The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  “I work freelance now.”

  “So Frank just brought you in?”

  “As of this morning.”

  “Must be something big,” Myron said. “You don’t come cheap.”

  Aaron gave him the teeth again, adjusted the jacket of his suit. “You want the best, you have to pay.”

  “So why’s Frank so bent out of shape about this?”

  “I have no idea. But make no mistake about it: Frank wants your investigation to end. Now. No excuses. Look, Myron, we both know you’ve been something of a pain in the ass to Frank. He doesn’t like you. To be honest he’d like to ace you. That’s no bullshit. I’m talking man to man here. Friend to friend. We’re friends, right? Buddies?”

  “Best of chums,” Myron added. Shovel, shovel.

  “But Frank is showing incredible restraint with you. Generosity even. He knows, for example, that you took Eddie Crane out to dinner. That alone would be reason for Frank to want you roughed up a bit. But he doesn’t. In fact he’s decided that if Eddie Crane chooses your agency, he won’t get in the way.”

  “Big of him.”

  “But it is big of him,” Aaron insisted. “He owns the kid’s coach, for crying out loud. By all rights he belongs to TruPro. But Frank is willing to let him go, and he’s willing to help you bring in Roger Quincy. Two very big favors. Gifts really. In exchange, you do nothing.”

  Myron turned his palms up. “How can I pass up a deal like that?”

  “Do I sense a whiff of sarcasm?”

  Myron shrugged.

  “Frank’s trying to be fair, Myron.”

  “Yeah, the man’s a prince.”

  “Don’t push him on this. It’s not worth it.”

  “Can I leave now?”

  “I’d like your answer first.”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Myron said. “But I’d be much more willing to let go if I knew what Frank was trying to hide.”

  Aaron shook his head. “Still the same old Myron, huh? You never change. I’m surprised no one has wasted you yet.”

  “I’m not easy to kill,” Myron said.

  “Maybe not.”

  “And I’m also a snazzy dancer. No one likes to kill a snazzy dancer. There’re so few us left.”

  Aaron put his hand on Myron’s knee and leaned toward him. “Can we stop the lunatic routine for a moment?”

  Myron’s eyes flicked down to the knee, then back to Aaron. “Uh, your hand?”

  “You know about the carrot and the stick, Myron?”

  “The what?”

  “The carrot and the stick.” The hand was still on Myron’s knee.

  “Oh. Sure. The carrot and the stick.” What?

  “So far I have shown you only the carrot. I would feel amiss if I did not also show a bit of stick.”

  In the front seat Fishnet and Jim shared a chuckle.

  Aaron’s fingers gave the knee a little squeeze. Like a hawk’s talons. “Now you know me. I’m not a stick man. I’m the gentle sort. I’m kind. I’m nice. I’m …” He looked up as though searching for the word.

  “A carrot,” Myron finished.

  “Right. A carrot.”

  Myron had seen Aaron kill a man. Snap his neck as though it were a twig. He’d also seen the results of Aaron’s work in venues ranging from boxing rings to morgues. Some carrot.

  “But nonetheless I need to add a bit of stick. Just for the record, you understand. It’s expected. I know it’s not necessary in your case. The stick, I mean.”

  “I’m listening,” Myron said.

  “Yeah,” Fishnet added, “tell him, Aaron.” Fishnet and Jim restarted the chuckle. Louder.

  “Shut up,” Aaron said softly.

  Again immediate silence. Like they’d both been shot in the head.

  Aaron swung his line of vision to Myron. His eyes were suddenly dark and hard. “There will be no further warnings. We will simply strike. I know you don’t scare easily. I explained that to Frank. He doesn’t care. He suggested striking places that another man might consider taboo.”

  “Like?”

  “I understand Duane Richwood is playing well. I’d hate to see his career cut short.” He gave the knee a harder squeeze. “Or take your beautiful Jessica, for example. Now I know she’s out of the country right now. In Athens, in case you don’t know. The Grand Bretagne Hotel. Room 207. Frank has friends in Greece.”

  Myron felt a cold chill. “Don’t even think about it, Aaron.”

  “Not my decision.” He finally let go of the knee. “It’s Frank. He’s adamant about this. He wants you to let go now. You know what they say about grabbing a tiger by the tail.”

  “If he touches her—”

  Aaron waved him off. “Please, Myron, no threats. There’s no reason for threats here. You can’t win. You know that. The price of victory is too high. You and Win are only two men. Two good men. Two of the best. Worthy adversaries. But Frank has me, for one. And he has others. Many others. As many men as he needs. Men with no scruples. Men who would break into Jessica’s room, take turns with her, and then blow her away. Men who would jump Esperanza on her way home from work. Men who would even do unspeakable things to your mother.”

  Myron stared at Aaron. Aaron did not blink. “You can’t win, Myron. No matter how tough you are, you can’t stand up to that kind of thing. We both know it.”

  Silence. The Caddy pulled up to the front of Myron’s building.

  “Can I have your answer now?” Aaron asked.

  Myron tried not to shake as he got out of the car. Without glancing behind him he walked inside.

  21

  Win worked the heavy bag. He was snapping side kicks that bent the eighty-pound bag almost in half. He threw kicks at every level. The opponent’s knee. The abdomen. The neck. The face. He struck with his heel, his toes angled down. Myron went though several katas, or forms, concentrating on the precision of his strikes, imagining a person in front of him rather than the air. Sometimes the person was Aaron.

  They were at Master Kwon’s new downtown location. The dojang was divided into two sections. One looked like a dance studio. Hardwood floor and lots of mirrors. The other section had matted floors, dumbbells, a speed bag, a heavy bag, a jump rope. On the shelf were rubber knives and guns to practice take-away techniques. The American flag and Korean flag were hung near the doorway. Each student bowed to them as they entered and left. School rules were listed on a poster. Myron knew them by heart. His favorite was rule number ten. Always finish what you start.

  Hmm. Good advice? Hard to say right now.

  There were fourteen school rules in all. Every once in a while Master Kwon added a new one. Number fourteen had been put up two months ago: Do not overeat. “Students too fat,” Master Kwon had explained. “Too much put in mouth.” In the twenty years since Win had helped Kwon relocate to the United States, Kwon’s English had continually degenerated. Myron suspected it was part of his image as a wise old man from the Far East. Playing Mr. Miyagi from the Karate Kid movies.

  Win stopped. “Here,” he said, gesturing to the bag. “You need this more than I do.”

  Myron began to hit the bag. Hard. He started with some punches. Tae kwon do’s fighting stance is simple and practical, not all that different from a boxer’s. Anyone who tried that crane-stance bullshit on the streets usually ended up on their ass. Myron followed up with some elbow and knee strikes. Elbows and knees were useful, particularly for fighting in close. Martial arts movies showed lots of spinning kicks to the head, jumping kicks to the chest, stuff like that. But street fighting was far simpler. You aimed for the groin, the knee, the neck, the nose, the eyes. Occasionally the solar plexus. The rest was wasteful. You get in a real life-or-death situation, you twist the guy’s balls. You stick your fingers in his eyes. You throw an elbow to his throat.

  Win walked over to a full-length mirror. “Let’s review what we’ve learned so far,” he said in the mock voice of a kindergarten teacher. He began to play air-golf, practi
cing his swing in the mirror. He did that a lot. “One, the esteemed senator from Pennsylvania wants you off this case. Two, a major mobster from New York wants you off this case. Three, your client, the womanizing Duane Richwood, wants you off this case. Have I left anybody out?”

  “Deanna Yeller,” Myron said. “And Helen Van Slyke. Kenneth too, don’t forget Kenneth. Pavel Menansi.” Myron thought a moment. “I think that’s it.”

  “The police officer,” Win added. “Detective Dimonte.”

  “Oh yeah, right. I forgot about Rolly.”

  Win checked the grip on his imaginary club. “Thus,” he continued, “your cause is mustering its customary support—i.e., none.”

  Myron shrugged, threw a combination. “ ‘Can’t please everyone, so you’ve got to please yourself.’ ”

  Win made a face. “Quoting Ricky Nelson?”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “I would say.”

  Myron back-kicked. A good countermove to almost any attack. “So why is everyone so afraid of Valerie Simpson? A United States senator sets up a clandestine meeting with me. Frank Ache brings in Aaron. Duane threatens to fire me. Why?”

  Win took another air-golf swing in the mirror. He looked up after the shot, squinting, as though following the trajectory of the imaginary ball. He seemed displeased. Golfers.

  The door to the dojang opened. Wanda peered inside, gave a shy wave.

  “Hi,” Myron said.

  “Hi.”

  Myron smiled. He was happy to see her—someone who did indeed want him to continue his investigation. She wore a patterned, almost little-girlish summer dress. The dress was sleeveless, revealing her nicely toned arms. She wasn’t wearing one of those big summer hats, but she should have been. Her makeup had been applied with a light hand. Gold hoop earrings hung from her lobes. She looked young and healthy and quite beautiful.

  A sign beside the door read NO SHOES ALLOWED. Wanda obeyed, slipped her flats off before stepping inside the dojang. “Esperanza told me you’d be here,” she said. “I’m really sorry about disturbing you outside the office again.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You know Win.”

  “Yes,” she said, turning to him. She managed a smile. “Nice to see you.”

  Win gave her an almost indiscernible head tilt. Stoic. Playing Tonto.

  Wringing her hands together Wanda asked, “Can we talk for a moment?”

  Win did not need prompting. He moved to the door, bowed deeply at the waist, left. They were alone.

  She walked toward him deliberately, glancing around like she was on a house tour but not really interested in buying. “Do you come here a lot?” she asked.

  “Here or one of Master Kwon’s other dojangs.”

  “I thought they were called dojos,” she said.

  “Dojo is Japanese. Dojang is Korean.”

  She nodded as though this information had some significance in her life. She glanced around a bit more. “Have you studied this for a long time?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Win?”

  “Even longer.”

  “He doesn’t look the fighting type,” she said. “Except maybe in the eyes.”

  Myron had heard that before. He waited.

  “I just wanted to know if you’d learned anything,” she said. Her eyes flicked left, right, up, down.

  “Not much,” he said. Not exactly the truth, but Myron wasn’t about to mention Duane’s liaisons with Valerie.

  She nodded again. Her hands were in constant motion, searching for something to occupy them. “Duane is acting even stranger,” she said.

  “How?”

  “Just more of the same, I guess. He’s on edge all the time. He keeps getting these calls he takes in another room. When I answer the phone the caller hangs up. And he disappeared again last night. Said he needed some air, but he was gone for two hours.”

  “Do you have any thoughts?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  Myron aimed for his gentlest voice. “Could there be someone else?”

  Her eyes stopped flicking and flared in his direction. “I’m not some hooker he picked up off the street.”

  “I know that.”

  “We love each other.”

  “I know that too. But I also know a lot of guys in love who still do dumb things.” Women too. Jessica, for one. Four years ago with a guy named Doug. It still hurt. Guy named Doug. Go figure.

  Wanda shook her head again firmly. Convincing herself or Myron? “It’s not like that with us. I know I sound like a gullible idiot, but it’s the way it is. I can’t explain it.”

  “No need to. I was just seeing what you thought.”

  “Duane’s not having an affair.”

  “Okay.”

  Her eyes were wet. She took a couple of deep breaths. “He’s not sleeping at night. He paces. I ask him what’s wrong, but he won’t tell me. I tried eavesdropping on a call, but the only thing I picked up was your name.”

  “My name?”

  She nodded. “He said it twice, but that’s all I heard.”

  Myron thought a moment. “Suppose I put a tap on your phone.”

  “Do it.”

  “You don’t have a problem with that?”

  “No.” The wet eyes broke into tears. She let out two quick sobs, made herself stop. “It’s getting worse, Myron. We have to find out what’s going on.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She gave him a brief hug. Myron wanted to stroke her hair and say something comforting. He didn’t do either. She strode out slowly, head high. Myron watched. As soon as she was out of sight Win returned.

  “Well?” Win asked.

  “I like her,” Myron said.

  Win nodded. “Very shapely derriere.”

  “That’s not what I meant. She’s a good woman. And she’s scared.”

  “Of course she’s scared. Her meal ticket is about to go bye-bye.”

  The Return of Mr. Warmth. “It’s not like that, Win. She loves him.”

  Win strummed a few notes on an air-violin. Couldn’t talk to him about stuff like that. He just didn’t get it. “What did she want?”

  Myron filled him in on the conversation. Win spread his legs, dropping into a full split and then sliding back up. He repeated the move several times, faster and faster. Ladies and gentlemen, the Godfather of Soul, Mr. James Brown.

  When Myron finished, Win said, “Sounds like Duane is trying to hide more than a quick fling.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “You want me to watch him?”

  “We can take shifts.”

  Win shook his head. “He knows you.”

  “He knows you too.”

  “Yes,” Win said, “but I am invisible. I am the wind.”

  “Sure you don’t mean passing wind?”

  Win made a face. “That was a good one. I’m sure I’ll laugh for days.”

  Truth was, Win could be nestled in your B.V.D.’s for a week and you’d never know. “Can you start tonight?” Myron asked.

  Win nodded. “I’m already there.”

  22

  Myron shot baskets on the blacktop off the driveway. The long summer day was finally slipping into darkness, but the basket was illuminated with spotlights. He and his father had installed them when Myron was in the sixth grade. A variety of barbecue smells competed in the still air. Chicken from the Dempseys’ house. Burgers from the Weinsteins’. Shish kebab at the Ruskins’.

  Myron shot, rebounded, shot again. He got a little rhythm going, the ball back-spinning gently through the basket. Nothing but net. Sweat matted his gray T-shirt to his chest. Myron always did his best thinking out here, but right now his mind was a blank. There was nothing but the ball, the hoop, and the sweet arc after the release. It felt pure.

  “Hey, Myron.”

  It was Timmy from next door. Timmy was ten.

  “Bug off, kid. You’re bothering me.”

  Timmy laughed
and grabbed a rebound. It was an inside joke. Timmy’s mother was convinced that her son was bothering Myron and that Myron should send Timmy home whenever he came over. Didn’t stop Timmy. He and his friends always came over when Myron was shooting. Once in a while, when they needed an extra body, the kids would knock on the door and ask his mom if Myron could come out and play.

  He and Timmy shot around for a while. They talked about stuff that was important to little boys. A few other kids came by. The Daleys’ boy. The Cohens’ girl. Others. Bikes were parked at the end of the driveway. They started playing a game. Myron was designated steady passer. No one kept score accurately. Everyone laughed a lot. A few fathers came by and joined in. Arnie Stollman. Fred Dempsey. It’d been a while since they’d done this. A bit too Rockwellian for some, but it felt very right to Myron.

  It was nearly ten when mothers started to call out for their children. From their front stoops the mothers smiled brightly and waved at Myron. Myron waved back. The kids “aw, Mom” ’d, but they listened.

  Summer and school break. Still a touch of innocence. Kids were supposed to be different now. They had to deal with guns and drugs and crime and AIDS. But a summer night in middle-class suburbia was the great generational equalizer, a place far away from people like Aaron and the Ache brothers. A place far away from young women being murdered.

  Valerie would have had fun tonight.

  Mom opened the back door. “Telephone,” she said shortly.

  “Who is it?”

  Her voice was like a closed fist. “Jessica.” She made a face when she said it, like the name tasted bad on her lips.

  Myron tried not to sprint. He walk/ran up the back steps and into the kitchen. The kitchen had been completely redone last year. Why, Myron couldn’t say. No one in the house cooked, unless you count microwaving Celeste frozen pizzas.

  “I’ll take it in the basement,” he said.

  A grunt from Mom. No wisecrack. Like Esperanza, Mom too held grudges. Especially when it came to her little boy.

  He closed the door, grabbed the receiver, heard his mother hang up the extension. “Jess?”

  “Is this Stallions ‘R’ Us?”