The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  “You’re defending them?”

  “I do the same thing, Jess. If they’re not aggressive they don’t have a chance. You think the Cranes are going to come to them?”

  “But still. You don’t hang around like these guys.”

  “What exactly am I doing now?”

  Jessica thought a second. “Yeah, but you’re cute.”

  Hard to argue. Eddie crushed his opponent 6–0, 6–0, but the match was not as close as the score indicated. Eddie lacked finesse. He relied on power. But what power. His racket ripped through the still air like the reaper’s scythe. The ball shot off the strings as though from a bazooka. The finesse would come. But for now the awesome power was more than enough.

  After the players shook hands Eddie’s parents went onto the court.

  “Do me a favor,” Myron said to Jess.

  “What?”

  “Get rid of the parents for a couple of minutes. I want to talk to Eddie alone.”

  She did it with a lunch invitation. Jessica escorted Mr. and Mrs. Crane to the Racquets restaurant overlooking the Grandstand. Myron accompanied Eddie to the locker room. The kid had barely broken a sweat. Myron had exerted himself more just watching. Eddie walked with big, unhurried steps, a towel draped around his neck, completely relaxed.

  “I told TruPro I wasn’t interested,” Eddie said.

  Myron nodded. That explained Aaron’s generous offer to let Myron represent Eddie. “How did they respond?”

  “They were pretty pissed,” Eddie said.

  “I bet.”

  “I think I want to go with your agency,” he said.

  “How do your parents feel?”

  “Doesn’t matter really. They both know it’s my decision.”

  They walked a few more steps.

  “Eddie, I need to ask you about Valerie.”

  He half-smiled. “Are you really trying to find her killer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just something I have to do.”

  Eddie nodded. The answer was good enough for him. “Shoot.”

  “You first met Valerie at Pavel’s camp in Florida?”

  “Right.”

  “How did you two become friends?”

  “You ever been to Pavel’s academy?” Eddie asked.

  “No.”

  “You might not get it.” Eddie Crane stopped, brushed the hair from his eyes, continued. “It probably sounds weird—a sixteen-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy being close friends. That’s pretty normal in tennis. You don’t make friends with kids your own age. They’re the enemy. Val and I were both lonely, I guess. And because of our differences we weren’t threats to each other. I guess that’s how it started.”

  “Did she ever mention Alexander Cross?”

  “Yeah, a couple of times. They dated or something.”

  “Did you get the impression they were serious?”

  He shrugged. The guard checked their passes and let them enter. “Not really. Tennis was her life. Boyfriends were peripheral.”

  “Tell me more about Pavel’s academy. What was it like for Valerie?”

  “What was it like?” Eddie grinned sadly, shook his head. “It was like one big game of King of the Mountain. Every kid is trying to knock off every other kid.”

  “And Valerie was king of the women’s side?”

  Eddie nodded. “The undisputed king.”

  “Did Pavel and Valerie get along?”

  “Yeah. At first anyway. He motivated Val like no one else could. She would practice for hours with his assistants, and just when you thought she couldn’t take one more step Pavel would come out and boom! it was like an energy boost. Val was a great player, but Pavel knew how to get her competitive juices really flowing. When he was there, she blew away everyone else. Diving, stretching, running down every lob. She was incredible.”

  “So when did things start going wrong?”

  Eddie shrugged. “When she started losing.” He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” He stopped again, thinking. “She stopped caring, I guess. It happens to a lot of the players. They burn out. Too much pressure too fast.”

  “What did Pavel do?”

  “He tried all his old tricks. You see, Pavel fostered the whole dog-eat-dog atmosphere. It weeded out the weak, he told me. But Valerie wasn’t responding anymore. She still beat most of the girls. But when she played against the game’s greats—Steffi, Monica, Gabriela, Martina—she didn’t have the heart to beat them anymore.”

  Eddie sat in a chair in front of his locker. Very few people were around. The floor, carpeted in an office-brown, was littered with little pieces of wrap and bandaging. Myron sat down next to him. “You told me you saw Valerie a few days before she died.”

  “Yeah,” Eddie said. “In the lobby of the Plaza.” He took off his shirt. The kid was bony. The kind of bony where it appears the chest concaves into the heart. “I hadn’t seen her in a long time.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She was going to make a comeback. She seemed pretty excited about the idea, kinda like the old Val. Then she gave me your number and told me to stay away from Pavel and TruPro.”

  “Did she say why you should stay away?”

  “No.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  He paused, his mind flashing back. “Not really. She was kinda in a hurry. She said she had to go out and settle something.”

  “Settle what?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

  “What day was this?” Myron asked.

  “Thursday, I think.”

  “Do you remember the time?”

  “Must have been around six.”

  Valerie had called Duane’s apartment Thursday at six-fifteen. Settle something. Settle what? Settle her relationship with Duane? Or expose it? And what if she did threaten that? Would Duane kill her to stop her? Myron didn’t think so, especially in light of the fact that Duane was serving a tennis ball in front of several thousand people when she was shot.

  Eddie slipped out of his sneakers and socks.

  “I got two tickets to the Yankees for Wednesday night,” Myron said. “You want to go?”

  Eddie smiled. “I thought you didn’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “That ass-kissing stuff.”

  “I do. Every agent does. I’m not above it. But in this case I actually thought it might be fun.”

  Eddie stood. “Should I be skeptical of your motives?” he asked.

  “Only if you’re smart.”

  Duane liked to be alone before a match. Win had taught him meditation techniques, sans the dirty videotapes, and you could usually find him curled up in a corner, sitting in the lotus position with his eyes closed. He didn’t like to be disturbed, which was good. Myron wasn’t sure he wanted to see him right now anyway. His main responsibility, he knew, was still to help his client perform his best—especially on this, the most important day of Duane’s career. Raising the issue of Duane’s late-night rendezvous with Deanna Yeller would be a distraction. A major distraction.

  It would have to wait.

  The crowd was huge. Everyone had been waiting for this match between the upstart American Duane Richwood and the cool Czech Michel Brishny, a former number one player now ranked fifth. Myron and Jessica took their seats in the front row. Jess looked incredible in a simple yellow sundress. Spectators gaped. Nothing new there. Without a doubt, the TV cameras would be getting plenty of shots of the box today. Between Jess’s beauty and her fame in the literary world they wouldn’t be able to resist.

  Myron debated having her hold up one of his business cards. Nah. Too tacky.

  A bevy of favorites was already in their seats. Ned Tunwell and other Nike VIPs crowded a corner box. Ned waved like a windmill on LSD. Myron gave a small wave back. Two boxes behind them sat chubby
Roy O’Connor, the rotund president of TruPro. Sitting with him was Aaron. Aaron had his face tilted to the sun, soaking up the rays. He was garbed in his usual attire—white suit, no shirt. Across the way Myron also spotted Senator Cross in a box jammed with gray-haired lawyer types—the exception being Gregory Caufield. Myron still wanted to talk to Gregory. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself after the match. The buxom blonde from the other day was back in the same seat. The shapely lass gave Myron another small wave. He didn’t wave back.

  Myron turned to Jessica. She smiled at him.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  “More beautiful than the blonde with the big boobs?” she asked.

  “Who?” Myron said.

  “The Silicone She-Beast giving you the eye.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Then: “How do you know they’re silicone?”

  The players took the court for warm-ups. Two minutes later Pavel Menansi made his grand entrance. There was a smattering of applause. Pavel displayed his gratitude with a circular hand gesture. Very popelike. He wore tennis whites, with a green sweater tied around his neck. The smile was on full blast. Pavel made his way toward the TruPro box. Aaron rose, let him in, then sat back down. Pavel and Roy O’Connor shook hands.

  It hit Myron like a shot to the solar plexus. “Oh no,” he said.

  “What?” Jessica asked.

  Myron stood. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Now?”

  “I’ll be back. Make my excuses.”

  28

  The match was on the car radio. WFAN, 66 AM. From the sound of it Duane was not playing well. He had just dropped the first set 6–3 when Myron pulled into a lot off Central Park West in Manhattan.

  Dr. Julie Abramson lived in a town house half a block down from her office. Myron rang the bell. There was a buzzing noise and then her voice came over the intercom.

  “Who is it?”

  “Myron Bolitar. It’s urgent.”

  There were a few seconds of silence. Then: “Second floor.” The buzzer sounded again. Myron pushed the door open. Julie Abramson was waiting for him on the stairwell.

  “Did you call and hang up on me?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if you were home.”

  He arrived at her door. They stood and faced each other. With their height difference—she well under five feet, he six-four—the sight was almost comical.

  She looked up. Way up. “I still can’t deny or confirm that Valerie Simpson was ever a patient of mine,” she said.

  “That’s okay. I want to ask you about a hypothetical situation.”

  “A hypothetical situation?”

  He nodded.

  “And that couldn’t wait until Monday?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Abramson sighed. “Come on in.”

  She had the television turned on to the match. “I should have known,” she said. “The TV keeps flashing to Jessica Culver in the players’ box, but never you.”

  “With her there they wouldn’t show me anyway.”

  “The sportscaster says you two are an item. Is that true?”

  Myron shrugged. Noncommittal. “What’s the score now?” he asked.

  “Your client lost the first set 6–3,” she said. “He’s down 2–0 in this set.” She switched off the television with the remote and signaled to a chair. They both sat. “So tell me about your hypothetical situation, Myron.”

  “I want to start off with a young girl. Fifteen years old. Pretty. From a well-to-do family, parents divorced, the father absent. She dates a boy from a prominent family. She’s also a tennis protégée.”

  “This isn’t sounding too hypothetical,” Dr. Abramson said.

  “Just bear with me a second. The young girl is such a great tennis player that her mother ships her off to an academy run by a world-famous tennis coach. When this young girl arrives at the academy she finds the competition cutthroat. Tennis is the most individual of sports. There is no team spirit here. There is no camaraderie. Everybody is vying for the approval of the world-famous coach. Tennis is not conducive to making friends.” Echoing Eddie’s words. “It isolates. Would you say that’s true, Doctor?”

  “On the level you’re talking about, yes.”

  “So when this young girl is uprooted from the life she has known and tossed into this rather hostile environment, she is not made to feel welcome. Far from it. The other girls see this new tennis protégée as a threat and when they realize what a magnificent player she is, the threat becomes reality. The other girls shun her all the more. She grows even more isolated.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, this world-famous coach, he’s a bit Darwinian. Survival of the fittest and all that. He sort of plays a dual role here. On the one hand this isolation will force the girl to search for an escape, a place where she can thrive.”

  “The tennis court?” Abramson said.

  “Exactly. The young girl begins to practice even harder than before. But at the same time the world-famous coach is nice to her. While everyone else is cruel, the world-famous coach praises her. He spends time with her. He gets the most out of her.”

  “Which in turn,” Dr. Abramson interjected, “isolates her from the other girls all the more.”

  “Right. The young girl becomes dependent on the coach. She thinks he cares and like any eager student she wants—needs—his approval. She begins to play even harder. She also knows that pleasing the world-famous coach will also please her mother. She tries even harder. The cycle continues.”

  Dr. Abramson had to see where Myron was going with this, but her face remained blank. “Go on,” she said.

  “The tennis academy is not the real world. It’s a secluded domain ruled by the world-famous coach. But he acts like he cares for the young girl. He treats her like she’s something special. The young girl plays even harder, pushing herself more than she could ever imagine—not for herself, but to please him. Maybe he offers her a pat on the back after practice. Maybe he rubs her sore shoulders. Maybe they have dinner one night to discuss her tennis. Who knows how it started?”

  “How what started?” Abramson asked.

  Myron chose to ignore the question. For now. “The young girl and world-famous coach start touring together,” he continued. “She starts playing competitive tennis against women who again treat her as a feared rival. But now the young girl and the world-famous coach are alone. On the road. Staying in hotels.”

  “More isolation,” Abramson offered.

  “She plays well. She’s beautiful, she’s young, she’s American. The press begins to swarm. The sudden attention frightens her. But the world-famous coach is there to protect her.”

  “She becomes more dependent on him.”

  Myron nodded. “Now let’s remember that the world-famous coach is a former world-famous player himself. He is accustomed to the narcissistic lifestyle that goes along with being a professional athlete. He is used to doing as he pleases. And that’s exactly what he does with this girl.”

  Silence.

  “Could this happen, Doc? In theory?”

  Dr. Abramson cleared her throat. “In theory, yes. Whenever a man wields power and authority over a woman the potential for abuse is high. But in your scenario the potential for abuse is maximized. The man is older, the woman no more than a child. A teacher or a boss might control their victim for a few hours a day, but in your scenario the coach is both omnipotent and omnipresent.”

  They looked at each other.

  “The girl in my scenario,” Myron said softly. “Her play would deteriorate if he abused her?”

  “Without question.”

  “What else would happen to her?”

  “Every case is different,” Abramson replied as though giving a dissertation. “But the results would invariably be catastrophic. A scenario like yours would probably start out for the young girl as nothing more than a crush. This sophisticated, older man is ni
ce to her when nobody else is. He understands and cares about her. She probably doesn’t have to invite his advances—they just sort of happen. The young girl may encourage them at first, but probably not. She may even resist, but at the same time she feels responsible. She blames herself.”

  Myron felt something in the pit of his stomach open wide. “Which causes more problems.”

  “Yes. You talked about how the world-famous coach isolates her,” Abramson continued. “But in your scenario he does more than that. He dehumanizes her. Her adolescence is turned upside down by her tennis greatness. Her life is not about school and friends and family. It’s about money and winning. She’s become a commodity. She knows that if she displeases him, the commodity becomes worthless. And her being a commodity makes it easier on him too.”

  “How?” Myron asked.

  “A commodity is far easier to abuse than a human being.”

  Silence.

  “So what happens when it’s all over?” Myron asked. “When the world-famous coach uses up the commodity, what happens to her?”

  “The young girl would reach out for something—anything—that she thinks might save her.”

  “The old boyfriend maybe?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “She might even want to get engaged right away.”

  “That’s possible, yes. She may see the old boyfriend as a return to her innocence. In her mind the boyfriend may be raised to savior status.”

  “And suppose this boyfriend was murdered?”

  “You’ve pulled out the final block,” Abramson replied softly. “The young girl was already in need of serious therapy. Now a complete mental breakdown is a very real possibility. Maybe even a likelihood.”

  Myron felt his heart crumble.

  Dr. Abramson looked away for a moment. “But there are other aspects to your scenario that need to be explored,” she said, trying to sound offhanded.

  “Like?”

  “Like what actually occurred during the abuse. If, as you say, the world-famous coach was a narcissistic man, he would only concern himself with his pleasure. He wouldn’t worry about her. He probably wouldn’t, for example, wear protection. And since this girl is rather young and probably not sexually active, she wouldn’t be using oral contraceptives.”