by Harlan Coben
Myron said, “But Owen came back, right?”
“Yes.” She was still staring at the deer. “He’s a car salesman in New Jersey. He plays in a wedding band on weekends. Can you imagine? He dresses up in a cheap tuxedo and belts out ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon’ and ‘Celebration’ and introduces the bridal party.” She shook her head at the irony. “When Owen came back, the police questioned him, but he didn’t know anything. Their story was so typical: They went out to Los Angeles, failed miserably, started fighting, and broke up after six months. Owen stayed out there another three months, certain this time it had been Lucy who was holding back his immense talent. When he failed again, he came back home with his tail between his legs. He said he hadn’t seen Lucy since their breakup.”
“The police checked it out?”
“So they said. But it was a dead end.”
“Do you suspect Owen?”
“No,” she said bitterly. “He’s too big a nothing.”
“Have there been any solid leads at all?”
“Solid?” She thought about it. “Not really. Several of the investigators we’ve hired think she joined a cult.”
Myron made a face. “A cult?”
“Her personality fit the profile, they said. Despite my attempts to make her independent, they claim she was just the opposite—someone needing guidance, alone, suggestible, alienated from friends and family.”
“I don’t agree,” Myron said.
She looked at him. “You said you never met Lucy.”
“The psychological profile may be right, but I doubt she’s with a cult.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Cults like money. Lucy Mayor is the daughter of an extraordinarily wealthy family. Maybe you didn’t have money when she first would have joined, but believe me, they’d know about you by now. And they would have been in touch, if for no other reason than to extort vast sums.”
She started blinking again. Her eyes closed, and she turned her back to him. Myron took a step forward and then stopped, not sure what to do. He chose discretion, kept his distance, waited.
“The not knowing,” Sophie Mayor said after some time had passed. “It gnaws at you. All day, all night, for twelve years. It never stops. It never goes away. When my husband’s heart gave out, everyone was so shocked. Such a healthy man, they said. So young. Even now I don’t know how I’ll get through the day without him. But we rarely spoke about Lucy after she disappeared. We just lay in bed at night and pretended that the other one was asleep and stared at the ceiling and imagined all the horrors only parents with missing children can conjure up.”
More silence.
Myron had no idea what to say. But the silence was growing so thick he could barely breathe. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She didn’t look up.
“I’ll go to the police,” he said. “Tell them about the diskette.”
“What good will that do?”
“They’ll investigate.”
“They already have. I told you. They think she’s a runaway.”
“But now we have this new evidence. They’ll take the case more seriously. I can even go to the media. It’ll jump-start their coverage.”
She shook her head. Myron waited. She stood and wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans. “The diskette,” she said, “was sent to you.”
“Yes.”
“Addressed to you.”
“Yes.”
“So,” she said, “someone is reaching out to you.”
Win had said something similar. “You don’t know that,” Myron said. “I don’t want to douse your hopes, but it could be nothing more than a prank.”
“It’s not a prank.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“If it was a prank, it would have been sent to me. Or Jared. Or someone who knew her. It wasn’t. It was sent to you. Someone is reaching out to you specifically. It might even be Lucy.”
He took a deep breath. “Again I don’t want to douse your—”
“Don’t patronize me, Myron. Just say what you want to say.”
“Okay … if it were Lucy, why would she send an image of herself melting into a puddle of blood?”
Sophie Mayor did not wince, but she came close. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s her killer. Either way, they’re seeking you out. It’s the first solid lead in years. And if we make it loud and public, I fear that whoever sent this will go back into hiding. I can’t risk that.”
“I don’t know what I can do,” Myron said.
“I’ll pay you whatever you want. Name a price. A hundred thousand? A million?”
“It’s not the money. I just don’t see where I can help.”
“You can investigate.”
He shook his head. “My best friend and business partner is in jail for murder. My client was shot in his own home. I have other clients who rely on me for their job security.”
“I see,” she said. “So you don’t have time, is that it?”
“It’s not a question of time. I really have nothing to go on. No clue, no connection, no source. There’s nothing to start with here.”
Her eyes pinned him down. “You can start with you. You’re my clue, my connection, my source.” She reached out and took his hand. Her flesh was cold and hard. “All I’m asking is that you look closer.”
“At what?”
“Maybe,” she said, “at yourself.”
Silence. They stood there, she holding his hand.
“That sounds good, Sophie, but I’m not sure what it means.”
“You don’t have children, do you?”
“No,” Myron said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t sympathize.”
“So let me ask you, Myron: What would you do if you were me? What would you do if the first real clue in ten years just walked in your door?”
“The same thing you’re doing.”
So under the mounted deer, he told her he would keep his eyes open. He told her he would think about it. He told her he would try to figure out the connection.
CHAPTER
20
Back at the office Myron strapped on the Ultra Slim phone headset and started making phone calls. Very Jerry Maguire. Not just in appearance but in the fact that clients were abandoning him left and right. And he hadn’t even written a mission statement.
Win called. “Newspaper Tail’s name is Wayne Tunis. He lives in Staten Island and works in construction. He placed one call to a John McClain, telling him that he had been spotted. That’s it. They’re pretty careful.”
“So we don’t yet know who hired him?”
“That would be correct.”
“When in doubt,” Myron said, “we should go with the obvious choice.”
“Young FJ?”
“Who else? He’s been following me for months.”
“Course of action?”
“I’d like to get him off my back.”
“May I recommend a well-placed bullet through the back of the skull?”
“We’ve got enough problems without adding one more.”
“Fine. Course of action?”
“We confront him.”
“He usually hangs out at a Starbucks on Forty-ninth Street,” Win said.
“Starbucks?”
“The old mob espresso bars have gone the way of leisure suits and disco music.”
“Both of them are coming back.”
“No,” Win said, “bizarre mutations of them are coming back.”
“Like coffee bars in place of espresso bars?”
“Then you understand.”
“So let’s pay FJ a visit.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Win said before hanging up.
As soon as Myron hit the disconnect, Big Cyndi buzzed his line.
“Mr. Bolitar?”
“Yes?”
“A Miss or Mr. Thrill is on the phone,” Big Cyndi said.
Myron closed his eyes. “You mean fr
om last night?”
“Unless you know someone else named Thrill, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Take a message.”
“Both her words and tone suggest urgency, Mr. Bolitar.”
Suggest urgency? “Fine. Patch her—or him—through.”
“Yes, Mr. Bolitar.”
There was a click.
“Myron?”
“Uh, yeah, hi, Thrill.”
“That was some exit you made last night, big fella,” Thrill said. “You really know how to impress a girl.”
“Yeah, I usually don’t jump through a plate glass window until the second date.”
“So how come you haven’t called me?”
“I’ve been really busy.”
“I’m downstairs,” Thrill said. “Tell the guard to let me up.”
“It’s not a good time. Like I said before—”
“Men rarely say no to Thrill. I must be losing my touch.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that the timing is all wrong.”
“Myron, my name isn’t really Thrill.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, but I kinda suspected it read something else on your birth certificate.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Look, let me up. We need to talk about last night. About something that happened after you left.”
So he shrugged and called down to the guard at the front desk and told him to let up anyone identifying themselves as Thrill. The guard was puzzled but said okay. The headset was still strapped on so Myron speed-dialed a sports apparel company. Before dashing to the Caribbean, Myron had been on the verge of landing a sneaker deal for a track and field client with said company. But now he was being put on hold. An assistant to an assistant finally came on the line. Myron asked him about the deal. It had fallen through, he was told. Why? he asked.
“Ask your client,” the assistant said. “Oh, and ask his new agent too.”
Click.
Myron closed his eyes and pulled off his headset. Damn.
There was a knock on his office door. The alien sound caused a ripple of pain. Esperanza had never knocked. Never. She prided herself on interrupting him. She would sooner give up a limb than knock.
“Come in.”
The door opened. Someone stepped inside and said, “Surprise.”
Myron tried not to stare. He took off the headset.
“You’re …?”
“Thrill, yup.”
Nothing was the same. Gone was the Cat Woman costume, the blond wig, the high heels, the, uh, prodigious bosom. Thrill was still female, thank heavens. Still quite attractive in her conservative navy suit with matching blouse, her hair done in a pixie style, her eyes less luminous behind round tortoiseshell glasses, her makeup now applied with a far lighter hand. Her figure was thinner, more toned, less, uh, shapely. Nothing to complain about, mind you. Just different.
“To answer your first question,” she said, “when I dress like Thrill, I wear the aptly named Raquel Wonder Breast Enhancements.”
Myron nodded. “That the stuff that looks like flattened Silly Putty?”
“The very. You jam them in your bra. Guess you’ve seen the infomercial on TV.”
“Seen it? I bought the video.”
Thrill laughed. Last night her laugh—not to mention her walk, her movements, her tone of voice, her choice of words—had been a double entendre. In the light of day the sound was melodic and almost childlike.
“I also strap on the aptly named Miracle Bra,” she continued. “To lift it all up high.”
“Any higher,” Myron said, “and they could have doubled as earrings.”
“Too true,” she said. “The legs and ass, however, are mine. And for the record, I do not have a penis.”
“So noted.”
“Can I sit down?”
Myron looked at his watch. “I hate to be a pest—”
“You’ll want to hear, this, believe me.” She sat in the chair in front of his desk. Myron folded his arms and leaned his butt on the desk’s lip. “My real name is Nancy Sinclair. I don’t dress like Thrill for kicks. I’m a journalist, and I’m doing a story on Take A Guess. An insider’s look at what goes on, what kind of people go there, what makes them tick. In order to get people to open up, I go undercover as Thrill.”
“So you do all this for a story?”
“I do all what?”
“Dress up and, uh …” His gestures were unintelligible.
“Not that I see where it’s even vaguely any of your concern, but the answer is no. I dress a part. I strike up conversations. I flirt. Period. I like to watch people’s reaction to me.”
“Oh.” Then Myron cleared his throat and said, “Just, uh, out of curiosity, I’m not going to be in your story, am I? I mean, I’ve really never been there before and I was—”
“Relax. I recognized you as soon as you came in the door.”
“You did?”
“I follow basketball. I got season tickets to the Dragons.”
“I see.” The Dragons were New Jersey’s pro basketball team. Myron had tried a comeback with them not long ago.
“That’s why I approached you.”
“To see if I was into, uh, gender ambiguity?”
“Everyone else there is. Why not you?”
“But I explained to you that I was there to ask about someone.”
“Clu Haid, right. Still, your reaction to me was interesting.”
“I found you to be a witty conversationalist,” Myron said.
“Uh-huh.”
“And I also have a Julie-Newmar-as-Cat-Woman fetish.”
“You’d be surprised how many people have that same fetish.”
“No, I don’t think I would be,” Myron said. “So why are you here, Nancy?”
“Pat saw us talking last night.”
“The bartender?”
“He’s also one of the owners. He has shares in a couple of places in the city.”
“And?”
“And after the smoke cleared from your exit, Pat pulled me aside.”
“Because he saw us talking?”
“Because he saw me giving you my phone number.”
“So?”
“So I’d never done that before.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. I’m just making a point. I come on to a ton of girls and guys and whatever in there. But I never give out a phone number.”
“So why did you give it to me?”
“Because I was curious to see if you’d call. You rebuffed Thrill, so you clearly weren’t there for sex. I wondered what you were up to.”
Myron frowned. “That was the only reason?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing about my rugged good looks and brawny body?”
“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot.”
“So what did Pat want?”
“He wants me to bring you to another club tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“How did he know I’d call?” Again the smile. “Nancy Sinclair might not guarantee an immediate phone call …”
“But Thrill does?”
“Bosoms are empowerment. And if you didn’t, he told me I could look up your business number in the phone book.”
“Which is what you did.”
“Yes. He also promised me you wouldn’t be hurt.”
“How comforting. And your interest in all this?”
“Isn’t it obvious? A story. The Clu Haid murder is huge news. Now you’re tying this week’s murder-of-the-century to a kinky New York nightclub.”
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“Cow dooky.”
“Cow dooky?”
She shrugged.
“What else did Pat say to you?” Myron asked.
“Nothing much. He just said that he wanted to talk.”
“If he wanted to talk, he could have looked up my phone number too.”
“Thrill, not the brightest bul
b on the tree, didn’t pick up on that.”
“But Nancy Sinclair did.”
She smiled again. It was a damn nice smile. “Pat was also huddled up with Zorra.”
“Who?”
“That’s their psycho bouncer. A cross-dresser with a blond wig.”
“Like Veronica Lake?”
She nodded. “He’s absolutely nuts. Lift up your shirt.”
“Pardon?”
“He can do anything with that razor heel. His favorite is a Z slash on the right side. You were in the back room with him.”
Made sense. Myron hadn’t made him miss. Zorra—Zorra?—just wanted to brand him. “I have one.”
“He’s seriously whacked out. Did some sort of stuff in the Persian Gulf War. Undercover. Worked for the Israelis too. There are all kinds of rumors about him, but if five percent of the stories I’ve heard are true, he’s killed dozens.”
Just what he needed—Cross-Dressing Mossad. “Did they talk about Clu at all?”
“No. But Pat said something about your trying to kill somebody.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“They think I killed Clu?”
“I don’t think so. It sounded more like they thought you were at the club to find someone and kill him.”
“Who?”
“No idea. They just said you were out to kill him.”
“They didn’t say who?”
“If they did, I didn’t hear them.” She smiled. “So do we have a date?”
“Guess so.”
“You’re not scared?”
“I’ll have backup.”
“Someone good?”
Myron nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
“Then I better go home and strap up my breasts.”
“Need any help?”
“My hero. But no, Myron, I think I can handle it myself.”
“And if you can’t?”
“I have your phone number,” she said. “See you tonight.”
CHAPTER
21
Win frowned. “Nonsurgical breast enhancements?”
“Yes. They’re an accessory of some sort.”
“An accessory? Like a matching pocketbook?”
“In a way.” Then thinking about it, Myron added, “But they’re probably more noticeable.”
Win showed him the flat eyes. Myron shrugged.
“False advertising,” Win said.
“Pardon?”
