Harlan Coben Read Online Free Page B

careful,” Lenny said. “Remember that your phones—home, biz, cell—are probably tapped.”
    â€œAnd again I ask: So? I didn’t do anything.”
    â€œDidn’t do . . . ?” Lenny waved his hands as if preparing to take flight. “Look, just be careful is all. This might be hard for you to believe, but—and try not to gasp when I say this—the police have been known to twist and distort evidence.”
    â€œYou’re confusing me. Are you saying I’m a suspect simply because I’m the father and husband?”
    â€œYes,” Lenny said. “And no.”
    â€œWell, okay, thanks, that clears it up.”
    A phone next to my bed rang. I was on the wrong side of the room. “You mind?” I said.
    Lenny picked it up. “Dr. Seidman’s room.” His face clouded over as he listened. He spat out the words “Hold on,” and handed the phone to me, as if it might have germs. I gave him a puzzled look and said, “Hello?”
    â€œHello, Marc. This is Edgar Portman.”
    Monica’s father. That explained Lenny’s reaction. Edgar’s voice was, as always, way too formal. Some people weigh their words. A select few, like my father-in-law, take each one and put it on a scale before letting it leave their mouths.
    I was momentarily taken aback. “Hello, Edgar,” I said stupidly. “How are you?”
    â€œI’m fine, thank you. I feel remiss, of course, for not having called you earlier. I understood from Carson that you were busy recuperating from your wounds. I felt it best if I let you be.”
    â€œThoughtful,” I said with nary a whiff of sarcasm.
    â€œYes, well, I understand you’re being released today.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Edgar cleared his throat, which seemed out of character for him. “I was wondering if perhaps you could stop by the house.”
    The house. Meaning his. “Today?”
    â€œAs soon as possible, yes. And alone please.”
    There was silence. Lenny gave me a puzzled look.
    â€œIs something wrong, Edgar?” I asked.
    â€œI have a car waiting downstairs, Marc. We’ll talk more when you arrive.”
    And then, before I could say another word, he was gone.
    Â 
    The car, a black Lincoln Town Car, was indeed waiting.
    Lenny wheeled me outside. I was familiar with this area, of course. I had grown up scant miles from St. Elizabeth. When I was five years old, my father had rushed me to the emergency room here (twelve stitches)and when I was seven, well, you already know too much about my salmonella visit. I’d gone to medical school and did my residency at what was then called Columbia Presbyterian in New York, but I returned to St. Elizabeth for a fellowship in ophthalmology for reconstruction.
    Yes, I am a plastic surgeon, but not in the way you think. I do the occasional nose job, but you won’t find me working with sacks of silicone or any of that. Not that I’m judging. It just isn’t what I do.
    I work in pediatric reconstructive surgery with my former medical school classmate, a fireball from the Bronx named Zia Leroux. We work for a group called One World WrapAid. Actually, Zia and I founded it. We take care of children, mostly overseas, who suffer deformities either through birth, poverty, or conflict. We travel a lot. I have worked on facial smashes in Sierra Leone, on cleft palates in Upper Mongolia, on Crouzon’s in Cambodia, on burn victims in the Bronx. Like most people in my field, I’ve done extensive training. I’ve studied ENT—ears, nose, and throat—with a year of reconstructive, plastics, oral, and, as I mentioned above, ophthalmology. Zia’s training history is similar, though she’s stronger with the maxillofacial.
    You may think of us as do-gooders. You’d be wrong. I had a choice. I could do boob jobs or tuck back the skin of those who were already too