by Harlan Coben
Dimonte nodded and made a lemon-sucking face. “Fucking lawyers.”
“A dream team’s worth. Before you have anything, they’re filing motions and suppressing whatever and, well, you know the routine.”
“Shit,” Dimonte said.
Myron nodded. “You see what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do,” Dimonte said. “But there’s some stuff you forgot, Bolitar.” He gave Myron big-time toothpick gnawing. “For example, if I issue an APB your little team investigation goes down the toilet. You lose out.”
“Could be,” Myron said.
Dimonte studied him with a small, uneven smile. “That doesn’t mean what you’re saying is wrong. I just don’t want you to think I don’t see what you’re up to.”
“You read me,” Myron said, “like Vasco da Gama reads a map.”
Dimonte gave him hard eyes for a moment; Myron fought off the desire to roll his in return. “So here’s how we’re going to play it. You’re going to stay on the team and you’re going to continue your little investigation. I’m going to try to keep what you told me to myself as long”—he held up a finger for emphasis—“as long as it benefits my case. If I find enough to haul Downing’s ass in here, I put out the APB. And you are going to report everything to me. You are not going to hold back. Any questions?”
“Just one,” Myron said. “Where do you buy your boots?”
Chapter 13
On the ride to practice, Myron placed a call from the car phone.
“Higgins,” a voice answered.
“Fred? It’s Myron Bolitar.”
“Hey, long time, no speak. How you doing, Myron?”
“Can’t complain. You?”
“A thrill a minute here at the Treasury Department.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“How’s Win?” Higgins asked.
“The same,” Myron said.
“The guy scares the piss out of me, you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” Myron said, “I do.”
“You two miss working for the feds?”
“I don’t,” Myron said. “I don’t think Win does either. It got too restrictive for him.”
“I hear you. Hey, I read in the papers you’re playing ball again.”
“Yep.”
“At your age and with that knee? How come?”
“Long story, Fred.”
“Say no more. Hey, you guys are coming down to play the Bullets next week. Can you get me tickets?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Great, thanks. So what do you need, Myron?”
“The wheres and whys of about ten grand in hundred-dollar bills. Sequentially wrapped. Serial number B028856011A.”
“How fast you need it?”
“Soon as you can get it.”
“I’ll do my best. You take care, Myron.”
“You too, Fred.”
Myron held nothing back at practice. He let it all hang out. The feeling was awesome and overpowering. He entered his own zone. When he shot, it was like an invisible hand carried the ball to the cylinder. When he dribbled, the ball became part of his hand. His senses were heightened like a wolf’s in the wilderness. He felt like he’d fallen into some black hole and emerged ten years earlier at the NCAA finals. Even his knee felt great.
Most of practice consisted of a scrimmage between the starting five players and the five who saw the most bench time. Myron played his best ball. His jumper was popping. He came off screens strong and ready to shoot. He even drove straight down the lane twice—into the teeth of the big men’s domain—and came away the victor both times.
There were moments he completely forgot about Greg Downing and Carla/Sally/Roberta’s mangled corpse and the blood in the basement and the goons who jumped him and yes, even Jessica. An exhilarating rush like no other flooded his veins—the rush of an athlete at his peak. People talked about a runner’s high, a euphoria from a gland secretion when your body was pressed to its limit. Myron couldn’t relate to that, but he understood the incredible highs and plunging depths of being an athlete. If you played well, your whole body tingled and tears of pure joy came to your eyes. The tingles lasted well into the night when you lay in bed with no chance of sleep and replayed your finest moments, often in slow motion, like an overzealous sportscaster with his finger on the replay button. When you played poorly, you were surly and depressed and stayed that way for hours and even days. Both extremes were way out of proportion with the relevant importance of jamming a ball through a metallic circle or swatting a ball with a stick or throwing a sphere with great velocity. When you played poorly, you tried to remind yourself how stupid it was to get so caught up in something so meaningless. When you hit that rare high, you kept your internal big mouth shut.
As Myron dashed back and forth in the wave of basketball action, a thought sneaked in through the back door of his brain. The thought stayed on the fringes, hiding behind a couch, popping into view every once in a while before ducking back down again. You can do this, the thought taunted. You can play with them.
Myron’s lucky streak continued when it came to his defensive assignment: Leon White, Greg’s roomie-on-the-road and best friend. Myron and Leon bonded a bit while playing, the way teammates and even opponents often do. Whispering quick jokes in one another’s ear while lined up chest-to-chest for an inbounds pass. Patting the other guy on the back when he made a nice play. Leon was a classy guy on the floor. No trash talk. Even when Myron burned his butt on a fade-away eighteen-footer, Leon offered only words of encouragement.
Coach Donny Walsh blew the whistle. “That’s it, fellas. Take twenty foul shots and go home.”
Leon and Myron exchanged a half-handshake, half-high-five the way only children and professional athletes can. Myron had always loved this part of the game, the almost soldierlike camaraderie; he hadn’t had that in years. It felt good. The players partnered themselves up in groups of two—one guy to shoot, one to rebound—and went off to different baskets. Myron lucked out again and hooked up with Leon White. They each snatched a towel and a water bottle and strolled past the bleachers. Several reporters were perched up there for the practice. Audrey was there, of course. She looked at him with an amused smile. He resisted the temptation to stick his tongue out at her. Or his ass. Calvin Johnson had been watching practice too. He wore a suit and leaned against the wall like he was posing for a candid picture. Myron tried to gauge his reaction during the scrimmage, but of course Calvin’s expression remained unreadable.
Myron shot first. He stood at the foul line, feet spread shoulder length, his eyes on the front rim. The ball back-spun through the hoop.
“I guess we’re going to be roommates,” Myron said.
“That’s what I heard,” Leon said.
“Probably won’t be for very long.” Myron took another shot. Swish. “When do you think Greg will be back?”
In one motion Leon grabbed the bouncing ball and swooped it back to Myron. “I don’t know.”
“How’s Greg feeling? The ankle doing okay?”
“I don’t know,” he said again.
Myron took another foul shot. Another swish. His shirt, heavy with sweat, felt right. He grabbed the towel and wiped his face again. “Have you talked to him at all?”
“No.”
“That’s funny.”
Leon passed the ball to Myron. “What’s funny?”
Myron shrugged, took four dribbles. “I heard you two were tight,” he said.
Leon gave a half-smile. “Where did you hear that?”
Myron released the ball. Another swish. “Around, I guess. In the newspapers and stuff.”
“Don’t believe everything you read,” Leon said.
“Why’s that?”
He bounce-passed the ball to Myron. “The press loves to build up a friendship between a white player and a black player. They’re always looking for that Gale Sayers–Brian Piccolo slant.”
“You two aren’t close?”
“Well,
we’ve known each other a long time. I’ll say that.”
“But you’re not tight?”
Leon looked at him funny. “Why you so interested?”
“I’m just making conversation. Greg is my only real connection to this team.”
“Connection?”
Myron started dribbling again. “He and I used to be rivals.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So now we’re going to be teammates. It’ll be weird.”
Leon looked at Myron. Myron stopped dribbling. “You think Greg still cares about some old college rivalry?” There was disbelief in his voice.
Myron realized how lame he was sounding. “It was a pretty intense thing,” he said. “At the time, I mean.” Extra lame. Myron didn’t look at Leon. He just lined up the shot.
“I hope this don’t hurt your feelings or nothing,” Leon said, “but I’ve been rooming with Greg for eight years now. I’ve never heard him mention your name. Even when we talk about college and stuff.”
Myron stopped right before releasing the ball. He looked over at Leon, fighting to keep his face neutral. Funny thing was—much as Myron didn’t want to admit it—that did hurt his feelings.
“Shoot already,” Leon said. “I want to get out of here.”
TC lumbered toward them. He palmed a basketball in each hand with the ease most adults palm grapefruits. He dropped one of the balls and did a handshaking/slapping ritual with Leon. Then he looked over at Myron. His face broke into a big smile.
“I know, I know,” Myron said. “Thumped, right?”
TC nodded.
“What exactly is thumped?”
“Tonight,” TC said. “Party at my house. All will be revealed then.”
Chapter 14
Dimonte was waiting for him in the Meadowlands parking lot. He leaned out of his red Corvette. “Get in.”
“A red Corvette,” Myron said. “Why aren’t I surprised?”
“Just get in.”
Myron opened the door and slid into the black leather seat. Though they were parked with the engine off, Dimonte gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared in front of him. His face was sheet-white. The toothpick hung low. He kept shaking his head over and over. Yet again, the subtlety. “Something wrong, Rolly?”
“What’s Greg Downing like?”
“What?”
“You fucking deaf?” Dimonte snapped. “What’s he like?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in years.”
“But you knew him, right? In school. What was he like back then? Did he hang out with perversive types?”
Myron looked at him. “Perversive types?”
“Just answer the question.”
“What the hell is this? Perversive types?”
Dimonte turned the ignition key. The sound was loud. He hit the gas a bit, let the engine do the rev thing for a while. The car had been jacked up like a race car. The sound was, like, totally rad, man. No women were in the nearby vicinity to hear this human mating call or they would surely be disrobing by now. Dimonte finally shifted into gear.
“Where we going?” Myron asked.
Dimonte didn’t answer. He followed the ramp that leads from the arena to Giants Stadium and the horse track.
“Is this one of those mystery dates?” Myron asked. “I love those.”
“Stop fucking around and answer my question.”
“What question?”
“What’s Downing like? I need to know everything about him.”
“You’re asking the wrong guy, Rolly. I don’t know him that well.”
“Tell me what you do know.” Dimonte’s voice left little room for disagreement. His tone was less fake-macho than usual, and there was a funny quake in it. Myron didn’t like it.
“Greg grew up in New Jersey,” Myron began. “He’s a great basketball player. He’s divorced with two kids.”
“You dated his wife, right?”
“A long time ago.”
“Would you say she was left-wing?”
“Rolly, this is getting too weird.”
“Just answer the goddamn question.” The tone aimed for angry and impatient, but fear seemed to overlap them. “Would you call her politics radical?”
“No.”
“She ever hang out with perversives?”
“Is that even a word? Perversives?”
Dimonte shook his head. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for your shit, Bolitar?”
“Okay, okay.” Myron made a surrendering gesture with his hands. The Corvette swerved across the empty stadium lot. “No, Emily did not hang out with perversives, whatever they are.”
They headed past the racetrack and took the other ramp back toward the arena. It became apparent to Myron that they were just going to circle the Meadowlands’ vast expanse of paved lots. “Let’s get back to Downing then.”
“I just told you we haven’t talked in years.”
“But you know about him, right? You’ve been investigating him; you’ve probably read stuff about him.” Gear shift up. Extra rev power. “Would you say he was a revolutionary?”
Myron could not believe these questions. “No, Mr. Chairman.”
“Do you know who he hangs out with?”
“Not really. He’s supposed to be closest to his teammates, but Leon White—that’s his roommate on the road—seemed less than enamored. Oh, here’s something that might interest you: after home games, Greg drives a taxi in the city.”
Dimonte looked puzzled. “You mean he picks up fares and stuff?”
“Yes.”
“Why the fuck does he do that?”
“Greg is a little”—Myron searched for the word—“off.”
“Uh huh.” Dimonte rubbed his face vigorously, as if he were polishing a fender with a rag. He did this for several seconds, not looking at the road; fortunately, he was in the middle of an empty parking lot. “Does it make him feel like a regular guy or something? Could that be part of it? Getting closer to the masses?”
“I guess,” Myron said.
“Go on. What about his interests? His hobbies?”
“He’s a nature boy. He likes to fish and hunt and hike and boat, that goyish stuff.”
“A back-to-nature type?”
“Sort of.”
“Like maybe an outdoor, communal guy?”
“No. Like maybe an outdoor, loner guy.”
“You have any idea where he might be?”
“None.”
Dimonte hit the gas and circled the arena. He came to a stop in front of Myron’s Ford Taurus and put the car in park. “Okay, thanks for the help. We’ll talk later.”
“Whoa, hold up a second. I thought we were working together on this.”
“You thought wrong.”
“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on?”
His voice was suddenly soft. “No.”
Silence. The rest of the players were gone by now. The Taurus stood alone in the still, empty lot.
“It’s that bad?” Myron said.
Dimonte kept frighteningly still.
“You know who she is, don’t you?” Myron went on. “You got an ID?”
Dimonte leaned back. Again he rubbed his entire face. “Nothing confirmed,” he muttered.
“You got to tell me, Rolly.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“I won’t say anything. You know—”
“Get the fuck out of my car, Myron.” He leaned across Myron’s lap and opened the car door. “Now.”
Chapter 15
TC lived in a turn-of-the-century red brick mansion encircled by a six-foot, matching brick fence on one of the better streets of Englewood, New Jersey. Eddie Murphy lived down the block. So did three Forbes 500 CEOs and several major Japanese bankers. There was a security post by the driveway entrance. Myron gave the security guard his name. The guard checked his clipboard.
“Please park along the drive. The party is out back.” He raised
the yellow-and-black striped gate and waved him through. Myron parked next to a black BMW. There were maybe a dozen other cars, all glistening from fresh washes and waxes or perhaps they were all new. Mostly Mercedes Benzes. A few BMWs. A Bentley. A Jag. A Rolls. Myron’s Taurus stood out like a zit in a Revlon commercial.
The front lawn was immaculately manicured. Perfectly pruned shrubs guarded and clung to the brick facade. In stark contrast to this majestic setting was the rap music blaring from the speakers. Awful. The shrubs looked pained by the sound. Myron didn’t necessarily hate all rap. He knew there was worse music out there—John Tesh and Yanni proved it every day. Some rap songs Myron found engaging and even profound. He also recognized that rap music had not been written for him; he didn’t get it all, but he suspected that he wasn’t supposed to.
The party was held in the well-lit pool area. The crowd of about thirty mingled about in a fairly subdued fashion. Myron was wearing a blue blazer, a button-down pinstripe shirt, a flower tie, J. Murphy casual loafers. Bolitar the Prep. Win would be so proud. But Myron felt frighteningly underdressed next to his teammates. At the risk of sounding racist, the black guys on the team—there were only two other white players on the Dragons right now—knew how to dress with style. Not Myron’s style (or lack thereof), but definitely with style. The group looked like they were readying themselves for a Milan runway walk. Perfectly tailored suits. Silk shirts buttoned to the neck. No ties. Shoes polished like twin mirrors.
TC reclined in a lounge chair by the shallow end of the pool. He was surrounded by a bunch of white guys who looked like college students. They were laughing at his every word. Myron also spotted Audrey in her customary reporter’s garb. She had added pearls for the occasion. Really dressing up. He barely had a chance to step toward them when a woman in her late thirties/maybe forty approached him. “Hello,” the woman said.
