The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  Myron joined up with Win in the upstairs office. Win continued copying onto computer disks while Myron went through the drawers. Nothing particularly helpful.

  They moved on to the master bedroom. The king-size bed was made. Both night tables were cluttered with pens and keys and papers.

  Both.

  Curious for a man who lived alone.

  Myron’s eyes swept the room and landed on a reading chair that doubled as a dressing dummy. Greg’s clothes were strewn over one arm and the back. Normal enough, Myron guessed—neater than Myron, in fact, though that wasn’t saying much. But looking again, he noticed something a tad strange on the other arm of the chair. Two articles of clothing. A white blouse and a gray skirt.

  Myron looked at Win.

  “They might belong to Miss Monkey Noises,” Win said.

  Myron shook his head. “Emily hasn’t lived here in months. Why would her clothes still be on a chair?”

  The bathroom, too, proved interesting. A large Jacuzzi on the right, a big steam shower with a sauna, and two vanities. They checked the vanities first. One contained a can of men’s shaving cream, a roll-on deodorant, a bottle of Polo after-shave, a Gillette Atra razor. The other vanity had an open makeup case, Calvin Klein perfume, baby powder, and Secret Roll-On. A sprinkling of baby powder was on the floor near the vanity. There were also two disposable Lady Schick razors in the soap dish next to the Jacuzzi.

  “He’s got a girlfriend,” Myron said.

  “A professional basketball player shacking up with some nubile lass,” Win remarked. “Quite a revelation. Perhaps one of us should cry out, ‘Eureka.’ ”

  “Yes, but it raises an interesting question,” Myron said. “If her boyfriend had suddenly vanished, wouldn’t said lover have reported it?”

  “Not,” Win said, “if she were with him.”

  Myron nodded. He told Win about the cryptic message from Carla.

  Win shook his head. “If they were planning on running away,” he said, “why would she say where they were meeting?”

  “She didn’t say where. Only in a back booth at midnight.”

  “Still,” Win said. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you do before you disappear. Let’s say that for some reason Carla and Greg decide to vanish for a little while. Wouldn’t Greg know where and when to meet her before the fact?”

  Myron shrugged. “Maybe she was changing their meeting place.”

  “From what? Front booths to back booths?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  They checked the rest of the upstairs. Not much doing. Greg’s son’s bedroom had racing-car wallpaper and a poster of Dad driving past Penny Hardaway for a layup. The daughter’s room was done in Early American Barney—dinosaurs and purple. No clues. In fact there were no other clues until they reached the basement.

  When they turned on the lights, Myron saw it right away.

  It was a finished basement, a brightly colored playroom for the kids. There were lots of Little Tikes cars and big Legos and a plastic house with a sliding board. There were scenes from Disney movies like Aladdin and The Lion King on the wall. There was a television and a VCR. There was stuff too for when the kids got a little older—a pinball machine, a jukebox. There were small rocking chairs and mattresses and knock-around couches.

  There was also blood. A fair amount of it in drips on the floor. Another fair amount smeared on a wall.

  Bile nestled in Myron’s throat. He had seen blood many times in his life, but it still left him queasy. Not so with Win. Win approached the crimson stains with something akin to amusement on his face. He bent to get a better look. Then he stood back up.

  “Look at the bright side,” Win said. “Your temporary slot on the Dragons may become more permanent.”

  Chapter 4

  There was no body. Just the blood.

  Using Glad sandwich bags he found in the kitchen, Win collected a few samples. Ten minutes later they were back outside, the lock on the front door reengaged. A blue Oldsmobile Delta 88 drove past them. Two men sat in the front seat. Myron glanced at Win. Win barely nodded.

  “A second pass,” Myron said.

  “Third,” Win said. “I saw them when I first drove up.”

  “They’re not exactly experts at this,” Myron said.

  “No,” Win agreed. “But of course, they hadn’t known the job would require expertise.”

  “Can you run the plates?”

  Win nodded. “I’ll also run Greg’s ATM and credit card transactions,” he said. He reached the Jag and unlocked it. “I’ll contact you when I have something. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

  “You heading back to the office?”

  “I’m going to Master Kwon’s first,” Win said.

  Master Kwon was their tae kwon do instructor. Both of them were black belts—Myron a second degree, Win a sixth degree, one of the highest ranking Caucasians in the world. Win was the best martial artist Myron had ever seen. He studied several different arts including Brazilian jujitsu, animal kung fu, and Jeet Kun Do. Win the Contradiction. See Win and you think pampered, preppy pantywaist; in reality, he was a devastating fighter. See Win and you think normal, well-adjusted human being; in reality, he was anything but.

  “What are you doing tonight?” Myron asked.

  Win shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “I can get you a ticket to the game,” Myron said.

  Win said nothing.

  “Do you want to go?”

  “No.”

  Without another word, Win slipped behind the wheel of his Jag, started the engine, peeled out with nary a squeal. Myron stood and watched him speed away, puzzled by his friend’s abruptness. But then again, to paraphrase one of the four questions of Passover: why should today be different than any other day?

  He checked his watch. He still had a few hours before the big press conference. Enough time to get back to the office and tell Esperanza about his career shift. More than anyone else, his playing for the Dragons would affect her.

  He took Route 4 to the George Washington Bridge. There was no waiting at the tolls. Proof there was a God. The Henry Hudson however was backed up. He swung off near Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center to get on Riverside Drive. The squeegee guys—the homeless men who “cleaned” your windshield with a mixture of equal parts grease, Tabasco sauce, and urine—were no longer at the light. Mayor Giuliani’s doing, Myron guessed. They had been replaced by Hispanic men selling flowers and something that looked like construction paper. He asked once what it was and had gotten an answer back in Spanish. As much as Myron could translate, the paper smelled nice and spruced up any home. Maybe that was what Greg used as potpourri.

  Riverside Drive was relatively quiet. Myron arrived at his Kinney lot on 46th Street and tossed Mario the keys. Mario did not park the Ford Taurus up front with the Rolls, the Mercedes, Win’s Jag; in fact, he usually managed to find a cozy spot underneath what must have been a nesting ground for loose-stooled pigeons. Car discrimination. It was an ugly thing, but where were the support groups?

  The Lock-Horne Securities building was on Park Avenue and 46th, perpendicular to the Helmsley building. High-rent district. The street bustled with the doings of big finance. Several stretch limos double-parked illegally in front of the building. The ugly modern sculpture that looked like someone’s intestines stood pitifully in its usual place. Men and women in business attire sat on the steps, eating sandwiches too hurriedly, lost in their own thoughts, many talking to themselves, rehearsing for an important afternoon meeting or rehashing a morning mistake. People who worked in Manhattan learned how to be surrounded by others yet remain completely alone.

  Myron entered the lobby and pressed the button for the elevator. He nodded to the three Lock-Horne Hostesses, known to everyone else as the Lock-Horne Geishas. They were all model/actress wanna-bes, hired to escort high rollers up to the offices of Lock-Horne Securities and look attractive while doing it. Win had brought the idea home aft
er a trip to the Far East. Myron guessed this could be more blatantly sexist, but he wasn’t sure how.

  Esperanza Diaz, his valued associate, greeted him at the door. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Later. You’ve got a million messages.”

  Esperanza wore a white blouse—an absolute killer look against her dark hair, dark eyes, and that dark skin that shimmered like moonlight on the Mediterranean. Esperanza had been spotted by a modeling scout when she was seventeen, but her career took a few weird turns and she ended up making it big in the world of professional wrestling. Yes, professional wrestling. She’d been known as Little Pocahontas, the brave Indian Princess, the jewel of the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling (FLOW) organization. Her costume was a suede bikini, and she was always cast as the good guy in the morality play that was professional wrestling. She was young, petite, tight-bodied, gorgeous, and though of Latin origin, she was dark enough to pass for Native American. Racial backgrounds were irrelevant to FLOW. The real name of Mrs. Saddam Hussein, the evil harem girl in the black veil, was Shari Weinberg.

  The phone rang. Esperanza picked it up. “MB SportsReps. Hold on a moment, he’s right here.” She flashed the eyes at him. “Perry McKinley. It’s his third call today.”

  “What does he want?”

  She shrugged. “Some people don’t like dealing with underlings.”

  “You’re not an underling.”

  She looked at him blankly. “You going to take it or not?”

  Being a sports agent was—to use computer terminology—a multitasking environment with the capability of performing a variety of services with but a click of a button. It was more than simple negotiating. Agents were expected to be accountants, financial planners, real estate agents, hand-holders, personal shoppers, travel agents, family counselors, marriage counselors, chauffeurs, errand boys, parental liaisons, lackeys, butt-kissers, you name it. If you weren’t willing to do all that for a client—to be what is known as a “full service agency”—the next guy would be.

  The only way to compete was to have a team, and Myron felt he had assembled a small yet extremely effective one. Win, for example, handled all the finances for Myron’s clients. He set up a special portfolio for each player, met with them at least five times a year, made sure they understood what their money was doing and why. Having Win gave Myron a big leg up on the competition. Win was a near-legend in the financial world. His reputation was impeccable (at least in the financial world) and his track record unmatched. He gave Myron an instant “in,” instant credibility in a business where credibility was a rare and heady concoction.

  Myron was the JD. Win was the MBA. Esperanza was the all-purpose player, the unflappable chameleon who held it all together. It worked.

  “We need to talk,” he said again.

  “So we’ll talk,” she said in a dismissing tone. “First take this call.”

  Myron entered his office. He overlooked Park Avenue in midtown. Great View. On one wall he had posters of Broadway musicals. On another there were movie stills from some of Myron’s favorites: the Marx Brothers, Woody Allen, Alfred Hitchcock, and a potpourri of other classics. On a third wall were photographs of Myron’s clients. The client wall was a bit sparser than Myron would have liked. He imagined what it would look like with an NBA first rounder in the middle.

  Good, he decided. Very good.

  He strapped on his headset.

  “Hey, Perry.”

  “Jesus Christ, Myron, I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

  “Good, Perry. And you.”

  “Hey, I don’t mean to be impatient but this is important. You get anything on my boat?”

  Perry McKinley was a golfer on the fringe, no pun intended. He was a pro. He made some money, but he wasn’t a name anyone but big golf fans would recognize. Perry loved to sail and was in need of a new vessel.

  “Yeah, I got something,” Myron said.

  “What company?”

  “Prince.”

  Perry did not sound thrilled. “Their boats are just okay,” he whined. “Nothing great.”

  “They’ll let you trade in your old boat for a new one. You have to do five personal appearances.”

  “Five?”

  “Yep.”

  “For a Prince eighteen-footer? That’s too many.”

  “They originally wanted ten. But it’s up to you.”

  Perry thought about it a moment. “Ah, shit, okay the deal. But first I want to make sure I like the boat. A full eighteen-footer, right?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “Yeah, all right. Thanks, Myron. You’re the best.”

  They hung up. Bartering—an important component in the agent’s multitasking environment. No one ever paid for anything in this business. Favors were exchanged. Trading products for some form of endorsement. Want a free shirt? Wear it in public. Want a free car? Shake hands at a few car shows. The big stars could demand serious payments in exchange for their endorsements. The lesser-known athletes happily seized the freebies.

  Myron stared at the pile of messages and shook his head. Playing for the Dragons and keeping MB SportsReps afloat—how the hell was he going to pull it off?

  He buzzed Esperanza. “Come on in here, please,” he said.

  “I’m in the middle—”

  “Now.”

  Silence.

  “Gosh,” she said, “you’re so macho.”

  “Give me a break, huh?”

  “No, really, I’m very frightened. I better drop everything and immediately do your bidding.”

  Her phone fell. She sprinted in, feigning fear and breathlessness. “Fast enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what is it?”

  He told her. When he came to the part where he’d be playing for the Dragons, he was once again surprised to see no reaction. This was strange. First Win, now Esperanza. The two of them were his closest friends. They both lived for ridiculing him. Yet neither one of them had taken advantage of the obvious opening. Their silence on the subject of his “comeback” was a tad unnerving.

  “Your clients aren’t going to like this,” she said.

  “Our clients,” he corrected.

  She made a face. “Does it make you feel better to be patronizing?”

  Myron ignored the comment. “We have to turn this into a positive,” he said.

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. He leaned back in his chair. “We can say that the publicity of all this will help them.”

  “How?”

  “I can make new contacts,” he said, the ideas coming to him even as he spoke. “I can get closer to sponsors, learn more about them. More people will hear about me and indirectly my clients.”

  Esperanza made a scoffing sound. “And you think that’s going to fly?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s bullshit. ‘Indirectly my clients.’ Sounds like trickle-down economics.”

  She had a point. “What’s the big deal really?” he asked, palms to the ceiling. “Basketball will only be a couple of hours a day. I’ll be here the rest of the time. I’ll have the cellular phone with me all the time. We just have to emphasize that I won’t be there long.”

  Esperanza looked at him skeptically.

  “What?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “No, I want to know. What?”

  “Nothing,” she said. She looked him straight in the eye, her hands resting on her lap. “What does the bitch say about all this?” she asked sweetly.

  Her pet name for Jessica. “Will you please stop calling her that?”

  She made a suit-yourself face, for once not arguing. There had been a time—long, long ago—when Jessica and Esperanza had at least tolerated each other. But then Jessica left, and Esperanza saw what it did to Myron. Some people held grudges. Esperanza internalized them. It didn’t matter that Jessica had come back.

&nbs
p; “So what does she think?” Esperanza asked again.

  “About what?”

  “About the prospects for peace in the Middle East,” she snapped. “What do you think I mean? Your playing again.”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t had a chance to talk about it much. Why?”

  Esperanza shook her head again. “We’re going to need help in here,” she said, closing the subject. “Someone to answer the phones, do some typing, that kind of thing.”

  “You have someone in mind?”

  She nodded. “Cyndi.”

  Myron blanched. “Big Cyndi?”

  “She could answer the phone, do some odd jobs. She’s a good worker.”

  “I didn’t even know she could talk,” Myron said. Big Cyndi had been Esperanza’s tag-team wrestling partner, fighting under the name of Big Chief Mama.

  “She’ll take orders. She’ll do shit work. She’s not ambitious.”

  Myron tried not to wince at the thought. “Isn’t she still working at the strip joint as a bouncer?”

  “It’s not a strip joint. It’s a leather bar.”

  “My mistake,” Myron said.

  “And she’s a bartender now.”

  “Cyndi’s been promoted?” Myron said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’d hate to sidetrack her burgeoning career by asking her to work here.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Esperanza said. “She works there nights.”

  “What,” Myron said, “Leather and Lust doesn’t do a big lunch crowd?”

  “I know Cyndi. She’ll be perfect.”

  “She scares people,” Myron said. “She scares me.”

  “She’ll stay in the conference room. No one will see her.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Esperanza rose smoothly. “Fine, you find somebody. I mean, you’re the boss. You know best. Me, I’m just a pissant secretary. I wouldn’t dare question how you handle our clients.”

  Myron shook his head. “Low blow,” he said. He leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his hands holding up his head. “All right,” he said finally, releasing a deep breath. “We’ll give her a try.”