Run Away - Harlan Coben Page 0,8
to see. Still he watched, wide-eyed and hopeful, as though there were a chance that the suited man would not be moronic enough to actually rear back his fist and punch the brave homeless man straight in the face.
But that was exactly what happened.
There was blood as the kindly homeless Samaritan crumbled to the pavement. The uncaring rich man in the suit tried to step over the rubble of him, but the homeless Samaritan grabbed his leg. When an Asian man in a baseball cap—another Good Samaritan no doubt—entered the fray, the suited man elbowed him in the nose too.
Simon closed his eyes. “Oh man.”
“Yep.”
When Simon opened his eyes again, he ignored the cardinal rule for all articles and videos: Never ever read the comment section.
“Rich guys think they can get away with stuff like this.”
“He was going to rape that girl! Lucky that hero stepped in.”
“Daddy Warbucks should get life in jail. Period.”
“I bet Richie Rich gets off. If he was black, he would have been shot.”
“That guy who saved that girl is so brave. If the mayor lets this rich guy buy his way to freedom.”
“Good news,” Hester said. “You do have a few fans.” She took the phone, scrolled down, pointed.
“The homeless guy is probably on food stamps. Congrats to the suit for cleaning up the trash.”
“Maybe if that smelly meth bum gets a job instead of living off the dole, he won’t get decked.”
The profile avatars of his “supporters” had either eagles or American flags on them.
“Terrific,” Simon said. “The psychos are on my side.”
“Hey, don’t knock it. A few might be on the jury. Not that this is going to a jury. Or even a trial. Do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Hit the Refresh button,” Hester said.
He wasn’t sure what she meant, so Hester reached across and hit the arrow at the top. The video reloaded. Hester pointed to the viewer count. It had jumped up from 289,000 views to 453,000 in the last, what, two minutes.
“Congrats,” Hester said. “You’re a viral hit.”
Chapter
Three
Simon stared out the window, letting the familiar green of the park blur in front of him. When the driver made the left off Central Park West onto West Sixty-Seventh Street, he heard Hester mutter, “Uh-oh.”
Simon turned.
News vans were double-parked in front of his apartment. Maybe two dozen protestors stayed behind blue wooden-horse barriers that read:
POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS
NYPD
“Where’s your wife?” Hester asked.
Ingrid. He had completely forgotten about her or what her reaction might be to all this. He also realized that he had no idea what time it was. He checked his watch. Five thirty p.m.
“At work.”
“She’s a pediatrician, right?”
He nodded. “At New York–Presbyterian at 168th Street.”
“What time does she finish?”
“Seven tonight.”
“Does she drive home?”
“She takes the subway.”
“Call her. Tim will pick her up. Where are your kids?”
“I don’t know.”
“Call them too. The firm has an apartment in midtown. You guys can stay there tonight.”
“We can get a hotel.”
Hester shook her head. “They’ll find you if you do that. The apartment will be better, and it’s not like we don’t charge.”
He said nothing.
“This too shall pass, Simon, if we don’t feed the fire. By tomorrow, the next day at the latest, the loonies will all be on to the newest outrage. America has zero attention span.”
He called Ingrid, but with her working in the emergency room today, it went directly into her voicemail. Simon left her a detailed message. Then he called Sam, who already knew all about it.
Sam said, “The video’s gotten over a million hits.” His son seemed both startled and impressed. “I can’t believe you punched out Aaron.” Then he repeated: “You.”
“I was just trying to get to your sister.”
“Everyone’s making it sound like you’re some rich bully.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Yeah I know.”
Silence.
“So this driver, Tim, will pick you up—”
“That’s okay. I’ll stay with the Bernsteins.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it okay with his parents?”
“Larry says it’s no problem. I’ll just go home with him after practice.”
“Okay, if you think that’s best.”
“It’ll just be easier.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. If you change your mind though…”
“Right, got it.” Then Sam said in a softer voice, “I saw…I mean, Paige in that video…she looked…”
More silence.
“Yeah,” Simon said. “I know.”
Simon tried his daughter Anya three times. No answer. Eventually he saw on his caller ID that she was calling him back. When he picked up though, it wasn’t Anya on the line.
“Hey, Simon, it’s Suzy Fiske.”
Suzy lived two floors below him. Her daughter Delia had been going to the same schools as Anya since Montessori when they