Quotes from Harlan Coben

So you're a psychiatrist now, Cassie?" She gave him the half-smile again. "You don't need to be a psychiatrist to know a psychopath," she began, "any more than you need to be a cop to know a killer.

The woman was first. She wore a pumpkin-orange blazer, blue jeans, sneakers, and ball-and-chain earrings. The word that came to mind was husky. Not big really. Husky. Everything was husky—even her hair, a sort of canned-corn yellow. The guy riding in on her fumes was geeky thin with a pointy head and a small, greased shock of black hair. He looked like an upside-down pencil. He spoke first.

Philip had been betrothed to Ruth for over forty years, but some nights he still thought about Sophie more than he cared to admit. The sliding door. The road not taken. The big what-if. The good one he'd let get away.

Shauna and Linda rent a three-bedroom apartment on Riverside Drive and 116 Street, not far from Columbia University. I'd managed to find a spot within a block, an act that usually accompanies a parting sea or stone tablet. Shauna

You'd just turned pro. Adolescent boys hung your poster in their bedrooms. You were supposed to beat legends right away. Your parents redefined pushy. It's a miracle you stayed upright.

Welcome, Myron Bolitar, to our humble offices." "Nice to be here," Myron said, "Fat Gandhi." This pleased him. "Ah yes, yes. You saw the leaderboard?" "I did." He spread his arms, his triceps flapping in the no-breeze. "Does the name not fit?" "Like a well-tailored sock," Myron said, even though he had no idea what that meant. Fat

Simon's had been littered with empty pizza boxes and emptier beer cans, decorated in Early American Pub Crawl, while Eileen Vaughan's suite looked like something out of an Ikea catalogue, all pale woods and real furniture and freshly-vacuumed throw carpets.

Despite the power of the office, the waiting room was done up in Early American Dentist. The carpet was threadbare. The furniture managed to be neither fashionable nor functional. There were a dozen different issues of Sports Illustrated on the table and nothing else. The walls seemed to plead for a paint job. They were stained and barren, except for the photographs of past U.S. attorneys, a remarkable lesson in what not to wear and how not to pose when taking a picture for posterity. No

The big man could no longer breathe. One of the other men started to rise. Win leveled his gun at the man's head. "Important note," Win said. "I'm not big on warning shots." The

Greg had contacted his bank. He was not a risky investor, and so most of his assets were liquid. If ransom money was needed, he'd be ready. The various feds, all male except for Kimberly Green, put traces on all the possible phones, including Myron's. She and her men were doing a lot of sotto voce. Myron hadn't pressed them yet. But that wasn't going to last. Kimberly

And maybe you shouldn't coach." Assistant Coach Pat stepped forward then. He looked at me, and that knowing smile I was all too familiar with spread across his face. "Well, well, well." Coach Bobby said, "What?" "Do you know who this guy is?" "Who?" "Myron Bolitar.

When Nash was ten, he asked his father what happens to us when we die. His father said that Shakespeare probably said it best, that death was "the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns." In sum, how can we know? The

Above, the cars roar past, oblivious to what is below them.

Wu liked daytime TV. He enjoyed watching shows like Springer and Ricki Lake. Most people poo-pooed them. Wu did not. Only a truly great society, a free one, could allow such nonsense to air.

No receptionist was sitting guard at this hour. They knocked and were buzzed into the inner sanctum. It was much nicer in here, a totally different feel and look, like they'd stepped through a wall into Diagon Alley. They

What can you tell me about his divorce?" "Just that it's been acrimonious as all hell.

Do all these things so you can matriculate at the most prestigious school possible. It's like the first seventeen years of your life are just an audition for the Ivy Leagues." It

The other investigators, all males and oh so clever, called her Squirt. Investigators. You get them started, they'll shred you with the cutting lines. But

Clip hesitated. His breathing was deep, almost labored. "I know something of your years with the FBI," he said finally. "No details, of course. Not even vagaries really, but enough to know you have a background in this kinda stuff. We want you to find Greg. Quietly." Myron

Like I said, we all choose our battles.

If I did, they'd be irrelevant. You know that. I don't do well locked in a cage, Beck. I need the stage." "Nice mix of metaphors," I said. "At least it rhymed." I

You remember my friend Wendy Petino?" "Fellow model," I said. "Flaky as a Greek pastry." Shauna

First thing in the morning, Myron called Terese. Still no answer. He frowned at the phone. "Am I getting the big kiss-off?" he asked Win. "Doubtful," Win said. He was reading the newspaper and wearing silk pajamas with a matching bathrobe and slippers. Give him a pipe and he could have been something Noël Coward created on an off day.

the Ghost Army