearm. “It’s okay, Steve.”

Steve glares down at the hand. “You mind?”

Fred’s hand slides off his arm.

“What do you want?”

“Information.”

“You don’t look like no prosecutor.” His accent is a thick combination of the Bronx and dese-and-dose.

“I’m not,” I say. “I also don’t care whether you’re guilty or innocent or any of that. I just care about one thing.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. He has almost no eyebrows, which appears strange on a man with such a prominent mustache. “What’s that?”

“The contents of a certain safe deposit box.”

I watch closely as I say this and see immediately that he knows precisely to what I’m referring.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“You don’t play much poker, do you, Steve?”

“Huh?”

“I really don’t have time for any of this, so let me make an offer. You can then say ‘accept’ or ‘decline.’” Ema had been the one to put most of it together. If I am able to get the information from this, she will feel justifiably pleased. “I want you to tell me all about the contents of that one particular safe deposit box. That is all. Just the one. In return, I will give you five thousand dollars and not blow up your immunity deal.”

“The immunity deal is set in stone,” Fred says. “You can’t just”—air quotes—“‘blow it up.’”

I just look at him and smile.

“Can he do that?” Steve’s mustache bounces up and down when he speaks, like Yosemite Sam’s.

“Yes, Steve, I can. Accept or decline?”

“Decline,” he says, and there is fear in his voice. “I don’t want the money.”

He starts to pet the mustache as though it’s a lapdog.

I’d expected this to go easier. “Of course you do.”

“It’s healthier for me if I stay quiet.”

“I see.”

“If it gets out I said anything, I’m a dead man.”

“But it will get out,” I say, “if you don’t say anything.”

Steve frowns. “What’s that?”

“Yes,” Lawyer Fred says, sitting up. “What are you talking about?”

“Simple.” I lean back and steeple my fingers. “If Steve chooses not to talk to me, I will inform everyone that he did.”

This confuses them both for a beat.

Then Steve snaps, “But you don’t know anything.”

“I know enough.”

“If you know what I’m going to say, why are you trying to get me to talk?”

I sigh. “Got me there, Steve. I have a theory. Do you want to hear it?”

Fred says, “I don’t like this. We agreed to see you as a courtesy and now you’re throwing threats around. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”

I look at him and put a finger to my lips. “Shhh.”

Steve sits back and continues to stroke his mustache; it looks as though he and the mustache are conferring. “Okay, pretty boy, let’s hear your theory.”

“Well, it’s not really my theory. It’s—” I almost say “my daughter’s,” but I don’t want Ema brought into this dank room in any way. I also decide to dive right into it: “When you broke into the safe deposit boxes, you came across information on the current whereabouts of one Ry Strauss.”

The mustache twitch tells me I struck gold.

“Wait,” Fred says, eyes widening. “The Ry Strauss? If this is about—”

“Shh,” I say to him again, keeping my eyes on Steve. “You then gave or sold that information, I’m not yet sure which, to an individual who killed Mr. Strauss. That, my facially hirsute friend, makes you an accessory to murder.”

“What?” Steve and his mustache are appropriately still, but Fred is ready to do faux battle for his client.

“You can’t prove—”

“Steve, right now, I alone know this. I won’t say a word to the authorities. Not ever. I won’t make it public. I won’t let it get back to whomever you so dreadfully fear. You will tell me what you know, and then we will all continue our lives as though this never happened. The only change in your life? You’ll be five thousand dollars richer.”

No reply.

“If you choose to decline my offer or lie to me or claim you don’t know what I’m talking about, I will walk down the corridor to my friends in law enforcement and tell them that you are an accessory to murder. Fred here can tell you that I have friends. Lots of friends. You don’t get the chance