Tell No One - By Harlan Coben Page 0,51

calls from politicians and pictures in the paper.

Only Nick Carlson remained the tiniest bit apprehensive. He sat twisting and untwisting and retwisting a paper clip. He couldn't stop. Something had crawled into his periphery, hanging on the edges, still out of sight, but there, and irksome as all hell. For one thing, there were the listening devices in Dr. Beck's home. Someone had been bugging him. Tapping his phone too. Nobody seemed to know or care why.

"Lance?" It was Dimonte.

Lance Fein cleared his throat. "Do you know where Dr. Beck is right now?" he asked.

"At his clinic," Dimonte said. "I got two uniforms keeping an eye on him."

Fein nodded.

"Come on, Lance," Dimonte said. "Give it to me, big boy."

"Let's call Ms. Crimstein first," Fein said. "As a courtesy."

Shauna told Linda most of it. She left out the part about Beck's "seeing" Elizabeth on the computer. Not because she gave the story any credence. She'd pretty much proven that it was a digital hoax. But Beck had been adamant. Tell no one. She didn't like having secrets from Linda, but that was preferable to betraying Beck's confidence.

Linda watched Shauna's eyes the whole time. She didn't nod or speak or even move. When Shauna finished, Linda asked, "Did you see the pictures?"

"No."

"Where did the police get them?"

"I don't know."

Linda stood. "David would never hurt Elizabeth."

"I know that."

Linda wrapped her arms around herself. She started sucking in deep breaths. Her face drained of color.

"You okay?" Shauna said.

"What aren't you telling me?"

"What makes you think I'm not telling you something?"

Linda just looked at her.

"Ask your brother," Shauna said.

"Why?"

"It's not my place to tell."

The door buzzed again. Shauna took it this time.

"Yeah?"

Through the speaker: "It's Hester Crimstein."

Shauna hit the release button and left their door open. Two minutes later, Hester hurried into the room.

"Do you two know a photographer named Rebecca Schayes?"

"Sure," Shauna said. "I mean, I haven't seen her in a long time. Linda?"

"It's been years," Linda agreed. "She and Elizabeth shared an apartment downtown. Why?"

"She was murdered last night," Hester said. "They think Beck killed her."

Both women froze as though someone had just slapped them. Shauna recovered first.

"But I was with Beck last night," she said. "At his house."

"Till what time?"

"Till what time do you need?"

Hester frowned. "Don't play games with me, Shauna. What time did you leave the house?"

"Ten, ten-thirty. What time was she killed?"

"I don't know yet. But I have a source inside. He said they have a very solid case against him."

"That's nuts."

A cell phone sounded. Hester Crimstein snatched hers up and pressed it against her ear. "What?"

The person on the other end spoke for what seemed a long time. Hester listened in silence. Her features started softening in something like defeat. A minute or two later, without saying goodbye, she closed the phone with a vicious snap.

"A courtesy call," she mumbled.

"What?"

"They're arresting your brother. We have an hour to surrender him to authorities."
Chapter 24

All I could think about was Washington Square Park. True, I wasn't supposed to be there for another four hours. But emergencies notwithstanding, today was my day off. Free as a bird, as Lynyrd Skynyrd would sing - and this bird wanted to flock down to Washington Square Park.

I was on my way out of the clinic when my beeper once again sang its miserable song. I sighed and checked the number. It was Hester Crimstein's cell phone. And it was coded for an emergency.

This couldn't be good news.

For a moment or two, I debated not calling back - just continuing to flock - but what would be the point in that? I backpedaled to my examining room. The door was closed, and the red lever was slid into place. That meant another doctor was using the room.

I headed down the corridor, turned left, and found an empty room in the ob-gyn section of the clinic. I felt like a spy in enemy camp. The room gleamed with too much metal. Surrounded by stirrups and other devices that looked frighteningly medieval, I dialed the number.

Hester Crimstein did not bother with hello: "Beck, we got a big problem. Where are you?"

"I'm at the clinic. What's going on?"

"Answer a question for me," Hester Crimstein said. "When was the last time you saw Rebecca Schayes?"

My heart started doing a deep, slow thud. "Yesterday. Why?"

"And before that?"

"Eight years ago."

Crimstein let loose a low curse.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Rebecca Schayes was murdered last night in her studio. Somebody shot her twice in the head."

A plunging