by Harlan Coben
"Greg is missing. You're trying to find him."
"What makes you think Greg is missing?"
"Please, Myron, don't play games with me. You owe me that much at least."
He nodded slowly. "Do you know where he is?"
"No. But I hope the bastard is dead and rotting in a hole."
"Stop mincing words," Myron said. "Tell me how you really feel."
The smile was sadder this time. Myron felt a pang. Greg and Emily had fallen in love. They'd been married. They had two children. What had torn that all apart? Was it something recent...or was it something in their pasts, something tainted from the beginning? Myron felt his throat go dry.
"When was the last time you saw Greg?" he asked.
"A month ago," she said.
"Where?"
"In divorce court."
"Are you two on speaking terms?"
"I meant what I said before. About him being dead and rotting."
"I'll take that as a no."
Emily nodded a suit-yourself.
"If he was hiding, do you have any idea where?"
"Nope."
"No summer house? No place he liked to get away?"
"Nope."
"Do you know if Greg had a girlfriend?"
"Nope. But I would pity the poor woman."
"Have you ever heard the name Carla?"
She hesitated. Her index finger tapped her knee, an old gesture so familiar to him it almost hurt to watch. "Wasn't there a Carla who lived on my floor at Duke?" she asked. "Yes, Carla Anderson. Sophomore year, wasn't it? Pretty girl."
"Anything more recent?"
"No." She sat up, crossed her legs. "How's Win?"
"The same."
"One of life's constants," she said. "He loves you, you know. I wonder if he's a latent homosexual."
"Two men can love each other and not be gay," Myron said.
She arched an eyebrow. "You really think so?"
He was letting her get to him. Bad mistake. "Are you aware that Greg was going to sign an endorsement deal?" he asked her.
That got her attention. "Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"A big one?"
"Huge from my understanding," Myron replied. "With Forte."
Emily's hands tightened. She would have made fists had her nails not been so long. "Son of a bitch."
"What?"
"He waited until the divorce had been finalized and I got squat. Then he signs the deal. That son of a bitch."
"What do you mean, squat? Greg was still wealthy."
She shook her head. "His agent lost it all. Or so he claimed in court."
"Martin Felder?"
"Yep. Didn't have a penny to his name. Son of a bitch."
"But Greg still works with Felder. Why would he stay with a guy who lost his money?"
"I don't know, Myron." Her voice was clipped and annoyed. "Perhaps the son of a bitch was lying. It wouldn't be the first time."
Myron waited. Emily looked at him. Tears welled in her eyes but she bit them back down. She stood and walked to the other side of the room. Her back was now to him. She looked out the sliding glass doors into the fenced-in yard. The pool was covered with a tarp; random sticks and leaves clung to the aqua. Two children appeared. A boy of about ten chased a girl who looked to be eight. They were both laughing with faces wide and open and a little rosy from either cold or exertion. The boy stopped when he saw his mother. He gave her a big smile and wave. Emily raised her hand and gave a small wave back. The children ran on. Emily crossed her arms like she was hugging herself.
"He wants to take them away from me," she said in a remarkably calm voice. "He'll do anything to get them."
"Like?"
"Like the sleaziest things you can imagine."
"How sleazy?"
"None of your goddamn business." She stopped. She still had her back to him. Myron could see her shoulders quake. "Get out," she said.
"Emily..."
"You want to help him, Myron."
"I want to find him. There's a difference."
She shook her head. "You don't owe him," she said. "I know you think you do. It's your way. I saw the guilt in your face back then, and I could still see it the second I opened the front door. It's over, Myron. It had nothing to do with what happened to us. He never found out."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he asked.
She spun toward him. "It's not supposed to make you feel better," she snapped. "It's not about you. I'm the one who married him. I'm the one who betrayed him. I can't believe you're still beating yourself up about it."
Myron swallowed. "He visited me in the hospital. After I got injured. He sat and talked with me for hours."
"And that makes him a swell guy?"
"We shouldn't have done it."
"Grow up," she said. "It was more than ten years ago. Gone and forgotten."
Silence.
After some time had passed, Myron looked up at her. "Could you really lose your kids?" he asked.
"Yes."
"How far would you go to keep them?"
"As far as I had to."
"Would you kill to keep them?" Myron asked.
"Yes." No hesitation.
"Did you?"
"No."
"Do you have any idea why some goons would be looking for Greg?"
"No."
"You didn't hire them?"
"If I did," she said, "I wouldn't tell you. But if these 'goons' want to hurt Greg, I'll do all I can to help them locate him."
Myron put down the lemonade. "I guess I better get going."
She showed him to the door. Before she opened it, she put a hand on his arm. Her touch burned right through the material. "It's okay," she said gently. "Let it go. Greg never found out."
Myron nodded.
She took a deep breath and smiled again. Her voice returned to its normal tone. "It was good to see you again, Myron."
"Same here," he said.
"Come back again, will you?" She was trying so hard to be casual. Myron knew it was just an act, one he had seen before. "Perhaps we can have a quick fling for old times' sake. Couldn't hurt, right?"
One last grasp at the shock. Myron pulled away. "That's what we said last time," he said. "And it still hurts."
Chapter 10
It was the night before they got married," Myron began. He was back at his office. Esperanza sat in front of him. Her eyes were on him, but he didn't know that. He stared at the ceiling, his fingers laced and resting on his chest. He had his chair tilted far back. "Do you want the details?"
"Only if you want to tell me," Esperanza said.
He told her. He told her how Emily had called him. He told her how she came to his room. He told her that they'd both had too much to drink. He said that last one as a sort of trial balloon, but a quick glance at Esperanza blew that particular old balloon out of the sky. She interrupted with one question.
"How long after the draft did all this take place?"
Myron smiled at the ceiling. She was so damned perceptive. There was no reason to answer.
"I assume," Esperanza continued, "that this little tryst occurred sometime between the pro draft and your injury."
"You assume correctly."
"Ah," she said with a small nod. "So let me see if I got the true picture now. It's your senior year of college. Your team won the NCAA finals--a point for you. You end up losing Emily and she ends up engaged to Greg--a point for him. The draft comes. Greg is the seventh overall pick; you are the eighth--a point for Greg."
Myron closed his eyes and nodded. "You're wondering if I was trying to even the score."
"Not wondering," Esperanza corrected. "The answer is obvious."
"You're not helping."
"You want help, go to a shrink," she said. "You want the truth, come to me."
She was right. He took his hands off his chest. Keeping the fingers laced, he placed them behind his head. He put his feet on the desk.
"No."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. They met after we broke up."
"Too bad," she said. "It would have given you a nice out."
"Yeah. Pity."
"So this is why you feel obligated to Greg? Because you slept with his fiancee?"
"That's a big part of it, but there's more to it than that."
"Like?"
"It's going to sound corny, but there's always been a bond between us."
"A bond?"
Myron's line of vision traveled from the ceiling to his movie-still wall. Woody Allen and Diane Keaton were enjoying a Manhattan moment in Annie Hall. Bogie and Bergman leaned on Sam's piano back in the days when Paris had been theirs. "Greg and I were once-in-a-lifetime competitors," he said. "And there is a special bond between competitors. Kinda like Magic Johnson and Larry Bird. You become defined by one another. It was like that with Greg and me. It was unspoken, but we both knew the bond was there."
He stopped. Esperanza waited in silence. "When I hurt my knee," Myron continued, "Greg visited me in the hospital. He showed up the very next day. I woke up from some pain medication and there he was. Sitting with Win. And I instantly understood. Win must have understood too, otherwise he would have thrown him out."
Esperanza nodded.
"Greg stayed around too. He helped with rehab. That's what I mean by a bond. He was devastated by the news because when I got hurt, it was like a part of him was gone too. He tried to tell me why it meant so much to him, but he couldn't put it into words. It didn't matter. I knew. He just had to be there."
"And you hurt your knee how long after you'd slept with his new bride?"
"About a month."
"Did seeing him all the time help or hurt?"
"Yes."
She said nothing.
"Do you understand now?" he asked. "Do you see why I have to pursue this? You're probably right. Sleeping with Emily was probably nothing more than payback for not getting drafted before Greg. Just another stupid battle. But what kind of way was that for a marriage to start? I owe Greg Downing. It's that simple."
"No," she said. "It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
"Because too much of your past is resurfacing. First Jessica--"
"Don't start with that."
"I'm not," she said calmly. Her voice was rarely calm when it came to Jessica. "I'm just stating a fact. Jessica crushed you when she left. You never got over her."
"But she's back now."
"Yes."
"So what's your point?"
"Basketball also crushed you when it left. You never got over it."
"Sure I did."
She shook her head. "First you spent three years trying every possible remedy to fix your knee."
"I just tried to get better," he interjected. "Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"Nothing. But you were a pain in the ass. You pushed Jessica away. I'm not forgiving her for what she did to you. You didn't ask for that. But you played a part in her leaving."
"Why are you bringing this all up?"
She shook her head. "You're the one who's bringing it all up. Your entire past. Jessica and now basketball. You want us to watch you go through all this again, but we won't."
"Go through what?"
But she didn't answer. Instead she asked, "Do you want to know why I didn't go see you play last night?"
He nodded, still not facing her. His cheeks felt flush and hot.
"Because with Jessica, at least there's a chance you won't get hurt again. There's a chance the witch smartened up. But with basketball, there is no chance. You can't come back."
"I can handle it," he said, hearing those words yet again.
She said nothing.
Myron stared off. He barely heard the phone ring. Neither one of them moved to answer it. "You think I should drop this?" he asked.
"Yes. I agree with Emily. She's the one who betrayed him. You were just a handy tool. If what happened somehow poisoned their relationship, it was her doing. It was her decision. You don't owe Greg Downing a thing."
"Even if what you're saying is true," he said, "that bond is still there."
"Bullshit," Esperanza said. "That's just a load of pedantic, macho bullshit. You're just proving my point. There's no bond anymore, if there ever was one. Basketball hasn't been a part of your life for a decade. The only reason you think the bond is still there is because you're playing again."
There was a loud pounding on the door. The frame shook and almost gave way. Myron startled upright. "Who's manning the phones?" he asked.
Esperanza smiled.
"Oh no."
"Come in," Esperanza said.
The door opened. Myron's feet fell to the floor. Though he had seen her many times before, his jaw still dropped open. Big Cyndi ducked in. She was mammoth. Six-five and over three hundred pounds. Cyndi wore a white T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off at the biceps. Her arms were the envy of Hulk Hogan. Her makeup was more garish than it had been in the ring. Her hair was purple spikes; her mascara was also purple though a darker shade than her hair. Her lipstick was a red smear. Cyndi looked like something out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. She was the single most frightening sight Myron had ever seen.
"Hi, Cyndi," Myron tried.
Cyndi growled. She held up her middle finger, turned, stepped back through the door, closed it.
"What the--"
"She's telling you to pick up line one," Esperanza said.
"Cyndi's answering phones?"
"Yes."
"She doesn't talk!"
"In person. On the phone she's very good."
"Jesus Christ."
"Pick up the phone and stop whining."
Myron did so. It was Lisa, their contact at New York Bell. Most people think that only the police can get phone records. Not true. Almost every private eye in the country has a contact at their local phone company. It's just a matter of simply paying someone off. A month's phone records can cost you anywhere from one thousand to five thousand dollars. Myron and Win had met Lisa during their days with the feds. She didn't take money, but they always took care of her in some way or another. "I got what Win wanted," Lisa said.
"Go ahead."
"The call at nine eighteen P.M. came from a public phone located in a diner near Dyckman Street and Broadway," she said.
"Isn't that up near Two Hundredth Street?"
"I think so. You want the phone number?"
Carla had called Greg from a diner on 200th Street? Weirder and weirder. "If you have it."
She gave it to him. "Hope that helps."
"It does, Lisa. Thanks." He held up the paper to Esperanza. "Lookie what I got," he said. "A real live clue."
Chapter 11
To be fair, the Parkview Diner lived up to its name. You did indeed have a view of Lieutenant William Tighe Park across the street; it was smaller than the average backyard with shrubs so high you really couldn't see the landscaped garden within. A wire-mesh fence enclosed the grounds. Hung on the fence in several places were signs that read in big, bold letters: DO NOT FEED THE RATS. No joke. In smaller print the warning was repeated in Spanish: No Des Comida a Las Ratas. The signs had been placed there by a group calling itself the Quality of Life Zone. Myron shook his head. Only in New York would this be a problem--people who could not contain themselves from the seductive lure of feeding vermin. Myron glanced again at the sign, then the diner. Rats. Quite the appetite-enhancer.
He crossed the street. Two levels above the Parkview Diner, a dog squeezed his head through the grates of a fire escape and barked at passing pedestrians. The Parkview's green overhang was ripped in several spots. The letters were faded to the point of unintelligibility, and the support pole was bent so far that Myron had to duck to get to the door. There was a poster of a gyro sandwich in the window. Today's specials, according to a blackboard in the same window, included eggplant parmigi
ana and chicken a la king. The soup was beef consomme. There were permits from the City of New York Department of Buildings stuck on the door like car-inspection decals.
Myron entered and was immediately greeted by the familiar yet nonspecific smell of a Manhattan diner. Fat was in the air. Taking a deep breath felt as if it would clog an artery. A waitress with hair bleached to the point of straw offered him a table. Myron asked her for the manager. Using her pencil she pointed over her shoulder at a man behind the counter.
"That's Hector," she said. "He owns the place."
Myron thanked her and grabbed a soda-fountain stool at the counter. He debated spinning himself in the seat and decided the act might be viewed as immature. Two stools to his right, an unshaven, perhaps homeless man with black Thom McAn sneakers and a tattered overcoat smiled and nodded. Myron nodded and smiled back. The man went back to his coffee. He raised his shoulders and huddled into the drink as though he suspected someone might try to swipe it in mid-sip.
Myron picked up a vinyl menu with cracked binding. He opened it but didn't really read it. There were a lot of worn index cards jammed into protective plastic cases announcing various specials. Worn was an apt description of the Parkview Diner, but it didn't fairly convey the overall impression. There was something welcoming and even clean about this place. The counter gleamed. So did the utensils and the silver milk shake maker and the soda fountain. Most patrons read a newspaper or gabbed with one another as if they were eating at home. They knew their waitress's name, and you could bet your last dollar she didn't introduce herself and tell them she was going to be their server when they first sat down.
Hector the owner was busy at the grill. Almost two P.M. It wasn't the height of the lunch hour, but business was still pretty brisk. He barked out some orders in Spanish, his eyes never leaving the food. Then he turned around with a polite smile, wiped his hands on a rag, and asked Myron if he could help him. Myron asked if he had a pay phone.
"No, sir, I'm sorry," Hector answered. The Hispanic accent was there, but Hector had worked on it. "There's one on the street corner. On the left."
Myron looked at the number Lisa had given him. He read it out loud. Hector did several things at the same time. He flipped burgers, folded over an omelette, checked the french fries. His eyes were everywhere--the cash register, the clientele at both the tables and the counter, the kitchen to his left.
"Oh that," Hector said. "It's in the back. In the kitchen."
"The kitchen?"
"Yes, sir." Still polite.
"A pay phone in the kitchen?"
"Yes, sir," Hector said. He was on the short side, thin under his white apron and polyester black pants. His nose had been broken several times. His forearms looked like steel cords. "It's for my staff."
