by Harlan Coben
Myron told him all he knew. Eight women came out in the five minutes it took to tell the story. Only two of them were awarded The Smile. One wore a tiger-striped leotard. She was treated to the Full-Wattage Smile, the one that almost touched Win's eyes.
Win's face did not seem to register anything Myron said. Even when he told him about taking Greg's temporary slot on the Dragons, Win went on staring hopefully at the health club door. Normal Win behavior. Myron finished up by asking, "Any questions?"
Win bounced a finger against his lip. "Do you think the one in the tiger-striped leotard was wearing any underwear?"
"I don't know," Myron said, "but she was definitely wearing a wedding band."
Win shrugged. Didn't matter to him. Win didn't believe in love or relationships with the opposite sex. Some might take this for simple sexism. They'd be wrong. Women weren't objects to Win; objects sometimes got his respect.
"Follow me," Win said.
They were less than half a mile from the Downing house. Win had already scouted it out and found the path with the least chance of being seen or arousing suspicion. They walked in the comfortable silence of two men who had known each other a long time and very well.
"There's one interesting aside in all this," Myron said.
Win waited.
"Do you remember Emily Schaeffer?" Myron asked.
"The name rings a bell."
"I dated her for two years at Duke." Win and Myron had met at Duke. They had also been roommates for all four years. It had been Win who had introduced Myron to the martial arts, who had gotten him involved with Feds. Win was now a top producer at his Lock-Horne Securities on Park Avenue, a securities firm that had been run by Win's family since the market had first opened. Myron rented space from Win, and Win also handled all money-matters for MB SportsReps' clients.
Win thought a bit. "Is she the one who used to make the little monkey noises?"
"No," Myron said.
Win seemed surprised. "Who was the one who made the little monkey noises?"
"I have no idea."
"Maybe it was someone I was with."
"Maybe."
Win considered this, shrugged. "What about her?"
"She used to be married to Greg Downing."
"Divorced?"
"Yep."
"I remember her now," Win said. "Emily Schaeffer. Built."
Myron nodded.
"I never liked her," Win said. "Except for those little monkey noises. They were rather interesting."
"She wasn't the one who made monkey noises."
Win smiled gently. "The walls were thin," he said.
"And you used to listen in?"
"Only when you pulled down the shade so I couldn't watch."
Myron shook his head. "You're a pig," he said.
"Better than a monkey."
They reached the front lawn and proceeded to the door. The secret was to look like you belonged. If you scurried around back, hunched over, someone might take notice. Two men in ties approaching the door does not normally lead one to think thief.
There was a metal keypad with a little red light. The light was on.
"Alarm," Myron said.
Win shook his head. "Fake. It's just a light. Probably bought it at Sharper Image." Win looked at the lock and made a tsk-tsk noise. "A Kwiktight brand on a pro basketball player's salary," he said, clearly disgusted. "Might as well use Play-Doh."
"What about the dead bolt?" Myron asked.
"It's not locked."
Win already had out his strip of celluloid. Credit cards are too stiff. Celluloid worked much better--known as 'loiding the lock. In no more time than it would take with a key, the door was open and they were inside the front foyer. The door had a chute and the mail was all over the place. Myron quickly checked some postage dates. No one had been here in at least five days.
The decor was nice in a fake-rustic, Martha Stewart sort of way. The furniture was what they called "simple country" where the look was indeed simple and the price outrageous. Lots of pines and wickers and antiques and dry flowers. The smell of potpourri was strong and cloying.
They split up. Win went upstairs to the home office. He turned on the computer and began to download everything onto floppy disks. Myron found the answering machine in a room that used to be called a "den" but now went by such lofty titles as the "California room" or "great room." The machine announced the time and date of each message. Awfully convenient. Myron pressed a button. The tape rewound and started playing. On the first message, which according to the digital voice was received at 9:18 P.M. the night Greg vanished, Myron hit bingo.
A shaky woman's voice said, "It's Carla. I'll be in the back booth until midnight." Click.
Myron rewound and listened again. There were lots of noises in the background--people chatting, music, glasses clinking. The call had probably been placed from a bar or restaurant, especially with that back-booth reference. So who was this Carla? A girlfriend? Probably. Who else would call that late to set up a meeting for even later that night? But of course this had not been just any night. Greg Downing had vanished sometime between the time this call was made and the next morning.
Strange coincidence.
So where did they meet--assuming Greg had indeed made their back-booth liaison? And why did Carla, whoever she might be, sound so shaky--or was this just Myron's imagination?
Myron listened to the rest of the tape. No other messages from Carla. If Greg hadn't shown up at said back booth, wouldn't Carla have called again? Probably. So for now, Myron could safely assume that Greg Downing had seen Carla sometime before his disappearance.
A clue.
There were also four calls from Martin Felder, Greg's agent. He seemed to grow more perturbed with each message. The last one said, "Jesus, Greg, how can you not call me? Is the ankle serious or what? And don't go incommunicado on me now, not when we're wrapping up the Forte deal. Call me, okay?" There were also three calls from a man named Chris Darby, who apparently worked for Forte Sports Incorporated. He too sounded panicked. "Marty won't tell me where you are. I think he's playing a game with us, Greg, trying to up the price or something. But we had a deal, am I right? Let me give you my home number, okay, Greg? How bad's this injury anyhow?"
Myron smiled. Martin Felder's client was missing, but he was doing all he could to turn it into a positive lever. Agents. He pressed the mode button on the answering machine several times. Eventually the LCD screen scrolled to reveal the code number Greg had set to call in for messages: 317. A fairly new trick of the trade. Now Myron could call in anytime, press 317, and hear what messages had been left on the machine. He hit the redial button on the phone. Another fairly new trick. Find out who Greg called last. The phone rang twice and was picked up by a woman saying, "Kimmel Brothers." Whoever they were. Myron hung up.
Myron joined up with Win in the upstairs office. Win continued copying onto computer disks while Myron went through the drawers. Nothing particularly helpful.
They moved on to the master bedroom. The king-size bed was made. Both night tables were cluttered with pens and keys and papers.
Both.
Curious for a man who lived alone.
Myron's eyes swept the room and landed on a reading chair that doubled as a dressing dummy. Greg's clothes were strewn over one arm and the back. Normal enough, Myron guessed--neater than Myron, in fact, though that wasn't saying much. But looking again, he noticed something a tad strange on the other arm of the chair. Two articles of clothing. A white blouse and a gray skirt.
Myron looked at Win.
"They might belong to Miss Monkey Noises," Win said.
Myron shook his head. "Emily hasn't lived here in months. Why would her clothes still be on a chair?"
The bathroom, too, proved interesting. A large Jacuzzi on the right, a big steam shower with a sauna, and two vanities. They checked the vanities first. One contained a can of men's shaving cream, a roll-on deodorant, a bottle of Polo after-shave
, a Gillette Atra razor. The other vanity had an open makeup case, Calvin Klein perfume, baby powder, and Secret Roll-On. A sprinkling of baby powder was on the floor near the vanity. There were also two disposable Lady Schick razors in the soap dish next to the Jacuzzi.
"He's got a girlfriend," Myron said.
"A professional basketball player shacking up with some nubile lass," Win remarked. "Quite a revelation. Perhaps one of us should cry out, 'Eureka.'"
"Yes, but it raises an interesting question," Myron said. "If her boyfriend had suddenly vanished, wouldn't said lover have reported it?"
"Not," Win said, "if she were with him."
Myron nodded. He told Win about the cryptic message from Carla.
Win shook his head. "If they were planning on running away," he said, "why would she say where they were meeting?"
"She didn't say where. Only in a back booth at midnight."
"Still," Win said. "It's not exactly the kind of thing you do before you disappear. Let's say that for some reason Carla and Greg decide to vanish for a little while. Wouldn't Greg know where and when to meet her before the fact?"
Myron shrugged. "Maybe she was changing their meeting place."
"From what? Front booths to back booths?"
"Damned if I know."
They checked the rest of the upstairs. Not much doing. Greg's son's bedroom had racing-car wallpaper and a poster of Dad driving past Penny Hardaway for a layup. The daughter's room was done in Early American Barney--dinosaurs and purple. No clues. In fact there were no other clues until they reached the basement.
When they turned on the lights, Myron saw it right away.
It was a finished basement, a brightly colored playroom for the kids. There were lots of Little Tikes cars and big Legos and a plastic house with a sliding board. There were scenes from Disney movies like Aladdin and The Lion King on the wall. There was a television and a VCR. There was stuff too for when the kids got a little older--a pinball machine, a jukebox. There were small rocking chairs and mattresses and knock-around couches.
There was also blood. A fair amount of it in drips on the floor. Another fair amount smeared on a wall.
Bile nestled in Myron's throat. He had seen blood many times in his life, but it still left him queasy. Not so with Win. Win approached the crimson stains with something akin to amusement on his face. He bent to get a better look. Then he stood back up.
"Look at the bright side," Win said. "Your temporary slot on the Dragons may become more permanent."
Chapter 4
There was no body. Just the blood.
Using Glad sandwich bags he found in the kitchen, Win collected a few samples. Ten minutes later they were back outside, the lock on the front door reengaged. A blue Oldsmobile Delta 88 drove past them. Two men sat in the front seat. Myron glanced at Win. Win barely nodded.
"A second pass," Myron said.
"Third," Win said. "I saw them when I first drove up."
"They're not exactly experts at this," Myron said.
"No," Win agreed. "But of course, they hadn't known the job would require expertise."
"Can you run the plates?"
Win nodded. "I'll also run Greg's ATM and credit card transactions," he said. He reached the Jag and unlocked it. "I'll contact you when I have something. It shouldn't take more than a few hours."
"You heading back to the office?"
"I'm going to Master Kwon's first," Win said.
Master Kwon was their tae kwon do instructor. Both of them were black belts--Myron a second degree, Win a sixth degree, one of the highest ranking Caucasians in the world. Win was the best martial artist Myron had ever seen. He studied several different arts including Brazilian jujitsu, animal kung fu, and Jeet Kun Do. Win the Contradiction. See Win and you think pampered, preppy pantywaist; in reality, he was a devastating fighter. See Win and you think normal, well-adjusted human being; in reality, he was anything but.
"What are you doing tonight?" Myron asked.
Win shrugged. "I'm not sure."
"I can get you a ticket to the game," Myron said.
Win said nothing.
"Do you want to go?"
"No."
Without another word, Win slipped behind the wheel of his Jag, started the engine, peeled out with nary a squeal. Myron stood and watched him speed away, puzzled by his friend's abruptness. But then again, to paraphrase one of the four questions of Passover: why should today be different than any other day?
He checked his watch. He still had a few hours before the big press conference. Enough time to get back to the office and tell Esperanza about his career shift. More than anyone else, his playing for the Dragons would affect her.
He took Route 4 to the George Washington Bridge. There was no waiting at the tolls. Proof there was a God. The Henry Hudson however was backed up. He swung off near Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center to get on Riverside Drive. The squeegee guys--the homeless men who "cleaned" your windshield with a mixture of equal parts grease, Tabasco sauce, and urine--were no longer at the light. Mayor Giuliani's doing, Myron guessed. They had been replaced by Hispanic men selling flowers and something that looked like construction paper. He asked once what it was and had gotten an answer back in Spanish. As much as Myron could translate, the paper smelled nice and spruced up any home. Maybe that was what Greg used as potpourri.
Riverside Drive was relatively quiet. Myron arrived at his Kinney lot on 46th Street and tossed Mario the keys. Mario did not park the Ford Taurus up front with the Rolls, the Mercedes, Win's Jag; in fact, he usually managed to find a cozy spot underneath what must have been a nesting ground for loose-stooled pigeons. Car discrimination. It was an ugly thing, but where were the support groups?
The Lock-Horne Securities building was on Park Avenue and 46th, perpendicular to the Helmsley building. High-rent district. The street bustled with the doings of big finance. Several stretch limos double-parked illegally in front of the building. The ugly modern sculpture that looked like someone's intestines stood pitifully in its usual place. Men and women in business attire sat on the steps, eating sandwiches too hurriedly, lost in their own thoughts, many talking to themselves, rehearsing for an important afternoon meeting or rehashing a morning mistake. People who worked in Manhattan learned how to be surrounded by others yet remain completely alone.
Myron entered the lobby and pressed the button for the elevator. He nodded to the three Lock-Horne Hostesses, known to everyone else as the Lock-Horne Geishas. They were all model/actress wanna-bes, hired to escort high rollers up to the offices of Lock-Horne Securities and look attractive while doing it. Win had brought the idea home after a trip to the Far East. Myron guessed this could be more blatantly sexist, but he wasn't sure how.
Esperanza Diaz, his valued associate, greeted him at the door. "Where the hell have you been?"
"We need to talk," he said.
"Later. You've got a million messages."
Esperanza wore a white blouse--an absolute killer look against her dark hair, dark eyes, and that dark skin that shimmered like moonlight on the Mediterranean. Esperanza had been spotted by a modeling scout when she was seventeen, but her career took a few weird turns and she ended up making it big in the world of professional wrestling. Yes, professional wrestling. She'd been known as Little Pocahontas, the brave Indian Princess, the jewel of the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling (FLOW) organization. Her costume was a suede bikini, and she was always cast as the good guy in the morality play that was professional wrestling. She was young, petite, tight-bodied, gorgeous, and though of Latin origin, she was dark enough to pass for Native American. Racial backgrounds were irrelevant to FLOW. The real name of Mrs. Saddam Hussein, the evil harem girl in the black veil, was Shari Weinberg.
The phone rang. Esperanza picked it up. "MB SportsReps. Hold on a moment, he's right here." She flashed the eyes at him. "Perry McKinley. It's his third call today."
"What does he want?"
She shrugged. "Some people don't lik
e dealing with underlings."
"You're not an underling."
She looked at him blankly. "You going to take it or not?"
Being a sports agent was--to use computer terminology--a multitasking environment with the capability of performing a variety of services with but a click of a button. It was more than simple negotiating. Agents were expected to be accountants, financial planners, real estate agents, hand-holders, personal shoppers, travel agents, family counselors, marriage counselors, chauffeurs, errand boys, parental liaisons, lackeys, butt-kissers, you name it. If you weren't willing to do all that for a client--to be what is known as a "full service agency"--the next guy would be.
The only way to compete was to have a team, and Myron felt he had assembled a small yet extremely effective one. Win, for example, handled all the finances for Myron's clients. He set up a special portfolio for each player, met with them at least five times a year, made sure they understood what their money was doing and why. Having Win gave Myron a big leg up on the competition. Win was a near-legend in the financial world. His reputation was impeccable (at least in the financial world) and his track record unmatched. He gave Myron an instant "in," instant credibility in a business where credibility was a rare and heady concoction.
Myron was the JD. Win was the MBA. Esperanza was the all-purpose player, the unflappable chameleon who held it all together. It worked.
"We need to talk," he said again.
"So we'll talk," she said in a dismissing tone. "First take this call."
Myron entered his office. He overlooked Park Avenue in midtown. Great View. On one wall he had posters of Broadway musicals. On another there were movie stills from some of Myron's favorites: the Marx Brothers, Woody Allen, Alfred Hitchcock, and a potpourri of other classics. On a third wall were photographs of Myron's clients. The client wall was a bit sparser than Myron would have liked. He imagined what it would look like with an NBA first rounder in the middle.
Good, he decided. Very good.
He strapped on his headset.
"Hey, Perry."
"Jesus Christ, Myron, I've been trying to reach you all day."
"Good, Perry. And you."
"Hey, I don't mean to be impatient but this is important. You get anything on my boat?"
