Run Away - Harlan Coben Page 0,98
been in the chorus, couldn’t take their eyes off her.
Dee Dee could have been a great actress, a big star, but what kind of break was she, a foster beauty constantly fending off male adults, going to get?
His tone was tender. “You were great in that play, Dee Dee.”
She worked on the tarp now, wrapping it around the body.
“I mean it.”
“Thank you, Ash.”
He clicked on the Settings key and then found the Privacy icon. From there, he tapped Location Services and scrolled all the way to the bottom to where it said System Services. He scrolled again and found Significant Locations. When he pressed to see it, the screen asked for the thumb again. He grabbed Elena’s and used it. Then he changed the password so he could get in without the thumb next time.
People don’t realize how much of their privacy they casually give away. On any iPhone at any time, you could do what Ash was now doing: see the complete history of where the phone’s owner—in this case, Elena Ramirez—had recently visited.
“Damn,” he said.
“What?”
“She’s been to the tattoo parlor.”
“We had to figure that was a possibility, Ash. That’s why we had to act fast.”
He checked through the list of locations and saw several spots in New York City. Most recently, Elena Ramirez had been at Columbia Medical Center near 168th Street. Ash wondered why. Then he noticed something more troubling.
“She’s been to the Bronx.”
Dee Dee finished tying the rope around the tarp. “Same location?”
He clicked it and nodded.
“Oh, that’s not good,” Dee Dee said.
“We have to hurry.”
He scanned through her phone log and texts. The most recent text, coming in eight minutes ago, read:
Have you met with Alison yet? Please fill me in when you can.
Dee Dee saw the look on his face. “What is it?”
“Someone else is getting close.”
“Who?”
Ash flipped the phone around, so Dee Dee could read the screen. “We’re going to have to do something about a guy named Simon Greene.”
Chapter
Thirty-Three
Simon collapsed into a seat on the subway. He stared out the window across the car without focusing, letting the underground whirl whiz by in a hazy blur. He tried to comprehend what he’d just learned. Nothing made sense. He’d gotten more pieces to the puzzle, important pieces, perhaps even an explanation of what had started his daughter’s spiral into drug addiction. But the more pieces he got, the less clear the final image was becoming.
When he got back up onto the street, a text came in from Yvonne.
Money is ready. You’ll need to sign for it. Ask for Todd Raisch.
The bank was located between a Wendy’s and a high-end bakery. There was no line and just one teller. He gave his name and asked to speak to Todd Raisch. Raisch was all professional. He showed Simon into a back room.
“Are hundreds okay?” he asked.
Simon said that they were. Raisch counted out the money.
“Would you like a bag for that?”
Simon had his own, a plastic bag Ingrid had saved from a recent trip to Zabar’s. He put the cash in that and then jammed the bag into his backpack. He thanked Raisch and started on his way.
As he headed up Broadway toward the hospital, Simon called Randy Spratt, the genetics tech. When he answered, Simon said, “I have the money.”
“Ten minutes.”
He hung up. Simon checked to see if there were any messages yet from Elena Ramirez. Nothing. It was probably too soon, but he sent a quick text anyway:
Have you met with Alison yet? Please fill me in when you can.
No immediate reply. No dancing dots indicating an answer was forthcoming.
Simon kept staring at his phone as he walked, mostly to distract himself from this upcoming rendezvous. He’d rushed himself on the paternity test, panicked even, without really considering the repercussions. But now that he had a second or two—now that the answer was about to, like it or not, slap him in the face—he wondered what he would do if he learned the worst.
Suppose he wasn’t Paige’s biological father?
Suppose he wasn’t Sam’s or Anya’s father either?
Slow down, he told himself.
But there really was no time to slow down, was there? The truth, one way or the other, was barreling toward him like a freight train. He still really couldn’t fathom it. For one thing, Sam looked just like him, everyone said so, and though he couldn’t see it himself—could any parents?—he knew…
He knew what?
It simply wasn’t possible. Ingrid would never do that to him. And yet that small niggling voice taunted him. He