Harlan Coben by No Second Chance

that simple syllable accentuated and drawn out. An SUV sped around the corner. I watched it as though from above. The brakes shrieked. The driver-side door was open before the car had come to a complete stop.
    It was Lenny. He took one look at me and picked up his pace. “Marc?”
    â€œYou were right.” I nodded toward the house. Regan was standing by the door now. “They think I’m involved.”
    Lenny’s face darkened. His eyes narrowed, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints. In sports, you call it putting on your “game face.” Lenny was becoming Cujo. He stared at Regan as if deciding which limb to chew off. “You talked to them?”
    â€œA little.”
    Lenny jerked his gaze toward me. “Didn’t you tell them you wanted counsel?”
    â€œNot at first.”
    â€œDamn it, Marc, I told you—”
    â€œI got a ransom demand.”
    That made Lenny pull up. I checked my watch. Paramus was a forty-minute ride. With traffic, it could take as much as an hour. I had time, but not much. I started filling him in. Lenny gave Regan another glare and led me farther away from the house. We stopped at the curb, those familiar cloud-gray stones that lie on property lines like sets of teeth, and then, like two children, we squatted deep and sat on them. Our knees were at our chins. I could see Lenny’s skin between the argylesock and tapered cuff. Squatting like this was uncomfortable as hell. The sun was in our eyes. We both looked off rather than at each other, again just like in our youths. It made it easier to spill it all out.
    I spoke quickly. Midway through my recap, Regan began to move toward us. Lenny turned to him and shouted, “Your balls.”
    Regan stopped. “What?”
    â€œAre you arresting my client?”
    â€œNo.”
    Lenny pointed toward Regan’s crotch. “Then I’m going to have them bronzed and hanging from my rearview mirror, if you take another step.”
    Regan straightened his spine. “We have some questions for your client.”
    â€œTough. Go abuse the rights of someone with a lesser lawyer.”
    Lenny made a dismissive gesture and nodded at me to continue. Regan did not look happy, but he took two steps back. I glanced at my watch again. Only five minutes had passed since the ransom call. I finished up while Lenny kept the laser glare aimed at Regan.
    â€œYou want my opinion?” he said.
    â€œYes.”
    Still glaring. “I think you should tell them.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œHell, no.”
    â€œWould you?” I said. “I mean, if it was one of your kids?”
    Lenny gave it a few seconds. “I can’t put myself in your place, if that’s what you mean. But yeah, I think I would. I play the odds. The odds are better when you tell the cops. Doesn’t mean it works out every time, but they’re experts at this. We’re not.” Lenny put his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his hands—a pose from his youth. “That’s the opinion of Lenny the Friend,” he went on. “Lenny the Friend would encourage you to tell them.”
    â€œAnd Lenny the Lawyer?” I asked.
    â€œHe would be more insistent. He would strongly urge you to come forward.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIf you go off with two million dollars and it vanishes—even if you get Tara back—their suspicions will be, to put it mildly, aroused.”
    â€œI don’t care about that. I just want Tara back.”
    â€œUnderstood. Or should I say, Lenny the Friend understands.”
    Now it was Lenny’s turn to check his watch. My insides felt hollow, scooped out canoe-style. I could almost hear the tick-tick. It was maddening. I tried again to do the rational thing, to list the pros on the right, the cons on the left, and then add them up. But the tick-tick would not stop.
    Lenny had talked about playing the odds. I don’t gamble. I’m not a risk