WIN by Coben, Harlan (best book reader txt) 📕

I don’t like what I see.

“I couldn’t swear one way or the other,” he pronounces after he’s taken some more time, “but it is certainly possible.”

I say nothing.

“Is there anything else, Mr. Lockwood?”

“Just the statute of limitations,” I say.

“Pardon?”

“It’s up.”

“I don’t understand—”

“So if you had something to do with the robbery, you couldn’t be prosecuted. If you, for example, gave the thieves some inside information—if you were an accessory of some sort—it’s been over twenty years. The statute of limitations for this type of offense in Pennsylvania is only five years. In short, you’re in the clear, Professor Cornwell.”

He frowns. “Clear for what?”

“For the Lincoln assassination,” I say.

“What?”

I shake my head. “Now do you see my issue with you?”

“What are you talking—?”

“You just said ‘clear for what?’ when it is so obvious that I am referring to the art heist.” I mimic him and repeat: “‘Clear for what?’ It’s overkill, Ian. It’s suspicious behavior. Come to think of it, everything about your testimony is suspicious.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“For example, the two robbers disguised as police officers.”

“What about them?”

“That’s precisely what happened in Boston during the Gardner Museum heist. Two men, same heights you describe, same build, same fake mustaches, same claim of needing to investigate a disturbance.”

“You find that odd?” he counters.

“I do, yes.”

“But the FBI believed that it was the same MO.”

“MO?”

“Method of Operation.”

“Yes, I’m aware what the term means, thank you.”

“Well, that’s why there are similarities, Mr. Lockwood. The theory is that the robberies were done by the same team.”

“Or,” I say, “that someone, perhaps you, wanted us to believe that. And a ‘disturbance’? Really? Late at night in that closed building across the green? You were working there. Did you hear a disturbance?”

“Well, no.”

“No,” I repeat. “Did you report one? Also: no. Yet you just unlocked the door to these two men with fake mustaches. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“I thought they were police officers.”

“Did they have a police car?”

“Not that I saw.”

“And that’s another thing. There was working CCTV on the campus entrance and exits. Yet no one saw two men dressed as police officers that night.”

This is a lie—the campus didn’t have that kind of surveillance back then—but it’s a lie that draws blood.

“I’ve had enough,” Ian Cornwell snaps, rising to his feet. “I don’t care who you are—”

“Shh.”

“Excuse me? Did you just…?”

I stare him down. If you want to change someone’s behavior, remember this and this only: Human beings always do what is in their self-interest. Always. That’s the sole motivator. People only do the “right thing” when it suits those interests. Yes, that is cynical, but it is also true. If you want to change minds, the secret is not being thoughtful or respectful or conciliatory or presenting cogent indisputable facts to show that said mind is wrong. And for those truly in the naïve camp, the secret is not trying to appeal to our better angels or “humanity.” None of that works. The only way to change someone’s opinion is to make them believe that siding with you is in their best interest. Period. The end.

I know what you’re thinking: I’m too lovely a creature to be this cynical. But stay with me on this.

“Here is my proposal,” I say to Professor Cornwell. “You tell me the truth about what happened that night—”

“I have told—”

“Shh.” I put my index finger to my lips. “Listen and save yourself. You tell me the truth. The full truth. Just me. In return, I promise that it never leaves this room. I will tell no one. Not a soul. There will be no repercussions. I don’t care whether the Picasso is hanging above your toilet or if you burned it for kindling. I don’t care if you were the mastermind or a pawn. Do you see what I’m offering you, Professor? The beauty of it? The chance at freedom? You simply tell me the truth—and suddenly the burden is gone. Not only that, but you have an ally for life. A grateful, powerful ally. An ally who can get you promoted or fund whatever academic—and I mean that word in two ways—dream project you have set your heart upon.”

Carrot done. Now it’s stick time. I lower my voice, so he has to strain to hear. Strain he does.

“But if you choose not to accept my generous offer, I begin to dig into your life. Really dig. You probably feel confident. After all, the FBI turned up nothing twenty-four years ago. You feel secure in your lie. But that security is now an illusion. The Vermeer is back. There is at least one dead body connected to it. The FBI will revisit the theft now with vigor, yes, but more important to your world, I will do what law enforcement cannot. I will build upon what they do, and using my resources, I will raise that intensity—aimed in your direction—to the tenth power. Do you understand?”

He says nothing.

Time to toss the lifeline.

“This is your chance, Professor Cornwell—your chance to end the turmoil and deceptions that have haunted you for over twenty years. This is your chance to unburden yourself. This is your chance, Professor, and if you don’t take it, I pity you and all those Cornwells who have come before and after you.”

I don’t bow as I finish, though I feel perhaps that I should.

As I wait for his reply, as I gaze out the window and onto the green where my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather all roamed as young men, a curious thought enters my brain, distracting me, pulling me out of this moment.

I’m thinking about Uncle Aldrich bucking family tradition by not coming here.

Why am I thinking about that? I don’t know. But it’s niggling at me.

I hear a chime and turn toward the sound. There is a grandfather clock in the far corner signaling the quarter hour. The door to the office bursts open, and students flow in with backpacks and expected post-lunch cacophony.