The Woods by Harlan Coben Page A
Authors: Harlan Coben
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Family secrets, Teenagers, Missing Children, Public Prosecutors, Single Fathers, Dead, widower, Public prosecutors - New Jersey
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Lucy was alone in the corridor, she looked back in the room. Her father's back was to her. He was staring at the wall. She wondered what was going on in his head. What he wasn't telling her.
What he really knew about that night.
She tore herself away and headed toward the exit. She reached the receptionist who asked her to sign out. Each patient had his own page. The receptionist flipped to Ira's and spun the book for Lucy to sign. She had the pen in her hand and was about to do the same absentminded scribble she had done on the way in when she stopped.
There was another name there. Last week. Ira had another visitor. His first and only visitor besides, well, her. Ever. She frowned and read the name. It was wholly unfamiliar. Who the hell was Manolo Santiago?
Chapter 10
THE FIRST SKELETON
My father's photograph was still in my hand.
I needed now to make a detour on the way to my visit with Raya Singh. I looked at the index card. The First Skeleton. Implication: There would be more than one.
But let's start with this one, my father.
There was only one person who could help me when it came to my dad and his potential skeletons. I took out my cell phone and held down the number six. I rarely called this number, but it was still on my speed dial. My guess is, it would always be.
He answered on the first ring in his low rumble of a voice. "Paul."
Even the one word was thick with accent.
"Hi, Uncle Sosh."
Sosh wasn't really my uncle. He was a close family friend from the old country. I hadn't seen him in three months, not since my fathers funeral, but as soon as I heard his voice, I instantly saw the big bear of a man. My father said that Uncle Sosh had been the most powerful and feared man in Pulkovo, the town on the outskirts of Leningrad where they'd both been raised.
"Its been too long," he said.
"I know. I'm sorry about that."
"Acch," he said, as though disgusted by my apology. "But I thought that you would call today."
That surprised me. "Why?"
"Because, my young nephew, we need to talk."
"About what?"
"About why I never talk about anything over the phone."
Sosh's business was, if not illegal, on the shadier side of the street.
"I'm at my place in the city." Sosh had an expansive penthouse on 36th Street in Manhattan. "When can you be here?"
"Half an hour if there's no traffic," I said.
"Splendid. I will see you then."
"Uncle Sosh?"
He waited. I looked at the photograph of my father on the passenger seat.
"Can you give me an idea what it's about?"
"It's about your past, Pavel," he said through that thick accent, using my Russian name. "It's about what should stay in your past."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"We'll talk," he said again. And then he hung up.
There was no traffic, so the ride to Uncle Sosh's was closer to twenty-five minutes. The doorman wore one of those ridiculous uniforms with rope tassels. The look, interestingly enough with Sosh living here, re minded me of something Brezhnev would have worn for the May Day parade. The doorman knew my face and had been told that I was arriving. If the doorman isn't told in advance, he doesn't ring up. You just don't get in.
Sosh's old friend Alexei stood at the elevator door. Alexei Kokorov had worked security for Sosh, had for as long as I could remember. He was probably in his late sixties, a few years younger than Sosh, and as ugly a man as you'd ever see. His nose was bulbous and red, his face filled with spider veins from, I assumed, too much drink. His jacket and pants didn't fit right, but his build was not the kind made for haute couture.
Alexei didn't seem happy to see me, but he didn't look like lots of laughs in general. He held the elevator door open for me. I stepped in without saying a word. He gave me a curt nod and let the door close. I was alone.
The elevator opened into the penthouse.
Uncle Sosh stood a few feet from the door. The room was huge. The furniture was cubist. The picture window showed off an incredible
What he really knew about that night.
She tore herself away and headed toward the exit. She reached the receptionist who asked her to sign out. Each patient had his own page. The receptionist flipped to Ira's and spun the book for Lucy to sign. She had the pen in her hand and was about to do the same absentminded scribble she had done on the way in when she stopped.
There was another name there. Last week. Ira had another visitor. His first and only visitor besides, well, her. Ever. She frowned and read the name. It was wholly unfamiliar. Who the hell was Manolo Santiago?
Chapter 10
THE FIRST SKELETON
My father's photograph was still in my hand.
I needed now to make a detour on the way to my visit with Raya Singh. I looked at the index card. The First Skeleton. Implication: There would be more than one.
But let's start with this one, my father.
There was only one person who could help me when it came to my dad and his potential skeletons. I took out my cell phone and held down the number six. I rarely called this number, but it was still on my speed dial. My guess is, it would always be.
He answered on the first ring in his low rumble of a voice. "Paul."
Even the one word was thick with accent.
"Hi, Uncle Sosh."
Sosh wasn't really my uncle. He was a close family friend from the old country. I hadn't seen him in three months, not since my fathers funeral, but as soon as I heard his voice, I instantly saw the big bear of a man. My father said that Uncle Sosh had been the most powerful and feared man in Pulkovo, the town on the outskirts of Leningrad where they'd both been raised.
"Its been too long," he said.
"I know. I'm sorry about that."
"Acch," he said, as though disgusted by my apology. "But I thought that you would call today."
That surprised me. "Why?"
"Because, my young nephew, we need to talk."
"About what?"
"About why I never talk about anything over the phone."
Sosh's business was, if not illegal, on the shadier side of the street.
"I'm at my place in the city." Sosh had an expansive penthouse on 36th Street in Manhattan. "When can you be here?"
"Half an hour if there's no traffic," I said.
"Splendid. I will see you then."
"Uncle Sosh?"
He waited. I looked at the photograph of my father on the passenger seat.
"Can you give me an idea what it's about?"
"It's about your past, Pavel," he said through that thick accent, using my Russian name. "It's about what should stay in your past."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"We'll talk," he said again. And then he hung up.
There was no traffic, so the ride to Uncle Sosh's was closer to twenty-five minutes. The doorman wore one of those ridiculous uniforms with rope tassels. The look, interestingly enough with Sosh living here, re minded me of something Brezhnev would have worn for the May Day parade. The doorman knew my face and had been told that I was arriving. If the doorman isn't told in advance, he doesn't ring up. You just don't get in.
Sosh's old friend Alexei stood at the elevator door. Alexei Kokorov had worked security for Sosh, had for as long as I could remember. He was probably in his late sixties, a few years younger than Sosh, and as ugly a man as you'd ever see. His nose was bulbous and red, his face filled with spider veins from, I assumed, too much drink. His jacket and pants didn't fit right, but his build was not the kind made for haute couture.
Alexei didn't seem happy to see me, but he didn't look like lots of laughs in general. He held the elevator door open for me. I stepped in without saying a word. He gave me a curt nod and let the door close. I was alone.
The elevator opened into the penthouse.
Uncle Sosh stood a few feet from the door. The room was huge. The furniture was cubist. The picture window showed off an incredible
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