Long Lost - By Harlan Coben Page 0,73

end of a dead-end street. There was Ed's Body Shop, a karate studio called Eagle's Talon, and a super-cheesy storefront photo studio called the Official Photography of Albin Laramie. I pointed at the stenciled-glass lettering as we walked past.

"Official," I said. "Because, really, you wouldn't want Albin Laramie's unofficial photographs."

There were wedding shots using a lens so blurry it was hard to tell where groom began and bride ended. There were provocative model poses, mostly of women in bikinis. There were the most garish baby photographs in brown sepia tones that were faux Victorian. The babies were dressed in flowing gowns and looked creepy. Whenever I see a real Victorian baby picture I can't help thinking, "Whoever is in this picture is now dead and buried." Maybe I am more morose than most, but who wants such overly affected pictures?

We entered the ground floor and checked the directory. Save the Angels was supposed to be in suite 3B, but the door was locked. We could see the discoloration on the door where a nameplate had once been.

The closest office was for a CPA named Bruno and Associates. We asked about the charity next door.

"Oh, they've been gone for months," the receptionist told us. Her nameplate said "Minerva." I didn't know if that was her first name or last. "They moved out right after the break-in."

I arched an eyebrow and leaned closer. "Break-in?" I said.

I'm good with the probing interrogatories.

"Yep. They got cleaned out. Must have been"-she scrunched up her face-"hey, Bob, when was that break-in next door?"

"Three months ago."

That was pretty much all Minerva and Bob could tell us. On TV, the detectives always ask if the inhabitant left a "forwarding address." I have never seen a person in real life do that. We went back and stared at the Save the Angels door another second. The door had nothing to say.

"You ready to go back to work?" Esperanza asked.

I nodded. We headed back outside. I blinked into the sunlight and heard Esperanza say, "Well, hello."

"What?"

She pointed at a car across the street. "Look at the decal on the back bumper."

You've seen them. They are white ovals with black lettering in them to show where you've been. It started, I think, with European cities. A tourist would return from a trip to Italy and put ROM on the back of his car. Now every town seems to have their own, a way to show civic pride or something.

This decal read: "HHK."

"Ho-Ho-Kus," I said.

"Yep."

I thought back to that code. "Opal in Ho-Ho-Kus. Maybe the four-seven-one-two is a house number."

"Opal could be a person's name."

We turned toward where we had parked, and another surprise greeted us. A black Cadillac Escalade was parked behind ours, blocking us in. I saw a heavyset man in a brown vice principal's suit start toward us. He had a buzz cut and a big, angular face, and he looked like a Green Bay Packer offensive lineman from 1953.

"Mr. Bolitar?"

I recognized the voice. I had heard it twice before. Once on the phone when I called Berleand-and once in London, seconds before I passed out.

Esperanza stepped in front of me, as if to offer protection. I put a gentle hand on her shoulder to let her know that I was fine.

"Special Agent Jones," I said.

Two men, other agents I figured, got out of the Escalade. They stood with the door open and leaned against the side. Both men wore sunglasses.

"I'm going to need you to come with me," he said.

"Am I under arrest?" I asked.

"Not yet. But you really should come with me."

"Let's wait for the arrest warrant," I said. "I'll bring my attorney too. Keep it all on the up and up."

Jones moved a step closer. "I would rather not bring formal charges. But I know for a fact that you've committed crimes."

"You're a witness, no?"

Jones shrugged.

"Where did you take me after I passed out?" I asked.

He faked a sigh. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. But neither of us have time for this. Let's go for a ride, okay?"

As he reached out for my arm, Esperanza said, "Special Agent Jones?"

He looked at her.

"I have a call for you," she said.

Esperanza handed him her cell phone. He frowned but took it from her. I frowned too and looked at her. Her face gave me nothing.

"Hello?" Jones said.

The phone was set loud enough so that I could hear the voice on the other end clearly. The voice said: "Chrome, military style, with the Gucci