The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  “You must admit it’s a hell of a coincidence,” he said.

  “Do you have a theory?” she asked.

  Myron thought a moment. “No.”

  Jessica forked another piece of chicken. “You could ask Duane,” she said.

  “Sure. I could just say, ‘Gee, Duane, I was following you around and noticed you’re shacking up with an older woman. Care to tell me about it?’ ”

  “Yeah, that could be a problem,” she agreed. “Of course, you could approach it from the other direction.”

  “Deanna Yeller?”

  Jessica nodded.

  Myron took a taste of his chicken. Before Jess finished the whole thing. “Worth a try,” he said. “You want to come along?”

  “I’ll scare her off,” Jess said. “Just drop me off at my place.”

  They finished eating. Myron even ate the eggplant. It was pretty good. Peter brought them a rich chocolate dessert—the kind of dessert you could gain weight just looking at. Jess dove in. Myron held back. They drove back over the George Washington Bridge to the Henry Hudson and down the west side. He dropped her off at her loft on Spring Street in Soho. She leaned back into the car.

  “You’ll come by after?” she said.

  “Sure. Put on that little French maid’s uniform and wait.”

  “I don’t have a French maid’s uniform.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maybe we can pick one up in the morning,” she said. “In the meantime I’ll find something suitable.”

  “Groovy,” Myron said.

  Jess got out of the car then. She made her way up the stairs to the third floor. Her loft took up half the floor. She turned the key and entered. When she flicked on the lights she was startled to see Aaron lounging on her couch.

  Before she could move, another man—a man with a fishnet shirt—came up behind her and put a gun to her temple. A third man—a black man—locked the door and turned the dead bolt. He too had a gun.

  Aaron smiled at her. “Hello, Jessica.”

  34

  Myron’s car phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Bubbe, it’s your aunt Clara. Thanks for the referral.”

  Clara wasn’t really his aunt. Aunt Clara and Uncle Sidney were just longtime friends of his parents. Clara had gone to law school with Myron’s mom. Myron had set her up to represent Roger Quincy.

  “How’s it going?” Myron asked.

  “My client wanted me to give you an important message,” Clara said “He stressed that I, his attorney, should treat this as my number one priority.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Quincy said you promised him an autograph of Duane Richwood. Well, he’d like it to be an autographed picture of Duane Richwood, not just an autograph. Color picture, if that’s not too much trouble. And he’d like it inscribed to him, thank you very much. By the way, did he tell you he was a tennis fan?”

  “I think he might have mentioned it. Fun guy, huh?”

  “A constant party. Laughs galore. My sides are aching from all the laughing. It’s like representing Jackie Mason.”

  “So what do you think?” Myron asked.

  “In legal terms? The man is a major fruitcake. But is he guilty of murder—and more important, can the D.A. prove it?—that’s a different kettle of gefilte.”

  “What do they have?”

  “Circumstantial nothings. He was at the Open. Big deal, so were a zillion other people. He has a weird past. So what, he never made any overt threats that I’m aware of. No one saw him shoot her. No tests link him to the gun or that Feron’s bag with the bullet hole. Like I said, circumstantial nothings.”

  “For what’s it worth,” Myron said, “I believe him.”

  “Uh-huh.” Clara wouldn’t say if she believed him or not. It didn’t matter. “I’ll speak to you later, doll-face. Take care of yourself.”

  “You too.”

  He hung up and dialed Jake.

  A gruff voice said, “Sheriff Courter’s office.”

  “It’s me, Jake.”

  “What the fuck do you want now?”

  “My, what a charming salutation,” Myron said. “I must use it sometime.”

  “Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass.”

  “You know,” Myron said, “I can’t for the life of me understand why you’re not invited to more parties.”

  Jake blew his nose. Loudly. Geese in the tristate area scattered. “Before I’m left mortally wounded by your caustic wit,” he said, “tell me what you want.”

  “You still have your copy of the Cross file?” Myron asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d like to meet the coroner on the case and the cop who shot Yeller,” Myron said. “Think you can set it up?”

  “I thought there was no autopsy.”

  “Nothing formal, but the senator said someone did some work on him.”

  “Yeah, all right,” Jake said. “But I know the cop who did the shooting. Jimmy Blaine. A good man, but he ain’t gonna talk to you.”

  “I’m not interested in bringing him down.”

  “That’s a big comfort,” Jake said.

  “I just want some information.”

  “Jimmy won’t see you, I’m sure of it. Why do you need all this anyway?”

  “I see a connection between Valerie’s murder and Alexander Cross’s.”

  “What connection?”

  Myron explained. When he finished, Jake said, “I still don’t see it, but I’ll call you if I get something.”

  He hung up.

  Myron lucked out and found a spot within two blocks of the hotel. He walked in like he belonged and took the elevator to the third floor. He stopped in front of room 322 and knocked.

  “Who is it?” Deanna Yeller’s voice was cheerful, singsong.

  “Bellhop,” Myron said. “Flowers for you.”

  She flung open the door with a wide smile. Just like the first time they’d met. When she saw no flowers—and more to the point, when she saw Myron—the smile fled. Again, just like the first time.

  “Enjoying your stay?” Myron said.

  She didn’t bother hiding her exasperation. “What do you want?”

  “I can’t believe you came to town and didn’t call me. A less mature man would be insulted.”

  “I got nothing to say to you.” She began to close the door.

  “Guess who I just spoke to?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Lucinda Elright.”

  The door stopped. With Deanna looking slightly dazed, Myron slid through the opening.

  Deanna recovered. “Who?”

  “Lucinda Elright. One of your son’s teachers.”

  “I don’t remember none of his teachers.”

  “Oh but she remembers you. She said you were a wonderful mother to Curtis.”

  “So?”

  “She also said that Curtis was a wonderful student, one of the best she ever had. She said he had a bright future. She said he never got into trouble.”

  Deanna Yeller put her hand on her hips. “There a point to all this?”

  “Your son had no police record. He had a perfect school record, not so much as a detention. He was one of the top students in his class, if not the top student. You were clearly involved in his activities. You were an excellent mother, raising an excellent young man.”

  She looked away. She might have been looking out the window, except the blinds were drawn. The TV was humming softly. A commercial for men’s pickup trucks featuring a soap opera star. Soap opera star, pickup trucks—what advertising genius came up with that combo?

  “This is none of your business,” she whispered.

  “Did you love your son, Ms. Yeller?”

  “What?”

  “Did you love your son?”

  “Get out. Now.”

  “If you cared about him at all, help me find out what happened to him.”

  She glared at him. “Don’t give me that,” she countered. “You don’t care
about my boy. You’re trying to find out who killed that white girl.”

  “Maybe. But Valerie Simpson’s death and your son’s are connected. That’s why I need your help.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t listen too good, do you? I told you before: Curtis is dead. Can’t change that.”

  “Your son wasn’t the type to rob. He wasn’t the type to carry a gun or threaten the police with one. That’s just not the boy you raised.”

  “Don’t matter,” she said. “He’s dead. Can’t bring him back.”

  “What was he doing at the tennis club that night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where did you suddenly get all your money?”

  Pow. Deanna Yeller looked up, startled. The old change-topic attention-getter. Works every time. “What?”

  “Your house in Cherry Hills,” Myron said. “It was a cash deal four months ago. And your bank account at First Jersey. All cash deposits within the past half year. Where did the money come from, Deanna?”

  Her face grew angry. Then suddenly she relaxed and smiled eerily. “Maybe I stole it,” she said, “just like my son. You gonna report me?”

  “Or maybe it’s a payoff.”

  “A payoff? For what?”

  “You tell me.”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t have to tell you nothing. Get out.”

  “Why are you here in New York?”

  “To see the sights. Now leave.”

  “One of those sights Duane Richwood?”

  Double pow. She stopped. “What?”

  “Duane Richwood. The man who was in your room the other night.”

  She stared at him. “You were following us?”

  “No. Just him.”

  Deanna Yeller looked horror-stricken. “What kind of man are you?” she said slowly. “You get off on that kind of thing, watching other people and all? Checking their bank accounts? Following them around like a Peeping Tom?” She opened the door. “Don’t you have no shame at all?”

  The argument was a little too close for comfort. “I’m trying to find a killer,” Myron argued, but his tone rang lamely in his own ears. “Maybe the person who killed your son.”

  “And it don’t matter who you hurt to do it, right?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “If you really want to do some good, then just drop this whole thing.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  She shook her head. “Curtis is dead. So is Valerie Simpson. Errol …” She stopped. “It’s enough.”

  “What’s enough? What about Errol?”

  But she kept shaking her head. “Just let it go, Myron. For everyone’s sake. Just let it go.”

  35

  Jessica felt the cold barrel of the gun against her temple.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  Aaron signaled. The man behind her covered her mouth with his free hand. He pressed her hard against him. Jessica could feel hot spittle on her neck. It was hard to breathe. She twisted her head back and forth. Her chest hitched as she scrambled for more air. Panic seized her.

  Aaron rose off the couch. The black man moved a step closer, his gun still pointed at her.

  “No reason for preliminaries,” Aaron said calmly. He took off his white jacket. He wore no shirt underneath, revealing instead the hairless, bodybuilder physique. He flexed a little. His pectoral muscles made ripples, like a stadium crowd doing the wave. “If you can still speak when we’re through, make sure you tell Myron it was me.” He cracked his knuckles. “I’d hate for my work to go unaccredited.”

  “Should I break her jaw?” the man with the fishnet asked. “So she can’t yell or nothing.”

  Aaron thought a moment. “No,” he said. “I kind of enjoy a good yell now and again.”

  All three men laughed.

  “I go second,” the black man said.

  “Like hell,” the man with the fishnet countered.

  “You always go before me,” the black man whined.

  “All right, we’ll flip for it.”

  “You got a coin? I never carry change.”

  “Shut up,” Aaron said.

  Silence.

  Jessica struggled feverishly, but the man in the fishnet was too strong. She bit down and managed to skim one of his fingers. He yelped and called her a bitch. Then he bent her head back in a way it was never supposed to go. Pain shot down her spine. Her eyes widened.

  Aaron was about to unbutton his pants when it happened.

  A gunshot. Or more than one gunshot. It sounded to Jessica like only one, but it had to be more. The hand pressed hard against her mouth slackened and slid off. The gun against her temple dropped to the floor. She turned just enough to see the man behind her no longer had a face or even much of a head. He was dead well before his legs realized it and let him cave onto the floor.

  At seemingly the same time, the back half of the black man’s head flew across the room. He too fell to the floor in a bloody heap.

  Aaron’s speed was uncanny. Seemingly before the first bullet even hit its target he had rolled into a crouch and whipped out a gun. Everything—the shots, the men going down, Aaron rolling to safety—had taken less than two seconds. Aaron came up aiming his gun at Win, who aimed his right back. Jessica stood frozen. Win must have come in through the terrace window, though how he could have gotten there and how long he’d been there Jessica could not say.

  Win smiled casually and gave a half-nod. “My, my, Aaron, you’re looking rather buff.”

  “I try to stay in shape,” Aaron said. “Nice of you to notice.”

  The two men continued to aim their guns at each other. Neither blinked. Neither stopped smiling. Jessica had not moved. Her body quaked as though from fever. She felt something sticky on her face and realized it was probably brain matter from the man at her feet.

  “I have an idea,” Aaron said.

  “An idea?”

  “For how to end this deadlock. One I think you’ll like, Win.”

  “Do tell,” Win said.

  “We both put our guns down at the same time.”

  “So far it doesn’t sound very appealing,” Win said.

  “I’m not finished.”

  “How rude of me. Please continue.”

  “We’ve both killed men with our bare hands,” Aaron said. “We both know we like it. A lot. We both know there are very few worthy adversaries in this world. We both know we are rarely if ever seriously challenged.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m suggesting the ultimate test.” Aaron’s grin grew brighter. “You and me. Man to man, hand-to-hand combat. What do you say?”

  Win chewed on his upper lip. “Intriguing,” he said.

  Jessica tried to say something, but her tongue would not obey. She just stood there, stone-faced; the thing that used to wear fishnet shirts bled without a twitch.

  “One condition,” Win said.

  “What’s that?”

  “No matter who wins, Jessica goes free.”

  Aaron shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Frank will get her some other time.”

  “Maybe. But not tonight.”

  “Fine then,” Aaron said. “But she can’t leave until it’s over.”

  Win nodded at her. “Wait by the door, Jessica. When the fight ends, run.”

  “But you have to wait until it’s over,” Aaron added.

  Jessica found her voice. “How will I know when it’s over?”

  “One of us will be dead,” Win said.

  She nodded numbly. She couldn’t stop shaking. Both men were still pointing the guns at one another.

  “You know the drill?” Aaron asked.

  “Of course.”

  Still holding the guns, both men placed their hand on the floor. At the same time, they twisted their weapons so that the barrel was no longer pointing at the other man. They both released their weapons at the same time. They both stood at the same time. They both kicked the weapons into a corner at the same
time.

  Aaron grinned. “It’s done,” he said.

  Win nodded.

  They approached each other slowly. Aaron’s grin spread into something fully maniacal. He got into some weird fighting position—dragon or grasshopper or something—and beckoned with his left hand. His body was sleek, all muscle. He towered over Win. “You forgot the basic premise of the martial arts,” Aaron said.

  “What’s that?” Win asked.

  “A good big man will always beat a good little man.”

  “And you forgot the basic premise of Windsor Horne Lockwood III.”

  “Oh?”

  “He always carries two guns.”

  Almost nonchalantly, Win reached into his leg holster, took out his gun, and fired. Aaron ducked, but the bullet still hit him in the head. The second bullet also hit Aaron’s head. So too, Jessica guessed, did the third.

  The big man fell to the ground. Win walked over and studied the still figure, tilting his head from side to side like a dog hearing a strange sound.

  Jessica watched him in silence.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Win continued to look down. He shook his head and made a tsk, tsk noise.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Win turned to her, an almost shy smile toying with his lips. He gave a half-shrug. “I guess I’m not much for fair fights.”

  He looked back down at the body and started to laugh.

  36

  Jessica didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted to make love. Myron understood. Death and violence do that to a person. The fine line. There was definitely something to that “reaffirming life” stuff after facing down the Grim Reaper.

  When they were spent, Jessica lay her head on his chest, her hair a wonderful fan. For a long time she didn’t say anything. Myron stroked her back. Finally she spoke. “He enjoys it, doesn’t he?”

  Myron knew she meant Win. “Yes.”

  “Do you?” she asked.

  “Not like Win.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him. “That sounded a tad evasive.”

  “Part of me hates it more than you can imagine.”

  “And another part of you?” she prompted.

  “It’s the ultimate test. There’s an undeniable rush to that. But it’s not like what happens with Win. He craves it. He needs it.”