by Harlan Coben
“Like I said, her father—”
“Who has no legal standing in this matter whatsoever. Do you have Brenda’s signature or not?”
FJ looked rather displeased. Bubba and Rocco moved closer still. “We do not.”
“Then you have nothing.” Myron unlocked his car door. “But we’ve all enjoyed this too brief time together. I know I’m a better person for it.”
Bubba and Rocco started toward him. Myron opened the car door. His gun was under his car seat. He debated making a move. It would be dumb, of course. Someone—probably Brenda or Myron—would get hurt.
FJ lifted a hand, and the two men stopped as though they’d been sprayed by Mr. Freeze. “We’re not mobsters,” FJ said. “We’re businessmen.”
“Right,” Myron said. “And Bubba and Rocco over there—they your CPAs?”
A tiny smile came to FJ’s lips. The smile was strictly reptilian, meaning it was far warmer than his other ones. “If you are indeed her agent,” FJ said, “then it would behoove you to speak with me.”
Myron nodded. “Call my office, make an appointment,” he said.
“We’ll talk soon then,” FJ said.
“Looking forward to it. And keep using the word behoove. It really impresses people.”
Brenda opened her car door and got in. Myron did likewise. FJ came around to Myron’s window and knocked on the glass. Myron lowered the window.
“Sign with us or don’t sign with us,” FJ said quietly. “That’s business. But when I kill you, well, that will be for fun.”
Myron was about to crack wise again, but something—probably a fly-through of good sense—made him pause. FJ moved away then. Rocco and Bubba followed. Myron watched them disappear, his heart flapping in his chest like a caged condor.
They parked on a lot on Seventy-first Street and walked to the Dakota. The Dakota remains one of New York’s premier buildings, though it’s still best known for John Lennon’s assassination. A fresh bouquet of roses marked the spot where his body had fallen. Myron always felt a little weird crossing over it, as if he were trampling on a grave or something. The Dakota doorman must have seen Myron a hundred times by now, but he always pretended otherwise and buzzed up to Win’s apartment.
Introductions were brief. Win found Brenda a place to study. She broke out a medical textbook the size of a stone tablet and made herself comfortable. Win and Myron moved back into a living room semidecorated in the manner of Louis the Somethingteenth. There was a fireplace with big iron tools and a bust on the mantel. The substantial furniture looked, as always, freshly polished yet plenty old. Oil paintings of stern yet effeminate men stared down from the walls. And just to keep things in the proper decade, there was a big-screen TV and VCR front and center.
The two friends sat and put their feet up.
“So what do you think?” Myron asked.
“She’s too big for my tastes,” Win said. “But nicely toned legs.”
“I mean, about protecting her.”
“We’ll find a place,” Win said. He laced his hands behind his neck. “Talk to me.”
“Do you know Arthur Bradford?”
“The gubernatorial candidate?”
“Yes.”
Win nodded. “We’ve met several times. I played golf with him and his brother once at Merion.”
“Can you set up a meet?”
“No problem. They’ve been hitting us up for a sizable donation.” He crossed his ankles. “So how does Arthur Bradford fit into all this?”
Myron recapped the day’s developments: the Honda Accord following them, the phone taps, the bloody clothes, Horace Slaughter’s phone calls to Bradford’s office, FJ’s surprise visit, Elizabeth Bradford’s murder, and Anita’s role in finding the body.
Win looked unimpressed. “Do you really see a link between the Bradfords’ past and the Slaughters’ present?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Then let me see if I can follow your rationale. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Win dropped his feet to the floor and steepled his fingers, resting his indexes against his chin. “Twenty years ago Elizabeth Bradford died under somewhat murky circumstances. Her death was ruled an accident, albeit a bizarre one. You do not buy that one. The Bradfords are rich, and thus you are extra-suspicious of the official rendering—”
“It’s not just that they’re rich,” Myron interrupted. “I mean, falling off her own balcony? Come on.”
“Yes, fine, fair enough.” Win did the hand-steeple again. “Let us pretend that you are correct in your suspicions. Let us assume that something unsavory did indeed occur when Elizabeth Bradford plunged to her death. And I am further going to assume—as you no doubt have—that Anita Slaughter, in her capacity as maid or servant or what have you, happened upon the scene and witnessed something incriminating.”
Myron nodded. “Continue.”
Win spread his hands. “Well, my friend, that is where you reach an impasse. If the dear Ms. Slaughter did indeed see something that she was not supposed to, the issue would have been resolved immediately. I know the Bradfords. They are not people who take chances. Anita Slaughter would have been killed or forced to run immediately. But instead—and here is the rub—she waited a full nine months before disappearing. I therefore conclude that the two incidents are unrelated.”
Behind them Brenda cleared her throat. They both turned to the doorway. She stared straight at Myron. She did not look happy.
“I thought you two were discussing a business problem,” she said.
“We are,” Myron said quickly. “I, uh, mean we’re going to. That’s why I came here. To discuss a business problem. But we just started talking about this first, and well, you know, one thing led to another. But it wasn’t intentional or anything. I mean, I came here to discuss a business problem, right, Win?”
Win leaned forward and patted Myron’s knee. “Smooth,” he said.
She crossed her arms. Her eyes were two drill bits—say, three-sixteenths of an inch, quarter inch tops.
“How long have you been standing there?” Myron asked.
Brenda gestured toward Win. “Since he said I had nicely toned legs,” she said. “I missed the part about being too big for his tastes.”
Win smiled. Brenda did not wait to be asked. She crossed the room and grabbed an open chair. She kept her eyes on Win. “For the record, I don’t buy any of this either,” Brenda said to him. “Myron has trouble believing a mother would just abandon her little daughter. He has no trouble believing a father would do the same, just not a mother. But as I’ve explained to him, he’s something of a sexist.”
“A snorting pig,” Win agreed.
“But,” she continued, “if you two are going to sit here and play Holmes and Watson, I do see a way around your”—she made quote marks with her finger—“impasse.”
“Do tell,” Win said.
“When Elizabeth Bradford fell to her death, my mother may have seen something that appeared innocuous at first. I don’t know what. Something bothersome maybe but nothing to get excited about. She continues to work for these people, scrubbing their floors and toilets. And maybe one day she opens a drawer. Or a closet. And maybe she sees something that coupled with what she saw the day Elizabeth Bradford died leads her to conclude that it wasn’t an accident after all.”
Win looked at Myron. Myron raised his eyebrows.
Brenda sighed. “Before you two continue your patronizing glances—the ones that say, ‘Golly gee, the woman is actually capable of cogitation’—let me add that I’m just giving you a way around the impasse. I don’t buy it for a second. It leaves too much unexplained.”
“Like what?” Myron asked.
She turned to him. “like why my mother would run away the way she did. Like why she would leave that cruel note for my father about another man. Like why she left us penniless. Like why she would leave behind a daughter she theoretically loved.”
&nb
sp; There was no quiver in the voice. Just the opposite, in fact. The tone was far too steady, straining too hard for normality.
“Maybe she wanted to protect her daughter from harm,” Myron said. “Maybe she wanted to discourage her husband from looking for her.”
She frowned. “So she took all his money and faked running away with another man?” Brenda looked at Win. “Does he really believe this crap?”
Win held his hands palms up and nodded apologetically.
Brenda turned back to Myron. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but it just doesn’t add up. My mother ran away twenty years ago. Twenty years. In all that time couldn’t she have done more than write a couple of letters and call my aunt? Couldn’t she have figured out a way to see her own daughter? To set up a meet? At least once in twenty years? In all that time couldn’t she have gotten herself settled and come back for me?”
She stopped as though out of breath. She hugged her knees to her chest and turned away. Myron looked at Win. Win kept still. The silence pressed against the windows and doors.
Win was the one who finally spoke. “Enough speculating. Let me call Arthur Bradford. He’ll see us tomorrow.”
Win left the room. With some people, you might be skeptical or at least wonder how they could be so sure a gubernatorial candidate would see them on such short notice. Not so when it came to Win.
Myron looked over at Brenda. She did not look back. A few minutes later Win returned.
“Tomorrow morning,” Win said. “Ten o’clock.”
“Where?”
“The estate at Bradford Farms. In Livingston.”
Brenda stood. “If we’re finished with this topic, I’ll leave you two alone.” She looked at Myron. “To discuss a business problem.”
“There is one more thing,” Win said.
“What?”
“The question of a safe house.”
She stopped and waited.
Win leaned back. “I am inviting both you and Myron to stay here if you’re comfortable. As you can see, I have plenty of room. You can use the bedroom at the end of the corridor. It has its own bathroom. Myron will be across the hallway. You’ll have the security of the Dakota and easy, close proximity to the two of us.”
Win glanced at Myron, who tried to hide his surprise. Myron frequently stayed overnight—he even kept clothes and a bunch of toiletries here—but Win had never made an offer like this before. He usually demanded total privacy.
Brenda nodded and said, “Thank you.”
“The only potential problem,” Win said, “is my private life.”
Uh-oh.
“I may bring in a dizzying array of ladies for a variety of purposes,” he went on. “Sometimes more than one. Sometimes I film them. Does that bother you?”
“No,” she said. “As long as I can do the same with men.”
Myron started coughing.
Win remained unfazed. “But of course. I keep the video camera in that cabinet.”
She turned to the cabinet and nodded. “Got a tripod?”
Win opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head. “Too easy,” he said.
“Smart man.” Brenda smiled. “Good night, guys.”
When she left, Win looked at Myron. “You can close your mouth now.”
Win poured himself a cognac. “So what business problem did you want to discuss?”
“It’s Esperanza,” Myron said. “She wants a partnership.”
“Yes, I know.”
“She told you?”
Win swirled the liquid in the snifter. “She consulted me. On the hows mostly. The legal setup for such a change.”
“And you never told me?”
Win did not reply. The answer was obvious. Win hated stating the obvious. “Care for a Yoo-Hoo?”
Myron shook his head. “The truth is, I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Yes, I know. You’ve been stalling.”
“Did she tell you that?”
Win looked at him. “You know her better than that.”
Myron nodded. He did know better. “Look, she’s my friend—”
“Correction,” Win interrupted. “She’s your best friend. More so, perhaps, than even I. But you must forget that for now. She is just an employee—a great one perhaps—but your friendship must be meaningless in this decision. For your sake as well as hers.”
Myron nodded. “Yeah, you’re right, forget I said that. And I do understand where she’s coming from. She’s been with me since the beginning. She’s worked hard. She’s finished law school.”
“But?”
“But a partnership? I’d love to promote her, give her her own office, give her more responsibility, even work out a profit-sharing program. But she won’t accept that. She wants to be a partner.”
“Has she told you why?”
“Yeah,” Myron said.
“And?”
“She doesn’t want to work for anyone. It’s as simple as that. Not even me. Her father worked menial jobs for scumbags his whole life. Her mother cleaned other people’s houses. She swore that one day she would work for herself.”
“I see,” Win said.
“And I sympathize. Who wouldn’t? But her parents probably worked for abusive ogres. Forget our friendship. Forget the fact that I love Esperanza like a sister. I’m a good boss. I’m fair. Even she’d have to admit that.”
Win took a deep sip. “But clearly that is not enough for her.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Give in? Business partnerships between friends or family never work. Never. It’s just that simple. Money screws up every relationship. You and I—we work hard to keep our businesses linked but separate. That’s why we get away with it. We have similar goals, but that’s it. There is no money connection. I know a lot of good relationships—and good businesses—that have been destroyed over something like this. My father and his brother still don’t talk because of a business partnership. I don’t want that to happen here.”
“Have you told Esperanza this?”
He shook his head. “But she’s given me a week to make a decision. Then she walks.”
“Tough spot,” Win said.
“Any suggestions?”
“Not a one.” Then Win tilted his head and smiled.
“What?”
“Your argument,” Win said. “I find it ironic.”
“How so?”
“You believe in marriage and family and monogamy and all that nonsense, correct?”
“So?”
“You believe in raising children, the picket fences, the basketball pole in the driveway, peewee football, dance classes, the whole suburbia scene.”
“And again I say, so?”
Win spread his arms. “So I would argue that marriages and the like never work. They inevitably lead to divorce or disillusionment or the deadening of dreams or at the very least, bitterness and resentment. I might—similar to you—point to my own family as an example.”
“It’s not the same thing, Win.”
“Oh, I recognize that. But the truth is, we all take facts and compute them through our own experiences. You had a wonderful family life; thus you believe as you do. I am of course the opposite. Only a leap of faith could change our positions.”
Myron made a face. “Is this supposed to be helping?”
“Heavens, no,” Win said. “But I do so enjoy philosophical folly.”
Win picked up the remote and switched on the television. Nick at Night. Mary Tyler Moore was on. They grabbed fresh drinks and settled back to watch.
Win took another sip, reddening his cheeks. “Maybe Lou Grant will have your answer.”
He didn’t. Myron imagined what would happen if he treated Esperanza the same way Lou treated Mary. If Esperanza were in a good mood, she’d probably tear out his hair until he looked like Murray.
Bedtime. On his way to his room, Myron checked on Brenda. She was sitting lotus style on the antique Queen Something-or-other bed. The large t
extbook was open in front of her. Her concentration was total, and for a moment he just watched her. Her face displayed the same serenity he’d seen on the court. She wore flannel pajamas, her skin still a little wet from a recent shower, a towel wrapped around her hair.
Brenda sensed him and looked up. When she smiled at him, he felt something tighten in his stomach.
“You need anything?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said. “You solve your business problem?”
“No.”
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop before.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I meant what I said earlier. I’d like you to be my agent.”
“I’m glad.”
“You’ll draw up the papers?”
Myron nodded.
“Good night, Myron.”
“Good night, Brenda.”
She looked down and turned a page. Myron watched her for another second. Then he went to bed.
They took Win’s Jaguar to the Bradford estate because, as Win explained, people like the Bradfords “don’t do Taurus.” Neither did Win.
Win dropped Brenda off at practice and headed down Route 80 to Passaic Avenue, which had finally completed a widening program that began when Myron was in high school. They finished up on Eisenhower Parkway, a beautiful four-lane highway that ran for maybe five miles. Ah, New Jersey.
A guard with enormous ears greeted them at the gate of, as the sign said, Bradford Farms. Right. Most farms are known for their electronic fences and security guards. Wouldn’t want anyone getting into the carrots and corn. Win leaned out the window, gave the guy the snooty smile, and was quickly waved through. A strange pang struck Myron as they drove through. How many times had he gone past the gate as a kid, trying to peer through the thick shrubs for a glance at the proverbial greener grass, dreaming up scenarios for the lush, adventure-filled life that lay within these manicured grounds?
He knew better now, of course. Win’s familial estate, Lockwood Manor, made this place look like a railroad shanty, so Myron had seen up close how the superrich lived. It was indeed pretty, but pretty doesn’t mean happy. Wow. That was deep. Maybe next time Myron would conclude that money can’t buy happiness. Stay tuned.
