by Harlan Coben
"Yes."
"And I know who you are," he said. "So what would be the point?"
Oookay. Myron glanced back at Win. Win shrugged.
Ford nodded at Kimberly Green. She cleared her throat. "For the record," she said, "we don't think we should have to go through this."
"Through what?"
"Telling you about our investigation. Debriefing you. As a good citizen, you should be willing to cooperate with our investigation because it's the right thing to do."
Myron looked at Win and said, "Oh boy."
"Some aspects of an investigation need to be contained," she continued. "You and Mr. Lockwood should understand that better than most. You should be anxious to cooperate with any federal investigation. You should respect what we're trying to do here."
"Right, okay, we respect. Can we skip ahead, please? You looked us up. You know we'll keep our mouths shut. Otherwise none of us would be here."
She folded her hands and put them in her lap. Peck kept his head down and scribbled notes, Lord knew on what. Myron's decor maybe. "What we say here cannot leave this room. It is classified to the highest--"
"Skipping," Myron said with an impatient hand roll. "Skipping."
Green slid her eyes toward Ford. He nodded again. She took a deep breath and said, "We have Stan Gibbs under surveillance."
She stopped, settled back. Myron waited a few seconds and then said, "Label me surprised."
"That information is classified," she said.
"Then I'll leave it out of my diary."
"He isn't supposed to know."
"Well, that's usually implied with words like 'classified' and 'surveillance.' "
"But Gibbs does know. He loses us whenever he really wants. Because when he's out in public, we can't get too close."
"Why can't you get too close?"
"He'll see us."
"But he already knows you're there?"
"Yes."
Myron looked up at Win. "Wasn't there an Abbott and Costello skit that went like this?"
"Marx Brothers," Win said.
"If we were out in the open about tailing him," Green said, "the fact that he's a target could become public knowledge."
"And you're trying to contain that?"
"Yes."
"How long has he been under surveillance?"
"Well, it's not that simple. He's been out of range a lot--"
"How long?"
Again Green looked at Ford. Again Ford nodded. She balled her hands into fists. "Since the first article on the kidnappings appeared."
Myron sat back, feeling something akin to a head rush. He shouldn't have been surprised, but damned if he wasn't. The article came flooding back to him--the sudden disappearances, the awful phone calls, the constant, eternal anguish, the picket-fenced lives suddenly bulldozed over by inexplicable evil.
"My God," Myron said. "Stan Gibbs was telling the truth."
"We never said that," Kimberly Green said.
"I see. So you've been tailing him because you don't like his syntax?"
Silence.
"The articles were true," Myron said. "And you've known it all along."
"What we did or did not know is not your concern."
Myron shook his head. "Unbelievable," he said. "So let me see if I got this straight. You have a serial psycho out there who snatches people out of the blue and torments their families. You want to keep a lid on it because if word got out to the public, you'd have a panic situation. Then the psycho goes directly to Stan Gibbs and suddenly the story is in the public domain ..." Myron's voice died off, seeing that his logic trail had hit a major pothole. He frowned and forged ahead. "I don't know how that old novel or the plagiarism charges tie in. But either way, you decided to ride it. You let Gibbs get fired and disgraced, probably in part because you were pissed off that he upset your investigation. But mostly"--he spotted what he thought was a clearing--"but mostly you did it so you could watch him. If the psycho contacted him once, you figured, he'd probably do it again--especially if the articles had been discredited."
Kimberly Green said, "Wrong."
"But close."
"No."
"The kidnappings Gibbs wrote about took place, right?"
She hesitated, gave Ford an eye check. "We can't verify all of his facts."
"Jesus, I'm not taking a deposition here," Myron said. "Was his column true, yes or no?"
"We've told you enough," she said. "It's your turn."
"You haven't told me squat."
"And you've told us less."
Negotiating. Life is being a sports agent--constant negotiating. He had learned the importance of leverage, of doling out, of being fair. People forget that last one, and it always costs you in the end. The best negotiator isn't the one who gets the whole pie while leaving scant crumbs behind. The best negotiator is the one who gets what he wants while keeping the other side happy. So normally, Myron would dole out a little something here. Classic give-and-take. But not this time. He knew better. Once he told them the reason for his visit to Stan Gibbs, his leverage would be zippo.
The best negotiator, like the best species, also knows how to adapt.
"First answer my question," Myron said. "Yes or no, was the story Stan Gibbs wrote true?"
"There is no yes-or-no answer to that," she said. "Parts were true. Parts were not true."
"For example?"
"The young couple was from Iowa, not Minnesota. The missing father had three children, not two." She stopped, folded her hands.
"But there have been kidnappings?"
"We knew about those two," she said. "We had no information about the missing college student."
"Probably because the psycho got to her parents. They probably never reported it."
"That's our theory," Kimberly Green said. "But we don't know for sure. Still, there are major discrepancies. The families swear they never spoke to him, for example. Many of the phone calls and events don't match what we know to be true."
Myron saw more clearing. "So you asked Gibbs about it? About his sources?"
"Yes."
"And he refused to tell you anything."
"That's right."
"So you destroyed him."
"No."
"The one part I don't get is the plagiarism," Myron said. "I mean, did you guys somehow set that up? I can't see how. Unless you made up a book and ... no, that's too far-fetched. So what's the deal with that?"
Kimberly Green leaned forward. "Tell us why you went to his apartment."
"Not until--"
"For several months we couldn't find Stan Gibbs," she interrupted. "We think maybe he left the country. But since he's moved into that condo, he's always alone. As I said before, he loses us sometimes. But he never accepts visitors. Several people have tracked him down. Old friends even. They come to his door or they call on the phone. And you know what always happens, Myron?"
Myron didn't like her tone of voice.
"He sends them away. Every single time. Stan Gibbs sees no one. Except you."
Myron looked up at Win. Win nodded very slowly. Myron took a look at Eric Ford before going back to Kimberly Green. "You think I'm the kidnapper?"
She leaned back with a partial shrug, looking satiated. Turning the tables and all that. "You tell us," she said.
Win started for the door. Myron rose and followed.
"Where the hell are you two going?" Green asked.
Win grabbed the knob. Myron headed around the desk and said, "I'm a suspect. I'm not talking until I have an attorney present. If you'll excuse me."
"Hey, we're just talking here," Kimberly Green said. "I never said I thought you were the kidnapper."
"Sounded that way to me," Myron said. "Win?"
"He snatches hearts," Win told her, "not people."
"You got something to hide?" Green said.
"Just his fondness for cyber pornography," Win said. Then: "Oops."
Kimberly Green stood and blocked My
ron's path. "We think we know about the missing college student," she said, her eyes locked hard on his. "Do you want to know how we found out about it?"
Myron kept still.
"Through her father. He got a call from the kidnapper. I don't know what was said. He hasn't said a word since. He's catatonic. Whatever that psycho said to that girl's father put him in a padded room."
Myron felt the room shrink, the walls closing in.
"We haven't found any bodies yet, but we're pretty sure he kills them," she went on. "He kidnaps them, does Lord knows what, and makes the families suffer interminably. And you know he won't stop."
Myron kept his eyes steady. "What's your point?"
"This isn't funny."
"No," he said. "It's not. So stop playing stupid games."
She said nothing.
"I want to hear it from your mouth," Myron said. "Do you think I'm involved in this, yes or no?"
Eric Ford took this one. "No."
Kimberly Green slid back into her chair, her eyes never leaving Myron's. Eric Ford made a big hand gesture. "Please sit down."
Myron and Win moved back to their original positions.
Eric Ford said, "The novel exists. So do the passages Stan Gibbs plagiarized. The book was sent to our office anonymously--more specifically, to Special Agent Green here. We admit that we found that issue confusing at first. On the one hand, Gibbs knows about the kidnappings. On the other hand, he doesn't know everything and he clearly copied excerpts from an old, out-of-print mystery novel."
"There's an explanation," Myron said. "The kidnapper might have read the book. He might have identified with the character, become a copycat of sorts."
"We considered that possibility," Eric Ford said, "but we don't believe that's the case here."
"Why not?"
"It's complicated."
"Does it involve trigonometry?"
"You still think this is a joking manner?"
"You still think it's smart to play games?"
Ford closed his eyes. Green looked on edge. Peck continued scribbling notes. When Ford opened his eyes, he said, "We don't believe Stan Gibbs made up the crimes," he said. "We believe he perpetrated them."
Myron felt a pow. He looked up at Win. Nothing.
"You have some background in the criminal mind, do you not?" Ford asked.
Myron might have nodded.
"Well, here we have an old pattern with a new twist. Arsonists love to watch firemen put out the blaze. Oft-times they're even the ones who report the fire. They play the good Samaritan. Murderers love to attend the funerals of their victims. We videotape funerals. I'm sure you know this."
Myron nodded again.
"Sometimes killers make themselves part of the story." Eric Ford was gesturing a lot now, his knotted hands rising and falling as though this were a press conference in too big a room. "They claim to be witnesses. They become the innocent bystanders who happened to find the body in the brush. You're familiar with this moth-near-the-flame phenomenon, are you not?"
"Yes."
"So what could be more enticing than being the only columnist to report the story? Can you imagine the high? How mind-bogglingly close to the investigation you'd be. The brilliance of your deception--for a psychotic, it's almost too delicious. And if you are perpetrating these crimes to get attention, then here you get a double dose. Attention as the serial kidnapper, one. Attention as the brilliant reporter with the scoop and possible Pulitzer, two. You even get the bonus attention of a man bravely defending the First Amendment."
Myron was holding his breath. "That's a hell of a theory," he said.
"You want more?"
"Yes."
"Why won't he answer any of our questions?"
"You said it yourself. First Amendment."
"He's not a lawyer or psychiatrist."
"But he is a reporter," Myron said.
"What kind of monster would continue to protect his source in this situation?"
"I know plenty."
"We spoke to the victims' families. They swore they never spoke to him."
"They could be lying. Maybe the kidnapper told them to say that."
"Okay, then why hasn't Gibbs done more to defend himself against the charges of plagiarism? He could have fought them. He could have even provided some detail that would have proved he was telling the truth. But no, instead he goes silent. Why?"
"You think it's because he's the kidnapper? The moth flew too close to the flame and is licking his wounds in darkness?"
"Do you have a better explanation?"
Myron said nothing.
"Lastly, there's the murder of his mistress, Melina Garston."
"What about it?"
"Think it through, Myron. We put the screws to him. Maybe he expected that, maybe he didn't. Either way, the courts don't see everything his way. You don't know about the court findings, do you?"
"Not really, no."
"That's because they were sealed. In part, the judge demanded that Gibbs show some proof he had been in contact with the killer. He finally said that Melina Garston would back him."
"And she did, right?"
"Yes. She claimed to have met the subject of his story."
"I still don't understand. If she backed him up, why would he kill her?"
"The day before Melina Garston died, she called her father. She told him that she lied."
Myron sat back, tried to take it all in.
Eric Ford said, "He's back now, Myron. Stan Gibbs has finally surfaced. While he was gone, the Sow the Seeds kidnapper was gone too. But this brand of psycho never stops on his own. He's going to strike again and soon. So before that happens, you better talk to us. Why were you at his condominium?"
Myron thought about it but not for long. "I was looking for someone."
"Who?"
"A missing bone marrow donor. He could save a child's life."
Ford looked at him steadily. "I assume that Jeremy Downing is the child in question."
So much for being vague, but Myron was not surprised. Phone records probably. Or maybe there had indeed been a tail when he visited Emily's. "Yes. And before I go on, I want your word that you will keep me in the loop."
Kimberly Green said, "You're not a part of this investigation."
"I'm not interested in your kidnapper. I'm interested in my donor. You help me find him, I'll tell you what I know."
"We agree," Ford said, waving Kimberly Green silent. "So how does Stan Gibbs fit in with your donor?"
Myron reviewed it for them. He started with Davis Taylor and then moved on to Dennis Lex and then the cryptic phone call. They kept their faces steady, Green and Peck scratching on their pads, but there was a definite jolt when he mentioned the Lex family.
They asked a few follow-up questions, like why he got involved in the first place. He said that Emily was an old friend. He wasn't about to go into the patrimony issue. Myron could see Green getting antsy. He had served his purpose. She was anxious to get out and start tracking things down.
A few minutes later, the feds snapped their pads closed and rose. "We're on it," Ford said. He looked straight at Myron. "And we'll find your donor. You stay out."
Myron nodded and wondered if he could. After they left, Win took a seat in front of Myron's desk.
"Why do I feel like I was picked up at a bar and now it's the next morning and the guy just handed me the 'I'll call you' line?" Myron asked.
"Because that's precisely what you are," Win said. "Slut."
"Think they're holding something back?"
"Without question."
"Something big?"
"Gargantuan," Win said.
"Not much we can do about it now."
"Nope," Win said. "Nothing at all."
24
Myron's mom met him at the front door.
"I'm picking up the takeout," Mom said.
"You?"
She put her hands on her hips and shot him her best wither. "There a prob
lem with that?"
"No, it's just ..." He decided to drop it. "Nothing."
Mom kissed his cheek and fished through her purse for the car keys. "I'll be back in a half hour. Your father is in the back." She gave him the imploring eyes. "Alone."
"Okay," he said.
"No one else is here."
"Uh-huh."
"If you catch my drift."
"It's caught."
"You'll be alone."
"Caught, Mom. Caught."
"It'll be an opportunity--"
"Mom."
She put her hands up. "Okay, okay, I'm going."
He walked around the side of the house, past the garbage cans and recycling bins, and found Dad on the deck. The deck was sanded redwood with built-in benches and resin furniture and a Weber 500 barbecue, all brought to being during the famed Kitchen Expansion of 1994. Dad was bent over a railing with a screwdriver in his hand. For a moment, Myron fell back to those "weekend projects" with Dad, some of which lasted almost an entire hour. They would go out with toolbox in tow, Dad bent over like he was now, muttering obscenities under his breath. Myron's sole task consisted of handing Dad tools like a scrub nurse in the operating room, the whole exercise boring as hell, shuffling his feet in the sun, sighing heavily, finding new angles from which to stand.
"Hey," Myron said.
Dad looked up, smiled, put down the tool. "Screw loose," he said. "But let's not talk about your mother."
Myron laughed. They found molded-resin chairs around a table impaled by a blue umbrella. In front of them lay Bolitar Stadium, a small patch of green-to-brown grass that had hosted countless, oft-solo football games, baseball games, soccer games, Wiffle ball games (probably the most popular sport at Bolitar Stadium), rugby scrums, badminton, kickball, and that favorite pastime for the future sadist, bombardment. Myron spotted Mom's former vegetable garden--the word vegetable here being used to describe three annual soggy tomatoes and two flaccid zucchinis; it was now slightly more overgrown than a Cambodian rice paddy. To their right were the rusted remnants of their old tetherball pole. Tetherball. Now, there was a really dumb game.
Myron cleared his throat and put his hands on the table. "How you feeling?"
Dad gave a big nod. "Good. You?"
"Good."
The silence floated down, puffy and relaxed. Silence with a father can be like that. You drift back and you're young and you're safe, safe in that all-encompassing way only a child can be with his father. You still see him hovering in your darkened doorway, the silent sentinel to your adolescence, and you sleep the sleep of the naive, the innocent, the unformed. When you get older, you realize that this safety was just an illusion, another child's perception, like the size of your backyard.
