The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  Something caught Myron’s eye. He glanced up. A car grew suddenly large in the rearview mirror. A big car. Black with a tinted windshield so you couldn’t see inside. The license plate was New York.

  The black car moved to its right, disappearing from the rearview mirror and appearing in the passenger-side mirror. Myron watched its progress. The imprint in the mirror reminded him that objects may be closer than they appear. Thanks for the clue. The black car picked up a little speed. As it came alongside of him, Myron could see it was a stretch limousine. A Lincoln Continental stretch. Extra-long stretch. The side windows too were tinted so you couldn’t look in. It was like staring into a pair of giant aviator sunglasses. Myron could see himself in the reflection. He smiled and waved. His reflection smiled and waved back. Handsome devil.

  The limo was dead-even with Myron’s car now. The back window on the driver’s side began to slide open. Myron half expected an elderly man to stick his head out and ask for Grey Poupon. Imagine his surprise when, instead, a gun appeared.

  Without warning the gun fired twice, hitting the front and back tires on the passenger side of Myron’s car. Myron swerved. He fought to regain control. The car veered off the road. Myron twisted the wheel and skidded away from a tree. The Ford Taurus came to a stop with a thud.

  Two men jumped out of the limousine and headed toward him. Both wore blue suits. One also wore a Yankees cap. Business suit, baseball cap—an interesting fashion combo. They also carried guns. Their faces were stern and ready. Myron felt his heart in his throat. He was unarmed. He didn’t like carrying guns, not for some moral reason but because they were bulky and uncomfortable and he so rarely ever used one. Win had warned him, but who listens to Win on a subject like this? But Myron had been careless. He was pissing off some powerful people and he should have been better prepared. He should have at least kept one in the glove compartment.

  A little late for self-admonishments. Then again he might never have the chance again.

  The two men approached. Not knowing what else to do, Myron ducked out of sight. He started dialing the car phone.

  “Get your ass out of the car,” one of the men barked.

  Myron said, “Take another step and I’ll drop you where you stand.” Mr. Bluff.

  Silence.

  Myron dialed furiously and hit the send button. At that exact moment, he heard a sound like a twig breaking and then static. The goon with the Yankees cap had snapped off his antenna. This wasn’t good. Myron kept himself low. He opened the glove compartment and reached inside. Nothing but maps and registration. His eyes searched the floor anxiously for some sort of weapon. The only thing he saw was the car cigarette lighter. Somehow he doubted that it would be effective against two armed goons. Maps, registration card, cigarette lighter. Unless Myron suddenly became MacGyver, he was in serious trouble.

  He could hear footsteps shuffling about now. Myron’s mind raced for an answer. Nothing came to him. Then he heard the car door of the limo open again. A quiet curse followed. Sounded like “Shit.” Then a deep sigh.

  “Bolitar, I ain’t here to play no fucking games.”

  The voice sent a chill through Myron. Something hardened in his chest. New York accent. More specifically, a Bensonhurst accent. Frank Ache.

  This was not good.

  “Get the fuck out of the car now, ass-wipe. I ain’t here to kill you.”

  “Your men just shot out my tires,” Myron called back.

  “Right, and if I wanted you dead, they would have shot out your fucking head.”

  Myron mulled that one over. “Good point,” he said.

  “Yeah, how about this one? I got two AK’s sitting in the back here. If I wanted you dead, I could have Billy and Tony spray-paint this piece of shit you call a car with them.”

  “Another good point,” Myron said.

  “Now get the fuck out here,” Frank barked. “I don’t got all goddamn day. Ass-wipe.”

  Myron didn’t really have a choice. He opened the car and stood. Frank Ache ducked back into the backseat. Billy and Tony scowled at him.

  “Get in here,” Frank called out.

  Myron walked to the car. Billy and Tony blocked his path. “Give me your gun,” the one with the Yankees cap said.

  “Are you Billy or Tony?”

  “The gun. Now.”

  Myron squinted at the baseball cap. “Wait a second, I get it. Plugs, right?”

  “What?”

  “Wearing a baseball cap with a suit. You’re covering up new hair plugs.”

  The two men exchanged a glance. Bingo, Myron thought.

  “Now, ass-wipe,” the cap man said. “The gun.”

  Ass-wipe. The goon word of the week. “You didn’t say please.”

  Frank’s voice came from inside the car. “Jesus Christ, Billy, he don’t have no piece. He was just yanking your hardware.”

  Billy’s scowl grew angrier. Myron smiled, turned his palms to the sky, shrugged.

  Tony opened the door. Myron slid into the backseat. Tony and Billy moved into the front. Frank pressed a button and a partition slid up, separating the back compartment from the front seats. The limo had a wet bar and television with VCR. The inside was sort of a royal red, blood-red actually, which, knowing Frank’s history, probably helped cut down on the cost of cleanings.

  “Nice wheels, Frank,” Myron said.

  Frank wore his customary garb—a velour sweat suit a couple of sizes too small. This one was green with yellow trim. The front zipper was down midway, like those guys in the seventies wore at discos. His gut was enormous enough to be mistaken for a multiple gestation. He was bald. He stared at Myron for several seconds before he spoke.

  “You enjoy crawling up my ass crack, Bolitar?”

  Myron blinked. “Gee, Frank, there’s an appetizing thought.”

  “You’re a crazy fuck, you know that? Why you always trying to piss me off? Huh?”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who sent goons to rape his girlfriend,” Myron said.

  Frank pointed his finger at Myron’s chest. “And what—you didn’t have that coming? You didn’t ask for that?”

  Myron remained still. Stupid to raise Jessica with this man. Impossible as it seemed, you couldn’t let it get personal. You had to separate, to stop thinking of Frank as the man who tried to do grievous harm to the love of your life. To think such thoughts would be at best counterproductive. At worst, suicide.

  “I warned you,” Frank continued. “I even sent Aaron so you’d know I was serious. You know what Aaron costs per day?”

  “Not much anymore,” Myron said.

  “Ho, ho, I’m dying of laughter,” Frank countered, but he wasn’t laughing. “I tried to be reasonable with you. I let you have that Crane kid. And how do you thank me? By fucking around with my business.”

  “I’m trying to find a killer,” Myron said.

  “And I’m supposed to give a rat’s ass? You want to go play fucking Batman, fine, do it without costing me any money. Once you cost me money, you cross the line. Pavel meant money to me.”

  “Pavel also slept with underage girls,” Myron said.

  Frank held up his hands. “Hey, what a guy does in the privacy of his own bedroom, that don’t concern me.”

  “You’re so progressive, Frank. You voting Democratic now?”

  “Look, ass-wipe, you want to hear I knew about Pavel? Fine, I knew. I knew Pavel fucked kiddies. So what? I work with guys who make Pavel Menansi look like Mother Teresa. I can’t go picking and choosing in my line of work. So I ask myself one simple question: Is the guy making me money? If the answer is yes, then that’s it. That’s my rule. Pavel was making me money. End of story.”

  Myron said nothing. He was waiting for Ache to get to the point, which he sincerely hoped was not a bullet in the skull.

  Frank took out a packet of chewing gum. Dentyne. He popped one in his mouth. “But I ain’t here to get in no philosophy talk with you. Fact is, Pavel is dead. He’s not making me money any
more, so my rule don’t apply no more. You see?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a simple businessman,” Frank went on. “Pavel can’t make me money no more. That means you and me don’t have a beef no more. So you get to live. Wasting you would no longer be profitable to me. You understand?”

  Myron nodded. “Are we having a tender moment, Frank?”

  Frank leaned forward. His eyes were small and black. “No, ass-wipe, we’re not. Next time I ain’t gonna fuck around. Hiding your girlfriend won’t help you. I’ll find her. Or I’ll waste someone else instead. Your mommy, your daddy, your friends—hell, even your fucking barber.”

  “His name is Pierre. And he prefers the term ‘beauty technician.’ ”

  Frank looked him square in the eye. “You fucking joking with me?”

  “You just threatened my parents,” Myron said. “What’s the proper way to respond?”

  Frank nodded slowly and sat back. “It’s over. For now.” He pressed a button and the partition slid down.

  Billy said, “Yes, Mr. Ache?”

  “Call a towing service for Bolitar’s car.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ache.”

  Frank turned back to Myron. “Get the fuck out of my car.”

  “No hug first?”

  “Out.”

  “Can I ask you one quick question?”

  “What?”

  “Did you have Valerie killed to protect Pavel?”

  Frank grinned with bad, ferretlike teeth. “Get out,” he said. “Or I’ll use your nuts for snack foods.”

  “Right, thanks. Nice chatting with you, Frank, stay in touch.” He opened the door and got out.

  Frank slid across the seat and leaned his head through the open door. “You tell Win we talked, okay?”

  “Why?”

  “None of your business why. You just tell Win. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Myron said.

  Frank closed the door. The limo drove away.

  42

  Triple A got there pretty quickly. Myron reached his office at six-thirty. Ned wasn’t there yet. Esperanza handed him his messages. He went into his office and returned calls.

  Esperanza buzzed. “The bitch. Line three.”

  “Stop calling her that.” He picked up the phone. “You’re back at the loft?”

  “Yes,” Jessica said. “That didn’t take long.”

  “I work fast,” he said.

  “And yet I never complain,” she said.

  “Ouch.”

  “So what happened?” she asked.

  “Someone murdered Pavel Menansi. There’s nothing for Ache to protect anymore.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  “It’s business. Business with these guys is very simple.”

  “No profit, no kill.”

  “The cardinal rule,” Myron said.

  “Will you come over tonight?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But one rule of our own,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “No talking about Valerie Simpson or murder or any of this. We forget it all.”

  “What will we do instead?” Myron asked.

  “Screw each other’s brains out.”

  Myron said, “I guess I can live with that.”

  Esperanza leaned her head in and said, “He’s heeeeeere.”

  He nodded at Esperanza and said to Jessica, “I’ll call you later.”

  Myron put the phone back in the cradle. He stood and waited. An evening alone with Jessica. Sounded perfect. It also sounded scary. Things were moving too fast. He had no control. Jess was back and things appeared to be better than ever. Myron wondered about that. Mostly he wondered if he could survive another crash like last time, if he could go through the pain again. He also wondered what he could do to protect himself, realized the answer was nothing, and wished he was better at putting up defenses.

  Ned Tunwell practically leaped into his office, hand extended—like an enthusiastic late-show guest coming through a curtain. Myron half expected him to wave to the crowd. He pumped Myron’s hand. “Hey, Myron!”

  “Hi, Ned. Have a seat.”

  Ned’s smile dropped at Myron’s tone. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Duane, is there?”

  “No.”

  Still standing but his voice was panicky. “He’s not hurt?”

  “No, Duane is fine.”

  “Great.” The smile was back. Tough to keep a good man down. “That match yesterday—he was fantastic. Fantastic, Myron. I tell you, the way he came back—it’s all anyone’s talking about. The exposure was awesome. Simply awesome. We couldn’t have scripted it better. I practically wet myself.”

  “Uh-huh. Sit down, Ned.”

  “Sure.” Ned sat. Myron hoped he wouldn’t leave a stain on the seat. “Just a few hours away, Myron. The big day. The Saturday Semis. Big live crowd, huge TV audience. You think Duane’s got a shot against Craig? Papers don’t seem to think so.”

  Thomas Craig, the second seed and the game’s premier serve-and-volley player, was currently playing his career-best tennis. “Yes,” Myron said. “I think Duane’s got a shot.”

  Ned’s eyes were bright. “Wow. If he could somehow pull it off …” He stopped and just shook his head and grinned.

  “Ned?”

  He looked up. Wide-eyed. “Yes?”

  “How well did you know Valerie Simpson?”

  Ned hesitated. The eyes dulled a bit. “Me?”

  Myron nodded.

  “A little, I guess.”

  “Just a little?”

  “Yeah.” He flashed a nervous smile, struggled to hold it. “Why, what’s up?”

  “I heard differently.”

  “Oh?”

  “I heard you were the one who got Nike to sign her. That you handled her account.”

  He squirmed a bit. “Yeah, well, I guess so.”

  “So you must have known her pretty well then.”

  “Maybe, I guess. Why are you asking me this, Myron? What’s the big deal?”

  “Do you trust me, Ned?”

  “With my life, Myron. You know that. But this subject is painful for me. You understand?”

  “You mean her dying and all?”

  Ned made a lemon-sucking face. “No,” he said. “I mean her career plummet. She was the first person I signed for Nike. I thought she’d launch me to the top. Instead she set me back five years. It was painful.”

  Another Mr. Sensitive.

  “When she flopped,” Ned continued, “guess who took the fall? Go ahead, guess.”

  Myron thought the question was rhetorical, but Ned waited with that expectant face of his. Myron finally said, “Would that be you, Ned?”

  “Damn straight, me. I was thrown to the bottom. Just dumped there. I had to start climbing up all over again. Because of Valerie and her collapse. Don’t get me wrong, Myron. I’m doing okay now—knock wood.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk.

  Myron knocked wood too. The sarcasm was lost on Ned. “Did you know Alexander Cross?” Myron asked.

  Both Ned’s eyebrows jumped. “Hey, what’s the deal here?”

  “Trust me, Ned.”

  “I do, Myron, really, but come on.…”

  “It’s a simple question: Did you know Alexander Cross?”

  “I may have met him once, I don’t remember. Through Valerie, of course. They were something of an item.”

  “How about you and Valerie?”

  “What about me and Valerie?”

  “Were you two an item?”

  He put his hand out in a gesture of stop. “Hey, hold up. Look, Myron, I like you, I really do. You’re an honest Joe. A straight shooter just like me—”

  “No, Ned, you’re not a straight shooter. You’re jerking me around. You knew Alexander Cross. In fact you were at the Old Oaks tennis club the night he was murdered.”

  Ned opened his mouth but no sounds came out. He managed to shake his head no.

  “Here.” Myron stood and handed h
im the party guest list. “In yellow highlighter. E. Tunwell. Edward né Ned.”

  Ned looked down at the paper, looked up, looked down again. “This was a long time ago,” he said. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Why are you lying about it?”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You’re hiding something, Ned.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Myron stared down at him. Ned’s eyes scattered, searching for safe haven and finding none. “Look, Myron, it’s not what you think.”

  “I don’t think anything.” Then: “Did you sleep with her?”

  “No!” Ned finally looked up and held a steady gaze. “That damn rumor almost ended my career. It’s a lie that slimeball Menansi made up about me. It’s a lie, Myron, I swear.”

  “Pavel Menansi told people that?”

  Ned nodded. “He is a sick son of a bitch.”

  “Was.”

  “What?”

  “Pavel Menansi is dead. Someone killed him last night. Shot in the chest. Very similar to what happened to Valerie.” Myron waited two beats. Then he pointed his finger at Ned. “Where were you last night?”

  Ned’s eyes were two golf balls. “You can’t think …”

  Myron shrugged. “If you’ve got nothing to hide …”

  “I don’t!”

  “Then tell me what happened.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, Ned?”

  “It was nothing, Myron. I swear—”

  Myron sighed. “You admit Valerie Simpson severely damaged your career. You admit you’re still ‘pained’ by what she did. You’ve also told me that Pavel Menansi spread rumors about you. In fact you referred to a recent murder victim as—and I quote—‘a sick son of a bitch.’ ”

  “Hey, come on, Myron, that was just talk.” Ned tried to smile his way out of it, but Myron kept his face stern. “It didn’t mean anything.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But I wonder how your superiors at Nike are going to react to the publicity.”

  The smile stayed in place, but there was nothing behind it. “Hey, you can’t be serious. You can’t go around spreading rumors like that.”

  “Why?” Myron asked. “You going to kill me too?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Ned shouted.