by Harlan Coben
Myron waited. Esperanza stared back at him. After several seconds passed, she said, “Is this the part where I jump up and down and say thank you, thank you?”
“No, this is the part where I leave.” He checked his watch. “I got to talk to Clip about those bloodstains before the press conference.”
“Have fun.” She headed for the door.
“Hold up,” he called out. She turned and faced him. “Do you have class tonight?” Esperanza took night classes at NYU. Law school.
“No.”
“You want to go to the game?” He cleared his throat. “You can, uh, bring Lucy, if you’d like.”
Lucy was Esperanza’s latest love. Before Lucy she had dated a man named Max. Her sexual preference seemed to vacillate. “We broke up,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Myron said, not knowing what else to say. “When?”
“Last week.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
He nodded. True enough. “Well, you can bring a new, uh, friend, if you’d like. Or you can go yourself. We’re playing the Celtics.”
“I’ll pass,” she said.
“You sure?”
She nodded again, left the room. Myron grabbed his jacket and headed back to the lot. Mario tossed him his keys without looking up. He took the Lincoln Tunnel and hopped onto Route 3. He passed a huge and fairly famous appliance and electronics store called Tops. The billboard featured a giant nose jutted out over Route 3. The caption: Tops Is Right Under Your Nose. Very lifelike. The only thing missing were the giant nose hairs. He was only a mile or so from the Meadlowlands when the car phone rang.
“I have some preliminaries,” Win said.
“Go ahead.”
“None of Greg Downing’s accounts or credit cards have been accessed in the past five days.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Any cash withdrawals from his bank?”
“Not in the past five days.”
“How about earlier? Maybe he grabbed out a lot of money before he vanished.”
“It’s being worked on. I don’t know yet.”
Myron took the Meadowlands exit. He considered what this all meant. So far, not much, but it wasn’t really good news. The blood in the basement. No sign of Greg. No financial activity. It wasn’t really promising. “Anything else?” Myron asked.
Win hesitated. “I may soon have an idea where dearest Greg had that drink with fair Carla.”
“Where?”
“After the game,” Win said. “I’ll know more then.”
Chapter 5
“Sports is folklore,” Clip Arnstein told the room full of reporters. “What captures our imagination is not simply the winning and losing. It’s the stories. The stories of perseverance. The stories of sheer will. The stories of hard work. The stories of heartbreak. The stories of miracles. The stories of triumph and tragedy. The stories of comebacks.”
Clip looked down at Myron from the podium, his eyes properly moist, his smile his most grandfatherly. Myron cringed. He fought back an intense desire to duck under the conference table and hide.
After a proper pause Clip turned back to the front. The reporters were silent. An occasional flashbulb burst forth. Clip swallowed several times as though summoning some inner resolve he’d need to continue. His throat slid up and down. He raised his moist eyes to the audience.
A little hammy, Myron thought, but all in all a fine performance.
The press conference was more crowded than Myron would’ve thought. Not a free seat and many reporters standing. Must have been a slow news day. Clip took his time, regaining his seemingly lost composure. “A little over a decade ago, I drafted an exceptional young man, a player I believed was destined for greatness. He had a great jumper, a well-honed court sense, mental tenacity, and on top of all that was a fine human being. But the gods had other plans for that young man. We all know what happened to Myron Bolitar on that fateful night in Landover, Maryland. There is no reason to dredge up the past. But as I said when I opened this press conference, sports is folklore. Today the Dragons are giving that young man a chance to weave his own legend into the lush tapestry of sports. Today the Dragons are allowing that young man to try and recapture what was so cruelly snatched away from him all those years ago.”
Myron started squirming. His cheeks flushed. His eyes darted about, seeking a safe haven and finding none. He settled for looking at Clip’s face, as per the media’s expectations. He zeroed in on a cheek mole, staring so hard his vision began to mercifully blur.
“It won’t be easy, Myron,” Clip said, turning now and addressing Myron directly. Myron kept his vision locked on the mole; he couldn’t meet the gaze. “No promises have been made to you. I don’t know what happens from here. I don’t know if this is the culmination of your story or the commencement of a brave new chapter. But those of us who love sports can’t help but hope. It is in our nature. It is in the nature of all true combatants and fans.” Clip’s voice started to crack.
“This is reality,” he went on. “I have to remind you of that, Myron, much as I’d rather not. On behalf of the New Jersey Dragons I welcome you, a man of class and courage, to the team. We wish you nothing but the best. We know that no matter what happens to you on the court, you will bring honor to the entire Dragon organization.” He stopped, tightened his lips, and managed a quick “Thank you.”
Clip held out a hand to Myron. Myron played his part. He stood to shake Clip’s hand. Clip however had other ideas. He put his arms around Myron and pulled him toward him. The flashbulbs increased to the point of being a disco strobe. When Clip finally pulled back, he wiped his eyes with two fingers. Sheesh, the man put Pacino to shame. Clip held out an arm, ushering Myron to the podium.
“How does it feel to be back?” one reporter yelled out.
“Scary,” Myron replied.
“Do you really think you have what it takes to play at this level?”
“No, not really.”
The moment of honesty stopped them for a second. But only a second. Clip laughed and everyone else in the room followed suit. Figuring it was a joke. Myron didn’t bother correcting them.
“Do you think you still have three-point shooting range?” another asked.
Myron nodded. “I have the shooting range,” he said. “I’m just not sure I have the making range.” A stolen joke but what the hey.
More laughs.
“Why the comeback so late, Myron? What convinced you to come back now?”
“The Psychic Friends Network.”
Clip stood and warded off further questions with a raised hand. “Sorry, gang, that’s it for now. Myron has to get suited up for tonight’s game.”
Myron followed Clip out. They hurried down the corridor and into Clip’s office. Calvin was already there. Clip shut the door. Before he sat down Clip asked, “So what’s the matter?”
Myron told him about the blood in the basement. Clip visibly blanched. Frosty’s fingers tightened against the armrest.
“So what are you trying to say?” Clip snapped when he finished.
“Say?”
Clip gave an elaborate shrug. “I don’t get it.”
“There’s nothing to get,” Myron said. “Greg is missing. No one has seen him for five days. He hasn’t used his ATM or credit card. And now there’s blood in the basement.”
“In his kids’ playroom, right? That’s what you said before. The kids’ playroom.”
Myron nodded.
Clip looked a question at Calvin then turned his palms to the sky. “So what the hell does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It doesn’t exactly add up to foul play, now does it?” Clip continued. “Think it through, Myron. If Greg were murdered, for example, where is his body? Did the killer or killers take it with them? And what do you think happened here? The killers—what?—surprised Greg? Alone? In
his kids’ playroom where, I guess, Greg was playing with his little dolly? Then what happened? They killed him down there and dragged him out of the house without leaving traces of blood anywhere but in the basement?” Clip spread his hands. “Does that make sense?”
The scenario had bothered Myron too. He sneaked a glance at Calvin. Calvin seemed deep in thought. Clip stood.
“For all we know,” Clip went on, “one of Greg’s kids cut himself playing down there.”
“Hell of a cut,” Myron said.
“Or a bloody nose. Christ, those things gush like mad. Could be nothing but a bloody nose.”
Myron nodded. “Or maybe they were slaughtering chickens,” he said. “Could be that too.”
“I don’t need sarcasm, Myron.”
Myron waited a beat. He glanced at Calvin. Nothing. He glanced at Clip. Nada. “It’s getting opaque in here again.”
“Pardon?”
“You hired me to find Greg. I’m tracing down a major lead. Yet you don’t want to hear it.”
“If you mean I don’t want to hear that perhaps Greg has met with foul play—”
“No, that’s not what I mean. You’re afraid of something and it’s not just that Greg may have met with foul play. I’d like to know what.”
Clip looked over at Calvin. Calvin nodded almost imperceptibly. Clip sat back down. His fingertips drummed the desktop. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked an imitating echo. “Understand,” Clip said, “that we have Greg’s best interests at heart. We really do.”
“Uh huh.”
“You know anything about hostile takeovers?”
“I was alive in the eighties,” Myron said. “In fact, someone recently remarked on what an eighties kinda guy I am.”
“Well, I’m undergoing one now.”
“I thought you were a majority owner.”
Clip shook his head. “Forty percent. No one else owns more than fifteen percent. A couple of the minority shareholders have gotten together and are trying to oust me.” Clip made two fists and put them on his desk like paperweights. “They say I’m too much a basketball mind and not enough a business mind. I should only be handling players and the on-court affair. They vote in two days.”
“So?”
“So right now the vote is very close. A scandal and I’m done.”
Myron looked at both men and waited a beat. Then he said, “You want me to sit on this?”
“No, no, of course not,” Clip said quickly. “I’m not saying that at all. I just don’t want the press going berserk over what might be nothing. I can’t afford to have anything unsavory uncovered now.”
“Unsavory?”
“Right.”
“Like what?”
“Hell if I know,” Clip said.
“But Greg might be dead.”
“And if that’s the case, a day or two isn’t going to help—cold as that might sound. And if something did happen to Greg, there might be a reason.”
“A reason?”
Clip threw up his hands. “Hell, I don’t know. You lift up a corpse or even a man in hiding and worms start to crawl out. You know what I mean?”
“No,” Myron said. But Clip went on.
“I don’t need that, Myron. Not now. Not till after this vote.”
“Then you are telling me to sit on this,” Myron said.
“Not at all. We just don’t want an unnecessary panic. If Greg is dead, we can’t do him any good now anyway. If he’s vanished, well, then you are his best hope to avoid media glare or to save him.”
They were still not telling him everything but Myron decided not to press it just now. “Do you have any idea why someone would be watching Greg’s house?”
Clip looked puzzled. “Someone is watching his house?”
“I think so, yes.”
Clip looked over to Calvin. “Calvin?”
“No idea,” Calvin said.
“I don’t know either, Myron. Do you have any thoughts?”
“Not yet. One more question: did Greg have a girlfriend?”
Again Clip looked toward Calvin.
Calvin shrugged. “He played around a lot. But I don’t think there was anyone special.”
“Do you know any of the women he played around with?”
“Not by name. Some groupies, stuff like that.”
“Why?” Clip asked. “You think he ran off with a broad?”
Myron shrugged and stood. “Guess I better get to the locker room. It’s almost game time.”
“Wait.”
Myron stopped.
“Please, Myron, I know it sounds like I’m being cold, but I really do care about Greg. Very much. I want him found alive and well.” Clip swallowed. The wrinkles in his skin looked more pronounced, like someone had just pinched them out a bit. His color was not good. “If you can honestly tell me that revealing what we know to the public is best, I’ll go along with it. No matter what the costs. Think about it. I want to do what’s best for Greg. I care about him very much. I care about both of you. You’re both fine young men. I mean that. I owe you both a great deal.”
Clip looked like he was about to cry. Myron wasn’t sure what to make of all this. He decided to nod and say nothing. He opened the door and left.
As he approached the elevator Myron heard a familiar, husky voice say, “If it isn’t the Comeback Kid.”
Myron looked over at Audrey Wilson. She was wearing her customary sports-reporter garb: dark blue blazer, black turtleneck, what they called “stone-washed” jeans. Her makeup was either light or nonexistent, her nails short and unpolished. The only splash of color could be found on her sneakers—bright aqua Chuck Taylor Cons. Her looks were completely unspectacular. There was nothing wrong with her features but nothing particularly right about them either. They were just there. Her straight black hair was cut short in a pageboy with bangs. “Do I detect the scent of cynicism?” he asked.
Audrey shrugged. “You don’t really think I buy all this, do you?”
“Buy what?”
“Your sudden desire to”—she checked her notes—“weave your own legend into the lush tapestry of sports.” She looked up, shook her head. “That Clip can sure talk some shit, huh?”
“I have to get dressed, Audrey.”
“How about giving me the lowdown first?”
“The lowdown, Audrey? Gee, why not ask for a ‘scoop’? I love it when you reporters say that.”
She smiled at that. It was a nice smile. Full and open. “Kinda defensive, aren’t we, Myron?”
“Me? Never.”
“Then how about—to coin yet another cliché—a statement for the press?”
Myron nodded, put his hand to his chest in dramatic fashion. “A winner never quits, and a quitter never wins.”
“Lombardi?”
“Felix Unger. It was on The Odd Couple, the one where Howard Cosell guest starred.”
He turned and walked toward the locker room. Audrey followed. She was probably the top female sports reporter in the country. She covered the Dragons for the East Coast’s biggest newspaper. She had her own radio show on WFAN in a coveted time slot with huge ratings. She had a Sunday morning roundtable talk show called Talking Sports on ESPN. And yet, like almost every other female in this male-dominated profession, there was something tenuous about her station, her career always a half-step from toppling over no matter how big she became.
“How’s Jessica?” Audrey asked.
“Good.”
“I haven’t spoken to her in a month,” she said with a singsong tone. “Maybe I should give her a call. Sit down and have a heart-to-heart, you know.”
“Gee,” Myron said, “that won’t be transparent.”
“I’m trying to make this easier on you, Myron. There’s something strange going on here. You know I’m going to find out what it is. Might as well just tell me.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“First Greg Downing leaves the team under
mysterious circumstances—”
“What’s mysterious about an ankle injury?”
“—then you, his old nemesis, take his place after being out of commission for the better part of eleven years. You don’t find that strange?”
Great, Myron thought. On the job five minutes and already someone was voicing suspicion. Myron Bolitar, master of the undercover. They reached the door to the locker room.
“I gotta go, Audrey. We’ll talk later.”
“Count on it,” she said. She smiled at him with a gentle mocking sweetness. “Good luck, Myron. Knock them dead.”
He nodded, took a deep breath, and pushed open the locker-room door.
Showtime.
Chapter 6
No one greeted Myron when he entered the locker room. No one broke stride. No one even looked at him. The room did not go quiet like something out of an old Western where the sheriff pushes open the creaking door and sashays into the saloon. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe the door needed to creak. Or maybe Myron had to work on his sashay.
His new teammates were sprawled about like socks in a college dorm. Three of them were draped over benches, semidressed and seminapping. Two were on the floor, a leg being held in the air by assistants, stretching quads and calves. A couple others were dribbling basketballs. Four were hobbling back to their lockers after getting taped. Almost all were chewing gum. Almost all were also listening to Walkmans, the tiny speakers jammed in their ears and blaring so loudly that they sounded like competing floor models at a stereo store.
Myron found his dressing area pretty easily. All the other lockers had bronze plaques with a player’s name engraved on it. Myron’s did not. It had a piece of white adhesive tape above it, the kind used to tape ankles, with the letters M. BOLITAR scrawled in black marker. It hardly inspired confidence or spoke commitment.
He glanced around for someone to talk to, but the Walkmans were the ideal room dividers. Everyone was in their own private space. Myron spotted Terry “TC” Collins, the team’s famed whining superstar, sitting alone in a corner. TC was the media’s newest poster boy for the spoiled athlete, the guy “ruining” the genteel world of sports “as we know it,” whatever that meant. TC was a hell of a physical specimen. Six-ten, muscular, wiry. His cleanly shaven head glistened in the fluorescent light. Rumor had it TC was black though it was hard to see any trace of skin through the work of his tattoo artist. The obscure ink images blanketed almost all available somatic sites. Body piercing too appeared to be more of a lifestyle with TC than a hobby. The man looked like a nightmare version of Mr. Clean.
