Free The Innocent by Harlan Coben Page B

of Matt's right leg. Paul aimed for the midsection.
    "McNabb back to pass," Matt said, doing his best Greg Gumbel impression. "Look out! Strahan breaks through the line and has a leg…"
    Paul stopped. "I want to be Strahan!" he demanded.
    Ethan would have none of that. "No, I want to be Strahan!"
    "Hey, you both can be Strahan," Matt said.
    The two youngsters squinted at their uncle as if he were the slow kid sitting in the back. "You can't have two Michael Strahans," Paul said.
    "Yeah," his brother chimed in.
    Then they lowered their shoulders and hit him again. Matt performed a near Pacino-esque performance of a quarterback about to be sacked. He stutter-stepped, he looked desperately for imaginary receivers, he pump-faked a pass with his invisible football, and ultimately he went down in a slow-motion heap.
    "Woo-hoo!" The boys stood, high-fived each other, bumped chests. Matt groaned into a sitting position. Kyra was smothering a giggle.
    Paul and Ethan were still doing a celebration dance when Marsha appeared at the door. She looked, Matt thought, very nice. She wore a dress and makeup. Her hair had that carefully mussed thing going on. The car keys were already jiggling in her hand.
    When Bernie died, Matt and Marsha had both been so devastated, so desperate, that they tried to knit something together where Matt could maybe take over as husband and father.
    It was a disaster.
    Matt and Marsha had waited a proper amount of time- six months- and then one night, without discussing it but knowing what was about to happen, they both got drunk. Marsha made the first move. She kissed him, kissed him hard, and then she started to sob. That had been the end.
    Before "the slip," Matt's family had been strangely blessed or maybe just blessedly naïve. Matt had been twenty years old and all four of his grandparents were alive and in good health- two in Miami, two in Scottsdale. Tragedy had visited other families, but the Hunters had been left alone. The slip changed all that. It left them ill prepared for what followed.
    Tragedy sort of works this way: Once it snakes its way in, it cuts down all your defenses and allows its brethren easy access to feed. Three of his four grandparents died during Matt's stint in prison. The burden killed his father and sapped his mother. Mom fled to Florida. Their sister ran west to Seattle. Bernie had the aneurysm.
    Just like that, they were all gone.
    Matt stood up. He waved to Marsha. She waved back. Kyra said, "Is it okay if I go?"
    Marsha nodded. "Thanks, Kyra."
    "No problem." Kyra slipped on the backpack. "Bye, Matt."
    "Bye, kiddo."
    Matt's cell phone rang. The caller ID told him it was Cingle Shaker. He signaled to Marsha that he needed to take it. She gestured for him to go ahead. Matt moved toward the curb and picked it up.
    "Hello."
    "Got some info on the license plate," Cingle said.
    "Go ahead."
    "It's a rental. Avis at Newark Airport."
    "So does that mean it's a dead end?"
    "For most private investigators, most definitely. But you're dealing with a near legend in the business."
    "Near?"
    "I'm trying to be modest."
    "Doesn't work on you, Cingle."
    "Yeah, but the effort is there. I called a contact at the airport. He ran it down for me. The car was rented by one Charles Talley. You know him?"
    "No."
    "I figured the name might mean something to you."
    "It doesn't."
    "You want me to check this Talley guy out?"
    "Yes."
    "Call you back."
    She hung up. Matt started to lower the phone when he spotted the same police cruiser turning onto the block. It slowed as it passed Marsha's house. The uniformed cop who'd been with Lance eyed him. Matt eyed him back and felt his face flush.
    Paul and Ethan stood and watched the cruiser. Matt turned back to Marsha. She saw it too. He tried to smile and wave it off. Marsha frowned.
    That was when his phone rang again.
    Still watching Marsha, Matt put the phone to his ear without checking the caller ID.
    "Hello," he said.
    "Hi, hon, how was your day?"
    It was