07 - Darkest Fear by Harlan Coben

Author:Harlan Coben
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-07-04T11:35:20+00:00

Chapter 22.

The car phone rang. "The old man is a lying sack of shit." It was Greg Downing.

"What?"

"The geezer is lying."

"You mean Nathan Mostoni?"

"Jesus Christ, what other old man have I been watching?"

Myron switched ears. "What makes you think he's lying, Greg?"

"Lots of things."

"Like?"

"Like starting with Mostoni never hearing from the bone marrow center. Does that sound logical to you?"

He thought of Karen Singh and her dedication and the stakes. "No," Myron said, "but it's like we said before--he might be confused."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Nathan Mostoni goes out plenty on his own, for one thing. Sometimes he acts loony, but other times, he seems just fine. He shops himself. He talks to people. He dresses like a normal person."

"That doesn't mean anything," Myron said.

"No? An hour ago he went out, right? So I got close to the house, right up against the back window, and I dialed that number, the one you got for the donor."

"And?"

"And I hear a phone inside the house ringing."

That made Myron pause.

"So what do you think we should do?" Greg asked.

"I'm not sure. Have you seen anybody else at the house?"

"Nobody. Mostoni goes out but nobody's been here. And I tell you something else. He looks younger now. I don't know how else to explain it. It's weird. You making any headway on your end?"

"I'm not sure."

"That's some answer, Myron."

"The only one I got."

"So what do you think we should do about Mostoni?"

"I'll have Esperanza do a background check. In the meantime, stay on him."

"Time's a-ticking away here, Myron."

"I know that. I'll be in touch."

He disconnected the call and flipped on the radio. Chaka Khan was singing "Ain't Nobody Love You Better." If you can listen to that one without moving your feet, you got some serious rhythm issues. He took the Long Island Expressway east, which was shockingly clear today. Usually the road was more or less a parking lot that swayed forward every couple of minutes.

People always tell you that the Hamptons, the swanky Long Island summer spot where Manhattanites get away from it all by being with other Manhattanites, is best in the off season. You always hear that about vacation spots. People, mostly vacationers themselves, whine through the high-season months, waiting to reach this apex of a theoretically swarmless nirvana. But--and this was the part Myron never understood-- no one is ever in the Hamptons in the off months. No one. Downtown is dead to the point of craving tumble-weeds. Shop owners sigh and discount nothing. The restaurants are less crowded, sure, but they're also closed. And hey, let's be honest here, the weather and beaches and even the people-watching are big draws here. Who goes to a Long Island beach in the winter?

The school was in a residential neighborhood with older, more modest homes--a place where the true Long Island regulars, none of whom hang out with Alec and Kim at Nick and Toni's, resided. Myron parked in a church lot and followed the signs down the steps into the rectory's basement.

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