Harlan Coben
Just One Look
This book is for Jack Armstrong, because he’s one of the good guys
“Babe, give me your best memory,
But it don’t equal pale ink.”
– Chinese proverb adapted for lyrics in song
“Pale Ink” by the Jimmy X Band
(written by James Xavier Farmington. All rights reserved)
Scott Duncan sat across from the killer.
The windowless room of thundercloud gray was awkward and still, stuck in that lull when the music first starts and neither stranger is sure how to begin the dance. Scott tried a noncommittal nod. The killer, decked out in prison-issue orange, simply stared. Scott folded his hands and put them on the metal table. The killer-his file said he was Monte Scanlon, but there was no way that was his real name-might have done likewise had his hands not been cuffed.
Why, Scott wondered yet again, am I here?
His specialty was prosecuting corrupt politicians-something of a vigorous cottage industry in his home state of New Jersey-but three hours ago, Monte Scanlon, a mass executioner by any standards, had finally broken his silence to make a demand.
That demand?
A private meeting with Assistant U.S. Attorney Scott Duncan.
This was strange for a large variety of reasons, but here were two: one, a killer should not be in a position to make demands; two, Scott had never met or even heard of Monte Scanlon.
Scott broke the silence. “You asked to see me?”
“Yes.”
Scott nodded, waited for him to say more. He didn’t. “So what can I do for you?”
Monte Scanlon maintained the stare. “Do you know why I’m here?”