by Harlan Coben
He could feel their distance, a continent separating them, their voices bypassing millions of people.
“Let’s both take a deep breath,” she said. “Maybe this isn’t for the phone anyway.”
More silence.
“Look, I got a meeting,” she said. “Let’s talk later, okay?”
She hung up then. Myron held the empty receiver. He was alone. He stood. His legs were shaky.
Brenda met him at the doorway. A towel was draped around her neck. Her face was shiny from sweat. She took one look at him and said, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She kept her eyes on him. She didn’t believe him, but she wouldn’t push either.
“Nice outfit,” she said.
Myron looked down at his clothing. “I was going to wear a red sports bra,” he said. “It throws the whole look together.”
“Yummy,” she said.
He managed a smile. “Let’s go.”
They started heading down the corridor.
“Myron?”
“Yeah?”
“We talk a lot about me.” She continued walking, not looking at him. “Wouldn’t kill either of us to switch roles now and again. Might even be nice.”
Myron nodded, said nothing. Much as he might wish to be more like Clint Eastwood or John Wayne, Myron was not the silent type, not a macho tough guy who kept all his problems inside him. He confided to Win and Esperanza all the time. But neither one of them was helpful when it came to Jessica. Esperanza hated her so much that she could never think rationally on the subject. And in Win’s case, well, Win was simply not the man to discuss matters of the heart. His views on the subject could conservatively be called “scary.”
When they reached the edge of the court, Myron pulled up short. Brenda looked at him questioningly. Two men stood on the sidelines. Ragged brown suits, totally devoid of any sense of style or fashion. Weary faces, short hair, big guts. No doubt in Myron’s mind.
Cops.
Somebody pointed at Myron and Brenda. The two men sauntered over with a sigh. Brenda looked puzzled. Myron moved a little closer to her. The two men stopped directly in front of them.
“Are you Brenda Slaughter?” one asked.
“Yes.”
“I am Detective David Pepe of the Mahwah Police Department. This is Detective Mike Rinsky. We’d like you to come with us please.”
Myron stepped forward. “What’s this about?”
The two cops looked at him with flat eyes. “And you are?”
“Myron Bolitar.”
The two cops blinked. “And Myron Bolitar is?”
“Miss Slaughter’s attorney,” Myron said.
One cop looked at the other. “That was fast.”
Second cop: “Wonder why she called her attorney already.”
“Weird, huh?”
“I’d say.” He looked the multicolored Myron up and down. Smirked. “You don’t dress like an attorney, Mr. Bolitar.”
“I left my gray vest at home,” Myron said. “What do you guys want?”
“We would like to bring Miss Slaughter to the station,” the first cop said.
“Is she under arrest?”
First Cop looked at Second Cop. “Don’t lawyers know that when we arrest people, we read them their rights?”
“Probably got his degree at home. Maybe from that Sally Struthers school.”
“Got his law degree and VCR repairman certificate in one.”
“Right. Like that.”
“Or maybe he went to that American Bartenders Institute. They got a competitive program, I hear.”
Myron crossed his arms. “Whenever you guys are through. But please keep going. You’re both extremely amusing.”
First Cop sighed. “We’d like to bring Miss Slaughter to the station,” he said again.
“Why?”
“To talk.”
Boy, this was moving along nicely. “Why do you want to talk to her?” Myron tried.
“Not us,” Second Cop said.
“Right, not us.”
“We’re just supposed to pick her up.”
“Like escorts.”
Myron was about to make a comment on their being male escorts, but Brenda put her hand on his forearm. “Let’s just go,” she said.
“Smart lady,” First Cop said.
“Needs a new lawyer,” Second Cop added.
Myron and Brenda sat in the back of an unmarked police car that a blind man could tell was an unmarked police car. It was a brown sedan, the same brown as the cops’ suits, a Chevrolet Caprice with simply too much antenna.
For the first ten minutes of the ride nobody spoke. Brenda’s face was set. She moved her hand along the seat closer until it touched his. Then she left it there. She looked at him. The hand felt warm and nice. He tried to look confident, but he had a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
They drove down Route 4 and up Route 17. Mahwah. Nice suburb, almost on the New York border. They parked behind the Mahwah municipal building. The entrance to the station was in the back. The two cops led them into an interrogation room. There was a metal table bolted to the floor and four chairs. No hot lamp. A mirror took up half a wall. Only a moron who never, ever watched television didn’t know that it was a one-way mirror. Myron often wondered if anybody was fooled by that anymore. Even if you never watched TV, why would the police need a giant mirror in an interrogation room? Vanity?
They were left alone.
“What do you think this is about?” Brenda asked.
Myron shrugged. He had a pretty good idea. But speculating at this stage was worthless. They would find out soon enough. Ten minutes passed. Not a good sign. Another five. Myron decided to call their bluff.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“What?”
“We don’t have to wait around here. Let’s go.”
As if on cue, the door opened. A man and a woman entered. The man was big and barrellike with explosions of hair everyplace. He had a mustache so thick it made Teddy Roosevelt’s look like a limp eyelash. His hairline was low, the kind of low where you can’t tell where the eyebrow ends and the actual hairline begins. He looked like a member of the Politburo. His pants were stretched tautly in the front, creasing obscenely, yet his lack of an ass made them too big in the back. His shirt was also too tight. The collar strangled him. The rolled-up sleeves worked the forearms like tourniquets. He was red-faced and angry.
For those with a scorecard, this would be your Bad Cop.
The woman wore a gray skirt with her detective shield on the waistband and a high-neck white blouse. She was early thirties, blond with freckles and pink cheeks. Healthy-looking. If she were a veal entree, the menu would describe her as “milk-fed.”
She smiled at them warmly. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Nice, even teeth. “My name is Detective Maureen McLaughlin. I’m with the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office. This is Detective Dan Tiles. He works for the Mahwah Police Department.”
Tiles did not say anything. He folded his arms and glowered at Myron like he was a vagrant urinating in his garden. Myron looked up at him.
“Tiles,” Myron repeated. “As in the porcelain things in my bathroom?”
McLaughlin kept up the smile. “Miss Slaughter—may I call you Brenda?”
Already with the friendly.
Brenda said, “Yes, Maureen.”
“Brenda, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”
Myron said, “What’s this all about?”
Maureen McLaughlin flashed him the smile now. With the freckles it made for a very pert look. “Can I get either of you something? A coffee maybe? A cold beverage?”
Myron stood. “Let’s go, Brenda.”
“Whoa,” McLaughlin said. “Settle down a second, okay? What’s the problem?”
“The problem is you won’t tell us why we’re here,” Myron said. “Plus you used the word beverage in casual conversation.”
Tiles spoke for the first time. “Tell them,” he said. His mouth never moved. But the shrub below his nose bounced up and down. Kinda like Yosemite Sam.
McLaughlin suddenly looked distraught. “I can’t just blurt it out, Dan. That wouldn’t—”
“Tell them,” Tiles said again.
Myron motioned at them. “You guys rehearse this?” But he was flailing now. He knew what was coming. He just did not want to hear it.
“Please,” McLaughlin said. The smile was gone. “Please sit down.”
They both slid slowly back into their seats. Myron folded his hands and put them on the table.
McLaughlin seemed to be considering her words. “Do you have a boyfriend, Brenda?”
“You running a dating service?” Myron said.
Tiles stepped away from the wall. He reached out and picked up Myron’s right hand for a moment. He dropped it and picked up his left. He studied it, looked disgusted, put it back down.
Myron tried not to look confused. “Palmolive,” he said. “More than just mild.”
Tiles moved away, recrossed his arms. “Tell them,” he said again.
McLaughlin’s eyes were only on Brenda now. She leaned forward a little and lowered her voice. “Your father is dead, Brenda. We found his body three hours ago. I’m sorry.”
Myron had steeled himself, but the words still hit like a falling meteorite. He gripped the table and felt his head spin. Brenda said nothing. Her face didn’t change, but her breathing became shallow gulps.
McLaughlin did not leave much time for condolences. “I realize that this is a very tough time, but we really need to ask you a few questions.”
“Get out,” Myron said.
“What?”
“I want you and Stalin to get the hell out of here right now. This interview is over.”
Tiles said, “You got something to hide, Bolitar?”
“Yeah, that’s it, wolf boy. Now get out.”
Brenda still had not moved. She looked at McLaughlin and uttered one word. “How?”
“How what?”
Brenda swallowed. “How was he murdered?”
Tiles almost leaped across the room. “How did you know he was murdered?”
“What?”
“We didn’t say anything about murder,” Tiles said. He looked very pleased with himself. “Just that your father was dead.”
Myron rolled his eyes. “You got us, Tiles. Two cops drag us in here, play Sipowicz and Simone, and somehow we figure that her father didn’t die of natural causes. Either we’re psychic or we did it.”
“Shut up, asshole.”
Myron stood up quickly, knocking over his chair. He went eyeball to eyeball with Tiles. “Get out.”
“Or?”
“You want a piece of me, Tiles?”
“Love it, hotshot.”
McLaughlin stepped between them. “You boys sprinkle on a little extra testosterone this morning? Back off, both of you.”
Myron kept his eyes on Tiles’s. He took several deep breaths. He was acting irrationally. He knew that. Stupid to lose control. He had to get his act together. Horace was dead. Brenda was in trouble. He had to keep calm.
Myron picked up his chair and sat back down. “My client will not talk to you until we confer.”
“Why?” Brenda said to him. “What’s the big deal?”
“They think you did it,” Myron said.
That surprised her. Brenda turned to McLaughlin. “Am I a suspect?”
McLaughlin gave a friendly, on-your-side shrug. “Hey, it’s too early to rule anybody in or out.”
“That’s cop-speak for yes,” Myron said.
“Shut up, asshole.” Tiles again.
Myron ignored him. “Answer her question, McLaughlin. How was her father killed?”
McLaughlin leaned back, weighing her options. “Horace Slaughter was shot in the head.”
Brenda closed her eyes.
Dan Tiles moved in again. “At close range,” he added.
“Right, close range. Back of the head.”
“Close range,” Tiles repeated. He put his fists on the table. Then he leaned in closer. “Like maybe he knew the killer. Like maybe it was somebody he trusted.”
Myron pointed at him. “You got some food stuck in your mustache. Looks like scrambled eggs.”
Tiles leaned in closer until their noses almost touched. He had big pores. Really big pores. Myron almost feared he’d fall into one. “I don’t like your attitude, asshole.”
Myron leaned in a bit too. Then he gently shook his head from side to side, nose tip making contact with nose tip. “If we were Eskimos,” Myron said, “we’d be engaged right now.”
That backed Tiles up. When he recovered, he said, “Your acting like an ass doesn’t change the facts: Horace Slaughter was shot at close range.”
“Which means squat, Tiles. If you were part of a real force, you’d know that most assassins for hire shoot their victims at close range. Most family members don’t.” Myron had no idea if that was true, but it sounded good.
Brenda cleared her throat. “Where was he shot?”
“Excuse me?” McLaughlin said.
“Where was he shot?”
“I just told you. In the head.”
“No, I mean where. What city?”
But of course they had known that she meant that. They did not want to tell her, hoping to trip her up.
Myron answered the question. “He was found here in Mahwah.” Then he looked at Tiles. “And before Magnum PI pounces again, I know that because we’re in the Mahwah police station. The only reason for that is that the body was found here.”
McLaughlin did not respond directly. She folded her hands in front of her. “Brenda, when was the last time you saw your father?”
“Don’t answer,” Myron said.
“Brenda?”
Brenda looked at Myron. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. She was fighting to hold it all back, and the strain was starting to show. Her voice was almost a plea. “Let’s just get through this, okay?”
“I’m advising you against it.”
“Good advice,” Tiles said. “If you got something to hide.”
Myron looked at Tiles. “I can’t tell. Is that a mustache or really long nostril hair?”
McLaughlin remained overly earnest, a perp’s dearest chum. “It’s like this, Brenda. If you can answer our questions now, we can end this. If you clam up, well, we’ll have to wonder why. It won’t look good, Brenda. It’ll look like you’ve got something to hide. And then there’s the media.”
Myron put his hand out. “What?”
Tiles handled this one. “Simple, asshole. You lawyer her up, we tell the media she’s a suspect and that she wouldn’t cooperate.” He smiled. “Miss Slaughter here will be lucky to endorse condoms.”
Momentary silence. Striking an agent where he lives.
“When did you last see your father, Brenda?”
Myron was about to interrupt, but Brenda silenced him by putting her hand on his forearm. “Nine days ago.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“We were in his apartment.”
“Please continue.”
“Continue with what?” Myron interrupted. Rule twenty-six of lawyering: Never let the interrogator—cop or fellow attorney—get a rhythm. “You asked her when she last saw her father. She told you.”
“I asked under what circumstances,” McLaughlin replied. “Brenda, please tell me what occurred during your visit.”
“You know what occurred,” Brenda said.
That put her a step ahead of Myron.
Maureen McLaughlin nodded. “I have in my possession a sworn complaint.” She slid a piece of paper across the metal table. “Is that your signature, Brenda?”
“Yes.”
Myron took the sheet and began to skim it.
“Does that accurately describe your last meeting with your father?”
Brenda’s eyes were hard now. “Yes.”
“So on this occasion at your father’s apartment—the last time you saw him—your father assaulted you both physically and verbally. Is that correct?”
Myron kept still.
“He shoved me,” Brenda said.
“Hard enough for you to want a restraining order, isn’t that correct?”
Myron tried to keep pace, but he was starting to feel like a buoy in rough waters. Horace had assaulted his own daughter and was now dead. Myron had to get a handle on this, get back into the fray.
“Stop badgering,” he said, his voice sounding weak and forced. “You have the documentation, so let’s get on with it.”
“Brenda, please tell me about your father’s assault.”
“He pushed me,” she said.
“Can you tell me why?”
“No.”
“No, you won’t tell me. Or no, you don’t know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“He just shoved you?”
“Yes.”
“You walked into his apartment. You said, ‘Hi, Dad.’ Then he cursed at you and assaulted you. Is that what you’re telling us?”
Brenda was trying to keep her face steady, but there was shaking near the fault lines. The facade was about to crack.
“That’s enough,” Myron said.
But McLaughlin moved in. “Is that what you’re trying to tell us, Brenda? Your father’s attack was completely unprovoked?”
“She’s not telling you anything, McLaughlin. Back off.”
“Brenda—”
“We’re out of here.” Myron took hold of Brenda’s arm and half dragged her to a standing position. Tiles moved to block the door.
McLaughlin kept talking. “We can help you, Brenda. But this is your last chance. You walk out of here, you’re talking a murder indictment.”
Brenda seemed to snap out of whatever trance she’d been in. “What are you talking about?”
“They’re bluffing,” Myron said.
“You know how this looks, don’t you?” McLaughlin continued. “Your father has been dead awhile. We haven’t done an autopsy yet, but I’d bet he’s been dead for close to a week. You’re a smart girl, Brenda. You put it together. The two of you had problems. We have your own list of serious grievances right here. Nine days ago he assaulted you. You went to court to get him to keep away from you. Our theory is that your father did not obey that order. He was clearly a violent man, probably angered beyond control by what he perceived as your disloyalty. Is that what happened, Brenda?”
