by Harlan Coben
“Why hush-hush?”
“Don’t know.”
“When is she being arraigned?”
“Tomorrow morning, I guess.”
Win looked at Myron. Myron nodded. Esperanza would be held overnight. This was not a good thing.
“Why did they arrest her so late?”
“Don’t know.”
“And you saw them drag her in cuffs?”
“Yep.”
“Didn’t they let her surrender on her own?”
“Nope.”
Again the two friends looked at each other. The late arrest. The handcuffs. The overnight. Someone in the DA’s office was pissed off and trying to make a point. Very not a good thing.
“What else can you tell me?” Win asked.
“Not much. Like I said, they’re being quiet on this one. The DA hasn’t even released it to the media yet. But he will. Probably before the eleven o’clock news. Quick statement, no time for questions, that kind of thing. Hell, I wouldn’t know about it if I wasn’t a big fan.”
“A big fan?”
“Of professional wrestling. See, I recognized her from her old wrestling days. Did you know Esperanza Diaz used to be Little Pocahontas, the Indian Princess?”
Win glanced at Myron. “Yes, Brian, I know.”
“Really?” Brian was big-time excited now. “Little Pocahontas was my absolute fave, bar none. An awesome wrestler. Top drawer. I mean, she used to enter the ring in this skimpy suede bikini, right, and then she’d start grappling with other chicks, bigger chicks really, writhing around on the floor and stuff—swear to God, she was so hot my fingernails would melt.”
“Thank you for the visual,” Win said. “Anything else, Brian?”
“No.”
“Do you know who her attorney of record is?”
“No.” Then: “Oh, one other thing. She’s got someone, well, sort of with her.”
“Sort of with her, Brian?”
“Outside. On the front steps of the courthouse.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you,” Win said.
“Out in the rain. Just sitting there. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was Little Pocahontas’s old tag team partner, Big Chief Mama. Did you know Big Chief Mama and Little Pocahontas were Intercontinental tag team champions three years running?”
Win sighed. “You don’t say.”
“Whatever Intercontinental means. I mean, what is that, Intercontinental? And I’m not talking about recently. Five, eight years ago, at least. But, man, they were awesome. Great wrestlers. Today, well, the league has no class anymore.”
“Grappling bikini-clad women,” Win said. “They just don’t make them like they used to.”
“Right, exactly. Too many fake, inflated breasts nowadays, at least that’s how I see it. One of them is going to land on her stomach and bam, her boob is going to blow out like a worn tire. So I don’t follow it much anymore. Oh, maybe if I’m flipping the channels and something catches my eye, I might watch a little—”
“You were talking about a woman out in the rain?”
“Right, Win, right, sorry. Anyway, she’s out there, whoever she is. Just sitting there. The cops went by before and asked her what she was doing. She said she was going to wait for her friend.”
“So she’s there right now?”
“Yep.”
“What does she look like, Brian?”
“Like the Incredible Hulk. Only scarier. And maybe greener.”
Win and Myron exchanged glances. No doubt. Big Chief Mama aka Big Cyndi.
“Anything else, Brian?”
“No, not really.” Then: “So you know Esperanza Diaz?”
“Yes.”
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
Silent awe. “Jesus, you lead some life, Win.”
“Oh, indeed.”
“Think you can get me her autograph?”
“I’ll do my best, Brian.”
“A picture autograph maybe? Of Little Pocahontas in costume? I’m a really big fan.”
“So I gather, Brian. Good-bye.”
Win hung up and sat back. He looked over at Myron. Myron nodded. Win picked up the intercom and gave the driver directions to the courthouse.
CHAPTER
4
By the time they arrived at the courthouse in Hackensack, it was nearly 10:00 P.M. Big Cyndi sat in the rain, shoulders hunched; at least Myron thought it was Big Cyndi. From a distance, it looked like someone had parked a Volkswagen Bug on the courthouse steps.
Myron stepped out of the car and approached. “Big Cyndi?”
The dark heap let loose a low growl, a lioness warning off an inferior animal who’d wandered astray.
“It’s Myron,” he said.
The growl deepened. The rain had plastered Big Cyndi’s hair spikes to her scalp, as if she were sporting an uneven Caesar coif. Today’s color was hard to decipher—Big Cyndi liked diversity in her follicular tint—but it didn’t look like any hue found in the state of nature. Big Cyndi sometimes liked to combine dyes randomly and see what happened. She also insisted on being called Big Cyndi. Not Cyndi. Big Cyndi. She had even had her name legally changed. Official documents read: Cyndi, Big.
“You can’t stay here all night,” Myron tried.
She finally spoke. “Go home.”
“What happened?”
“You ran away.” Big Cyndi’s voice was childlike, lost.
“Yes.”
“You left us alone.”
“I’m sorry about that. But I’m back now.”
He risked another step. If only he had something to placate her with. Like a half gallon of Häagen-Dazs. Or a sacrificial goat.
Big Cyndi started to cry. Myron approached slowly, semileading with his right hand in case she wanted to sniff it. But the growls were all gone now, replaced by sobs. Myron put his palm on a shoulder that felt like a bowling ball.
“What happened?” he asked again.
She sniffled. Loudly. The sound almost dented the limo’s fender. “I can’t tell you.”
“Why can’t you?”
“She said not to.”
“Esperanza?”
Big Cyndi nodded.
“She’s going to need help,” Myron said.
“She doesn’t want your help.”
The words stung. The rain continued to fall. Myron sat on the step next to her. “Is she angry about my leaving?”
“I can’t tell you, Mr. Bolitar. I’m sorry.”
“Why not?”
“She told me not to.”
“Esperanza can’t bear the brunt of this on her own,” Myron said. “She’s going to need a lawyer.”
“She has one.”
“Who?”
“Hester Crimstein.”
Big Cyndi gasped as though she realized she’d said too much, but Myron wondered if the slip had been intentional.
“How did she get Hester Crimstein?” Myron asked.
“I can’t say any more, Mr. Bolitar. Please don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad, Big Cyndi. I’m just concerned.”
Big Cyndi smiled at him then. The sight made Myron bite back a scream. “It’s nice to have you back,” she said.
“Thank you.”
She put her head on his shoulder. The weight made him teeter, but he remained relatively upright. “You know how I feel about Esperanza,” Myron said.
“Yes,” Big Cyndi said. “You love her. And she loves you.”
“So let me help.”
Big Cyndi lifted her head off his shoulder. Blood circulated again. “I think you should leave now.”
Myron stood. “Come on. We’ll give you a ride home.”
“No, I’m staying.”
“It’s raining and it’s late. Someone might try to attack you. It’s not safe out here.”
“I can take care of myself,” Big Cyndi said.
He had meant that it wasn’t safe for the attackers, but he let it pass. “You
can’t stay out here all night.”
“I’m not leaving Esperanza alone.”
“But she won’t even know you’re here.”
Big Cyndi wiped the rain from her face with a hand the size of a truck tire. “She knows.”
Myron looked back at the car. Win was leaning against the door now, arms crossed, umbrella resting on his shoulder. Very Gene Kelly. He nodded at Myron.
“You’re sure?” Myron asked.
“Yes, Mr. Bolitar. Oh, and I’ll be late for work tomorrow. I hope you understand.”
Myron nodded. They stared at each other, the rain cascading down their faces. A howl of laughter made both of them turn to the right and look at the fortresslike structure that contained the holding cells. Esperanza, the person closest to them both, was incarcerated in there. Myron stepped toward the limousine. Then he turned back around.
“Esperanza wouldn’t kill anyone,” he said.
He waited for Big Cyndi to agree or at least nod her head. But she didn’t. She hunched the shoulders back up and disappeared within herself.
Myron slid back into the car. Win followed, handing Myron a towel. The driver started up.
“Hester Crimstein is her attorney,” Myron said.
“Ms. Court TV?”
“The same.”
“Ah,” Win said. “And what’s the name of her show again?”
“Crimstein on Crime,” Myron said.
Win frowned. “Cute.”
“She had a book with the same title.” Myron shook his head. “This is weird. Hester Crimstein doesn’t take many cases anymore. So how did Esperanza land her?”
Win tapped his chin with his forefinger. “I’m not positive,” he said, “but I believe Esperanza had a fling with her a couple of months back.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Well, yes, I am such a mirthful fellow. And wasn’t that just the funniest line?”
Wiseass. But it made sense. Esperanza was as perfect a bisexual as you could find—perfect because everyone, no matter what his or her sex or preference, found her immensely attractive. If you’re going to go all ways, might as well have universal appeal, right?
Myron mulled this over a few moments. “Do you know where Hester Crimstein lives?” he asked.
“Two buildings up from me on Central Park West.”
“So let’s pay her a visit.”
Win frowned. “Why?”
“Maybe she can fill us in.”
“She won’t talk to us.”
“Maybe she will.”
“What makes you say that?”
“For one thing,” Myron said, “I’m feeling particularly charming.”
“By God.” Win leaned forward. “Driver, step on the gas.”
CHAPTER
5
Win lived at the Dakota, one of Manhattan’s swankiest buildings. Hester Crimstein lived two blocks north at the San Remo, an equally swanky building. Occupants included Diane Keaton and Dustin Hoffman, but the San Remo was perhaps best known as the building that had rejected Madonna’s application for residence.
There were two entranceways, both with doormen dressed like Brezhnev strolling Red Square. Brezhnev One announced in a clipped tone that Ms. Crimstein was “not present.” He actually used the word present too; people don’t often do that in real life. He smiled for Win and looked down his nose at Myron. This was no easy task—Myron was at least six inches taller—and required Brezhnev to tilt his head way back so that his nostrils looked like the westbound entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. Why, Myron wondered, do servants of the rich and famous act snootier than their masters? Was it simple resentment? Was it because they were looked down upon all day and thus needed on occasion to be the one doing the looking down? Or—more simply—were people attracted to such jobs insecure asswipes?
Life’s little mysteries.
“Are you expecting Ms. Crimstein back tonight?” Win asked.
Brezhnev opened his mouth, stopped, cast a wary eye as if he feared Myron might defecate on the Persian rug. Win read his face and led him to the side, away from the lowly member of the unwashed.
“She should be back soon, Mr. Lockwood.” Ah, so Brezhnev had recognized Win. No wonder. “Ms. Crimstein’s aerobics class concludes at eleven.”
Exercising at eleven o’clock at night. Welcome to the nineties, where leisure time is sucked away like something undergoing liposuction.
There were no waiting or sitting areas at the San Remo—most of your finer buildings did not encourage even approved guests to loiter—so they moved outside to the street. Central Park was across the roadway. Myron could see, well, trees and a stone wall, and that was about it. Lots of taxis sped north. Win’s stretch limousine had been dismissed—they both figured they could walk the two blocks to Win’s place—but there were four other stretch limousines sitting in a no parking zone. A fifth pulled up. A silver stretch Mercedes. Brezhnev rushed to the car door like he really had to pee and there was a bathroom inside.
An old man, bald except for a white crown of hair, stumbled out, his mouth twisted poststroke. A woman resembling a prune followed. Both were expensively dressed and maybe a hundred years old. Something about them troubled Myron. They looked wizened, yes. Old, certainly. But there was more to it, Myron sensed. People talk about sweet little old people, but these two were so blatantly the opposite, their eyes beady, their movements shifty and angry and fearful. Life had sapped them, sucked out all the goodness and hope of youth, leaving them with a vitality based on something ugly and hateful. Bitterness was the only thing left. Whether the bitterness was directed at God or at their fellowman, Myron could not say.
Win nudged him. He looked to his right and saw a figure he recognized from TV as Hester Crimstein coming toward them. She was on the husky side, at least by today’s warped Kate Mossian standards, and her face was fleshy and cherubic. She wore Reebok white sneakers, white socks, green stretch pants that would probably make Kate snicker, a sweatshirt, a knit hat with frosted blond hair sticking out the back. The old man stopped when he saw the attorney, grabbed the prune lady’s hand, hurried inside.
“Bitch!” the old man managed through the good side of his face.
“Up yours too, Lou,” Hester called out after him.
The old man stopped, looked like he wanted to say something more, limped off.
Myron and Win exchanged a glance and approached.
“Old adversary,” she said in way of explanation. “You ever hear the old adage that only the good die young?”
“Uh, sure.”
Hester Crimstein gestured with both hands at the old couple like Carol Merrill showing off a brand-new car. “There’s your proof. Couple years back I helped his children sue the son of a bitch. You never saw anything like it.” She tilted her head. “Ever notice how some people are like jackals?”
“Pardon?”
“They eat their young. That’s Lou. And don’t even get me started on that shriveled-up witch he lives with. Five-dollar whore who hit the jackpot. Hard to believe looking at her now.”
“I see,” Myron said, though he didn’t. He tried to push ahead. “Ms. Crimstein, my name is—”
“Myron Bolitar,” she interrupted. “By the way, that’s a horrid name. Myron. What were your parents thinking?”
A very good question. “If you know who I am, then you know why I’m here.”
“Yes and no,” Hester said.
“Yes and no?”
“Well, I know who you are because I’m a sports nut. I used to watch you play. That NCAA championship game against Indiana was a frigging classic. I know the Celtics drafted you in the first round, what, eleven, twelve years ago?”
“Something like that.”
“But frankly—and I mean no offense here—I’m not sure you had the speed to be a great pro, Myron. The shot, sure. You could always shoot. You could be physical. But what are you, six-five?”
“About that.”
“You would have had a tough t
ime in the NBA. One woman’s opinion. But of course the fates took care of that by blowing out your knee. Only an alternate universe knows the truth.” She smiled. “Nice chatting with you.” She looked over at Win. “You too, gabby boy. Good night.”
“Wait a second,” Myron said. “I’m here about Esperanza Diaz.”
She faked a gasp of surprise. “Really? And here I thought you just wanted to reminisce about your athletic career.”
He looked at Win. “The charm,” Win whispered.
Myron turned back toward Hester. “Esperanza is my friend,” he said.
“So?”
“So I want to help.”
“Great. I’ll start sending you the bills. This case is going to cost a bundle. I’m very expensive, you know. You can’t believe the upkeep of this building. And now the doormen want new uniforms. Something in mauve, I think.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh?”
“I’d like to know what’s going on with the case.”
She scrunched up her face. “Where have you been the last few weeks?”
“Away.”
“Where away?”
“The Caribbean.”
She nodded. “Nice tan.”
“Thanks.”
“But you could have gotten it at a tanning booth. You look like the kind of guy who hangs out at tanning booths.”
Myron looked at Win again. “The charm, Luke,” Win whispered, doing his best Alec Guinness as Obi-Wan Kenobi. “Remember the charm.”
“Ms. Crimstein—”
“Anyone who can verify your whereabouts in the Caribbean, Myron?”
“Pardon me?”
“Hearing problems? I asked if anyone can verify your whereabouts at the time of the alleged murder.”
Alleged murder. The guy is shot three times in his home, but the murder is only “alleged.” Lawyers. “Why do you want to know that?”
Hester Crimstein shrugged. “The alleged murder weapon was allegedly found at the offices of one MB SportsReps. That’s your company, is it not?”
“It is.”
“And you use the company car where the alleged blood and alleged fibers were allegedly found.”
Win said, “The key word here is alleged.”
