by Harlan Coben
“So there were signs before the positive test?”
“Yeah, I guess. In hindsight, sure there were lots of signs. I hear his wife threw him out. He was unshaven, red-eyed, that kind of thing.”
“It didn’t have to be drugs,” Myron said.
“True. It could have been booze.”
“Or maybe it was just the strain of marital discord.”
“Look, Myron, maybe some guys like Orel Hershiser get the benefit of the doubt. But when it comes to Clu Haid or Steve Howe or some other perennial screwup, you figure it’s substance abuse, and eleven times out of ten you’re right.”
Myron looked over at Win. Win had finished patting the blond locks and was now using the mirror to practice his different smiles. Right now he was working on roguish.
Subtle, Myron reminded himself, subtle …. “Bruce?”
“Yeah?”
“What can you tell me about Sophie Mayor?”
“What about her?”
“Nothing specific.”
“Just curious, huh?”
“Right, curious.”
“Sure you are,” Bruce said.
“How much damage did Clu’s drug test do to her?”
“Tremendous damage. But you know this. Sophie Mayor stuck her neck out, and for a while she was a genius. Then Clu fails the drug test, and presto, she’s an idiotic bimbo who should let the men run things.”
“So tell me about her background.”
“Background?”
“Yes. I want to get a feel for her.”
“Why?” Bruce asked. Then: “Ah, what the hell. She’s from Kansas, I think, or Iowa or Indiana or Montana. Someplace like that. An aged Ivory Girl type. Loves fishing, hunting, all that nature stuff. She was also something of a math prodigy. Came East to go to MIT. That’s where she met Gary Mayor. They got married and lived most of their lives as science professors. He taught at Brandeis; she taught at Tufts. They developed a software program for personal finance in the early eighties and suddenly went from middle-class professors to millionaires. They took the company public in ’94 and changed the m to a b.”
“The m to a b?”
“Millionaire to billionaire.”
“Oh.”
“So the Mayors did what lots of superwealthy people do: They bought a sports franchise. In this case, the Yankees. Gary Mayor grew up loving them. It was going to be a nice toy for him, but of course he never got to enjoy it.”
Myron cleared his throat. “And they, uh, have children?” Señor Subtle-o.
“They had two. You know Jared. He’s actually a pretty good kid, smart, went to your alma mater, Duke. But everyone hates him because he got the job through nepotism. His main responsibility is to keep an eye on Mommy’s investment. My understanding is that he’s actually pretty good at that and that he leaves the baseball to the baseball guys.”
“Uh-huh.”
“They also have a daughter. Or had a daughter.”
With great effort, Win sighed, closed the closet door. So difficult to pull himself away from a mirror. He sat across from Myron looking, as always, completely at ease. Myron cleared his throat and said into the phone, “What do you mean, had a daughter?”
“The daughter’s very estranged. Don’t you remember the story?”
“Vaguely. She ran away, right?”
“Right. Her name was Lucy. She took off with a boyfriend, some grunge musician, a few weeks before her eighteenth birthday. This was, I don’t know, ten, fifteen years ago. Before the Mayors had any money.”
“So where does she live now?”
“Well, that’s the thing. No one knows.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She ran away, that much is known for sure. She left them a note, I think. She was going to hit the road with her boyfriend and seek her fortune, the usual teenage stuff. Sophie and Gary Mayor were typical East Coast college professors who read too much Dr. Spock, so they gave their daughter ‘space,’ figuring of course that she’d come back.”
“But she didn’t.”
“Duh.”
“And they never heard from her?”
“Duh again.”
“But I remember reading about this a few years ago. Didn’t they start a search for her or something?”
“Yeah. First off, the boyfriend came back after a few months. They’d broken up and gone their separate ways. Big shock, right? Anyway, he didn’t know where she went. So the Mayors called the police, but they treated it like no big deal. Lucy was eighteen by this time, and she had clearly run away on her own. There was no evidence of foul play or anything and remember that this was before the Mayors had beaucoup bucks.”
“And after they became rich?”
“Sophie and Gary tried to find her again. They made it like a search for the missing heiress. The tabloids loved it for a while. There were some wild reports but nothing concrete. Some say Lucy moved overseas. Some say she’s living in a commune somewhere. Some say she’s dead. Whatever. They never found her, and there was still no sign of foul play, so the story eventually petered out.”
Silence. Win looked at Myron and arched an eyebrow. Myron shook his head.
“So why the interest?” Bruce asked.
“I just want to get a feel for the Mayors.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No big deal.”
“Okay, I buy that. Not.”
“It’s the truth,” Myron lied. “And how about using a more up-to-date reference? No one says not anymore.”
“They don’t?” Pause: “Guess I gotta watch more MTV. But Vanilla Ice is still hip, right?”
“Ice, ice, baby.”
“Fine, okay, we’ll play it your way for now, Myron. But I don’t know anything else about Lucy Mayor. You can try a search on Lexis. The papers might have more detail.”
“Good idea, thanks. Listen, Bruce, I got another call coming in.”
“What? You’re just going to cut me loose?”
“That was our deal.”
“So why all the questions about the Mayors?”
“Like I said, I want to get a feel for them.”
“Does the phrase what a crock mean anything to you?”
“Good-bye, Bruce.”
“Wait.” Pause. Then Bruce said, “Something serious is going down here, right?”
“Clu Haid has been murdered. Esperanza’s been arrested for the crime. I’d say that’s pretty serious.”
“There’s more to it. Tell me that much. I won’t print it, I promise.”
“Truth, Bruce? I don’t know yet.”
“And when you do?”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“You really think Esperanza’s innocent? Even with all that evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Call me, Myron. If you need anything else. I like Esperanza. I want to help if I can.”
Myron hung up. He looked over at Win. Win seemed in deep thought. He was tapping his chin with his index finger. They sat in silence for several seconds.
Win stopped tapping and asked, “Whatever happened to the King Family?”
“You mean the ones with the Christmas specials?”
Win nodded. “Every year you were supposed to watch the King Family Christmas Special. There must have been a hundred of the buggers—big Kings with beards, little Kings in knickers, Mommy Kings, Daddy Kings, Uncle and Aunt and Cousin Kings. Then one year—poof—they’re gone. All of them. What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“And what did the King clan do the rest of the year?”
“Prepared for the next Christmas special?”
“What a life, no?” Win said. “Christmas passes, and you start thinking about next Christmas. You live in a snow globe of Christmas.”
“I guess.”
“I wonder where they are now, all those suddenly unemployed Kings. Do they sell cars? Insurance? Are they
drug dealers? Do they get sad every Christmas?”
“Yeah, poignant point, Win. By the way, did you come down here for a reason?”
“Discussing the King Family isn’t reason enough? Weren’t you the one who came up to my office because you didn’t understand the meaning of a Sheena Easton song?”
“You’re comparing the King Family to Sheena Easton?”
“Yes, well, in truth, I came up here to inform you that I quashed the subpoenas against Lock-Horne.”
Myron shouldn’t have been surprised. “The power of payoffs,” he said with a shake of his head. “It never fails to amaze me.”
“Payoff is such an offensive term,” Win said. “I prefer the more politically correct assisting the contribution-challenged.” He sat back, crossed his legs in that way of his, folded his hands on his lap. He gestured at the phone and said, “Explain.”
So Myron did. He filled him in on everything, especially on the Lucy Mayor incident. When Myron was finished, Win said, “Puzzling.”
“Agreed.”
“But I am not sure I see a connection.”
“Someone mails me a diskette with Lucy Mayor’s image on it and a little while later Clu is murdered. You think that’s just a coincidence?”
Win mulled that over. “Too early to tell,” he concluded. “Let’s do a little recap, shall we?”
“Go ahead.”
“Let’s start with a straight time line: Clu gets traded to New York, he pitches well, he gets thrown out by Bonnie, he starts collapsing, he fails a drug test, he desperately searches for you, he comes to me and withdraws two hundred thousand dollars, he strikes Esperanza, he gets murdered.” Win stopped. “That sound fair?”
“Yes.”
“Now let’s explore some possible tangents from this line.”
“Let’s.”
“One, our old fraternity chum Billy Lee Palms appears to be missing. Clu purportedly contacted him shortly before the murder. Aside from that, is there any reason to tie Billy Lee into all this?”
“Not really. And according to his mother, Billy Lee isn’t the most dependable tool in the shed.”
“So maybe his disappearance has nothing to do with this.”
“Maybe.
“But that would be yet another bizarre coincidence,” Win said.
“It would at that.”
“Fine, let’s move on for the moment. Tangent two, this Take A Guess nightspot.”
“All we know is that Clu called them.”
Win shook his head. “We know a great deal more.”
“For example?”
“They overreacted to your visit. Tossing you out would have been one thing. Roughing you up a bit would have been one thing. But this sort of interrogation complete with knife slashes and electrocution—that’s overkill.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that you struck a nerve, poked the hive, stirred the nest, choose your favorite cliché.”
“So they’re connected into all this.”
“Logical,” Win said, again doing his best Spock.
“How?”
“Heavens, I haven’t a clue.”
Myron chewed it over a bit. “I had thought maybe Clu and Esperanza hooked up there.”
“And now?”
“Let’s say they did hook up there. What would be the big deal about that? Why the overkill?”
“So it’s something else.”
Myron nodded. “Any more tangents?”
“The big one,” Win said. “The disappearance of Lucy Mayor.”
“Which happened more than ten years ago.”
“And we must confess that her connection is tenuous at best.”
“So confessed,” Myron said.
Win steepled his fingers and raised the pointers. “But the diskette was addressed to you.”
“Yes.”
“Ergo we cannot be sure that Lucy Mayor is connected to Clu Haid at all—”
“Right.”
“—but we can be sure that Lucy Mayor is somehow connected to you.”
“Me?” Myron made a face. “I can’t imagine how.”
“Think hard. Perhaps you met her once.”
Myron shook his head. “Never.”
“You might not have known. The woman has been living in some sort of clandestine state for a very long time. Perhaps she was someone you met in a bar, a one-night stand.”
“I don’t one-night stand.”
“That’s right,” Win said. Then with flat eyes: “God, I wish I were you.”
Myron waved him off. “But suppose you’re right. Suppose I did meet her but didn’t know it. So what? She decides to repay me by sending me a diskette of her face melting into a puddle of blood?”
Win nodded. “Puzzling.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Puzzled.”
The speaker buzzed. Myron said, “Yes?”
Big Cyndi said, “Your father is on line one, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Thank you.” Myron picked up the receiver. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, Myron. How are you?”
“Good.”
“You readjusting to being home?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Happy to be back?”
Dad was stalling. “Yeah, Dad, I’m great.”
“All this stuff with Esperanza. It must be keeping you hopping, huh?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“Soooo,” Dad said, stretching out the word, “think you have time for lunch with your old man?”
There was a strain in the voice.
“Sure, Dad.”
“How about tomorrow? At the club?”
Myron bit back a groan. Not the club. “Sure. Noon, okay?”
“Good, son, that’ll be fine.”
Dad didn’t call him son very often. More like never. Myron switched hands. “Anything wrong, Dad?”
“No, no,” he said too quickly. “Everything’s fine. I just want to talk to you about something.”
“About what?”
“It’ll keep, no biggie. See you tomorrow.”
Click.
Myron looked at Win. “That was my father.”
“Yes, I picked up on that when Big Cyndi said your father was on the line. It was further reemphasized when you said ‘Dad’ four times during the conversation. I’m gifted that way.”
“He wants to have lunch tomorrow.”
Win nodded. “And I care because—?”
“Just telling you.”
“I’ll write about it in my diary tonight,” Win said. “In the meantime, I had another thought, vis-à-vis Lucy Mayor.”
“I’m listening.”
“If you recall, we were trying to figure out who was being injured in all this.”
“I recall.”
“Clu obviously. Esperanza. You. I.”
“Yes.”
“Well, we must add a new person: Sophie Mayor.”
Myron thought about it. Then he started nodding. “That could very well be the connection. If you wanted to destroy Sophie Mayor, what would you do? First, you’d do something to undermine any support she had with the Yankee fans and management.”
“Clu Haid,” Win said.
“Right. Then you might hit her in what has to be a vulnerable spot—her missing daughter. I mean, if someone sent her a similar diskette, can you imagine the horror?”
“Which raises an interesting question,” Win said.
“What?”
“Are you going to tell her?”
“About the diskette?”
“No, about recent troop movements in Bosnia. Yes, the diskette.”
Myron thought about it but not for very long. “I don’t see where I have any choice. I have to tell her.”
“Perhaps that too is part of the theoretical plan to wear her down,” Win said. “Perhaps someone sent you the diskette knowing it would get back to her.”
“Maybe. But she still has the right to know. It’s not my plac
e to decide what Sophie Mayor is strong enough to handle.”
“Too true.” Win rose. “I have some contacts trying to locate the official reports on Clu’s murder—autopsy, crime scene, witness statements, labs, what have you. But everyone is tight-lipped.”
“I got a possible source,” Myron said.
“Oh?”
“The Bergen County medical examiner is Sally Li. I know her.”
“Through Jessica’s father?”
“Yes.”
“Go for it,” Win said.
Myron watched him head for the door. “Win?”
“Yes?”
“You have any thoughts on how I should break the news to Sophie Mayor?”
“None whatsoever.”
Win left then. Myron stared at the phone. He picked it up and dialed Sophie Mayor’s phone number. It took some time, but a secretary finally patched him through to her. Sophie sounded less than thrilled to hear his voice.
She opened sharply. “What?”
“We need to talk,” Myron said. There was distortion on the line. A cell or car phone probably.
“We already talked.”
“This is different.”
Silence. Then: “I’m in the car right now, about a mile from my house out on the Island. How important is this?”
Myron picked up a pen. “Give me your address,” he said. “I’ll be right over.”
CHAPTER
19
On the street the man was still reading a newspaper.
Myron’s elevator trip down to the lobby featured mucho stops. Not atypical. No one spoke, of course, everyone busying themselves by staring up at the descending flashing numbers as though awaiting a UFO landing. In the lobby he joined the stream of suits and flowed out onto Park Avenue, salmons fighting upstream against the tide until, well, they died. Many of the suits walked with heads high, their expressions kick-ass-runway-model; others walked with backs bent, flesh versions of the statue on Fifth Avenue of Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders, but for them the world was simply too heavy.
Whoa, again with the deep.
Perfectly situated on the corner of Forty-sixth and Park, standing reading a newspaper but positioned in such way as to watch all entering or leaving the Lock-Horne building, was the same man Myron had noticed standing there when he entered.
Hmm.
Myron took out his cell phone and hit the programmed button.
