by Harlan Coben
“I didn’t say nothing,” Fishnet repeated. He was petting his nose like it was an abused dog. “Not a goddamn word.”
“But how’s Frank to know?” Myron asked. “You see, I’ll tell Frank you sang like the tastiest of stool pigeons. And you know what? He’ll believe me. How else would I know Frank hired you?”
Fishnet’s face went from pale-white to a sort of seaweed-green.
“But if you cooperate,” Myron said, “we’ll all pretend this never happened. That I never spotted your tail. You’ll be safe. Frank will never have to know about your little screwup.”
Fishnet didn’t have to think too long. “What do you want?”
“One of Ache’s men hired you?”
“Yeah.”
“Aaron?”
“No. Just some guy.”
“What were you hired to do?”
“Follow you. Report wherever you went.”
“For what reason?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you get hired?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“What time?”
“I don’t remember. Two, three o’clock. I was told you were at the tennis match and to get over there right away.”
That would have been almost immediately after Valerie’s murder.
“That’s all I know. I swear to God. That’s it.”
“Bull,” Win said. But Myron waved him off. Fishnet knew nothing more of any real significance.
“Let him go,” Myron said.
13
Myron woke up early. He grabbed some cold cereal from the pantry. Something called Nutri-Grain. Yummy name. He read on the back of the box about the importance of fiber. Snore.
Myron longed for his childhood cereals: Cap’n Crunch, Froot Loops, Quisp. Quisp cereal. Who could forget Quisp, the cute alien who competed on TV commercials with some coal-miner loser named Quake? Quisp vs. Quake. Extraterrestrial vs. Mr. Blue-collar. Interesting concept. What happened to those two rivals? Has even lovable Quisp gone the way of the Motels?
Myron sighed. He was far too young for such bouts of nostalgia.
Esperanza had managed to track down an address for Curtis Yeller’s mother. Deanna Yeller lived alone in a recently purchased house in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, a suburb outside Philadelphia. Myron made his way to his car. If he started out now, there would be time to drive to Cherry Hill, meet with Deanna Yeller, and get back to New York in time for Duane’s match.
But would Deanna Yeller be home? Best to make sure.
Myron picked up the car phone and dialed. A woman’s voice—probably Deanna Yeller—answered. “Hello?”
“Is Orson there?” Myron asked.
Warning: Clever deductive technique coming up. Those desiring professional pointers should pay strict attention.
“Who?” the woman asked.
“Orson.”
“You have the wrong number.”
“I’m sorry.” Myron hung up.
Deduction: Deanna Yeller was home.
He pulled up to a modest but modern home on a classic New Jersey suburban street. Every house was more or less the same. Different colors maybe. The kitchen might be on the right instead of the left. But genetically they were clones. Nice. A sprinkling of kids on the street. A sprinkling of multicolored bicycles. Couple of squirrels. A far cry from west Philadelphia. It made him wonder.
Myron walked up the little brick walk and knocked on the door. A very attractive black woman answered, a pleasant smile at the ready. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, emphasizing the high cheekbones. Age lines around the eyes and mouth, but nothing drastic. She was well dressed, kind of conservative. Anne Klein II. Her jewelry was noticeable but not too flashy. The overall impression: classy.
Her smile seemed to fade when she saw him. “Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Yeller?”
She nodded slowly, as though not sure.
“My name is Myron Bolitar. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The smile fled completely. “What about?” Her diction was different now. Less suburban civil. More street suspicious.
“Your son.”
“I ain’t got a son.”
“Curtis,” Myron said.
Her eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”
“No.”
“I ain’t got the time. I’m on my way out.”
“It won’t take long.”
She put her hands on her hips. “What’s in it for me?”
“Pardon me?”
“Curtis is dead.”
“I realize that.”
“So what good is talking about it gonna do? He still gonna be dead, right?”
“Please, Mrs. Yeller, if I could just come in for a moment.”
She thought about it a second or two, glanced around, then shrugged in tired surrender. She checked her watch. Piaget, Myron noticed. Could be a fake, but he doubted it.
The decor was basic. Lot of white. Lot of pinewood. Torchère lamps. Very Ikea. There were no photographs on the shelves or coffee table. Nothing personal at all. Deanna Yeller didn’t sit. She didn’t invite Myron to either.
Myron offered up his warmest, most trustworthy smile. One part Harry Smith, two parts John Tesh.
She crossed her arms. “What the hell you grinning at?”
Yep, another minute and she’d be curled up in his lap.
“I want to ask you about the night Curtis died,” Myron said.
“Why? What’s this got to do with you?”
“I’m investigating.”
“Investigating what?”
“What really happened the night your son died.”
“You a private eye?”
“No. Not really.”
Silence.
“You got two minutes,” she said. “That’s it.”
“According to the police your son drew a gun on a police officer.”
“So they say.”
“Did he?”
She shrugged. “Guess so.”
“Did Curtis own a gun?”
Another shrug. “Guess he did.”
“Did you see it that night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever see it before that night?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
Boy, was this helpful. “Why would your son and Errol break into the Old Oaks Club?”
She made a face. “You serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why you think? To rob the place.”
“Did Curtis do that a lot?”
“Do what?”
“Rob places.”
Another shrug. “Places, people, whatever.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. No shame, no embarrassment, no surprise, no revulsion.
“Curtis didn’t have a record,” Myron said.
Yet another shrug. Her shoulders would tire soon. “Guess I raised a smart boy,” she said. “Until that night, anyhow.” She made a show of looking at her watch again. “I gotta go now.”
“Mrs. Yeller, have you heard from your nephew Errol Swade?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he went after your son was shot?”
“No.”
“What do you think happened to Errol?”
“He’s dead.” Again matter-of-fact. “I don’t know what you want here, but this thing is finished. Finished a long time ago. No one cares anymore.”
“How about you, Mrs. Yeller? Do you care?”
“It’s done. Closed.”
“You were there when the police shot your son?”
“No. I got there right after.” Her voice sort of faded away.
“And you saw your son on the ground?”
She nodded.
Myron handed her his business card. “If you remember anything else …”
She didn’t take it. “I won’t.”
“But if you do …”
“Curtis is dead. Nothing you can do can change that. Best to just forget it.”
&
nbsp; “It’s that easy?”
“Been six years. Not like anybody misses Curtis.”
“How about you, Mrs. Yeller? Do you miss him?”
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Not like Curtis was a good kid or nothing. He was trouble.”
“Doesn’t mean he should have been killed,” Myron said.
She looked up at him, held his gaze. “Don’t matter. Dead is dead. Can’t change that.”
Myron said nothing.
“Can you change that, Mr. Bolitar?” she asked, challenging.
“No.”
Deanna Yeller nodded, turned away, picked up her purse. “I have to go now,” she said. “Best if you leave now too.”
14
Henry Hobman was the only one in the players’ box.
“Hi, Henry,” Myron said.
No one was playing yet, but Henry was still in his coach repose. Without turning away from the court, Henry muttered, “Heard you had a meeting with Pavel Menansi last night.”
“So?”
“You unhappy with Duane’s coaching?”
“No.”
Henry almost nodded. End of conversation.
Duane and his opponent, a French Open finalist named Jacques Potiline, came onto the court. Duane looked himself. No signs of strain. He gave Myron and Henry a big smile, nodded. The weather was perfect for tennis. The sun was out, but a cool breeze gently purled through Stadium Court, staving off the humidity.
Myron glanced around courtside. There was a rather buxom blonde in the next box. She was packed into a white tank top. The word for today, boys and girls, is cleavage. Plenty of men ogled. Not Myron, of course. He was far too worldly. The blonde suddenly turned and caught Myron’s eye. She smiled coyly, gave him a little wave. Myron waved back. He wasn’t going to do anything about it, but yowzer!
Win materialized in the chair next to Myron. “She’s smiling at me, you know.”
“Dream on.”
“Women find me irresistible,” Win said. “They see me, they want me. It’s a curse I live with every day of my life.”
“Please,” Myron said. “I just ate.”
“Envy. It’s so unattractive.”
“So go for it, stud.”
Win looked over at her. “Not my type.”
“Gorgeous blondes aren’t your type?”
“Her chest is too big. I have a new theory on that.”
“What theory?”
“The bigger the breasts, the lousier the lay.”
“Pardon me?”
“Think about it,” Win said. “Well-endowed women—I am referring here to ones with mega-fronts—have a habit of laying back and relying on their, er, assets. The effort isn’t always what it should be. What do you think?”
Myron shook his head. “I have several reactions,” he replied, “but I think I’ll stick with my initial one.”
“Which is?”
“You’re a pig.”
Win smiled, sat back. “So how was your visit with Ms. Yeller?”
“She’s hiding something too.”
“Well, well. The plot doth thicken.”
Myron nodded.
“In my experience,” Win said, “there is only one thing that can silence the mother of a dead boy.”
“And that is?”
“Cash. A great deal of it.”
Mr. Warmth. But in truth the same thought had crossed Myron’s mind. “Deanna Yeller lives in Cherry Hill now. In a house.”
Win leapt on that one. “A single widow from the dumps of west Philadelphia moving to the ’burbs? Pray tell, how does she afford it?”
“Do you really think she’s being bought?”
“Is there another explanation? According to what we know, the woman has no solid means of support. She spent her life in an impoverished area. Now all of a sudden she’s Miss Better Homes and Gardens.”
“Could be something else.”
“For example?”
“A guy.”
Win made a scoffing noise. “A forty-two-year-old ghetto woman does not find that kind of sugar daddy. It just doesn’t happen.”
Myron said nothing.
“Now,” Win continued, “add into that equation Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke, the grieving parents of another dead child.”
“What about them?”
“I’ve done a bit of checking. They too have no visible signs of support. Kenneth’s family was already destitute when they married. As for Helen, whatever money she had Kenneth lost in his business ventures.”
“You mean they’re broke?”
“Completely,” Win replied. “So pray tell, dear friend, how are they managing to carry on at Brentman Hall?”
Myron shook his head. “There has to be another explanation.”
“Why?”
“One mother being bought off by her child’s killer I might be able to buy. But two?”
Win said, “You have a rather rosy view of human nature.”
“And you have a rather dim one.”
“Which is why I’m usually correct in these matters,” Win said.
Myron frowned. “What about TruPro’s connection with this?”
“What about it?”
“Fishnet was hired to follow me immediately after the murder. Why?”
“The Ache brothers know you quite well by now. Perhaps they feared you’d investigate.”
“So? What’s their interest?”
Win thought a second. “Didn’t TruPro used to represent Valerie?”
“But that was six years ago,” Myron said. “Before the Ache brothers had even taken over the agency.”
“Hmm. Perhaps you are barking up the wrong tree.”
“What do you mean?” Myron asked.
“Perhaps there is no connection. TruPro is interested in signing Eddie Crane, correct?”
Myron nodded.
“And Eddie’s mentor—this Pavel fellow—is closely associated with TruPro. Perhaps they feel you are moving in on their turf.”
“Which the Ache brothers would not like,” Myron added.
“Precisely.”
A possibility. Myron tried it on and walked around a bit, but it just didn’t feel right.
“Oh, one other thing,” Win replied.
“What?”
“Aaron is in town.”
Myron felt a quick chill. “What for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Probably just a coincidence,” Myron said.
“Probably.”
Silence.
Win sat back and steepled his fingers. The match began. Duane’s play was nothing short of spectacular. He cruised through the first set 6–2. He stumbled a bit in the second, but came on to win it 7–5. Jacques Potiline had had enough. Duane whipped him in the final set 6–1.
Another impressive victory.
As the players left the court, Henry Hobman stood. His face remained locked on grim. He chewed at the inside of his mouth. “Better,” he said tightly. “But not great.”
“Stop gushing, Henry. It’s embarrassing.”
Ned Tunwell sprinted down the steps toward Myron. His arms were flapping like a kid making windmills in the snow. Several other Nike execs followed him. There were tears in Ned’s eyes.
“I knew it!” Ned shouted in glee. He shook Myron’s hand, hugged him, turned to Win, pumped his hand too. Win pulled his hand back and wiped it on his pants. “I just knew it!”
Myron simply nodded.
“Soon! So soon!” Ned cried. “The promo of the year begins! Everyone is going to know the name Duane Richwood! He was fantastic, utterly fantastic! I can’t believe it. I swear, I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited before!”
“You’re not going to come again, are you, Ned?”
“Oh, Myron!” He nudged Win playfully with his elbow. “Is he a kidder or what?”
“A gifted comedian,” Win agreed.
Ned slapped Win’s shoulder. Win visibly winced but did not break the offe
nding hand. Amazing restraint for Win.
“Look, guys,” Ned said, “I’d love to stand here and chat all day. But I gotta run.”
Win managed to hide his disappointment.
“Ciao for now. Myron, we’ll talk, okay?”
Myron nodded.
“Bye, guys.” Ned skipped—actually skipped—back up the stairs.
Win watched him depart with something approaching horror. “What,” he asked, “was that?”
“A bad dream. I’ll meet you back at the office.”
“Where are you going?” Win asked.
“To talk to Duane. I have to ask him about Valerie’s call.”
“Let it go until after the tournament.”
Myron shook his head. “Can’t.”
15
Myron waited for the press conference to end. It took some time. Duane was holding court, firmly in his element. The media had a new darling. Duane Richwood. Cocky but not obnoxious. Confident yet gracious. Handsome. American.
When the hordes of press finally ran out of questions, Myron accompanied Duane back to the dressing room. He sat on a chair next to Duane’s locker. Duane took off his sunglasses and put them on the top shelf.
“Some match, huh?” Duane said.
Myron nodded.
“Hey, this win oughta make Nike happy.”
“Orgasmic,” Myron agreed.
“They going to air the ad during my next match, right?”
“Yep.”
Duane shook his head. “Quarterfinal, at the U.S. Open,” he said in awe. “I can’t believe it, Myron. We’re on our way.”
“Duane?”
“Yeah?”
“I know Valerie called you,” Myron said.
Duane stopped. “What?”
“She called your apartment twice. From a pay phone near her hotel.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Duane quickly reached for the sunglasses, fumbled them, put them on.
“I want to help you, Duane.”
“Nothing to help me with.”
“Duane …”
“Just leave me the fuck alone.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Look, Myron, I don’t need distractions right now. Just drop it.”
“She’s dead, Duane. That just won’t go away.”
Duane took off his shirt and began toweling off his chest. “Some stalker killed her,” he said. “I saw it on the news. Got nothing to do with me.”
