The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  “They were quite close,” Mrs. Crane added. “Such a tragedy.”

  “Did she say anything else, Eddie?”

  Another shrug. Eddie finally looked up. Myron met his gaze, held it steady.

  “It’s important,” Myron said.

  “She told me not to work with TruPro,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “My theory,” Crane added, “is that she blamed them for her downfall.”

  “What do you think, Eddie?” Myron asked.

  Yet another shrug. “Could be. I don’t know.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  Nothing.

  Mrs. Crane said, “I think that’s enough for now. Valerie’s murder has been very hard on Eddie.”

  The conversation slowly drifted back to business. But Eddie was silent now. Every once in a while he would open his mouth, then close it again. When they rose to leave, Eddie leaned toward Myron and whispered, “Why do you want to know so much about Valerie?”

  Myron opted for the truth. “I’m trying to find out who killed her.”

  That widened his eyes. He looked behind him. His parents were busy saying good-bye to François. François kissed Mrs. Crane’s hand.

  “I think you might be able to help,” Myron said.

  “Me?” Eddie said. “I don’t know anything.”

  “She was your friend. You were close to her.”

  “Eddie?”

  Mr. Crane’s voice.

  “I have to go, Mr. Bolitar. Thank you for everything.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Crane added. “We have a few more agencies to see, but we’ll be in touch.”

  After they left, François came by with the bill. “Your tie is very becoming, Mr. Bolitar.”

  The man knew how to kiss ass. “You should have been an agent, François.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Myron gave him a Visa card and waited. He turned his cell phone back on. A message from Win. Myron called him back.

  “Where are you?” Myron asked.

  “On Twenty-sixth Street, near Eighth,” Win said. “There were two gentlemen—and I use that term in its absolute loosest sense—in the Cadillac. They followed you to La Reserve, sat outside for a while, and left about half an hour ago. They’ve just entered a drinking establishment of rather questionable repute.”

  “Questionable repute?”

  “It’s called the Beaver Hunt. Enough said?”

  “Stay on them. I’m on my way down.”

  12

  Win was waiting across the street from the Beaver Hunt. The block was quiet, the only sound was the faint beat of music coming from inside the bar. A large neon sign said TOPLESS!

  “Two of them,” Win said. “The driver was a white man, approximately six-three. Overweight but powerfully built. I think you’ll like his fashion sense.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’ll see. He is with a black man. Six foot. Big scar on his right cheek. I guess you might describe him as thin and wiry.”

  Myron looked down the street. “Where did they park?”

  “A lot on Eighth Avenue.”

  “Why not on the street? Plenty of spots.”

  “I believe our man is quite attached to his charming chariot.” Win smiled. “If anything happened to it, I bet he’d be very upset.”

  “How difficult will it be to break in?”

  Win looked insulted. “I’ll pretend you didn’t ask that.”

  “Fine, you check the car. I’ll go inside.”

  Win snapped a salute. “Roger, Wilco.”

  They split up. Win headed for the lot, Myron for the bar. Myron would have preferred it the other way around, especially since the two men obviously knew what Myron looked like, but they needed to play their strengths. Win was far better at breaking into cars or handling anything mechanical. Myron was better at, well, this.

  He entered the bar with his head lowered, just in case. No need. No one paid him any attention. There was no cover charge here. Myron looked around. Two words came to mind: major dive. The decor’s theme was Early American Beer. The walls were ornamented with neon beer signs. The bar and table were crusted with beer rings. Behind the bar were pyramids of beer bottles from all over the land.

  Of course, there were topless dancers. They lazily pranced atop small stages that looked like old stage props from Wonderama. Most of the dancers were not attractive. Far from it. The exercise craze had not yet hit the Beaver Hunt. Flesh jiggled. The place looked more like a cellulite test center than a male-fantasy cantina.

  Myron moved to a corner table and sat by himself. There were a few suits, but for the most part the clientele was blue-collar. The well-to-do usually got their topless kicks at Goldfingers or Score, where the women were far more aesthetically pleasing, though their body parts were about as real as their inflatable brethren’s.

  Two men were laughing it up by center stage. One black, one white. They fit Win’s description. When the dancers rotated stages, the one in front of them stepped off. Her downtime. The boys began to negotiate with her. In places like Goldfingers and Score, you paid about twenty or twenty-five dollars for a table dance. It was basically just what it sounded like. The girl took off her top and danced at your table for maybe five minutes. No touchy, no feely. At the Beaver Hunt, the order of the day was a recent craze known as the Lap Dance, which took place in discreet corners of the bar. The Lap Dance, known to young adolescents as the Dry Hump, consisted of a dancer gyrating on a man’s crotch until he, well, orgasmed. Moral repugnancy aside, Myron had several questions about the technical aspects of such an act. Like after the act, how does a guy go around the rest of the night? Does he bring a change of underwear with him?

  So many questions. So little time.

  The two men and the dancer headed toward Myron’s corner. Myron could now see clearly what Win had been talking about. The white guy did indeed have big arms, but he also had a protruding gut and flabby chest. Some of these flaws could be hidden with proper fashion sense, but the white guy was wearing a tight fishnet shirt. Fishnet. As in a lot of holes. As in practically no shirt at all. His chest hairs—and there were lots of them—were jutting through the holes. The hairs seemed unusually long, coiling around—and indeed getting enmeshed in—the many gold chains that were draped about his neck. As he walked by, Myron got a full view of his back, thank you very much, which was even hairier and somewhat oilier than the front.

  Myron felt a little ill.

  “Fifteen dollars for the first ten minutes,” the girl said. “I can’t do better than that.”

  “Don’t jerk us around, whore,” Fishnet said. “There’s two of us here. Two for one.”

  “Yeah,” the black guy chimed in. “Two for one.”

  “I can’t do that,” the girl said. If she seemed insulted by the name calling, it didn’t show. Her voice was tired and matter-of-fact, like a diner waitress on the night shift.

  Fishnet was not pleased by this. “Listen, bitch, don’t get me angry.”

  “I’ll get the manager,” she said.

  “The fuck you will. You ain’t leaving here till I get my rocks off, slut.”

  “Yeah,” the black guy added. “Me too. Slut.”

  “Look, I charge more for talking dirty,” the girl said.

  Fishnet looked at her in disbelief. “What did you say?”

  “There’s a surcharge for talking dirty.”

  “A surcharge?” Fishnet shouted. He was enraged now. “This might come as a surprise to a stupid whore, but we live in the U.S. of A. Land of the free, home of the brave. I can say whatever I want, slut—or haven’t you ever heard of freedom of speech?”

  A constitutional scholar, Myron thought. Nice to see a man defending the First Amendment.

  “Look,” the dancer said, “the price is twelve dollars for five minutes, twenty dollars for ten minutes. Plus tip. That’s it.”

  “How about this,” Fishnet said. �
�You dance on both of us at the same time.”

  “Huh?”

  “Like you’re dancing on me but stroking him. How’s that sound, pig?”

  “Yeah,” the black guy said. “Pig.”

  “Look, fellas, there’s no two-for-one deals,” the dancer said. “Just let me get another girl. We’ll take good care of you.”

  Myron stepped into view. “Will I do?”

  No one moved.

  “Gee,” Myron said, “they’re both so attractive. I just can’t choose.”

  Fishnet looked at the black guy. The black guy looked at Fishnet.

  Myron turned to the girl. “Do you have a preference?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Then I’ll take him.” Myron pointed to Fishnet. “He likes me. I can tell by the erect nipples.”

  The black guy said, “Hey, what’s he doing here?”

  Fishnet shot him a look.

  “I mean, who is this guy?”

  Myron nodded. “Nice recovery. Very smooth.”

  “What do you want, mister?” Fishnet asked.

  “Actually, I was lying.”

  “What?”

  “About how I knew you liked me. It wasn’t just the erect nipples, though they were a noticeable—albeit nauseating—tip-off.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Your following me around the past two days, that’s what gave it away. Next time try the secret admirer route. Send flowers without signing for them. A nice Hallmark card. That kind of thing.”

  “Come on, Jim,” Fishnet said to the black guy, “this guy’s nuts. Let’s get out of here.”

  The girl said, “No lap dance?”

  “No. We gotta go.”

  “Someone’s got to pay for this,” the girl said. “Otherwise the manager’s going to fry my ass.”

  “Get lost, whore. Or I’ll whack you.”

  “Whoa, big man,” Myron said.

  “Look, mister, I don’t got no beef with you. Just get out of my way.”

  “No lap dance for me either?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I can offer you a special discount,” Myron said.

  Fishnet’s hands tightened into fists. He’d been ordered to follow Myron, not to be found out or get involved in a physical altercation. “Come on, Jim.”

  “Why have you been following me?” Myron asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Is it my hypnotic blue eyes? The strong features? The shapely derriere? By the way what do you think of these pants? They’re not too tight, are they?”

  “Fruitcake.” They moved past him.

  “Tell you what,” Myron said. “You tell me who you’re working for and I promise not to tell your boss.”

  They kept walking.

  “Promise,” Myron said.

  They headed out the door. Another day, another friend. Myron had that knack.

  Myron followed them out to the street. Fishnet and Jim hurried west.

  Win appeared from the shadows across the street. “This way,” he said.

  They cut through an alley and arrived at the lot before Fishnet and Jim. It was an outdoor lot. The parking attendant was in a little booth watching a Roseanne rerun on a minuscule black-and-white TV. Win pointed out the Cadillac. They ducked behind an Oldsmobile parked two cars away and waited.

  Fishnet and Jim approached the booth. They were still looking down the street. Jim was panicking. “How did he find us, Lee? Huh?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What we gonna do?”

  “Nothing. We’ll change cars. Try again.”

  “You got another car, Lee?”

  “No,” Fishnet said. “We’ll rent one.”

  They paid, got a receipt and their keys. Fishnet had insisted on parking the car himself.

  “This,” Win said, “should be fun.”

  When they arrived at the Cadillac, Fishnet put his key in the lock. He stopped, looked down, and began screaming.

  “Shit! Goddamn fuck!”

  Myron and Win stepped out of the shadows.

  “Language, language,” Myron said.

  Fishnet stared down at his car in disbelief. Win had drilled a hole under the lock to break in. He didn’t use that particular method when neatness counted, but this was an occasion when he thought it necessary. On top of that, Win’s hand had “accidentally” slipped, scratching both driver’s-side doors.

  “You!” Fishnet shouted. He pointed at Myron, his face red and apoplectic. “You!”

  Win turned to Myron. “Quite the vocabulary.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the threads that really make me swoon.”

  “You!” Fishnet said. “You did this to my car?”

  “Not him,” Win said. “Me. And may I say you keep the inside lovely. I felt terrible about spilling that maple syrup all over the velour seats.”

  Fishnet’s eyes popped. He looked inside, placed his hand on the inside, and screamed. The scream was deafening. It was so loud, the parking lot attendant almost stirred.

  Myron looked at Win. “Maple syrup?”

  “Log Cabin.”

  “I’ve always been an Aunt Jemima man myself,” Myron said.

  “To each his own.”

  “You find anything inside the car?”

  “Not very much,” Win said. “In the glove compartment were several parking stubs.” He handed them to Myron. Myron took a quick glance.

  “So,” Myron called out, “who are you guys working for?”

  Fishnet started walking over. “My car!” he shouted, his face red. “You … my car! My car!”

  Win sighed. “Can we get past this, please? Très dull.”

  “You motherfucker! You …” Fishnet’s hands were fists again. He stepped closer, smiling now at Win. It was an ugly smile in every way. “I’m going to break your fucking face, pretty boy.”

  Win looked at Myron. “Pretty boy?”

  Myron shrugged.

  Jim stood next to Fishnet. Neither one was armed with a gun, Myron could tell. They might have a blade hidden somewhere, but he wasn’t worried.

  Fishnet moved to within a yard of Win. Nothing unusual there. The bad guys always honed in on Win. He was smaller than Myron by nearly six inches and thirty-five pounds. Best of all, Win looked like a wimpy rich boy who raised his finger only to call for the butler—everything the discerning bully could want in a punching bag.

  Fishnet took one more step and cocked his fist. Whoever had hired these guys had not briefed them well.

  The punch whizzed toward Win’s nose. He sidestepped it. Sometimes Myron thought Win moved like a cat. But that wasn’t accurate. It was more ghostlike. One nanosecond he was there, the next he was two feet to the left. Fishnet tried again. Win blocked it this time. He grabbed Fishnet’s fist with one hand and connected with a knife-hand strike to Fishnet’s neck. Fishnet backed off, woozy. Jim stepped forward.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Myron said.

  Jim ran.

  Myron Bolitar. The Intimidator.

  Fishnet regained his footing. He charged Win, head lowered, attempting a tackle. Big mistake. Win hated it when an opponent tried to use superior size against him. Win had introduced Myron to tae kwon do during their freshman year at Duke, but he’d been studying it himself since he was five years old. He’d even spent three years in the Far East studying under some of the world’s greatest masters.

  “Aaaarrrrghhh!” Fishnet shouted.

  Again Win stepped to the side, like the smoothest matador against the clumsiest bull. Win connected on a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus and followed up with a palm strike to the nose. There was a sharp crack and blood flowed. Fishnet screamed and went down. He did not get up again.

  Win bent down. “Who are you working for?”

  Fishnet looked at the blood in his hand. “You broke my nose!” His voice was nasally.

  “Wrong answer,” Win said. “Let me repeat t
he question. Who are you working for?”

  “I ain’t saying nothing!”

  Win reached down, gripped the broken nose with two fingers. Fishnet’s eyes bulged.

  “Don’t,” Myron said.

  Win looked up at him. “If you can’t take it, leave.” He turned his attention back to Fishnet. “Last chance. Then I start twisting. Who hired you?”

  Fishnet said nothing. Win gave the nose a quick squeeze. The small bones grated against one another, making a sound like rain on a skylight. Fishnet bucked in agony. Win stifled his scream with his free hand.

  “Enough,” Myron said.

  “He hasn’t said anything yet.”

  “We’re the good guys, remember?”

  Win made a face. “You sound like an ACLU lawyer.”

  “He doesn’t have to say anything.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a two-bit scum. He’d sell out his mother for a nickel.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he’s more terrified of opening his mouth than the pain.”

  Win smiled. “I can change him.”

  Myron held up one of the parking lot stubs. “This lot is at Fifty-fourth and Madison. It’s under TruPro’s building. Our pal here is working for the Ache brothers. They’re the only ones who could put that kind of scare into a guy.” Fishnet’s face was pure white.

  “Or Aaron,” Win said.

  Aaron.

  “What about him?” Myron asked.

  “The Aches could be using Aaron. He could put that kind of scare into a guy.”

  Aaron.

  “He isn’t working for Frank Ache anymore,” Myron said. “At least, that’s what I heard.”

  Win looked down at Fishnet. “The name Aaron mean anything to you?”

  “No,” he shouted. Quickly. Too quickly.

  Myron lowered his head toward Fishnet. “Start talking or I’ll tell Frank Ache you told us all about it.”

  “I didn’t say nothing about no Frank Ache!”

  “Triple negative,” Win said. “Very impressive.”

  There were two Ache brothers. Herman and Frank. Herman, the elder, was the boss, a sociopath responsible for countless murders and misery. But next to his whacked-out brother Frank, Herman Ache was Mary Poppins. Unfortunately, Frank ran TruPro.