by Harlan Coben
Myron took another sip of the flat soda. "What do you know about Errol Swade?" he asked.
"A pedigree punk. He had already been in jail three times. First offense was stealing a car. He was twelve. Assorted felonies followed. Muggings, assaults, car thefts, armed robberies, drugs. Also a member of an ultraviolent street gang. Guess what the gang was called."
Myron shrugged. "Josie and the Pussycats?"
"Close. The Stains. Short for Bloodstains. They always wear a shirt dipped in a victim's blood. Kinda like a Boy Scout badge."
"Charming."
"Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller were also cousins. Swade had been living with the Yellers since his release a month earlier. Let's see what else. Swade was a dropout. Big surprise. A coke addict. Another shocker. And a major league moron."
"So how has he eluded the police for so long?"
Jake picked up his burger and took a bite. A big bite. Half the burger vanished. "He couldn't have," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"No way he could have stayed out of trouble this long. Impossible."
"Hold up. Did I miss something here?"
"Officially the police are still looking," Jake said. "But unofficially they're sure he's dead. The kid was a dumb punk. He couldn't find his ass with both hands, never mind hide from a nationwide dragnet."
"So what happened?"
"Rumor has it the senator got a favor from the mob. They knocked him off."
"Senator Cross put out a hit on him?"
"What, that surprises you? The guy's a politician. That's like a step below child molester."
"Weren't you elected sheriff?"
Jake nodded. "There you go."
Myron risked a bite of his sandwich. Tasted a bit like a sink sponge. "Do you have a physical description of Errol Swade?" he asked, almost hoping the answer was no.
"I got better. I got Swade's mug shot." Jake dusted his hands off, rubbed them on his shirt for good measure. Then he reached into the folder and withdrew a photograph. He handed it to Myron. Myron tried not to appear too eager.
It wasn't Duane.
Not even close. Not even with plastic surgery. For one, Errol Swade was much lighter skinned. Swade's head was shaped like a block, completely different from Duane's. His eyes were spaced too far apart. Everything was different. His height was listed as six-four, three inches taller than Duane. Can't fake being shorter.
Myron almost sighed with relief. "Does the name Valerie Simpson pop up in that file?" he asked.
Jake's eyes caught a little fire. "Who?"
"You heard me."
"Golly, Myron, that wouldn't be the same Valerie Simpson who was murdered yesterday?"
"By coincidence it is. Is her name in there?"
He handed Myron half the file. "Hell if I know. Help me look."
They went through it. Valerie's name was only on one sheet. A party guest list. Her name along with a hundred others. Myron jotted down the names and addresses of the witnesses to the murder--three friends of Alexander Cross's. Nothing else of much interest in the file.
"So," Jake said, "what does the lovely and dead Valerie Simpson have to do with this?"
"I don't know."
"Jesus Christ." Jake shook his head. "You still yanking my chain?"
"I'm not yanking anything."
"What have you got so far?"
"Less than nothing."
"That's what you said about Kathy Culver."
"But this isn't your case, Jake."
"Maybe I can help."
"I really don't have anything. Valerie Simpson visited my office a few days ago. She wanted to make a comeback, but somebody killed her instead. I want to know who, that's all."
"You're full of shit."
Myron shrugged.
"The TV said something about a stalker doing the job," Jake said.
"Might be him. Probably is."
Silence.
"You're holding back again," Jake said. "Just like with Kathy Culver."
"It's confidential."
"You're not going to tell me?"
"Nope. It's confidential."
"Protecting someone again?"
"Confidential," Myron said. "As in not to be divulged. Communicated in the strictest of confidence. A secret."
"Fine, be that way," Jake said. "So how's your sandwich?"
Myron nodded. "Maybe the ambience isn't so good, but at least the food stinks."
Jake laughed. "Hey, you got tickets to the Open?"
"Yeah."
"How about getting me two?"
"For when?"
"The last Saturday."
The men's semis and women's finals. "Tough day," Myron said.
"But not for a big-time agent like yourself."
"Then we'll be even?"
"Yeah."
"I'll leave them at the on-call window."
"Make sure they're good seats."
"Who you taking?"
"My son Gerard."
Myron had played ball against Gerard in college. Gerard was a bull. No finesse about his game. "He still working homicide in New York?"
"Yep."
"Can he do me a little favor?"
"Shit. Like what?"
"The cop on Valerie's murder is a devout asshole."
"And you want to know what they have."
"Yeah."
"All right. I'll ask Gerard to give you a call."
10
Messages?"
Esperanza nodded. "About a million of them."
Myron fingered through the pile. "Any word on Eddie Crane?"
"You're having dinner with him and his folks."
He looked up. "When?"
"Tonight. Seven-thirty. At La Reserve. I already made a reservation. Make sure you use Win's name."
Win's name carried weight at many of New York's finest restaurants. "You realize, of course, that you're a genius."
She nodded. "Yeah."
"I want you to come too."
"Can't. School." Esperanza went to law school at night.
"Is Eddie still being coached by Pavel Menansi?" Myron asked.
"Yeah, why?"
"He and I had a discussion last night at the Open."
"What about?"
"He used to coach Valerie."
"And you two 'discussed' that?"
Myron nodded.
"May I assume you wowed him with your usual charm?"
"Something like that."
"So we don't have a chance with Eddie," she said.
"Not necessarily. If Eddie was really close to Pavel, then TruPro would have him signed by now. Maybe there's some friction there."
"Almost forgot." Esperanza picked up a small stack of papers. "This just came in by fax. They want it signed right away."
A contract for a baseball prospect named Sandy Repo. A pitcher. The Houston Astros had taken him in the first round. Myron scanned it over. The contract had been orally finalized yesterday morning, but Myron spotted the new paragraph right away. Sandwiched it in on the second-to-last page.
"Cute," he said.
"Who?"
"The Astros. Get me Bob Wasson on the line." The Astros' general manager.
Esperanza picked up the phone. "You're supposed to meet with Burger City tomorrow afternoon."
"Same time as Duane's match?"
She nodded.
"You mind handling it?" he asked.
"They're not going to like dealing with a receptionist," she said.
"You're an associate," Myron corrected. "A valued associate."
"Still not the main man. Still not Myron Bolitar."
"Ah, but who is?"
She rolled her eyes, picked up the phone, began dialing. She purposely did not look at him. "You really think I'm ready?"
The tone was hard to read. Myron couldn't tell if it signaled sarcasm or insecurity. Probably both.
"They're going to want Duane for their new promo," he said. "But Duane wants to wait for a national deal. Try to
push someone else on them."
"Okay."
Myron went into his office. Home. Tara. He had a nice view of the Manhattan skyline. Not a corner office view like Win's, but not shabby either. On one wall he had movie stills. Everything from Bogie and Bacall to Woody and Diane. Another wall featured Broadway posters. Musicals mostly. Everything from Rodgers and Hammerstein to Andrew Lloyd Webber. The final wall was his client wall. Action photos of each player. He studied the picture of Duane, his body arched in a serving motion.
"What's going on, Duane?" Myron said out loud. "What are you hiding?"
The photo did not answer. Photos rarely did.
His phone buzzed. Esperanza came on the speaker. "I have Bob Wasson on the line."
"Okay."
"I can put him on hold. Until you're finished talking to your wall."
"No, I think I'll take it now." Wiseass. He hit the speakerphone. "Bob?"
"Goddamn it, Bolitar, take me off the speaker. You're not that goddamn important."
Myron picked up the receiver. "That better?"
"Yeah, great. What do you want?"
"I got the contract today."
"Well, yippee for you. Now, here's what you do next. Step one: Sign it where the X is. You know how to do that, don't you? I had your name typed under the X in case you're unsure of the spelling. And use a pen, Myron. Blue or black ink, please. No crayons. Step two: Put the contract in the enclosed self-addressed envelope. Moisten the flap. With me so far?"
Good ol' Bob. Funny as a case of head lice. "There's a problem," Myron said.
"A what?"
"A problem."
"Look, Bolitar, if you're trying to squeeze me for more dough, you can fuck yourself from behind."
"Point thirty-seven. Paragraph C."
"What about it?"
Myron read it out loud. "'The player agrees that he will not engage in sports endangering his health or safety including, but not limited to, professional boxing or wrestling, motorcycling, moped riding, auto racing, skydiving, hang gliding, hunting, et cetera, et cetera.'"
"Yeah, so? It's a prohibited activities clause. We got it from the NBA."
"The NBA's contract says nothing about hunting."
"What?"
"Please, Bob, let's try to pretend I don't have a learning disability. You threw in the word hunting. Sneaked it in, if you will."
"So what's the big deal? Your boy hunts. He hurt himself in a hunting incident two years ago and missed half his junior year. We want to make sure that doesn't happen again."
"Then you have to compensate him for it," Myron said.
"What? Don't bust my balls, Bolitar. You want us to pay the kid if he gets hurt, right?"
"Right."
"So we don't want him hunting. Suppose he shoots himself. Or suppose some other asshole mistakes him for a deer and shoots him. You know what that's going to cost us?"
"Your concern," Myron said, "is touching."
"Oh excuse me. A thousand pardons. I guess I should care more and pay less."
"Good point. Strike my last statement."
"So stricken. Can I go now?"
"My client enjoys hunting. It means a great deal to him."
"And his left arm means a lot to us."
"So I suggest a fair compromise."
"What?"
"A bonus. If Sandy doesn't hunt, you agree to pay him twenty thousand dollars at the end of the year."
Laughter. "You're out of your mind."
"Then take that clause out. It's not standard and we don't want it."
Pause. "Five grand. Not a penny more."
"Fifteen."
"Up yours, Myron. Eight."
"Fifteen," Myron said.
"I think you're forgetting how this is played," Bob said. "I say a number a little higher. You say a number a little lower. Then we meet somewhere in the middle."
"Fifteen, Bob. Take it or leave it."
Win opened the door and came in. He sat down silently, crossed his right ankle over his left thigh, and studied his manicured nails.
"Ten," Bob said.
"Fifteen."
The negotiation continued. Win stood, checked his reflection in the mirror behind the door. He was still fixing his hair five minutes later when Myron hung up. Not a blond lock was out of place, but that never seemed to deter Win.
"What was the final number?" Win asked.
"Thirteen five."
Win nodded. He smiled at his reflection. "You know what I was just thinking?"
"What?"
"It must suck to be ugly."
"Uh-huh. Think you can tear yourself away for a second?"
Win sighed. "It won't be easy."
"Try to be brave."
"I guess I can always look again later."
"Right. It'll give you something to look forward to."
With one last hair pat, Win turned away and sat down. "So what's up?"
"The powder-blue Caddy is still following me."
Win looked pleased. "And you want me to find out who they are?"
"Something like that," Myron said.
"Excellent."
"But I don't want you to move in on them without me there."
"You don't trust my judgment?"
"Just don't, okay?"
Win shrugged. "So how was your visit to the Van Slykes' estate?"
"I met Kenneth. The two of us really hit it off."
"I can imagine."
"You know him?" Myron asked.
"Oh yes."
"Is he as big an asshole as I think?"
Win spread his hands wide. "Of biblical proportions."
"You know anything else about him?"
"Nothing significant."
"Can you check him out?"
"But of course. What else did you find out?"
Myron told him about his visits to both the Van Slykes and Jake.
"Curiouser and curiouser," Win said when he finished.
"Yes."
"So what's the next step?" Win asked.
"I want to attack this from several directions."
"Those being?"
"Valerie's psychiatrist, for one."
"Who will throw all kinds of terms like 'doctor-patient confidentiality' at you," Win said with a dismissive wave. "A waste of time. Who else?"
"Curtis Yeller's mother witnessed her son's shooting. She's also Errol Swade's aunt. Maybe she has some thoughts on all this."
"For example?"
"Maybe she knows what happened to Errol."
"And you--what?--expect her to tell you?"
"You never know."
Win made a face. "So basically your plan is to flail about helplessly."
"Pretty much. I will also need to talk to Senator Cross. Do you think you can arrange it?"
"I can try," Win said. "But you're not going to learn anything from him either."
"Boy, you're a bundle of optimism today."
"Just telling it like it is."
"Did you learn anything at the Plaza?"
"As a matter of fact, I did." Win leaned back and steepled his fingers. "Valerie made only four calls in the past three days. All were to your office."
"One to make an appointment to see me," Myron said. "The other three on the day she died."
Win gave a quick whistle. "Very impressive. First you figure out Kenneth is an asshole and now this."
"Yeah, sometimes I even scare myself. Is there anything else?"
"A doorman at the Plaza remembered Valerie rather well," Win continued. "After I tipped him twenty dollars, he recalled that Valerie took a lot of quick walks. He found it curious, since guests normally leave for hours at a time, rather than scant minutes."
Myron felt a surge. "She was using a pay phone."
Win nodded. "I called Lisa at NYNEX. By the way, you now owe her two tickets to the Open."
Great. "What did she find out?"
"On the day before Valerie's murder, two calls were placed from a nearby pay phone at Fi
fth and Fifty-ninth to the residence of one Mr. Duane Richwood."
Myron felt a sinking feeling. "Shit."
"Indeed."
"So not only did Valerie call Duane," Myron said, "but she went out of her way to make sure no one would know."
"So it appears."
Silence.
Win said, "You'll have to talk to him."
"I know."
"Let it wait until after the tournament," Win added. "Between the Open and the big Nike campaign, there's no reason to distract him now. It will keep."
Myron shook his head. "I'll talk to Duane tomorrow. After his match."
11
Francois, the maitre d' at La Reserve, flitted about their table like a vulture awaiting death--or worse, a New York maitre d' awaiting a very large tip. Since discovering that Myron was a close friend of Windsor Horne Lockwood III's, Francois had befriended Myron in the same way a dog befriends a man with raw meat in his pocket.
He recommended the thinly sliced salmon appetizer and the chef's special scrod as an entree. Myron took him up on both suggestions. So did the so-far silent Mrs. Crane. Mr. Crane ordered the onion soup and liver. Myron was not going to be kissing him anytime soon. Eddie ordered the escargot and lobster tails. The kid was learning fast.
Francois said, "May I recommend a wine, Mr. Bolitar?"
"You may."
Eighty-five bucks down the drain.
Mr. Crane took a sip. Nodded his approval. He had not smiled yet, had barely exchanged a pleasantry. Luckily for Myron, Eddie was a nice kid. Smart. Polite. A pleasure to talk to. But whenever Mr. Crane cleared his throat--as he did now--Eddie fell silent.
"I remember your basketball days at Duke, Mr. Bolitar," Crane began.
"Please call me Myron."
"Fine." Instead of reciprocating the informality, Crane knitted his eyebrows. The eyebrows were his most prominent feature--unusually thick and angry and constantly undulating above his eyes. They looked like small ferrets furrowing into his forehead. "You were captain of the team at Duke?" he began.
"For three years," Myron said.
"And you won two NCAA championships?"
"My team did, yes."
"I saw you play on several occasions. You were quite good."
"Thank you."
He leaned forward. The eyebrows grew somehow bushier. "If I recall," Crane continued, "the Celtics drafted you in the first round."
Myron nodded.
"How long did you play for them? Not long, as I recall."
"I hurt my knee during a preseason game my rookie year."
"You never played again?" It was Eddie. His eyes were young and wide.
"Never," Myron said steadily. Better lesson than any lecture he could give. Like the funeral of a high school classmate who died because he was D.U.I.
"Then what did you do with yourself?" Mr. Crane asked. "After the injury?"
The interview. Part of the process. It was harder when you were an ex-jock. People naturally assumed you were dumb.
