by Harlan Coben
Complete pass.
Myron turned around, grinning. “Hey, Otto?”
“What?”
“Kiss my grits.”
Otto’s smile did not falter. Myron wondered how he did that, if his mouth was frozen that way, like the threat a little kid hears from his mom when he’s making faces. Otto nodded and walked away. His entourage followed in a row, like a family of mallard ducks.
Win looked at Myron “Kiss my grits?”
Shrug. “Paying homage to Flo on Alice.”
“You watch too much television.”
“Listen, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh?”
“About Gary Grady,” Myron said.
“What about him?”
“He has an affair with a student. She vanishes a year or so later. Time passes and her picture ends up in a porno ad he runs.”
“Your point being?”
“It’s crazy.”
“So is everything about this case.”
Myron shook his head. “Think about it. Grady admits having an affair with Kathy, right? So what would be the last thing he’d want to do?”
“Publicize it.”
“Yet her picture ends up in his ad.”
“Ah.” Win nodded. “You believe someone is setting him up.”
“Exactly.”
“Who?”
“Fred Nickler would be my bet,” Myron said.
“Hmm. He did hand over Grady’s p.o. box without much debate.”
“And he has the power to switch photos in his own magazine.”
“So what do you suggest?” Win asked.
“I’d like you to check out Mr. Fred Nickler very thoroughly Maybe talk to him again. Talk,” Myron repeated. “Not visit.”
On the field Christian was fading back again. For the third straight time Tommy Lawrence blitzed over left guard untouched. In fact, the left guard stood with his hands on his hips and watched.
“Christian’s own lineman is setting him up,” Myron said.
Christian side-stepped Tommy Lawrence, cocked his arms, and whipped the ball with unearthly velocity directly into his left guard’s groin. There was a short oomph sound. The left guard collapsed like a folding chair.
“Ouch,” Win said.
Myron almost clapped. “The Longest Yard revisited.”
The left guard was, of course, wearing a cup. But a cup was far from full protection against a speeding missile. He rolled on the ground, back curved fetal-like, eyes wide. Every man in the general vicinity gave a collective, sympathetic “Ooo.”
Christian walked over to his left guard—a man weighing in excess of 275 pounds—and offered him a hand. The left guard took it. He limped back to the huddle.
“Christian has balls,” Myron said.
Win nodded. “But can the same be said of the left guard?”
Chapter 18
As soon as Myron entered the Reston University campus, his car phone rang.
“Listen, putz, I got what you want,” P.T. said. “My friend’s name is Jake Courter. He’s the town sheriff.”
“Sheriff Jake,” Myron said. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Hey, don’t let the title fool you. Jake used to work homicide in Philly, Boston, and New York. Good man. He said he’d meet with you today at three.”
Myron checked his watch. It was one o’clock now. The station was five minutes away. “Thanks, P.T.”
“Can I ask you something, Myron?”
“Shoot.”
“Why you looking into this?”
“It’s a long story, P.T.”
“This have to do with her sister? That great piece of tail you used to nail?” He cackled.
“You’re all class, P.T.”
“Hey, Myron, I want to hear about it sometime. The whole story.”
“It’s a promise.”
Myron parked the car and headed into the old athletic center. The corridor was a bit more beaten up than Myron had expected. Three rows of framed photographs of past athletic teams—some from as far back as a hundred years ago—lined the walls. Myron approached a beaded-glass door that looked like something out of an old Sam Spade film. The word FOOTBALL was stenciled in black. He knocked.
The voice was like an old tire on an unpaved road. “What?”
Myron stuck his head. “Busy, Coach?”
Reston University football coach Danny Clarke looked up from his computer. “Who the hell are you?” he rasped.
“Fine, thanks. But let’s dispense with the pleasantries.”
“That supposed to be funny?”
Myron tilted his head. “You didn’t think so?”
“I’ll ask one more time: Who the hell are you?”
“Myron Bolitar.”
The coach’s scowl did not change. “Am I supposed to know you?”
It was a hot summer day, the campus was practically empty, and here sat the school’s legendary football coach wearing a suit and tie, watching videotapes of high school prospects. A suit and tie and no air conditioning. If the heat bothered Danny Clarke, it didn’t show. Everything about him was well groomed and tidy. He was shelling and eating peanuts, but no mess was visible. His jaw muscles bunched as he chewed, making little knobs appear and disappear near his ears. He had a prominent vein in his forehead.
“I’m a sports agent.”
He flicked his eyes away like a ruler dismissing an underling. “Get out of here. I’m busy.”
“We need to talk.”
“Out of here, asshole. Now.”
“I just—”
“Listen up, shithead.” He pointed a coach finger at Myron. “I don’t talk to bottom-feeders. Ever. I run a clean program with clean players. I don’t take payoffs from so-called agents or any of that bullshit. So if you got an envelope stuffed with green, you can go shove it up your ass.”
Myron clapped. “Beautiful. I laughed, I cried, it became a part of me.”
Danny Clarke looked up sharply. He wasn’t used to having his orders questioned, but part of him seemed almost amused by it. “Get the hell out of here,” he growled, but more gently now. He turned back to the television. On the screen a young quarterback threw a long, tight spiral. Caught. Touchdown.
Myron decided to disarm him with tact. “The kid looks pretty good,” he said.
“Yeah, well, it’s a good thing you’re a scum-sucking leech and not a scout. The kid can’t play a lick. Now take a hike.”
“I want to talk to you about Christian Steele.”
That got his attention. “What about him?”
“I’m his agent.”
“Oh,” Danny Clarke said. “Now I remember. You’re the old basketball player. The one who hurt his knee.”
“At your service,” Myron said.
“Is Christian okay?”
Myron tried to look noncommittal. “I understand he didn’t get along with his teammates.”
“So? You his social coordinator?”
“What was the problem?”
“I can’t see how it matters now,” he said.
“Then humor me.”
It took the coach some time to relax his glare. “It was a lot of things,” he said. “But I guess Horty was the main problem.”
“Horty?” Clever interrogation techniques. Pay attention.
“Junior Horton,” he explained. “A defensive lineman. Good speed, good size, good talent. The brains of a citrus beverage.”
“So what does this Horty have to do with Christian?”
“They didn’t see eye to eye.”
“How come?”
Danny Clarke thought a moment. “I don’t know. Something to do with that girl who disappeared.”
“Kathy Culver?”
“Right. Her.”
“What about her?”
He turned back to the VCR and changed tapes. Then he typed something on his computer. “I think maybe she dated Horty before Christian. Something like that.”
“So what happened?”
Later my ass, Myron thought. But for once he kept the thought to himself. “So what does this have to do with Christian?”
“Rumors started circulating that Christian had gotten Horty thrown off the team. Horty fueled them, you know, telling the guys that Christian was turning them all in for using steroids, stuff like that.”
“Was that true?”
“Nope. Two of my best players showed up game day so stoned, they could barely see. That’s when I took action. Christian had nothing to do with it. But you know how it is. They all figured Christian was the star. If he wanted his ass wiped, the coaches asked Charmin or Downy.”
“Did you tell your guys Christian had nothing to do with it?”
He made a face. “You think that would have helped? They would have thought I was covering for him, protecting him. They would have hated him even more. As long as it didn’t affect their play—and it didn’t—it was not my concern. I just let it be.”
“You’re a real character developer, Coach.”
He gave Myron his best intimidate-the-freshman glare. The forehead vein started pulsing. “You’re out of line, Bolitar.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I care about my boys.”
“Yeah, I can tell. You let Horty stay as long as he pumped your boys with dangerous albeit play-enhancing drugs. When he graduated to the big leagues—to the stuff that had a negative on-the-field impact—all of a sudden you became a righteous drug czar.”
“I don’t have to listen to this bullshit,” Danny Clarke ranted. “Especially from a no-good, bloodsucking vampire. Get the hell out of my office. Now.”
Myron said, “You want to catch a movie together sometime? Maybe a Broadway show?”
“Out!”
Myron left. Another day, another friend. Charm was the key.
He had plenty of time to kill before he visited Sheriff Jake, so he decided to take a stroll. The campus was like a ghost town, except no tumbleweeds were skittering along the ground. The students were gone for summer break. The buildings stood lifeless and sad. In the distance a stereo was playing Elvis Costello. Two girls appeared. Co-ed types wearing crotch-riding shorts and halter tops. They were walking a hairy, little dog—a Shih Tzu. It looked like Cousin It after one too many spins in the dryer. Myron smiled and nodded as the girls passed him. Neither one fainted or disrobed. Astonishing. The little dog, however, snarled at him. Cujo.
He was nearly at his car when he spotted the sign:
CAMPUS POST OFFICE
He stopped, looked around the grounds, saw nobody. Hmm. It was worth a try.
The inside of the post office was painted institutional green, the same color as the school bathroom. A long V-shaped corridor was wallpapered with p.o. boxes. He heard the distant sound of a radio. He couldn’t make out the song, just a strong, monotonous bass beat.
Myron approached the mail window. A kid sat with his feet up. The music was coming from the kid’s ears. He was listening to one of those Walkman clones with the minispeakers that bypass the ears and plug directly into the cerebrum. His black high-tops rested on a desk, his baseball hat tipped down like a sombrero at siesta time. There was a book on his lap. Philip Roth’s Operation Shylock.
“Good book,” Myron said.
The kid did not look up.
“Good book,” Myron said again, this time yelling.
The kid pulled the speakers out of his ears with a sucking pop. He was pale and red-haired. When he took off his hat, his hair was Afro-wild. Bernie from Room 222.
“What?”
“I said, good book.”
“You read it?”
Myron nodded. “Without moving my lips.”
The kid stood. He was tall and lanky.
“You play basketball?” Myron asked.
“Yeah,” the kid said. “Just finished my freshman year. Didn’t play much.”
“I’m Myron Bolitar.”
The kid looked at him blankly.
“I played ball for Duke.”
Blink, blink.
“No autographs, please.”
“How long ago did you play?” the kid asked.
“Graduated ten years ago.”
“Oh,” the kid replied, as though that explained everything. Myron did some quick math in his head. The kid had been seven or eight when Myron won the national title. He suddenly felt very old.
“We used peach baskets back then.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Can I ask you a few questions?”
The kid shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“How often are you on duty in the post office?”
“Five days a week in the summer, nine to five.”
“Is it always this quiet?”
“This time of year, yeah. No students, so there’s almost no mail.”
“Do you do the mail sorting?”
“Sure.”
“Do you do pick-ups?”
“Pick-ups?”
“Campus mail.”
“Yeah, but there’s only that slot by the front door.”
“That’s the only campus mailbox?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Been getting a lot of campus mail lately?”
“Next to none. Three, four letters a day.”
“Do you know Christian Steele?”
“Heard of him,” the kid said. “Who hasn’t?”
“He got a big manila envelope in his box a few days ago. There was no postmark, so it had to be mailed from campus.”
“Yeah, I remember. What about it?”
“Did you see who mailed it?” Myron asked.
“No,” the kid said. “But they were the only pieces of mail I got that whole day.”
Myron cocked his head. “They?”
“What?”
“You said ‘they.’ They were the only pieces.’ ”
“Right. Two big envelopes. Exact same except for the address.”
“Do you remember who the other one was addressed to?”
“Sure,” the kid said. “Harrison Gordon. He’s the dean of students.”
Chapter 19
Nancy Serat dropped her suitcase on the floor and rewound the answering machine. The tape raced back, shrieking all the way. She had spent the weekend in Cancún, a final vacation before starting her fellowship at Reston University, her alma mater.
The first message was from her mother.
“I don’t want to disturb you on vacation, dear. But I thought you’d want to know that Kathy Culver’s father died yesterday. He was stabbed by a mugger. Awful. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know. Give us a call when you get back in. Your father and I want to take you out to dinner for your birthday.”
Nancy’s legs felt weak. She collapsed into the chair, barely hearing the next two messages—one from her dentist’s office reminding her of a teeth cleaning on Friday, the other from a friend planning a party.
Adam Culver was dead. She couldn’t believe it. Her mother had said it was a mugger. Nancy wondered. Was it really random? Or did it have something to do with his visit on …?
She calculated the days.
Kathy’s father had visited on the day he died.
A voice on the machine jarred her back to the present.
“Hello, Nancy. This is Jessica Culver, Kathy’s sister. When you get in, please give me a call. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. I’m staying with my mom. The number here is 555-1477. It’s kind of important. Thank you.”
Nancy suddenly felt very cold. She listened to the rest of the messages. Then she sat without moving for several minutes, debating her options. Kathy was dead—or so everyone believed. And now her father, hours after talking to Nancy, was dead too.
What did it mean?
<
br /> She remained very still, the only sound her own breaths coming in short, hitching gasps. Then she picked up the phone and dialed Jessica’s number.
The dean’s office was closed, so Myron proceeded straight to his house. It was an old Victorian with cedar shingles on the west end of the campus. He rang the doorbell. A very attractive woman opened the door. She smiled solicitously.
“May I help you?”
She wore a tailored cream suit. She was not young, but she had a grace and beauty and sex appeal that made Myron’s mouth a little dry. In front of such a lady Myron wanted to remove his hat, except he wasn’t wearing one.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m looking for Dean Gordon. My name is Myron Bolitar, and—”
“The basketball player?” she interrupted. “Of course. I should have recognized you right away.”
To grace, beauty, and sex appeal, add knowledge of basketball.
“I remember watching you in the NCAAs,” she continued. “I cheered you all the way.”
“Thank you—”
“When you got hurt—” She stopped, shook the head attached to the Audrey Hepburn neck. “I cried. I felt like a part of me was hurt too.”
Grace, beauty, sex appeal, basketball knowledge, and alas, sensitivity. She was also long-legged and curvy. All in all, a nice package.
“That’s very kind of you, thank you.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Myron.”
Even his first name sounded good coming from those lips. “And you must be Dean Gordon’s wife. The lovely dean-nessa.”
She laughed at the Woody Allen rip-off. “Yes, I’m Madelaine Gordon. And no, my husband is not home at the moment.”
“Are you expecting him soon?”
She smiled as though the question were a double entendre. Then she gave him a look that flushed his cheeks. “No,” she said slowly. “He won’t be home for hours.”
