The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

“That’s correct. Now, Mr. Steele, do you know a woman named Nancy Serat?”

  “She was Kathy’s roommate at Reston.”

  “Are you aware that Nancy Serat was murdered last night?”

  Christian’s eyes widened. He turned to Myron. Myron nodded. “My God … no.”

  “Were you friends with Nancy Serat?”

  His voice was hollow. “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Steele, can you tell us where you were last night?”

  Myron interrupted. “What time last night?”

  “From the time he left practice till he went to sleep.”

  Myron hesitated. This was a trap. He could try to defuse it, or he could let Christian handle it on his own. Under most circumstances Myron would have stepped in and sounded a subtle warning of what the wrong answer might mean. But this time he sat back and watched.

  “If you want to know if I was with Nancy Serat last night,” Christian said slowly, “the answer is yes.”

  Myron breathed again. He looked back at the one-way mirror and stuck out his tongue. The demise of Mr. Mature.

  “What time was that?” Jake asked.

  “Around nine o’clock.”

  “Where did you see her?”

  “At her house.”

  “The one at 118 Acre Street?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What was the purpose of your visit?”

  “Nancy returned from a trip that morning. She called and said she needed to talk to me.”

  “Did she tell you why?”

  “She said it had something to do with Kathy. She wouldn’t tell me anything else over the phone.”

  “What happened when you arrived at the house at 118 Acre Street?”

  “Nancy practically shoved me out the door. She said I had to leave right away.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, sir. I asked Nancy what was going on, but she was insistent. She promised to call me in a day or two and tell me everything, but for now I had to go.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I argued with her for a minute or two. She started getting upset and saying stuff that made no sense. I finally just gave up and left.”

  “What sort of ‘stuff’ was she saying?”

  “Something about sisters reuniting.”

  Myron sat up.

  Jake asked, “What about sisters reuniting?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. Something like ‘Time for sisters to reunite.’ She really wasn’t making much sense, sir.”

  Jake looked at Myron. Myron looked back.

  “Do you remember anything else she said?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you go straight home after that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What time did you arrive home?”

  “Ten-fifteen, I guess. Maybe a little later.”

  “Is there anybody who can confirm the time?”

  “I don’t think so. I just moved into a condominium in Englewood. Maybe a neighbor saw me, I don’t know.”

  “Would you mind waiting here for a minute?”

  Jake signaled for Myron to follow him. Myron nodded, leaned over to Christian. “Don’t say another word until I get back.”

  Christian nodded.

  They stepped into the other room. The other side of the mirror, so to speak. County District Attorney Cary Roland had gone to Harvard Law School with Myron. A bright guy. Law review. Clerk for a Supreme Court justice. Cary Roland had first shown signs of political ambition while exiting his mother’s womb.

  He looked the same. Gray suit with vest (yes, he’d worn suits to class). Hook nose. Small, dark eyes. Loose curly hair, like a seventies Peter Frampton’s, only shorter.

  Roland shook his head. Then he made a noise of disgusted belief. “Creative client, Bolitar.”

  “Not as creative,” Myron said, “as your barber.”

  Jake held back a laugh.

  “I say we book him,” Roland continued. “We’ll announce it at the press conference.”

  “Now I see it,” Myron said.

  “See what?”

  “The hard-on. When you said ‘press.’ ”

  Snickers.

  Roland fumed. “Still a comedian, eh, Bolitar? Well, your client is about to go down.”

  “I don’t think so, Cary.”

  “I don’t care what you think.”

  Myron sighed. “Christian gave you a reasonable explanation for being at Nancy Serat’s house. You got nothing else, ergo you got nothing. Besides, imagine the headlines if Christian’s innocent. Young DA Makes Major Blunder. Tarnishes Name of Local Hero for Own Gain. Hurts Titans’ Chances for Superbowl. Becomes Most Hated Man in State.”

  Roland swallowed. He hadn’t considered that. Blinded by the lights. The TV lights. “Sheriff Courter, what do you think?”

  Backpedal time.

  “We have no choice,” Jake said. “We have to let him go.”

  “Do you believe his story?”

  Jake shrugged. “Who the hell knows? But we don’t have enough to keep him.”

  “Okay,” Roland said with a weighty nod. Important man. “He’s free to go. But he better not leave town.”

  Myron looked at Jake. “Not leave town?” He laughed. Hard. “Did he just say not to leave town?”

  Jake was trying to hold it in. But his lip was quivering pretty good.

  Roland’s face turned red. “Infantile,” he spat out. “Sheriff, I want daily updates on this case.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Roland gave everyone his most frightening glare. No one fell to their knees. He stormed out.

  “Must be nonstop laughs,” Myron said, “working with him.”

  “Gobs of fun.”

  “Can Christian and I go now?”

  Jake shook his head. “Not until I hear all about your visit with Dean Gordon.”

  Chapter 35

  Myron filled Jake in. Then he drove Christian home. On the way he filled Christian in too. On everything. Christian wanted to know. Myron wanted to spare him, but he knew he didn’t have the right to keep things from him.

  Christian did not interrupt with questions. In fact, he said nothing. On the field he was famous for his composure under any situation. Right now, Christian had on his best game face.

  When Myron finished, neither spoke for several minutes. Then Myron said, “Are you okay?”

  Christian nodded. His face was pale. “Thank you for being up-front with me,” he said.

  “Kathy loved you,” Myron said. “Very much. Don’t forget that.”

  He nodded again. “We have to find her.”

  “I’m trying.”

  Christian shifted in the car seat so he could face Myron. “When I was being wooed by all these big agencies, the whole process felt—I don’t know—so impersonal. It was all about money. Still is, I know that. I’m not being naïve here, but you were different. I instinctively knew I could trust you. I guess what I’m trying to say is, you’ve become more than just an agent to me. I’m glad I chose you.”

  “Me too,” Myron said. “This might not the best time to ask, but how did you hear about me in the first place?”

  “Someone gave you a glowing recommendation.”

  “Who?”

  Christian smiled. “You don’t know?”

  “A client?”

  “No.”

  Myron shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Christian settled back in his seat. “Jessica,” he said. “She told me your life history. About your playing days, your injury, what you went through, how you worked for the FBI, how you went back to school. She said you were the best person she knew.”

  “Jessica doesn’t get out much.”

  They fell back into silence. The New Jersey Turnpike had a center-lane closure, slowing them down to a crawl. Should have taken the western spur. Myron was about to change lanes when Christian said something that almost made him slam on the brakes.

  “My mother once posed in
the nude.”

  Myron thought he’d heard wrong. “What?”

  “When I was a little kid. I don’t know if they were ever printed in a magazine or anything. I doubt it. She wasn’t very attractive by then. She was twenty-five but looked sixty. She worked as a prostitute in New York. On the streets. I don’t know who my father was. She figured he was one of the guys at a bachelor party, but she had no idea which one.”

  Myron sneaked a glance at him. Christian stared straight ahead. The game face was still on.

  “I thought your mother and father raised you in Kansas,” Myron said carefully.

  Christian shook his head. “Those were my grandparents. My mom died when I was seven. They legally adopted me. We had the same last name, so I just pretended they were my real parents.”

  Myron said, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. They were wonderful parents. I guess they made a lot of mistakes with my mom, the way she ended up and all. But they were kind and loving to me. I miss them a lot.”

  The silence was heavier now. They drove past the Meadowlands. Myron paid the toll at the end of the turnpike and followed the signs to the George Washington Bridge. Christian had bought a place two miles before the bridge, six miles from Titans Stadium. A set of three hundred prefab condos loftily labeled Cross Creek Pointe, one of those New Jersey housing developments that looked like something out of Poltergeist.

  As they cruised to a stop, the car phone rang. Myron picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you?”

  It was Jessica.

  “In Englewood.”

  “Take Route four west to seventeen north,” she said quickly. “I’ll meet you in the Pathmark parking lot in Ramsey.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just meet me there. Now.”

  Chapter 36

  The moment Myron saw Jessica standing in the dusky glow of the Pathmark fluorescent parking lights, looking achingly beautiful in a pair of hip-hugging blue jeans and a red blouse open at the throat, he knew there was trouble. Big trouble.

  “Very bad?” he asked her.

  She opened the car door and slid in next to him. “Worse.”

  He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop thinking of how beautiful she was. She looked a little pale, her eyes a bit too sunken. She did not have crow’s-feet quite yet, but new lines had etched their way into her face. Had they been there yesterday or the day she visited his office? He wasn’t sure. But he thought she had never looked so devastating. The imperfections, if you wanted to call them that, just made her more real and hence more desirable. Myron had thought Dean-nessa Madelaine was attractive, but she was nary a penlight next to Jessica’s blinding beacon.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather just show you.” She started giving directions. When they reached a road appropriately called Red Dirt Path, she said, “My father rented a cabin out here.”

  “In these woods?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Two weeks ago. He had it for the month. According to the realtor, he wanted some peace and quiet. A place to get away from it all.”

  “Doesn’t sound much like your father,” Myron said.

  “Not like him at all,” she agreed.

  A few minutes later, they arrived at the cabin. Myron had a hard time believing that Adam Culver, a man he had gotten to know fairly well during his time with Jessica, would want to vacation out here. The man liked to gamble. He liked the ponies, the roulette wheel, the blackjack table. He liked action. His idea of a quiet time was a Tony Bennett concert at the Sands.

  Jessica got out of the car. Myron followed. Her posture was arrow-perfect. So was the walk, something Myron had always loved to watch in the past. But there was an unmistakable teeter in her step, as though her legs were not sure they could sustain the lovely torso over the long haul.

  Their footsteps creaked on the steps of the wooden porch. Myron spotted plenty of dry rot. Jessica unlocked the front door and pushed it open.

  “Take a look,” she said.

  He did. He said nothing. He could feel her eyes on him.

  “I checked his charge card,” she said. “He spent over three thousand dollars at a place in the city called Eye-Spy.”

  Myron knew the store. This was definitely their handiwork. Three videocameras were sprawled across the couch. Panasonic. All with mounting material, so they could be hung up somewhere. There were also three small television monitors. Also Panasonic. The kind you might see at a high-rise’s security station. Two VCRs. Toshiba. Lots of cables and wires and stuff like that.

  But that stuff wasn’t the most bothersome thing he saw. Alone, those electronic goods could have meant one of several things. But two other items—items that drew Myron’s eye and held it like a baby near a shiny coin—changed everything. They were the added catalyst. They completed a mixture that was far too noxious to be ignored.

  Propped against the wall was a rifle. And on the floor next to it, a set of handcuffs.

  Jessica said, “What the hell was he doing?”

  He knew what she was thinking. The dead girls found near here. The television images of their battered, decayed bodies hovered above them like the most haunting of ghosts.

  “When did he buy this stuff?” Myron asked.

  “Two weeks ago.” Her eyes were clear, controlled. “Listen, I’ve had time to think about this. Even if our worst fears are true, it doesn’t explain anything. What about the picture in the magazine? Or Kathy’s handwriting on that envelope? Or the phone calls? Or for that matter his murder?”

  Myron looked at her. He knew she was seeking an explanation—any explanation but the one that stared them straight in the face. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She crossed her arms under her breasts, a hand on each elbow, as if she were hugging herself. “I feel,” she said, “unanchored.”

  “Can you take more?”

  Her hands dropped to her sides. “Why? What is it?”

  He hesitated.

  She exploded. “Goddamn it, don’t coddle me!”

  “Jess—”

  “You know I hate that protect-the-little-lady bullshit of yours! Tell me what the hell is going on!”

  “Kathy was gang-raped by some of Christian’s teammates on the night she disappeared.”

  Jessica looked as if she’d just been slapped with an open hand. Myron reached out. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Just tell me what happened. Everything.”

  He did. Her clear, controlled eyes went blank, lifeless. She remained uncharacteristically silent.

  “Bastards,” she managed. “The goddamn bastards.”

  He nodded.

  “One of them killed her,” she said. “Or all of them. To shut her up.”

  “It’s possible.”

  She paused, thinking. Then the eyes came back to life. “Suppose,” she began slowly, “that my father learned about the rape.”

  Myron nodded.

  “What would he do?” she continued. “How would you react—if it was your daughter?”

  “I’d be enraged,” Myron replied.

  “Would you be able to control yourself?”

  “Kathy is not my daughter,” he said. “And I’m still not sure I can control myself.”

  Jessica nodded. “So maybe, just maybe, that explains this whole setup. The electronics, the cuffs, the rifle. Maybe he was using this hideaway, deep in the woods, so he could grab a rapist and exact a little private justice.”

  “Kathy was gang-raped. There were six of them. This place looks built for one.”

  “But,” she continued with the hint of an eerie smile, “suppose my father was in the exact same position we are in now.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Suppose he knew the name of only one rapist. Maybe this Horton guy. What might he do then? What might you do then?”

  “I might,” Myron
said, “kidnap him and make him tell.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But it’s a hell of a reach. Why would I videotape it? Why would I need cameras and monitors?”

  “Tape the confession, make sure no one comes down the road, I don’t know. You have a better scenario?”

  He did not. “Have you gone through the rest of the house yet?”

  “I didn’t have a chance. The realtor brought me here. He practically burst a blood vessel when he saw this stuff.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I knew all this was here. That my father was a private investigator working undercover.”

  Myron made a face.

  “Hey, it was the best I could come up with.”

  “And he bought that?”

  “I think so.”

  Myron shook his head. “I thought you were a writer.”

  “I’m not good with spur-of-the-moment. I’m a lot better with the written than the oral.”

  “Based on past experience,” he said, “I’d have to disagree.”

  “Nice time,” she said, “for a come-on.”

  He shrugged. “Just trying to keep things loose.”

  She almost smiled.

  “Let’s look around,” he said.

  There wasn’t much to search. The living room had no drawers or closets. Everything was in plain view—the electronic equipment, the handcuffs, the rifle. The kitchenette held no surprises. Same with the bathroom. That left the bedroom.

  It was small. The size of a guest bedroom at a beach house. The double bed took up almost the entire room. There were reading lights on either side of the bed, attached to the wall because there was no room for night tables. No dressers either. The bed was made with flannel sheets. They checked the closet.

  Bingo.

  Black pants, black T-shirt, black sweatshirt. And worst of all, a black ski mask.

  “Ski mask in June?” Myron said.

  “He might have needed it to kidnap Horton,” she tried. But her tone would not make the leap.

  Myron dropped to the floor and looked underneath the bed. He saw a plastic bag. He stretched out his hand, grabbed it, and dragged it along the dust-blanketed floor toward him. The bag was red. The initials BCME were emblazoned across the front.

  “Bergen County Medical Examiner,” Jessica explained.

  It looked like one of those old Lord and Taylor’s bags, the kind that snapped closed on the top. Myron pulled it back. The bag opened with a pop. He pulled out a pair of gray no-frills sweat pants with a drawstring. Then he reached back in and withdrew a yellow pullover with the letter T in red. Both were covered with caked-on dirt.