by Harlan Coben
In the end, TC was not as off-the-wall as he appeared in public nor was he as put-together as he wanted Myron to think. Myron was no psychologist, but he was sure that there was more to the tattoos and body piercing than making money. They were too physically destructive for so pat an explanation. With TC, there were a lot of factors at work. Being a former basketball star himself, Myron understood some of them; being that Myron and TC came from completely different worlds, there were others he could not so readily grasp.
TC interrupted their joint solitude. “Now I got a question for you,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“Why you really here?” TC asked.
“Here? As in your house—”
“On the team. Look, man, I saw you play when I was in junior high. In the NCAAs. You were great, okay? But that was a long time ago. You got to know you can’t do it anymore. You had to see that at practice today.”
Myron tried not to look stunned. Had he and TC been at the same practice? But of course they had, and of course, TC was right. Didn’t Myron remember the days when he was the team’s superstar? Didn’t he remember scrimmaging against the last five guys who would play their butt off while the starting five screwed around and played with no incentive? Didn’t he remember how disillusioned those last five became, fooling themselves into believing they were just as good as the first five when the first five were tired from real games and were just slacking off? And back then, Myron was in college. He played maybe twenty-five games a season—these guys played almost a hundred against vastly superior competition.
Good enough to play with these guys? Who had he been kidding?
“I’m just giving it a shot,” Myron said softly.
“Can’t let go, huh?”
Myron said nothing. They fell back into a brief silence.
“Hey, I almost forgot,” TC said. “I hear you’re good friends with a big hotshot at Lock-Horne Securities. That true?”
“Yes.”
“Was he that slice of white bread you talking with after the game?”
Myron nodded. “His name is Win.”
“You know Thumper works on Wall Street, right?”
“She told me,” Myron said.
“Thumper wants to change jobs. Think your friend could talk to her?”
Myron shrugged. “I could ask him.” Win would certainly appreciate her outlook on the role of sex in ancient civilizations. “Who does she work for now?”
“Small outfit. Called Kimmel Brothers. But she needs to move on, you know? They won’t make her a partner, even though she busts her butt for them.”
TC said something else but Myron was no longer listening. Kimmel Brothers. Myron remembered the name immediately. When he’d hit the redial button on the phone at Greg’s house, a woman had answered and said, “Kimmel Brothers.” Yet Thumper had just told Myron she hadn’t spoken to Greg in a month or two.
Coincidence? Myron thought not.
Chapter 16
Thumper was gone.
“She came for you,” TC said. “When it didn’t happen she split. She got work tomorrow morning.”
Myron checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. Long day. Time for a little shut-eye. He made his good nights and headed for his car. Audrey was leaning against the hood, her arms folded across her chest, her ankles crossed. Pure casual.
“You going back to Jessica’s?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Mind giving me a lift?”
“Hop in.”
Audrey gave him the same smile he had seen back at practice. He had thought at the time she had been impressed with his play; now it was clearer that the amusement was more akin to ridicule than appreciation. He unlocked the doors in silence. She took off her blue blazer and laid it on the backseat; he did likewise. She wore a forest green turtleneck underneath it. She adjusted the neck part, folding it back an extra time. She took off the pearls and jammed them in the front pocket of her jeans. Myron started the car.
“I’m starting to put this thing together,” Audrey said.
Myron did not like the way she said it. Too much authority in her voice. Audrey hadn’t needed a lift home, he was sure of that. She wanted to talk to him alone. That worried him. He gave her the good-natured smile and said, “This doesn’t have anything to do with my ass, does it?”
“What?”
“Jessica told me you two were discussing my ass.”
She laughed. “Well, I hate to admit this,” she said, “but it did look pretty scrumptious.”
Myron tried not to look too pleased. “So you doing a story on it?”
“On your ass?”
“Yes.”
“Of course,” she said. “I was thinking we could give it a big spread.”
Myron groaned.
“You’re trying to change the subject,” she said.
“There was a subject?”
“I was telling you how I was putting this thing together.”
“That’s a subject?”
He glanced at her. She was sitting with her left knee on the seat and her left ankle tucked under her so her entire body could face him. Audrey had a wide face and a few freckles, though he bet she had a lot more when she was a kid. Remember that tomboy who was kinda cute in your sixth grade class? Here she was all grown up. No beauty certainly. Not in the classic sense. But there was an earthy appeal to Audrey that made you want to reach out and hug her and roll in leaves on a crisp autumn day.
“It shouldn’t have taken me so long to figure out,” she continued. “It’s pretty obvious in hindsight.”
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
“No,” she replied. “You’re supposed to continue to play dumb for a few more minutes.”
“My specialty.”
“Good, then just drive and listen.” Her hands were in constant gesturing motion, peaking and valleying along with her voice. “See, I was waylaid by the whole poetic irony stuff. That’s what I concentrated on. But your backgrounds as rivals is secondary in all this. It’s not nearly as important as, say, your past relationship with Emily.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You didn’t play AAU. You didn’t play in any summer league. You play in pickup games at the Y maybe once a week. Your major workout revolves around Master Kwon’s place with Win—and they don’t have a basketball court.”
“Is there a point?”
Her hands spread in disbelief. “You haven’t been honing your skills. You haven’t played anyplace where Clip or Calvin or Donny would have seen you play. So why would the Dragons sign you? It doesn’t make sense. Was the move strictly P.R.? Unlikely. The positive bump will be minimum, and if you fail—which, let’s face it, is very likely—that good publicity will probably be nullified. Ticket sales are good. The team is doing well. They don’t need a publicity stunt right now. So there has to be another reason.” She stopped and readjusted herself on the car seat. “Enter the timing.”
“The timing?”
“Yes,” she said. “Why now? Why sign you so late in the season? The answer is obvious really. There is only one thing about the timing that stands out.”
“And that is?”
“Downing’s sudden disappearance.”
“He didn’t disappear,” Myron corrected. “He’s injured. That’s your precious timing. Greg got hurt. A spot opened up. I filled it.”
Audrey smiled and shook her head. “Still want to play dumb, huh? Fine, go ahead. You’re right. Downing is supposed to be injured and in seclusion. Now I’m good, Myron, and for the life of me I can’t find this secluded spot of his. I’ve called in all my best contacts and I can’t get anything. Don’t you find that a bit odd?”
Myron shrugged.
“Maybe,” she went on, “if Downing really craved seclusion to fix his injured ankle—an injury which doesn’t show up on any game tape, by the way—he could find a way. But if all he’s doing is working on an injury, why work so ha
rd at it?”
“So pain in the asses like you don’t bother him,” Myron said.
Audrey almost laughed at that one. “Said with such conviction, Myron. It’s almost like you believe it.”
Myron said nothing.
“But let me just add a few more points and then you can stop playing dumb.” Audrey counted them off on ringless, slightly callused fingers. “One, I know you used to work for the feds. That gives you some background in investigative work. Two, I know Downing has a habit of vanishing. He’s done it before. Three, I know Clip’s situation with the other owners. The big vote is coming up. Four, I know you visited Emily yesterday and I doubt you were there to restoke the flames.”
“How did you know about that?” Myron asked.
She just smiled and put her hand down. “Add them up and there’s only one conclusion: you are looking for Greg Downing. He’s missing again. This time however the timing is much more critical; Clip’s ownership vote and the playoffs are coming up. Your job is to find him.”
“You got a hell of an imagination, Audrey.”
“I do at that,” she agreed, “but we both know I got this right so let’s end playing dumb and cut to the heart of it: I want in.”
“Want in.” Myron shook his head. “You reporters and your lingo.”
“I don’t want to give you up,” she continued. Her knee was still up on the seat. Her face was as bright and expectant as a school kid’s waiting for the final bell in May. “I think we should team up. I can help. I got great sources. I can ask questions without worrying about blowing my cover. I know this team inside and out.”
“And what exactly do you want for this help?”
“The full story. I’m the first reporter to know where he is, why he vanished, whatever. You promise to tell only me; I get the full exclusive.”
They passed several sleazy motels and a potpourri of gas stations on Route 4. No-tell motels in New Jersey always gave themselves lofty names that belied their social station. Right now, for example, they were driving past the “Courtesy Inn.” This fine establishment not only gave you courteous attention, but they gave it to you by the hour at a rate, according to the sign, of $19.82. Not twenty dollars, mind you, but $19.82—so priced, Myron guessed, because it was also the year they last changed sheets. The CHEAP BEER DEPOT, according to another sign, was the next building on Myron’s right. Truth in advertising. Nice to see. The Courtesy Inn could learn a lesson from them.
“We both know I could report it now,” she said. “It’d still be a pretty good scoop—reporting that Downing wasn’t really injured and you’re just here to find him. But I’d be willing to trade it in for a larger story.”
Myron thought it over as he paid the toll. He glanced at her expectant face. She looked wild-eyed and wild-haired, kind of like the refugee women coming off the boat in Palestine in the movie Exodus. Ready to do battle to claim her homeland.
“You have to make me a promise,” he said.
“What?”
“No matter what—no matter how incredible the story seems—you won’t jump the gun. You won’t report any of it until he’s found.”
Audrey nearly leapt from her seat. “What do you mean? How incredible?”
“Forget it, Audrey. Report whatever you want.”
“All right, all right, you have a deal,” she said quickly, hands raised in surrender. “You had to know saying something like that would pique my interest.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah, yeah, I promise. So what’s up?”
Myron shook his head. “You first,” he said. “Why would Greg vanish?”
“Who knows?” she replied. “The man is a professional flake.”
“What can you tell me about his divorce?”
“Just that it’s been acrimonious as all hell.”
“What have you heard?”
“They’ve been battling over the kids. They’re both trying to prove the other is an unfit parent.”
“Any details on how they’re going about that?”
“No. It’s been kept pretty hush-hush.”
“Emily told me Greg had pulled some sleazy tricks,” Myron said. “Do you know anything about that?”
Audrey chewed on her bottom lip for a few moments. “I heard a rumor—a very unsubstantiated rumor—that Greg hired a private eye to follow her.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“To film her maybe? Catch her with another man?”
She shrugged. “It’s just a rumor. I don’t know.”
“You know the P.I.’s name, or who he works for?”
“Rumor, Myron. Rumor. A pro basketball player’s divorce is hardly earth-shattering sports news. I didn’t follow it that closely.”
Myron made a mental note to check Greg’s files for any payment to an investigation firm. “How was Greg’s relationship with Marty Felder?”
“His agent? Good, I guess.”
“Emily told me Felder had lost Greg millions.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never heard anything about that.”
The Washington bridge was fairly clear. They stayed to the right and took the Henry Hudson Parkway south. On their right, the Hudson River sparkled like a blanket of black sequins; on their left was a billboard with Tom Brokaw displaying his friendly yet firm smile. The caption under his picture read: “NBC News—Now More Than Ever.” Very dramatic. What the hell did it mean?
“How about Greg’s personal life?” Myron continued. “Girlfriends, that kind of thing?”
“You mean a steady?”
“Yes.”
She ran her fingers through the thick, curling locks, then rubbed the back of her own neck. “There was this one girl. He kept it kind of secret, but I think they were living together for a while.”
“What’s her name?”
“He never told me. I saw them together at a restaurant once. A place called the Saddle River Inn. He didn’t look happy to see me.”
“What did she look like?”
“Nothing special from what I remember. She was a brunette. She was sitting so I couldn’t tell you height or weight.”
“Age?”
“I don’t know. Thirty-ish, I guess.”
“What makes you think they were living together?”
It seemed like an easy question, but she stopped and raised her eyes. “Leon let something slip once,” she said.
“What did he say?”
“I don’t remember anymore. Something about the girlfriend. Then he clammed up.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Three, four months ago. Maybe more.”
“Leon implied that he and Greg weren’t really that close, that the media made a bigger deal out of it than it was.”
Audrey nodded. “There is a tension there now, but I think it’s just temporary.”
“Why would there be a tension?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long have you noticed the tension?”
“Not long. Within the last two weeks maybe.”
“Anything happen recently between Greg and Leon that you’re aware of?”
“Nope. They’ve been friends for a long time. Friends have disagreements. I didn’t take it too seriously.”
Myron let loose a deep breath. Friends did indeed have disagreements, but the timing was curious. “Do you know Maggie Mason?”
“Thumper? Of course.”
“Were she and Greg close?”
“If you mean did they screw—”
“No, I don’t mean that.”
“Well, they screwed. That I’m sure of. Despite what Thumper claims, not every guy on the team has gotten thumped. Some have turned her down. Not many, I admit. But some. She hit on you yet?”
“Just a few short hours ago.”
She smiled. “I assume you joined the few, the proud, the Unthumped?”
“You assume correctly. But what about her relationship with Greg? Are they close?”
“They’re pretty close, I’d say. But Thumper is closest to TC. Those two are very tight. It’s not purely sexual either. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure TC and Maggie have had sex and probably still do on occasion. But they’re like brother and sister too. It’s weird.”
“How do TC and Greg get along?” Myron asked.
“Not bad for team superstars. Not great either.”
“Care to elaborate?”
She paused, gathered her thoughts. “For five years now, TC and Downing have shared the spotlight. I guess there is a mutual respect for each other on the court, but they don’t talk off it. At least, not very much. I’m not saying they dislike each other, but playing basketball is a job like any other. You might be able to stand one another at work, but you don’t want to see the person socially.” She looked up. “Take the Seventy-ninth Street exit.”
“You still live on Eighty-first?”
“Yes.”
Myron took the exit and stopped at a traffic light on Riverside Drive.
“Now it’s your turn, Myron. Why did they hire you?”
“It’s like you said. They want me to find Greg.”
“What have you learned so far?”
“Not much.”
“So why were you so concerned I’d jump the gun and tell the story early?”
Myron hesitated.
“I promised not to say anything,” she reminded him. “You have my word.”
