One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel

by Harlan Coben

  Scattered cows and sheep helped keep the farm illusion—for the purpose of nostalgia or a tax write-off, Myron could not say, though he had his suspicions. They pulled up to a white farmhouse that had undergone more renovations than an aging movie queen.

  An old black man wearing gray butler’s tails answered the door. He gave them a slight bow and asked them to follow him. In the corridor were two goons dressed like Secret Service men. Myron glanced at Win. Win nodded. Not Secret Service guys. Goons. The bigger of the two smiled at them like they were cocktail franks heading back to the kitchen. One big. One skinny. Myron remembered Mabel Edwards’s descriptions of her attackers. Not much to go on if he couldn’t check for a tattoo, but worth keeping in mind.

  The butler or manservant or whatever led them into the library. Rounded walls of books climbed three stories high, topped by a glass cupola that let in the proper amount of fresh light. The room might have been a converted silo, or maybe it just looked that way. Hard to tell. The books were leather and in series and untouched. Cherry mahogany dominated the scene. Paintings of old sailing vessels were framed under portrait lamps. There was a huge antique globe in the center of the room, not unlike the one Win had in his own office. Rich people like old globes, Myron surmised. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they are both expensive and utterly useless.

  The chairs and couches were leather with gold buttons. The lamps were Tiffany. A book lay strategically open on a coffee table next to a bust of Shakespeare. Rex Harrison was not sitting in the corner wearing a smoking jacket, but he should have been.

  As though on cue, a door on the other side of the room—a bookshelf actually—swung open. Myron half expected Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson to storm into the room calling for Alfred, maybe tilt back the head of Shakespeare, and turn a hidden knob. Instead it was Arthur Bradford, followed by his brother, Chance. Arthur was very tall, probably six-six, thin, and stooped a bit the way tall people over the age of fifty are. He was bald, his fringe hair trimmed short. Chance was under six feet with wavy brown hair and the kind of boyish good looks that made it impossible to tell his age, though Myron knew from the press clippings that he was forty-nine, three years younger than Arthur.

  Playing the part of the perfect politician, Arthur beelined toward them, a fake smile at the ready, hand extended in such a way as either to shake hands or to imply that the extended hand hoped to touch more than just flesh.

  “Windsor!” Arthur Bradford exclaimed, grasping Win’s hand as if he’d been searching for it all his life. “How wonderful to see you.”

  Chance headed toward Myron like it was a double date and he had gotten stuck with the ugly girl and was used to it.

  Win flashed the vague smile. “Do you know Myron Bolitar?”

  The brothers switched handshaking partners with the practiced proficiency of experienced square dancers. Shaking Arthur Bradford’s hand was like shaking hands with an old, unoiled baseball glove. Up close, Myron could see that Arthur Bradford was big-boned and rough-hewn and large-featured and red-faced. Still the farm boy under the suit and manicure.

  “We’ve never met,” Arthur said through the big smile, “but everyone in Livingston—heck, all of New Jersey—knows Myron Bolitar.”

  Myron made his aw-shucks face but refrained from batting his eyes.

  “I’ve been watching you play ball since you were in high school,” Arthur continued with great earnestness. “I’m a big fan.”

  Myron nodded, knowing that no Bradford had ever stepped foot in Livingston High School’s gymnasium. A politician who stretched the truth. What a shock.

  “Please, gentlemen, sit down.”

  Everyone grabbed smooth leather. Arthur Bradford offered coffee. Everyone accepted. A Latina woman opened the door. Arthur Bradford said to her, “Café, por favor.” Another linguist.

  Win and Myron were on a couch. The brothers sat across from them in matching wingback chairs. Coffee was wheeled in on something that could have doubled as a coach for a palace ball. The coffee was poured and milked and sugared. Then Arthur Bradford, the candidate himself, took over and actually handed Myron and Win their beverages. Regular guy. Man of the people.

  Everyone settled back. The servant faded away. Myron raised the cup to his lips. The problem with his new coffee addiction was that he drank only coffee-bar coffee, the potent “gourmet” stuff that could eat through driveway sealant. The at-home brews tasted to his suddenly picky palate like something sucked through a sewer grate on a hot afternoon—this coming from a man who could not tell the difference between a perfectly aged Merlot and a recently stomped Manischewitz. But when Myron took a sip from the Bradfords’ fine china, well, the rich have their ways. The stuff was ambrosia.

  Arthur Bradford put down his Wedgwood cup and saucer. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, his hands in a quiet clasp. “First, let me tell you how thrilled I am to have you both here. Your support means a great deal to me.”

  Bradford turned toward Win. Win’s face was totally neutral, patient.

  “I understand Lock-Horne Securities wants to expand its Florham Park office and open a new one in Bergen County,” Bradford went on. “If I can be of any help at all, Windsor, please let me know.”

  Win gave a noncommittal nod.

  “And if there are any state bonds Lock-Horne has any interest in underwriting, well, again I would be at your disposal.”

  Arthur Bradford sat up on his haunches now, as though waiting for a scratch behind the ears. Win rewarded him with another noncommittal nod. Good doggie. Hadn’t taken Bradford long to start with the graft, had it? Bradford cleared his throat and turned his attention to Myron.

  “I understand, Myron, that you own a sports representation company.”

  He tried to imitate the Win nod, but he went too far. Not subtle enough. Must be something in the genes.

  “If there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  “Can I sleep in the Lincoln bedroom?” Myron asked.

  The brothers froze for a moment, looked at each other, then exploded into laughter. The laughs were about as genuine as a televangelist’s hair. Win looked over at Myron. The look said, go ahead.

  “Actually, Mr. Bradford—”

  Through his laugh he stuck up a hand the size of a throw pillow and said, “Please, Myron, call me Arthur.”

  “Arthur, right. There is something you can do for us.”

  Arthur and Chance’s laughter segued into chuckles before fading away like a song on the radio. Their faces grew harder now. Game time. They both leaned into the strike zone a bit, signaling to one and all that they were going to listen to Myron’s problem with four of the most sympathetic ears in existence.

  “Do you remember a woman named Anita Slaughter?” Myron asked.

  They were good, both of them thoroughbred politicians, but their bodies still jolted as if they’d been zapped with a stun gun. They recovered fast enough, busying themselves with the pretense of scouring for a recollection, but there was no doubt. A nerve had been jangled big time.

  “I can’t place the name,” Arthur said, his face twisted as though he’d given this thought process an effort equal to childbirth. “Chance?”

  “The name is not unfamiliar,” Chance said, “but …” He shook his head.

  Not unfamiliar. You gotta love it when they speak politicianese.

  “Anita Slaughter worked here,” Myron said. “Twenty years ago. She was a maid or house servant of some kind.”

  Again the deep, probing thought. If Rodin were here, he’d break out the good bronze for these guys. Chance kept his eyes on his brother, waiting for his stage cue. Arthur Bradford held the pose for a few more seconds before he suddenly snapped his fingers.

  “Of course,” he said. “Anita. Chance, you remember Anita.”

  “Yes, of course,” Chance chimed in. “I guess I never knew her last name.”

  They were both smiling now like morning anchors during a
sweeps week.

  “How long did she work for you?” Myron asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Arthur said. “A year or two, I guess. I really don’t remember. Chance and I weren’t responsible for household help, of course. That was more Mother’s doing.”

  Already with the “plausible deniability.” Interesting. “Do you remember why she left your family’s employ?”

  Arthur Bradford’s smile stayed frozen, but something was happening to his eyes. His pupils were expanding, and for a moment it looked like he was having trouble focusing. He turned to Chance. They both looked uncertain now, not sure how to handle this sudden frontal assault, not wanting to answer but not wanting to lose the potentially massive Lock-Horne Securities support either.

  Arthur took the lead. “No, I don’t remember.” When in doubt, evade. “Do you, Chance?”

  Chance spread his hands and gave them the boyish smile. “So many people in and out.” He looked to Win as if to say, You know how it is. But Win’s eyes, as usual, offered no solace.

  “Did she quit or was she fired?”

  “Oh, I doubt she was fired,” Arthur said quickly. “My mother was very good to the help. She rarely, if ever, fired anyone. Not in her nature.”

  The man was pure politician. The answer might be true or not—that was pretty much irrelevant to Arthur Bradford—but under any circumstances, a poor black woman fired as a servant by a wealthy family would not play well in the press. A politician innately sees this and calculates his response in a matter of seconds; reality and truth must always take a backseat to the gods of sound bite and perception.

  Myron pressed on. “According to her family, Anita Slaughter worked here until the day she disappeared.”

  They both were too smart to bite and say, “Disappeared?,” but Myron decided to wait them out anyway. People hate silence and often jump in just to break it. This was an old cop trick: Say nothing and let them dig their own graves with explanations. With politicians the results were always interesting: They were smart enough to know they should keep their mouths shut, yet genetically incapable of doing so.

  “I’m sorry,” Arthur Bradford said at last. “As I explained earlier, Mother handled these matters.”

  “Then maybe I should talk to her,” Myron said.

  “Mother is not well, I’m afraid. She’s in her eighties, poor dear.”

  “I’d still like to try.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  There was just a hint of steel in his voice now.

  “I see,” Myron said. “Do you know who Horace Slaughter is?”

  “No,” Arthur said. “I assume he’s a relative of Anita’s?”

  “Her husband.” Myron looked over at Chance. “You know him?”

  “Not that I recall,” Chance said. Not that I recall. Like he was on a witness stand, needing to leave himself the out.

  “According to his phone records, he’s been calling your campaign headquarters a lot lately.”

  “Many people call our campaign headquarters,” Arthur said. Then he added with a small chuckle, “At least I hope they do.”

  Chance chuckled too. Real yucksters, these Bradford boys.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Myron looked at Win. Win nodded. Both men stood up.

  “Thank you for your time,” Win said. “We’ll show ourselves out.”

  The two politicians tried not to look too stunned. Chance finally cracked a bit. “What the hell is this?” Arthur silenced him with a look. He rose to shake hands, but Myron and Win were already at the door.

  Myron turned and did his best Columbo. “Funny.”

  “What?” Arthur Bradford said.

  “That you don’t remember Anita Slaughter better. I thought you would.”

  Arthur turned his palms upward. “We’ve had lots of people work here over the years.”

  “True,” Myron said, stepping through the portal. “But how many of them found your wife’s dead body?”

  The two men turned to marble—still and smooth and cool. Myron did not wait for more. He released the door and followed Win out.

  As they drove through the gate, Win said, “What exactly did we just accomplish?”

  “Two things. One, I wanted to find out if they had something to hide. Now I know they do.”

  “Based on?”

  “Their outright lies and evasiveness.”

  “They’re politicians,” Win said. “They’d lie and evade if you asked them what they had for breakfast.”

  “You don’t think there’s something there?”

  “Actually,” Win said, “I do. And thing two?”

  “I wanted to stir them up.”

  Win smiled. He liked that idea. “So what next, Kemo Sabe?”

  “We need to investigate Elizabeth Bradford’s premature demise,” Myron said.

  “How?”

  “Hop onto South Livingston Avenue. I’ll tell you where to make the turn.”

  The Livingston Police Station sat next to the Livingston Town Hall and across the street from the Livingston Public Library and Livingston High School. A true town center. Myron entered and asked for Officer Francine Neagly. Francine had graduated from the high school across the street the same year as Myron. He’d hoped to get lucky and catch her at the station.

  A stem-looking desk sergeant informed Myron that Officer Neagly was “not present at this particular time”—that’s how cops talk—but that she had just radioed in for her lunch break and would be at the Ritz Diner.

  The Ritz Diner was truly ugly. The formerly workmanlike brick structure had been spray-painted seaweed green with a salmon pink door—a color scheme too gaudy for a Carnival Cruise ship. Myron hated it. In its heyday, when Myron was in high school, the diner had been a run-of-the-mill, unpretentious eatery called the Heritage. It’d been a twenty-four-hour spot back then, owned by Greeks naturally—this seemed to be a state law—and frequented by high school kids grabbing burgers and fries after a Friday or Saturday night of doing nothing. Myron and his friends would don their varsity jackets, go out to a variety of house parties, and end up here. He tried now to remember what he did at those parties, but nothing specific came to mind. He didn’t imbibe in high school—alcohol made him sick—and was prudish to the point of Pollyanna when it came to the drug scene. So what did he do at these things? He remembered the music, of course, blaring the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan and Supertramp, gleaning deep meaning from the lyrics of Blue Oyster Cult songs (“Yo, man, what do you think Eric really means when he says, ‘I want to do it to your daughter on a dirt road’?”). He remembered occasionally making out with a girl, rarely more, and then their avoiding each other at all costs for the rest of their scholastic lives. But that was pretty much it. You went to the parties because you were afraid you’d miss something. But nothing ever happened. They were all an indistinguishable, monotonous blur now.

  What he did remember—what, he guessed, would always remain vivid in the old memory banks—was coming home late and finding his dad feigning sleep in the recliner. It didn’t matter what time it was. Two, three in the morning. Myron did not have a curfew. His parents trusted him. But Dad still stayed up every Friday and Saturday night and waited in that recliner and worried and when Myron put his key in the lock, he faked being asleep. Myron knew he was faking. His dad knew Myron knew. But Dad still tried to pull it off every time.

  Win elbowed him back to reality. “Are you going to go in, or are we just going to marvel at this monument to nouveau tackiness?”

  “My friends and I used to hang out here,” Myron said. “When I was in high school.”

  Win looked at the diner, then at Myron. “You guys were the balls.”

  Win waited in the car. Myron found Francine Neagly at the counter. He sat on the stool next to her and fought off the desire to spin it.

  “That police uniform,” Myron said, and gave a little whistle. “It’s quite the turn-on.”

  Francine Neagly barely looked up from
her burger. “Best part is, I can also use it to strip at bachelor parties.”

  “Saves on the overhead.”

  “Right-o.” Francine took a bite out of a burger so rare it screamed ouch. “As I live and breathe,” she said, “the local hero appears in public.”

  “Please don’t make a fuss.”

  “Good thing I’m here, though. If the women get out of control, I can shoot them for you.” She wiped very greasy hands. “I heard you moved out of town,” she said.

  “I did.”

  “Been the opposite around here lately.” She grabbed another napkin out of the dispenser. “Most towns, all you hear about is how people want to grow up and move away. But here, well, everyone’s coming back to Livingston and raising their own families. Remember Santola? He’s back. Three kids. And Friedy? He lives in the Weinbergs’ old house. Two kids. Jordan lives by St. Phil’s. Fixed up some old piece of shit. Three kids, all girls. I swear, half our class got married and moved back to town.”

  “How about you and Gene Duluca?” Myron asked with a little smile.

  She laughed. “Dumped him my freshman year of college. Christ, we were gross, huh?”

  Gene and Francine had been the class couple. They spent lunch hours sitting at a table, French-kissing while eating cafeteria food, both wearing debris-enmeshed braces.

  “Gross City,” Myron agreed.

  She took another bite. “Wanna order something gooey and suck face? See what it was like?”

  “If only I had more time.”

  “That’s what they all say. So what can I do for you, Myron?”

  “Remember that death at the Bradford place when we were in high school?”

  She stopped mid-bite. “A little,” she said.

  “Who would’ve handled it for the department?”

  She swallowed. “Detective Wickner.”

  Myron remembered him. Ever-present reflector sunglasses. Very active in Little League. Cared about winning waaaaay too much. Hated the kids once they got into high school and stopped worshiping him. Big on speeding tickets for young drivers. But Myron had always liked the man. Old Americana. As dependable as a good tool set.