Promise Me mb-8

by Harlan Coben

  Still, there were ways.

  The music store teacher, Drew Van Dyne, lived in West Orange, not far from here. Zorra should be in place now. Myron picked up his cell phone and called. Zorra picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello, dreamboat,” Zorra said.

  “I assume there’s been no activity at the Van Dyne house.”

  “You assume correctly, dreamboat. Zorra just sits and sits. So boring this, for Zorra.”

  Zorra always referred to herself in the third person. She had a deep voice, a thick accent, and lots of mouth phlegm. It was not a pleasant sound.

  “I have a car following me,” Myron said.

  “And Zorra can help?”

  “Oh yes,” Myron said. “Zorra can definitely help.”

  Myron explained his plan — his frighteningly simple plan. Zorra laughed and started coughing.

  “So Zorra like?” Myron asked, falling, as he often did when speaking to her, into Zorra-talk.

  “Zorra like. Zorra like very much.”

  Since it would take a few minutes to set up, Myron took some unnecessary turns. Two minutes later, Myron took the right on Pleasant Valley Way. Up ahead, he saw Zorra standing by the pizzeria. She wore her ’30s blond wig and smoked a cigarette in a holder and looked just like Veronica Lake after a real bad bender, if Veronica Lake was six feet tall and had a Homer Simpson five o’clock shadow and was really, really ugly.

  Zorra winked as Myron passed and raised her foot just a little bit. Myron knew what was in that heel. The first time they met, she had sliced his chest with the hidden “stiletto” blade. In the end, Win had spared Zorra’s life — something that surprised the heck out of Myron. Now they were all buddies. Esperanza compared it to her days in the ring when a famed bad-guy wrestler would all of a sudden turn good.

  Myron used the left-turn signal and pulled to the side of the road, two blocks ahead of Zorra. He rolled down his window so he could hear. Zorra stood near an open parking spot. It was natural. The car following Myron’s pulled into the spot to see where Myron was headed. Of course, he could have stopped anywhere on the street. Zorra had been ready for that.

  The rest was, as already noted, frighteningly simple. Zorra strolled over to the back of the car. She had been wearing high heels for the past fifteen years, but she still walked like a newborn colt on bad acid.

  Myron watched the scene in his rearview mirror.

  Zorra unsheathed the dagger in her stiletto heel. She raised her leg and stomped on the tire. Myron heard the whoosh of air. She quickly circled to the other back tire and did the same thing. Then Zorra did something that was not part of the plan.

  She waited to see if the driver would get out and accost her.

  “No,” Myron whispered to himself. “Just go.”

  He had been clear. Stomp the tires and run. Don’t get into a fight. Zorra was deadly. If the guy got out of his car — probably some macho goon who was used to breaking heads — Zorra would slice him into pizza topping. Forget the morals for a moment. They didn’t need that kind of police attention.

  The goon driving the car yelled, “Hey! What the—?” and started getting out of the car.

  Myron turned around and stuck his head out the window. Zorra had the smile. She bent her knees a little. Myron called out. Zorra looked up and met Myron’s eye. Myron could see the anticipation, the itch to strike. He shook his head as firmly as he knew how.

  Another second passed. The goon slammed his car door shut. “You dumb bitch!”

  Myron kept shaking his head, more urgently now. The goon took a step. Myron held Zorra’s gaze. Zorra reluctantly nodded.

  And then she ran away.

  “Hey!” The goon gave chase. “Stop!”

  Myron started up his car. The goon looked back now, unsure what to do, and then he made a decision that probably saved his life.

  He ran back to his car.

  But with slashed back tires, he wouldn’t go anywhere.

  Myron pulled back onto the road, on his way to his encounter with the missing Katie Rochester.

  CHAPTER 41

  Drew Van Dyne sat in Big Jake Wolf’s family room and tried to plan his next move.

  Jake had given him a Corona Light. Drew frowned. A real Corona, okay, but light Mexican beer? Why not just pass out piss water? Drew sipped it anyway.

  This room reeked of Big Jake. There was a deer head hanging above the fireplace. Golf and tennis trophies lined the mantel. The rug was some sort of bear skin. The TV was huge, at least seventy inches. There were tiny expensive speakers everywhere. Something classical drifted out from the digital player. A carnival popcorn machine with flashing lights sat in the corner. There were ugly gold statues and ferns. Everything had been selected not based on fashion or function, but by what would appear most ostentatious and overpriced.

  On the side table was a picture of Jake Wolf’s hot wife. Drew picked it up and shook his head. In the photograph, Lorraine Wolf wore a bikini. Another of Jake’s trophies, he guessed. A picture of your own wife in a bikini on a side table in the family room — who the hell does that?

  “I spoke to Harry Davis,” Wolf said. He had a Corona Light too. There was a wedge of lime jammed into the top. Van Dyne rule of alcohol consumption: If a beer needs a fruit topping, choose another beer. “He’s not going to talk.”

  Drew said nothing.

  “You don’t believe it?”

  Drew shrugged, drank his beer.

  “He has the most to lose here.”

  “You think?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I reminded Harry of that. You know what he said?”

  Jake shrugged.

  “He told me that maybe Aimee Biel had the most to lose.” Drew put down his beer, intentionally missing the coaster. “What do you think?”

  Big Jake pointed his beefy finger at Drew. “Who the hell’s fault would that be?”

  Silence.

  Jake walked over to the window. He gestured with his chin at the house next door. “You see that place over there?”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s a friggin’ castle.”

  “You’re not doing too badly here, Jake.”

  A small smile played on his lip. “Not like that.”

  Drew would point out that it’s all relative, that he, Drew Van Dyne, lived alone in a crap-hole that was smaller than Wolf’s garage, but why bother? Drew could also point out that he didn’t have a tennis court or three cars or gold statues or a theater room or even really a wife since the separation, much less one with a hot enough body to model in bikinis.

  “He’s a big-time lawyer,” Jake droned on. “Went to Yale and never lets anyone forget it. He has a Yale decal on his car window. He wears Yale T-shirts when he takes his daily jog. He hosts Yale parties. He interviews Yale applicants in his big castle. His son is a dope, but guess what school still accepted him?”

  Drew Van Dyne shifted in the chair.

  “The world is not a level playing field, Drew. You need an in. Or you have to make one. You, for example, wanted to be a big rock star. The guys who make it — who sell a zillion CDs and fill up outdoor arenas — do you think they’re more talented than you? No. The big difference, maybe the only difference, is that they were willing to take advantage of some situation. They exploited something. And you didn’t. Do you know what the world’s greatest truism is?”

  Drew could see that there was no stopping him. But that was okay. The man was talking. He was revealing things in his own way. Drew was getting the picture now. He had a pretty good idea of where this was heading. “No, what?”

  “Behind every great fortune is a great crime.”

  Jake stopped and let that sink in. Drew felt his breathing go a little funny.

  “You see someone with beaucoup bucks,” Jake Wolf went on, “a Rockefeller or Carnegie or someone. Do you want to know the difference between them and us? One of their great-grandpas cheated or stole or killed. He had balls, sure. But he unders
tood that the playing field is never level. You want a break, you make it yourself. Then you peddle that hard-work, nose-to-the-grindstone fiction to the masses.”

  Drew Van Dyne remembered the warning call: Don’t do anything stupid. It’s under control.

  “This Bolitar guy,” Drew said. “You already had your cop friends lay into him. He didn’t budge.”

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  “That’s not much of a comfort, Jake.”

  “Well,” Jake said, “let’s just remember whose fault this is.”

  “Your son’s.”

  “Hey!” Again Jake pointed with the beefy finger. “Keep Randy out of it.”

  Drew Van Dyne shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted to place blame.”

  “He’s going to Dartmouth. That’s a done deal. No one, especially not some dumb slut, is going to ruin that.”

  Drew took a long deep breath. “Still. The question is, if Bolitar keeps digging, what is he going to find?”

  Jake Wolf looked at him. “Nothing,” he said.

  Drew Van Dyne felt a twinge start in the base of his spine.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Wolf said nothing.

  “Jake?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, my son is on his way to college. He’s done with all this.”

  “You also said that behind every great fortune is a great crime.”

  “So?”

  “She means nothing to you, does she, Jake?”

  “It’s not about her. It’s about Randy. It’s about his future.”

  Jake Wolf turned back to the window, to his Ivy League neighbor’s castle. Drew gathered his thoughts, reined in his emotions. He looked at this man. He thought about what he had said, what it all meant. He thought again about the warning call.

  “Jake?”

  “What?”

  “Did you know that Aimee Biel was pregnant?”

  The room went quiet. The background music was between songs now. When it started up again, the beat had picked up a step, an old ditty from Supertramp. Jake Wolf slowly turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. Drew Van Dyne could see that the news was a surprise.

  “That doesn’t change anything,” Jake said.

  “I think maybe it does.”

  “How?”

  Drew Van Dyne reached into his shoulder holster. He removed the gun and aimed it at Jake Wolf. “Take a wild guess.”

  CHAPTER 42

  The storefront was a nail salon called Nail-R-Us in a not-yet-redeveloped section of Queens. The building had that decrepit thing going on, as if leaning against it would cause a wall to collapse. The rust on the fire escape was so thick that tetanus seemed a far greater threat than smoke inhalation. Every window was blocked by either a heavy shade or a plank of wood. The structure was four levels and ran almost the entire length of the block.

  Myron said to Win, “The R on the sign is crossed out.”

  “That’s intentional.”

  “Why?”

  Win looked at him, waited. Myron did it in his head. Nail-R-Us had become Nail Us.

  “Oh,” Myron said. “Cute.”

  “They have two armed guards stationed at windows,” Win said.

  “They must do a mean manicure.”

  Win frowned. “Moreover, the two guards didn’t take up position until your Ms. Rochester and her beau returned.”

  “They’re worried about her father,” Myron said.

  “That would be a logical deduction.”

  “You know anything about the place?”

  “The clientele is below my level of expertise.” Win nodded behind Myron. “But not hers.”

  Myron turned. The setting sun was blocked now as though by an eclipse. Big Cyndi was ambling toward them. She was dressed entirely in white spandex. Very tight white spandex. No undergarments. Tragically, you could tell. On a seventeen-year-old runway model, the spandex jumpsuit would be a fashion risk. On a woman of forty who weighed more than three hundred pounds… well, it took guts, lots of them, all of which were on full display, thank you very much. Everything jiggled as she trundled toward them; various body parts seemed to have lives of their own, moving of their own accord, as if dozens of animals were trapped in a white balloon and trying to squirm their way out.

  Big Cyndi kissed Win on the cheek. Then she turned and said, “Hello, Mr. Bolitar.” She hugged him, wrapping her arms around him, a feeling not unlike being wrapped in wet attic insulation.

  “Hey, Big Cyndi,” Myron said when she put him down. “Thanks for getting down here so quick.”

  “When you call, Mr. Bolitar, I run.”

  Her face remained placid. Myron never knew if Big Cyndi was putting him on or not.

  “Do you know this place?” he asked.

  “Oh yes.”

  She sighed. Elk within a forty-mile radius began to mate. Big Cyndi wore white lipstick like something out of an Elvis documentary. Her makeup had sparkles. Her fingernails were in a color she’d once told him was called Pinot Noir. Back in the day, Big Cyndi had been the bad-guy professional wrestler. She fit the bill. For those who have never watched professional wrestling, it is merely a morality play with good pitted against evil. For years, Big Cyndi had been the evil “warlordess” named Human Volcano. Then one night, after a particularly grueling match where Big Cyndi had “injured” the lovely and lithe Esperanza “Little Pocahontas” Diaz with a chair—“injured” her so badly that the fake ambulance came in and strapped on the neck brace and all that — an angry mob of fans waited outside the venue.

  When Big Cyndi left for the night, the mob attacked.

  They might have killed her. The crowd was drunk and fired up and not really into the reality-versus-fiction equation at work here. Big Cyndi tried to run, but there was no escape. She fought hard and well, but there were dozens wanting her blood. Someone hit her with a camera, a cane, a boot. They moved in. Big Cyndi went down. People started stomping her.

  Seeing the mayhem, Esperanza tried to intervene. The crowd would have none of it. Even their favorite wrestler could not halt their blood-lust. And then Esperanza did something truly inspired.

  She jumped on a car and “revealed” that Big Cyndi had only been pretending to be a bad guy to gather information. The crowd almost paused. Furthermore, Esperanza announced, Big Cyndi was really Little Pocahontas’s long lost sister, Big Chief Mama, a rather lame moniker but hey, she was making this stuff up on the fly. Little Pocahontas and her sister were now reuniting and would become tag-team partners.

  The crowd cheered. Then they helped Big Cyndi to her feet.

  Big Chief Mama and Little Pocahontas quickly became wrestling’s most popular team. The same scenario played out weekly: Esperanza would start every match winning on skill, their opponents would do something illegal like throw sand in her eye or use the dreaded foreign object, the two baddies would team up on poor, helpless Pocahontas while someone distracted Big Chief Mama, they’d beat the sensuous beauty until the strap on Pocahontas’s suede bikini ripped, and then Big Chief Mama would give out a war cry and ride in to the rescue.

  Massively entertaining.

  When she left the ring, Big Cyndi became a bouncer and sometimes stage performer for several lowlife sex clubs. She knew the seedier side of the streets. And that was what they were counting on now.

  “So what is this place?” Myron asked.

  Big Cyndi put on her totem-pole frown. “They do a lot of things, Mr. Bolitar. Some drugs, some Internet scamming, but mostly, these are sex clubs.”

  “Clubs,” Myron repeated. “As in the plural?”

  Big Cyndi nodded. “Six or seven different ones probably. Remember a few years ago when Forty-second Street was loaded with sleaze?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, when they forced them all out, where do you think the sleaze went?”

  Myron looked at the nail salon. “Here?”

  “Here, there, everywhere. You don’t kill sleaze, Mr. Bol
itar. It just moves to a new host.”

  “And this is the new host?”

  “One of them. Here, in this very building, they offer specialty clubs catering to an international variety of tastes.”

  “When you say ‘specialty clubs’—?”

  “Let’s see. If you care for flaxen-haired women, you go to On Golden Blonde. That’s on the second floor, far right. If you’re into African-American men, you head up to the third floor and visit a place called — you might like this, Mr. Bolitar — Malcolm Sex.”

  Myron looked at Win. Win shrugged.

  Big Cyndi continued in her tour guide voice: “Those with an Asian fetish will enjoy the Joy Suck Club—”

  “Yeah,” Myron said, “I think I get the picture. So how do I get in and find Katie Rochester?”

  Big Cyndi thought about that for a moment. “I can pose as a job applicant.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Big Cyndi put her enormous fists on her hips. This meant that they were about two yards apart. “Not all men, Mr. Bolitar, have petite fetishes.”

  Myron closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Right, okay, maybe. Any other thoughts?”

  Win waited patiently. Myron had always thought that Win would be intolerant of Big Cyndi, but years ago, Win surprised him by pointing out what should have been obvious: “One of our worst and most accepted prejudices is against large women. We never, ever, see past it.” And it was true. Myron had been deeply ashamed when Win pointed that out. So he started treating Big Cyndi as he should — like everyone else. That pissed Big Cyndi off. Once, when Myron smiled at her, she hit him hard on the shoulder — so hard he couldn’t lift his arm for two days — and shouted, “Cut that out!”

  “Perhaps you should try a more direct route,” Win said. “I will stay out here. Keep your cell phone on. You and Big Cyndi try and talk your way in.”

  Big Cyndi nodded. “We can pretend we’re a couple looking to try a threesome.”