City Of Lies by R.J. Ellory Read Free Book Online Page A

of earthy and aromatic. Or we have arabica, Colombian . . . the Colombian’s very good, freshly ground just an hour or so ago, kind of rich and chocolaty with a hazelnut undertone—’
    Harper cut in. He felt sick, a little dizzy. ‘Just a cup of coffee,’ he told the guy, and wanted to add
What in God’s name is a hazelnut fucking undertone? Are you people on drugs or what?
But he didn’t say a word.
    The coffee guy kind of sneered condescendingly, and said ‘Well, alright, if it’s
just
a cup of coffee you want then
just
a cup of coffee you’ll get.’
    A handful of minutes later, coffee in his hand still too hot to drink, the smell of it almost turning his stomach, John Harper stood on the corner of Seventh and Greenwich and looked at the impressive facade of St Vincent’s Hospital. Christmas lights hung in some of the windows on the upper floors, and a lone pine tree stood sentinel at the top of the front steps. He had walked all the way from Evelyn’s, had considered going back but felt he couldn’t face her. Not yet; not until he’d come out here and seen for himself.
    There was a smell in the air like snow. Cool and crisp. Harper clutched his jacket around his throat with his free hand and looked up at the sky. Clouds, pale and thin, scudded awkwardly towards a yellowed harvest moon. God, how he wanted a cigarette. Cursed himself for leaving Evelyn’s house without an overcoat.
    Didn’t know what to feel. Thirty-six years old, and the father that had left when he was two – a father he’d never spoken to, a father he’d believed dead – was up ahead of him in the hospital, dying of a gunshot wound.
    He took a step, now resolved that he would go up there andsee. One foot forward, hit the edge of the kerb, and then stopped dead in his tracks. He closed his eyes for a moment. He raised the coffee cup to his lips, caught the aroma and decided against drinking it. He popped the lid, leaned to pour the contents into the gutter, and then backed up a step to put the cup in a trash bin. He folded his arms and stamped his feet. He
really
wanted a cigarette, just a couple of drags, just to feel that rush of sensation in his throat, his chest. Something to help him feel grounded.
    He walked down the sidewalk. He went no more than three or four yards, and then turned suddenly and hurried across the road to the front of the building.
    By the time he realized what he was doing he was standing beside the pine tree inside the front entrance. A small paper angel sat on the uppermost branch. A slight breeze caused its tissue-thin wings to flutter, but the angel hung on relentlessly. A man came out of the revolving glass doors and looked at Harper. The man nodded, sort of half-smiled, like there was a sense of fellow-feeling and camaraderie that naturally existed between all those who came to such places.
You’re here because someone died
, it said.
Or maybe someone is going to die and you want to make sure you settle things with them before they go
. Something such as this. Harper smiled back and went in through the doors. He stood for a moment and then located the reception desk to the right.
    The duty administrator possessed the face of someone who spent their life sympathizing.
    ‘I’m here—’ Harper started, his voice faltering.
    ‘You are indeed, sir,’ the woman replied.
    Harper looked at the badge on her jacket.
Nancy Cooper
, it read, and Harper thought of Nancy Young and David Leonhardt and the question that was neither asked nor answered.
    ‘I’m here to see someone,’ Harper went on. ‘To ask if I can see someone who was admitted.’
    ‘Name?’ Nancy Cooper asked.
    ‘Mine?’
    ‘The person admitted.’
    ‘Edward . . . Edward Bernstein.’
    Nancy rattled her fingernails on the computer keyboard. ‘And you are?’
    Harper looked at her, his eyes wide.
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘His son,’ a voice said from behind Harper.
    Harper emitted a strange sound from the back of his throat, something both of fear