The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  Chaz had a big family. If Frank really wanted to hit him where he lived, he’d take one of his siblings. “We’ll settle it tomorrow,” Myron said. “I scheduled a meeting with Herman Ache. Two o’clock. Usual place.”

  “Should I attend?”

  “Most definitely.”

  Win ate his salad. “You do know that this won’t be easy.”

  Myron nodded.

  “Herman Ache does not like to intervene in his brother’s business.”

  “I know.”

  Win put down his fork. “If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Frank Ache sent two professionals after you. Their untimely deaths will not dissuade him from trying again.”

  “Uh-huh. So what’s your suggestion?”

  “Cut your losses now. Make an exchange. You let them keep Landreaux. They call off the contract on your head.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You can. You choose not to.”

  “Semantics.”

  “You don’t have to help him.”

  “I want to help him,” Myron answered.

  Win sighed. “A man must try to illuminate even those who prefer to sit in the darkness. Do you have a plan yet?”

  “I’m still working on it.”

  “Feverishly?”

  Myron nodded.

  “In the meantime,” Win said, “what did you learn from the photographer?”

  Myron filled him in on the meeting with Lucy.

  “So who bought the nude pictures?” Win asked.

  “A name springs to mind,” Myron said.

  “Who?”

  “Adam Culver.”

  “Kathy’s father?”

  Myron nodded. “Think about it. The buyer was in his fifties. He wanted all copies and all negatives on the spot. He left nothing to chance.”

  “The father protecting the daughter?”

  “It makes sense,” Myron said.

  “But Kathy was missing for over a year. How did Adam Culver suddenly learn about the photographs?”

  “Maybe he knew about them all along.”

  “Then why did he wait so long to buy them?”

  Myron shrugged. “We’ll know more tomorrow. I’m going to send Esperanza over to the studio with a picture of Adam, see if Lucy recognizes him.”

  Win took another bite of his salad. “It’s a rather strange development.”

  “Yes.”

  “But”—Win stopped to finish chewing—“here is something else you may not have considered: If Adam Culver purchased all the pictures and negatives in order to protect his daughter, how did her photograph end up in the magazine?”

  Myron had considered that. He just didn’t have an answer.

  The waitress put down the check. Myron picked up the tab for both of them. The total was $8.50. Mr. Magnanimous. They drove uptown. Win lived in the San Remo building overlooking Central Park West. Very fancy address. They were on Seventy-second Street when the car phone rang.

  Myron looked at his multicolored Swatch. A gift from Esperanza.

  Past midnight.

  “Rather late for a call to your car,” Win noted.

  Myron picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  The voice came fast. “Bolitar, it’s Jake Courter. Get your ass down to St. Barnabas Hospital in Livingston right away.”

  “What happened?”

  “Just get down here. Now.”

  Chapter 27

  “We got the call around eleven-thirty,” Jake said, ushering Myron through the lobby of St. Barnabas. Jake’s face was set, his eyes red and puffy. They hurried past the circular visitors’ desk and waited for an elevator.

  “Is Jessica okay?” Myron asked.

  “She is going to be fine,” he said. Then he added, “Wish I could say the same about Nancy Serat.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was garroted with a wire.” The elevator arrived. Jake pressed the button for the fifth floor. “When no one answered the door, Jessica let herself in through the back. The killer must have still been there. He knocked her over the head and ran. When she came to, she called us. I’d say she’s pretty lucky the perp didn’t waste her.”

  The elevator opened with a ding. “What room is she in?” Myron asked.

  “Five fifteen.”

  Myron sprinted down the corridor. He turned the corner. Jessica was in the bed, her face ashen. A doctor stood next to her, preparing a needle. Jake came up behind Myron but stayed in the doorway.

  Her voice was wobbly. “Myron?”

  “I’m here,” he said, taking her hand. She looked small and frail and alone. “I won’t leave.”

  The doctor pricked her with the needle. “You need your rest,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” Jessica insisted weakly. “I want to get out of here.”

  “We think it’s best if you stay overnight for observation.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to him, Jess,” Myron interrupted. “There’s nothing we can do tonight.”

  The drug began to take effect. Her eyes fluttered back. “Nancy …”

  “It’s okay,” Myron soothed.

  “Her face was blue …”

  “Shhh.”

  Jessica slipped into unconsciousness. Myron looked up at the doctor. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “She’ll be fine. I think the shock of what she saw was worse than the blow to her head.”

  Jake put his hand on Myron’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “I want to stay.”

  “You can come back later. Right now we need to talk.”

  Myron gazed down at Jessica. She was deep in sleep.

  “She’ll be out for a while,” the doctor assured him.

  They walked down the corridor silently and took the elevator back to the lobby. The place had that hospital smell—that unique combo of something antiseptic and the hospital food. Win had parked the car and was now sitting in the waiting area. He stood when he saw them.

  “That your friend Win?” Jake asked, motioning with his chin. “The one P.T. told me about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him to stay here. I want to talk to you alone.”

  Myron signaled to Win. Win nodded, sat back down, picked up a newspaper, crossed his legs. Jake looked him over for a minute. “He as crazy as P.T. says?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Come on.”

  They grabbed coffee and found a table in the corner. “The crime scene unit is going over Nancy’s house now. They’ll beep me if they find anything.”

  “So what do you know so far?” Myron asked.

  “Not much. Nancy spent the last few days in Cancún—a graduation present from her parents.”

  “Have they been told?”

  He shook his head. “I’m going over there right after we talk.”

  Silence. Jake broke it. “So how did Jessica get involved in this?”

  “She wanted me to look into her father’s murder. She didn’t buy the fact that he was killed in a botched robbery.”

  Jake nodded. “She thought her old man’s murder had something to do with her sister.”

  “Yes.”

  “I figured as much. I got the file in the car.”

  Myron sat up. “Adam Culver’s homicide file?”

  “Hey, I ain’t an idiot, Bolitar. You start investigating after eighteen months. Why? Had to be the father’s murder. You saw a connection. But I gotta be honest. I don’t see it. No connections in that file at all. A few inconsistencies maybe. But no connection.”

  “What sort of inconsistencies?” Myron asked.

  “Adam Culver was supposed to be in Denver when he was killed. At a medical examiners’ conference at the Hyatt Regency. But he never showed, missed his morning flight.”

  “Does the file say why?”

  “Adam didn’t feel well. A reasonable explanation.”

  “Who
told them that?”

  “His wife.”

  Pause. “What else?”

  “Nothing else. The crime scene—a quiet street—was unremarkable. He was stabbed through the heart.”

  “What was he doing out?”

  “The wife said he went out to buy some groceries.”

  Myron chewed that one over for a moment. “Odd thing to do,” he said, “when you’re not feeling well.”

  “Yeah, that’s easy for us to say, sitting here like this. But the cops were concentrating on finding a mugger. No one really gave a shit about a missed flight or what it might mean.”

  “Any witnesses to the murder?”

  “None. The file is pretty bare-bone.” Jake leaned forward and tried to stare Myron down. Myron did not look away. “Now,” Jake said slowly, “you start talking to me. And don’t give me no ‘I don’t want no one hurt’ crap. Too late for that now. Why are you really involved in all this?”

  “I told you Jessica.”

  Jake leaned farther forward until their faces were only inches apart. “Stop jerking me around,” he spat out. “I ain’t blind. I can see Jessica Culver is great tail. But don’t start giving me this bullshit that you just decided to drop everything and help on a whim. You ain’t that hard up.”

  “There was also Christian to consider,” Myron said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s my top client. He was still upset about his fiancée’s disappearance.”

  Jake made a snorting nose. “Yeah, I bet.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” Jake said, “that I’m not convinced Christian is completely innocent in all this.”

  “But you said the DNA test on the semen—”

  “I’m not saying he raped her.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “That he might be involved,” Jake replied. “Your client had no solid alibi for the time of the disappearance. He claims he was in bed at eleven o’clock, but no one can confirm it.”

  “He has a single room,” Myron said. “Who’s going to confirm he was in bed when he lived alone?”

  “It’s suspicious,” Jake replied.

  “How? Kathy Culver was seen entering the team locker room after ten, right?”

  Jake nodded.

  “And you know Christian was meeting with the offensive coordinator until ten-thirty,” Myron continued. “That’s confirmed.”

  “But that’s where his alibi ends.”

  “He went to bed after that. Kathy was seen wandering around on the other side of the campus at eleven o’clock. I don’t see the connection.”

  “Maybe there is none,” Jake said simply. “But he’s the boyfriend. The boyfriend is always a prime suspect. And there was something else.”

  “What?”

  “His teammates.”

  “What about them?”

  Jake finished his coffee. He tapped the cup to get the last few drops. “They were cooperative, I guess, but some of them seemed awfully vague. Nothing I could pin down, but some of them looked more nervous than they should. Like they were covering something up. Like maybe, just maybe, they were protecting their star quarterback before the big game.”

  Except, Myron thought, nobody on the team liked Christian. His teammates would not have gone out of their way to protect him. Just the opposite, in fact.

  So why were they nervous?

  Jake settled back and smiled, marking a change in tactics. “Now, Myron, I’ve been awfully sweet, haven’t I? I’ve told you all I know, and you’re still holding back on me. That ain’t nice. Something else—something you haven’t shared with me yet—put a real hairy bug in your ass. Now I visited our friend Dean Gordon a few hours ago, just like you suggested. The man was cordial, friendly, not at all a pompous ass. Which ain’t like him. In fact, I think he was scared shitless. Now why’s that?”

  “Did he tell you anything?”

  “Oh, he was real helpful. Kathy was a wonderful girl, an honor student, a hard worker, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yeah. He also told me your ex upstairs paid him a visit. Seems Jessica wanted her sister’s file. Imagine that.”

  “We were trying to gather as much info as possible.”

  “Information on what?”

  Myron eyed his coffee. It looked like sewer sludge. “On the morning Adam Culver was murdered, he visited Nancy Serat.”

  Jake’s eyes widened a bit. “How do you know that?”

  “Nancy left a message on Jessica’s phone to meet her at ten o’clock tonight. She also said that she’d seen Adam Culver on the morning of the murder.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Jake crossed his arms, resting them on his belly. “So Adam Culver visits Nancy Serat in the morning. He finds something out. Something big. Something so big he cancels his trip.”

  “Something so big,” Myron added, “it gets him killed.”

  Jake nodded, thinking. “Then the killer has to get rid of the source.”

  “Nancy Serat.”

  “Right.” Jake stopped. “But I questioned that girl for hours. I asked her everything.” His voice faded off, and a shadow crossed his face. Myron knew what he was wondering. Any cop worth a damn would be asking the same questions. Did I fuck up? Did I miss something? Is a young girl dead because of me?

  “If Nancy knew something that important,” Myron said, “the killer wouldn’t have waited eighteen months to silence her. I think it’s a little more complicated than our scenario. I think Adam Culver had already put most of it together. Nancy had the final piece, a piece that by itself meant nothing to anyone—except Adam Culver.”

  “You trying to make me feel better?”

  “No. It’s how I see it. If I thought you fucked up, I’d say so.”

  “You didn’t see her body,” Jake said quietly. “Strangulation ain’t pretty. The damn wire nearly sliced her head off. Not a nice way to go, Myron.” He stopped, shook his head. “After seeing that, I know what Jessica is asking herself, because I keep asking myself the same thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Did Kathy meet a similar fate?”

  Silence. They drank some coffee. Myron’s was already cold, but he didn’t complain. Cold, sludgelike coffee seemed to fit the occasion.

  “P.T. told me all about you,” Jake said after a massive slurp. “Said you were smart, that I could trust you. He don’t say that about too many folks. Said you and that Win fella were as good as they come. A little too maverick, but right now I could use that. I’m a cop. I have to follow rules. You don’t. More power to you. But this is my territory, and I ain’t gonna sit around like some fucking movie extra.” He put his hands on the table. They were big and callused and had no rings. “So now I want you to tell me everything, Myron. Right now. Just you and me. It won’t get out, you have my word. Don’t hold anything back. You understand?”

  Myron nodded.

  “So start talking, boy. I’m all ears.”

  Myron took out the magazine and handed it to Jake. “It all started with this.”

  Chapter 28

  The morning papers had no mention of Nancy Serat’s murder, but the radio was beginning to pick up early reports of a murdered woman. Just a question of time. Myron took Route 280 east to the New Jersey Turnpike north. Scenic road. Like driving through west Beirut on a good day. Problem was, people unfairly judged New Jersey by this road. It was like judging a woman’s beauty by the size of her feet.

  Billy Joel was on the radio, singing, “I love you just the way you are.” Big talk, Myron mused, when you’ve been married to Christie Brinkley.

  Exit 16W led him directly into the Meadowlands parking lot. Murder and intrigue were all well and good, but agenting paid the bills. He had a meeting with Otto Burke. Otto was expecting a response to his demand vis-à-vis Christian’s contract. Myron had prepared one for him.

  He had spent the night in Jessica’s hospital room, trying to get comfortable in a chair that doubled as a medieval torture devi
ce. But he had not minded. He liked watching her sleep. It brought back memories. He’d always hoped they’d one day sleep together again, though last night was not precisely what he had had in mind.

  Jess had woken up two hours ago. Belligerent. Testy. Demanding. In a word: herself. Before her brother Edward took her home, Myron had told her all he knew—especially about his visit to Lucy’s photo studio. She had given him a photograph of her father to show Lucy. Myron was surprised to see Jessica carried one in her wallet. But he was far more surprised to catch a fleeting glimpse of a picture from four summers ago—a picture she tried to skip past without his seeing. But he had seen it, and he remembered the precise moment it had been taken. Their last weekend in Martha’s Vineyard. Just the two of them. Tan, happy, relaxed. A barbecue at Win’s summer house. The pinnacle before the inevitable slide.

  Myron had not had a chance to change clothes. He looked as if he’d spent the evening in the bottom of a laundry hamper.

  Otto was waiting for him in the owner’s box on Titans Stadium mezzanine level. Larry Hanson was with him. Otto greeted Myron with a bony handshake and a wide smile. Mr. Sunshine Larry offered a quick wave. He did not meet Myron’s eye. It was no wonder. Larry Hanson was a tough guy, a loud brute even, but he tried to play fair. He didn’t like to cheat, and he did not like what Otto was doing now. He looked, in fact, as if he wanted to blend into the wall.

  “Please, Myron,” Otto said, spreading his arms like Carol Merrill on Let’s Make a Deal, “sit wherever you like.”

  “Always the perfect host, Otto.”

  “I do try, Myron. Thank you for noticing.”

  “Sarcasm, Otto. It’s called sarcasm.”

  Otto kept the smile aglow. His goatee was exactly the same as always, never heavier or lighter. Must trim it every day, Myron thought. They sat in two seats facing the field. Fifty yard line. Fans would kill for these seats. Down below, players were scattered across the field. Myron spotted Christian walking toward the sideline. His helmet was off, his head held high. Christian didn’t know about Nancy Serat’s murder—her name had not yet been released—but the press would be all over him soon enough. Myron could protect him only so much, though he did entertain hopes that the news of Christian’s signing would deflect some attention away from the murder.