One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel

by Harlan Coben

  “He still on the force?”

  Francine shook her head. “Retired. Moved to a lake cabin upstate. But he still comes to town a lot. Hangs out at the fields and shakes hands. They named a backstop after him. Had a big ceremony and everything.”

  “Sorry I missed that,” Myron said. “Would the case file still be at the station?”

  “How long ago this happen?”

  “Twenty years.”

  Francine looked at him. Her hair was shorter than in high school, and the braces were gone, but other than that, she looked exactly the same. “In the basement maybe. Why?”

  “I need it.”

  “Just like that.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you want me to get it for you.”

  “Yep.”

  She wiped her hands with a napkin. “The Bradfords are powerful folks.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “You looking to embarrass him or something? He running for governor and all.”

  “No.”

  “And I guess you have a good reason for needing it?”

  “Yep.”

  “You want to tell me what it is, Myron?”

  “Not if I don’t have to.”

  “How about a teensy-weensy hint?”

  “I want to verify that it was an accident.”

  She looked at him. “You have anything that says otherwise?”

  He shook his head. “I barely have a suspicion.”

  Francine Neagly picked up a fry and examined it. “And if you do find something, Myron, you’ll come to me, right? Not the press. Not the bureau boys. Me.”

  “Deal,” Myron said.

  She shrugged. “Okay. I’ll take a look for it.”

  Myron handed her his card. “Good seeing you again, Francine.”

  “Likewise,” she said, swallowing another bite. “Hey, you involved with anyone?”

  “Yeah,” Myron said. “You?”

  “No,” she said. “But now that you mention it, I think I kinda miss Gene.”

  Myron hopped back into the Jaguar. Win started it up and pulled out.

  “Your Bradford plan,” Win said. “It involved prodding him into action, did it not?”

  “It did.”

  “Then congratulations are in order. The two gentlemen from the Bradfords’ foyer did a pass by while you were inside.”

  “Any sign of them now?”

  Win shook his head. “They’re probably covering the ends of the road. Someone will pick us up. How would you like to play it?”

  Myron thought a moment. “I don’t want to tip them off yet. Let them follow us.”

  “Where to, O wise one?”

  Myron checked his watch. “What’s your schedule look like?”

  “I need to get back to the office by two.”

  “Can you drop me off at Brenda’s practice? I’ll get a ride back.”

  Win nodded. “I live to chauffeur.”

  They took Route 280 to the New Jersey Turnpike. Win turned on the radio. A commercial voice-over sternly warned people not to buy a mattress over the phone but, rather, to go to Sleepy’s and “consult your mattress professional.” Mattress professional. Myron wondered if that was a master’s program or what.

  “Are you armed?” Win asked.

  “I left my gun in my car.”

  “Open the glove compartment.”

  Myron did. There were three guns and several boxes of ammunition. He frowned. “Expecting an armed invasion?”

  “My, what a clever quip,” Win said. He gestured to a weapon. “Take the thirty-eight. It’s loaded. There’s a holster under the car seat.”

  Myron feigned reluctance, but the truth was, he should have been carrying all along.

  Win said, “You realize, of course, that young FJ will not back down.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “We have to kill him. There is no choice.”

  “Kill Frank Ache’s son? Not even you could survive that.”

  Win sort of smiled. “Is that a challenge?”

  “No,” Myron said quickly. “Just don’t do anything yet. Please. I’ll come up with something.”

  Win shrugged.

  They paid a toll and drove past the Vince Lombardi rest stop. In the distance Myron could still see the Meadowlands Sports Complex. Giants Stadium and the Continental Arena floated above the vast swampland that was East Rutherford, New Jersey. Myron stared off at the arena for a moment, silent, remembering his recent shot at playing pro basketball again. It hadn’t worked out, but Myron was over that now. He had been robbed of playing the game he loved, but he’d accepted it, come to terms with reality. He’d put it behind him, had moved on, had let go of his anger.

  So what if he still thought about it every day?

  “I’ve done a bit of digging,” Win said. “When young FJ was at Princeton, a geology professor accused him of cheating on an exam.”

  “And?”

  “Na, na, na. Na, na, na. Hey, hey, hey. Good-bye.”

  Myron looked at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Never found the body,” Win said. “The tongue, yes. It was sent to another professor, who’d been considering leveling the same charges.”

  Myron felt something flitter in his throat. “Might have been Frank, not FJ.”

  Win shook his head. “Frank is psychotic but not wasteful. If Frank had handled it, he would have used a few colorful threats perhaps punctuated by a few well-placed blows. But this kind of overkill—it’s not his style.”

  Myron thought about it. “Maybe we can talk to Herman or Frank,” he said. “Get him off our back.”

  Win shrugged. “Easier to kill him.”

  “Please don’t.”

  Another shrug. They kept driving. Win took the Grand Avenue exit. On the right was an enormous complex of town houses. During the mid-eighties, approximately two zillion such complexes had mushroomed across New Jersey. This particular one looked like a staid amusement park or the housing development in Poltergeist.

  “I don’t want to sound maudlin,” Myron said, “but if FJ does manage to kill me—”

  “I’ll spend several fun-filled weeks spreading slivers of his genitalia throughout New England,” Win said. “After that, I’ll probably kill him.”

  Myron actually smiled. “Why New England?”

  “I like New England,” Win said. Then he added, “And I would be lonely in New York without you.”

  Win pushed the MODE button, and the CD player spun to life. The music from Rent. The lovely Mimi was asking Roger to light her candle. Great stuff. Myron looked at his friend. Win said nothing more. To most people, Win seemed about as sentimental as a meat locker. But the fact was, Win just cared for very few people. With those select few, he was surprisingly open; much like his lethal hands, Win struck deep and hard and then backed off, ready to elude.

  “Horace Slaughter only had two credit cards,” Myron said. “Could you check them out?”

  “No ATM?”

  “Only off his Visa.”

  Win nodded, took the card numbers. He dropped Myron off at Englewood High School. The Dolphins were running through a one-on-one defensive drill. One player dribbled in a zigzag formation up the court while the defender bent low and worked on containment. Good drill. Tiring as all hell, but it worked the quads like no other.

  There were about a half dozen people in the stands now. Myron took a seat in the front row. Within seconds the coach beelined toward him. She was husky with neatly trimmed black hair, a knit shirt with the New York Dolphins logo on the breast, gray sweatpants, a whistle, and Nike high-tops.

  “You Bolitar?” the coach barked.

  Her spine was a titanium bar, her face as unyielding as a meter maid’s.

  “Yes.”

  “Name’s Podich. Jean Podich.” She spoke like a drill sergeant. She put her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels a bit. “Used to watch you pl
ay, Bolitar. Friggin’ awesome.”

  “Thank you.” He almost added sir.

  “Still play at all?”

  “Just pickup games.”

  “Good. Had a player go down with a twisted ankle. Need someone to fill in for the scrimmage.”

  “Pardon me?” Coach Podich was not big on using pronouns.

  “Got nine players here, Bolitar. Nine. Need a tenth. Plenty of gym clothes in the equipment room. Sneakers too. Go suit up.”

  This was not a request.

  “I need my knee brace,” Myron said.

  “Got that too, Bolitar. Got it all. The trainer will wrap you up good and tight. Now hustle, man.”

  She clapped her hands at him, turned, walked away. Myron stayed still for a second. Great. This was just what he needed.

  Podich blew her whistle hard enough to squeeze out an internal organ. The players stopped. “Shoot foul shots, take ten,” she said. “Then scrimmage.”

  The players drifted off. Brenda jogged toward him.

  “Where you going?” she asked.

  “I have to suit up.”

  Brenda stifled a smile.

  “What?” he said.

  “The equipment room,” Brenda said. “All they have is yellow Lycra shorts.”

  Myron shook his head. “Then somebody should warn her.”

  “Who?”

  “Your coach. I put on tight yellow shorts, no way anybody’s going to concentrate on basketball.”

  Brenda laughed. “I’ll try to maintain a professional demeanor. But if you post me down low, I may be forced to pinch your butt.”

  “I’m not just a plaything,” Myron said, “here for your amusement.”

  “Too bad.” She followed him into the equipment room. “Oh, that lawyer who wrote to my dad,” she said. “Thomas Kincaid.”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember where I heard his name before. My first scholarship. When I was twelve years old. He was the lawyer in charge.”

  “What do you mean, in charge?”

  “He signed my checks.”

  Myron stopped. “You received checks from a scholarship?”

  “Sure. The scholarship covered everything. Tuition, board, schoolbooks. I wrote out my expenses, and Kincaid signed the checks.”

  “What was the name of the scholarship?”

  “That one? I don’t remember. Outreach Education or something like that.”

  “How long did Kincaid administer the scholarship?”

  “It covered through my high school years. I got an athletic scholarship to college, so basketball paid the freight.”

  “What about medical school?”

  “I got another scholarship.”

  “Same deal?”

  “It’s a different scholarship, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Does it pay for the same stuff? Tuition, board, the works?”

  “Yep.”

  “Handled by a lawyer again?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Rick Peterson. He works out of Roseland.”

  Myron thought about this. Something clicked.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Do me a favor,” he said. “I got to make a couple of calls. Can you stall Frau Brucha for me?”

  She shrugged. “I can try.”

  Brenda left him alone. The equipment room was enormous. An eighty-year-old guy worked the desk. He asked Myron for his sizes. Myron told him. Two minutes later the old man handed Myron a pile of clothes. Purple T-shirt, black socks with blue stripes, white jockstrap, green sneakers, and, of course, yellow Lycra shorts.

  Myron frowned. “I think you missed a color,” he said.

  The old man gave him the eye. “I got a red sports bra, if you’re interested.”

  Myron thought about it but ultimately declined.

  He slipped on his shirt and jock. Pulling on the shorts was like pulling on a wet suit. Everything felt compressed—not a bad feeling, actually. He grabbed his cellular phone and hurried to the trainer’s room. On the way he passed a mirror. He looked like a box of Crayolas left too long on a windowsill. He lay on a bench and dialed the office. Esperanza answered.

  “MB SportsReps.”

  “Where’s Cyndi?” Myron asked.

  “At lunch.”

  A mental image of Godzilla snacking on Tokyo’s citizenry flashed in front of his eyes.

  “And she doesn’t like to be called just Cyndi,” Esperanza added. “It’s Big Cyndi.”

  “Pardon my overabundance of political sensitivity. Do you have the list of Horace Slaughter’s phone calls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any to a lawyer named Rick Peterson?”

  The pause was brief. “You’re a regular Mannix,” she said. “Five of them.”

  Wheels were beginning to churn in Myron’s head. Never a good thing. “Any other messages?”

  “Two calls from the Witch.”

  “Please don’t call her that,” Myron said.

  Witch was actually an improvement over what Esperanza usually called Jessica (hint: rhymes with Witch but starts with the letter B). Myron had recently hoped for a thawing between the two—Jessica had invited Esperanza to lunch—but he now recognized that nothing short of a thermonuclear meltdown would soften that particular spread of earth. Some mistook this for jealousy. Not so. Five years ago Jessica had hurt Myron. Esperanza had watched it happen. She had seen up close the devastation.

  Some people held grudges; Esperanza clutched them and tied them around her waist and used cement and Krazy glue to hold them steady.

  “Why does she call here anyway?” Esperanza half snapped. “Doesn’t she know your cellular number?”

  “She only uses it for emergencies.”

  Esperanza made a noise like she was gagging on a soup ladle. “You two have such a mature relationship.”

  “Can I just have the message please?”

  “She wants you to call her. At the Beverly Wilshire. Room six-one-eight. Must be the Bitch Suite.”

  So much for improvement. Esperanza read off the number. Myron jotted it down.

  “Anything else?”

  “Your mom called. Don’t forget dinner tonight. Your dad is barbecuing. A potpourri of aunts and uncles will be in attendance.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  “Can’t wait,” she said. Then she hung up.

  Myron sat back. Jessica had called twice. Hmm.

  The trainer tossed Myron a leg brace. Myron strapped it on, fastening it with Velero. The trainer silently worked on the knee, starting with stretch wrap. Myron debated calling Jessica back right now and decided he still had time. Lying back with his head on a sponge pillow of some sort, he dialed the Beverly Wilshire and asked for Jessica’s room. She picked up as though she’d had her hand on the receiver.

  “Hello?” Jessica said.

  “Hello there, gorgeous,” he said. Charm. “What are you doing?”

  “I just spread out a dozen snapshots of you on the floor,” she said. “I was about to strip naked, coat my entire body with some type of oil, and then undulate on them.”

  Myron looked up at the trainer. “Er, can I have an ice pack?”

  The trainer looked puzzled. Jessica laughed.

  “Undulate,” Myron said. “That’s a good word.”

  “Me a writer,” Jessica said.

  “So how’s the left coast?” Left coast. Hip lingo.

  “Sunny,” she said. “There’s too much damn sun here.”

  “So come home.”

  There was a pause. Then Jessica said, “I have some good news.”

  “Oh?”

  “Remember that production company that optioned Control Room?”

  “Sure.”

  “They want me to produce it and cowrite the screenplay. Isn’t that cool?”

  Myron said nothing. A steel band wrapped around his chest.

  “It’ll be great,
” she continued, forcing pseudojocularity into the cautious tone. “I’ll fly home on weekends. Or you can fly out here sometimes. Say, you can do some recruiting out here, nab some West Coast clients. It’ll be great.”

  Silence. The trainer finished up and left the room. Myron was afraid to speak. Seconds passed.

  “Don’t be like that,” Jessica said. “I know you’re not happy about this. But it’ll work out. I’ll miss you like mad—you know that—but Hollywood always screws up my books. It’s too big an opportunity.”

  Myron opened his mouth, closed it, started again. “Please come home.”

  “Myron …”

  He closed his eyes. “Don’t do this.”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “You’re running away, Jess. It’s what you do best.”

  Silence.

  “That’s not fair,” she said.

  “Screw fair. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Then come home,” he said.

  Myron’s grip on the phone was tight. His muscles were tensing. In the background he heard Coach Podich blow that damn whistle.

  “You still don’t trust me,” Jessica said softly. “You’re still afraid.”

  “And you’ve done so much to assuage my fears, right?” He was surprised by the edge in his voice.

  The old image jarred him anew. Doug. A guy named Doug. Five years ago. Or was he a Dougie? Myron bet he was. He bet his friends called him Dougie. Yo, Dougie, wanna party, man? Probably called her Jessie. Dougie and Jessie. Five years ago. Myron had walked in on them, and his heart had crumbled as though it’d been molded in ash.

  “I can’t change what happened,” Jessica said.

  “I know that.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to come home. I want us to be together.”

  More cellular static. Coach Podich called out his name. Myron could feel something vibrating in his chest like a tuning fork.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Jessica said. “I know I’ve had some trouble with commitment before—”

  “Some trouble?”

  “—but this isn’t like that. I’m not running away. You’re pushing on the wrong issue.”

  “Maybe I am,” he said. He closed his eyes. It was hard for him to breathe. He should hang up now. He should be tougher, show some pride, stop wearing his heart on his sleeve, hang up. “Just come home,” he said. “Please.”