by Harlan Coben
“Tell me,” he said.
“No.” Terese’s hand stroked his hair. “Why did you leave?”
“A friend is in trouble.”
“That sounds so noble.”
Again with that word. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t do this,” he said.
“You complaining?”
“Hardly,” he said. “Just curious why you changed your mind.”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t think so.”
She stroked his hair some more. He closed his eyes, not moving, wanting only to enjoy the wonderful suppleness of her skin against his cheek and ride the rise and fall of her chest.
“Your friend in trouble,” she said. “It’s Esperanza Diaz.”
“Win told you?”
“I read it in the papers.”
He kept his eyes closed.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
“We were never great at talking on the island.”
“Yeah, but that was then, this is now.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you look a little worse for wear,” she said. “I think you’ll need the recovery time.”
Myron smiled. “Oysters. The island had oysters.”
“So tell me.”
So he did. Everything. She stroked his hair. She interrupted a lot with follow-up questions, relaxing in the more familiar role of interviewer. It took him almost an hour.
“Some story,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt? I mean, where you got beaten up?”
“Yes. But I’m a tough guy.”
She kissed the top of his head. “No,” she said. “You’re not.”
They sat in comfortable silence.
“I remember the Lucy Mayor disappearance,” Terese said. “At least the second round.”
“The second round?”
“When the Mayors had the money to run the big campaign to find her. Before that there really wasn’t much of a story. An eighteen-year-old runaway. No big deal.”
“You remember anything that might help me?”
“No. I hate covering stories like that. And not just for the obvious reason that lives are being shattered.”
“Then what?”
“There’s just too much denial,” she said.
“Denial?”
“Yes.”
“You mean with the family?”
“No, with the public. People block when it comes to their children. They deny because it’s too painful to accept. They tell themselves it can’t happen to them. God is not that fickle. There has to be a reason. Do you remember the Louise Woodward case a couple of years ago?”
“The nanny who killed the baby in Massachusetts?”
“Reduced to manslaughter by the judge, but yes. The public kept denying, even those who thought she was guilty. The mother shouldn’t have been working, they said. Never mind the fact that the mother worked only part-time and came home at lunch every day to breast-feed the baby. It was her fault. And the father. He should have checked out the nanny’s background better. The parents should have been more careful.”
“I remember,” Myron said.
“In the Mayors’ case it was the same kind of thing. If Lucy Mayor had been raised right, she would have never run away in the first place. That’s what I mean by denial. It’s too painful to think about, so you block and convince yourself it can’t happen to you.”
“Do you think there’s any merit to that argument in this case?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were Lucy Mayor’s parents part of the problem?”
Terese’s voice was soft. “It’s not important.”
“What makes you say that?”
She was silent, her breathing a little more hitched again.
“Terese?”
“Sometimes,” she said, “a parent is to blame. But that doesn’t change anything. Because either way—your fault or not—your child is gone and that’s all that matters.”
More silence.
Myron broke it. “You okay?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Sophie Mayor told me that the worst part was the not knowing.”
“She’s wrong,” Terese said.
Myron wanted to ask her more, but she got out of bed then. When she came back, they made love again—languid and bittersweet, as the song says—both feeling loss, both searching for something in the moment or at least settling for the numb.
They were still snarled in the sheets when the phone woke Myron early in the morning. He reached over her head and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“What’s so important?”
It was FJ. Myron quickly sat up.
“We need to chat,” Myron said.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Starbucks,” FJ said. “And Myron?”
“What?”
“Tell Win to stay outside.”
CHAPTER
31
FJ sat alone at the same table. He had his legs crossed at the knee and sipped as if maybe there were something in the bottom of the cup he wanted no part of. A bit of foam clung to his upper lip. His face was clean and wax-treatment smooth. Myron checked for Hans and Franz or some new goons, but nobody was there. FJ smiled and as always, something cold scrambled down Myron’s back.
“Where’s Win?” FJ asked.
“Outside,” Myron said.
“Good. Have a seat.”
“I know why Clu signed with you, FJ.”
“Care for an iced latte? You take it skim, correct?”
“It was bugging the hell out of me,” Myron said. “Why would Clu sign with you? Don’t get me wrong. He had every reason to leave MB. But he knew about TruPro’s reputation. Why would he go there?”
“Because we offer a valuable service.”
“At first I figured it was a gambling or drug debt. It’s how your dad always worked. He gets his hooks into someone, and then he gnaws on the carcass. But Clu was clean. And he had plenty of cash. So that wasn’t it.”
FJ put his elbow on the table and leaned his chin against his palm. “This is so fascinating, Myron.”
“It gets better. When I ran off to the Caribbean, you were keeping tabs on me. Because of the whole Brenda Slaughter situation. You even admitted it when I first got back, remember? You knew I’d been visiting the cemetery.”
“A very poignant moment for us all,” FJ agreed.
“When I vanished, you still wanted to keep tabs on me. If anything, my disappearance probably piqued your curiosity. You also saw an opening for TruPro, but that’s not here or there. You wanted to know where I was. But I wasn’t around. So you did the next best thing: You followed Esperanza, my partner and closest friend.”
FJ made a clucking noise. “And here I thought Win was your closest friend.”
“They both are. But that’s not the point. Following Win would be too difficult. He’d spot the tail before you even had him in place. So you followed Esperanza instead.”
“I still don’t see what any of this has to do with Clu’s decision to improve his representation.”
“I was missing. You knew that. You took advantage. You called my clients, telling them that I’d abandoned them.”
“Was I wrong?”
“I don’t care about that now. You saw a weakness and you exploited it. You couldn’t help yourself. It’s how you were raised.”
“Ouch.”
“But the important thing here is that you were following Esperanza, hoping she’d lead you to me or at least give you a clue to how long I’d be gone. You followed her out to New Jersey. And you stumbled upon something you were never supposed to learn.”
His smile was positively wet. “And what would that be?”
“Wipe that smile off your face, FJ. You’re no better than a peeping Tom. Even your father wouldn’t stoop that low.”
“You’re a pervert, and worse, you used what you learned as leverage against a client. Clu went nuts when Bonnie threw him out. He had no idea why. But now you knew. So you made a deal with him. He signs with TruPro, he learns the truth about his wife.”
FJ leaned back, recrossed the legs, folded his hands, and placed them on his lap. “Quite a spin, Myron.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
FJ tilted his head in a maybe-yes, maybe-no fashion. “Let me tell you how I see it,” he began. “Clu Haid’s old agency, MB SportsReps, was clearly screwing him. In every way. His agent—that would be you, Myron—abandoned him when he needed him most. Your partner—that would be the lovely and rather lithe Esperanza—was engaging in a lick fest with his wife. True?”
Myron said nothing.
FJ unfolded the hands, took a sip of foam, refolded the hands. “What I did,” he continued, “was take Clu Haid out of this awful situation. I brought him to an agency that would not abuse his trust. An agency that would look out for his interests. One of the ways we do that is through information. Valuable information. So the client understands what is happening to him. That’s part of an agent’s job, Myron. One of our agencies engaged in questionable ethics here. And it wasn’t TruPro.”
It was a reverse spin, but it was also true. One day, when Myron had the time to dwell upon them, the words would undoubtedly wound. But not now.
“So you admit it?”
FJ shrugged.
“But if you were following Esperanza, you know she didn’t do it.”
Again the head tilt. “Do I?”
“Stop playing games with me, FJ.”
“Please hold a moment.” FJ took out his cell phone and dialed a number. He stood, walked toward the corner, chatted. He put the phone between his shoulder and ear, took out a pen and paper, jotted something down. He hung up and returned to the table.
“You were saying?”
“Did Esperanza do it?”
He smiled. “You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. Honest. Yes, I followed her. But as I am sure you know, even lesbian scenes get repetitive. So after a while we’d stop watching her once she crossed the Washington Bridge. There was no point.”
“So you really don’t know who killed Clu?”
“Afraid not.”
“Are you still following me, FJ?”
“No.”
“Last night. You didn’t have a man on me?”
“No. And truth be told, I didn’t have a man on you when you came in here yesterday.”
“The guy I spotted outside my office wasn’t yours?”
“Sorry, no.”
Myron was missing something here.
FJ leaned forward again. His smile was so creepy that his teeth seemed to wiggle. “How far are you willing to go to save Esperanza?” he whispered.
“You know how far.”
“The ends of the earth?”
“What are you getting at, FJ?”
“You’re right, of course. I did learn about Esperanza and Bonnie. And I saw an opening. So I called Clu at the apartment in Fort Lee. But he wasn’t there. I left a rather intriguing message on his machine. Something to the effect of ‘I know who your wife is sleeping with.’ He called me back on my private line within the hour.”
“When was this?”
“What … three days before his death?”
“What did he say?”
“His reaction was the obvious. But the what is not nearly as important as the where.”
“The where?”
“I have caller ID on my private line.” FJ sat back. “Clu was out of town when he returned my call.”
“Where?”
FJ took his time. He picked up the coffee, took a long sip, made an aaah noise as if he were filming a 7-Up commercial, put the cup back down. He looked at Myron. Then he shook his head. “Not so fast.”
Myron waited.
“My specialty, as you’ve now seen, is gathering information. Information is power. It’s currency. It’s cash. I just don’t give away cash.”
“How much, FJ?”
“Not money, Myron. I don’t want your money. I could buy you ten times over; we both know that.”
“So what do you want?”
He took another long sip. Myron wanted so very much to reach across the table and throttle him. “Sure you don’t want anything to drink?”
“Cut the crap, FJ.”
“Temper, temper.”
Myron made two fists and hid them under the table. He willed himself to stay calm. “What do you want, FJ?”
“You are familiar, are you not, with Dean Pashaian and Larry Vitale.”
“They’re two of my clients.”
“Correction. They are seriously considering leaving MB SportsReps and joining TruPro. They are on the fence as we speak. So here is my deal. You stop pursuing them. You don’t call them and hand them crap about TruPro being run by gangsters. You promise to do that”—he showed Myron the piece of paper he’d been writing on in the corner—“I give you the number Clu called from.”
“Your agency will destroy their careers. It always does.”
FJ smiled again. “I can guarantee you, Myron, that no one on my staff will have a lesbian affair with their wives.”
“No deal.”
“Good-bye then.” FJ stood.
“Wait.”
“Your promise or I walk.”
“Let’s talk about this,” Myron said. “We can come up with something.”
“Good-bye.”
FJ started for the door.
“Okay,” Myron said.
FJ put a hand to his ear. “I missed that.”
Selling out two clients. What would he stoop to next, running political campaigns? “You have a deal. I won’t talk to them.”
FJ spread his hands. “You really are a master negotiator, Myron. I’m in awe of your skills.”
“Where did he call from, FJ?”
“Here’s the phone number.” He handed Myron the piece of paper. Myron read it and sprinted back to the car.
CHAPTER
32
Myron was on the cell phone before he reached Win. He pressed in the number and heard three rings.
“Hamlet Motel,” a man said.
“Where are you located?”
“In Wilston. On Route Nine off Ninety-one.”
Myron thanked the man and hung up. Win looked at him. Myron dialed Bonnie’s number. Bonnie’s mother answered. Myron identified himself and asked to speak with Bonnie.
“She was very upset after you left yesterday,” Bonnie’s mother said.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Why do you want to talk to her?”
“Please. It’s very important.”
“She’s in mourning. You realize that. Their marriage may have been in trouble—”
“I understand that, Mrs. Cohen. Please let me speak to her.”
A deep sigh, but two minutes later Bonnie came on. “What is it, Myron?”
“What does the Hamlet Motel in Wilston, Massachusetts, mean to you?”
Myron thought he heard a short intake of air. “Nothing.”
“You and Clu lived there, didn’t you?”
“Not at the motel.”
“I mean, in Wilston. When Clu was playing for the Bisons in the minor leagues.”
“You know we did.”
“And Billy Lee Palms. He lived there too. At the same time.”
“Not Wilston. I think he was in Deerfield. It’s the neighboring town.”
“So what was Clu doing staying at the Hamlet Motel three days before he died?”
Silence.
“Bonnie?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“Think. Why would Clu need to go up there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was visiting an old friend.”
“What old friend?”
“Myron, you’re not listening. I don’t know. I haven’t been up there in almost ten years. But we lived there for eight months. Maybe he made a friend. Maybe he went up there to fish or take a vacation or get away from it all. I don’t know.”
Myron gripped the phone. “You’re lying to me, Bonnie.”
Silence.
“Please,” he said. “I’m just trying to help Esperanza.”
“Let me ask you something, Myron.”
“What?”
“You keep digging and digging, right? I asked you not to. Esperanza asked you not to. Hester Crimstein asked you not to. But you keep digging.”
“Is there a question in there?”
“It’s coming now: Has all your digging helped? Has all your digging made Esperanza look more guilty or less?”
Myron hesitated. But it didn’t matter. Bonnie hung up before he had the chance to answer. Myron put the phone back in his lap. He looked at Win.
“I’ll take Awful Songs for two hundred, Alex,” Win said.
“What?”
“Answer: Barry Manilow and Eastern Standard.”
Myron almost smiled. “What is ‘Time in New England,’ Alex?”
“Correct answer.” Win shook his head. “Sometimes when our minds are that in tune—”
“Yeah,” Myron said. “It’s scary.”
“Shall we?”
Myron thought about it. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
“Call Terese first.”
Myron nodded, started dialing. “You know how to get there?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll probably take three hours.”
Win hit the accelerator. No easy trick in midtown Manhattan. “Try two.”
CHAPTER
33
Wilston is in western Massachusetts, about an hour shy of the New Hampshire and Vermont borders. You could still see remnants of the old days, the oft artistically rendered New England town with V-shaped brick walks, colonial clapboard homes, the historical society bronze signs welded onto the front of every other building, the white-steepled chapel in the center of the town—the whole scene screaming for the lush leaves of autumn or a major snowstorm. But like everywhere else in the US of A, the superstore boom was playing havoc with the historical. The roads between these postcard villages had widened over the years, as though guilty of gluttony, feeding off the warehouse-size stores that now lined them. The stores sucked out the character and the quaintness and left in their wake a universal blandness that plagued the byroads and highways of America. Maine to Minnesota, North Carolina to Nevada—there was little texture and individuality left. It was about Home Depot and Office Max and the price clubs.
