The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  Myron followed behind him. “So how do you know this B Man?” he asked.

  “He operates out of the Midwest,” Win said. “He is also a superb martial artist. We met in Tokyo once.”

  “What sort of operation does he run?”

  “The usual assorted sundries—gambling, drugs, loan sharking, extortion. A bit of prostitution too.”

  “So what’s he doing here?”

  “It appears that Greg Downing owes him money,” Win said, “probably from gambling. The B Man specializes in gambling.”

  “Nice to have a specialty.”

  “Indeed. I would assume that your Mr. Downing owes them a large sum of money.” Win glanced over at Myron. “That’s good news for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it implies that Downing is on the run rather than dead,” Win said. “The B Man is not wasteful. He wouldn’t kill someone who owes him a lot of money.”

  “Dead men pay no debts.”

  “Precisely,” Win said. “On top of that, he is clearly looking for Downing. If he killed him, he wouldn’t need you to find him.”

  Myron considered this for a moment. “It sort of meshes with what Emily told me. She said Greg had no money. Gambling might explain that fact.”

  Win nodded. “Kindly fill me in on what else has occurred in my absence. Jessica mentioned something about finding a dead woman.”

  Myron told him everything. As he spoke, new theories rushed forward. He tried to sort through them and organize them a bit. When he finished the recap, Myron went right into the first one.

  “Let’s assume,” he said, “that Downing does owe a lot of money to this B Man. That might explain why he finally agreed to sign an endorsement deal. He needs the money.”

  Win nodded. “Go on.”

  “And let’s also assume the B Man is not stupid. He wants to collect, right? So he would never really hurt Greg. Greg makes him money through his physical prowess. Broken bones would have an adverse effect on Greg’s financial status and thus his ability to pay.”

  “True,” Win said.

  “So let’s say Greg owes them a lot of money. Maybe the B Man wanted to scare him in another way.”

  “How?”

  “By hurting someone close to him. As a warning.”

  Win nodded again. “That might work.”

  “And suppose they followed Greg. Suppose they saw him with Carla. Suppose they figured that Greg and Carla were close.” Myron looked up. “Wouldn’t killing her be a hell of a warning?”

  Win frowned. “You think the B Man killed her to warn Downing?”

  “I’m saying it’s possible.”

  “Why wouldn’t he just break some of her bones?” Win asked.

  “Because the B Man wasn’t personally on the scene yet, remember? He got in last night. The murder would have been the work of hired muscle.”

  Win still didn’t like it. “Your theory is improbable, at best. If the murder was indeed a warning, where is Downing now?”

  “He ran away,” Myron said.

  “Why? Because he was afraid for his own life?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did he run away immediately after learning Carla was dead?” Win asked. “On Saturday night?”

  “That would be most logical.”

  “He was frightened off then? By the murder?”

  “Yes,” Myron said.

  “Ah.” Win stopped and smiled at Myron.

  “What?” Myron asked.

  “Pray tell,” Win began with a lilt in his voice, “if Carla’s body was just discovered today, how did Downing know about the murder last Saturday night?”

  Myron felt a chill.

  “For your theory to hold up,” Win continued, “Greg Downing would have to have done one of three things. One, he witnessed the murder; two, he stumbled into her apartment after the murder; three, he committed the murder himself. Furthermore, there was a great deal of cash in her apartment. Why? What was it doing there? Was this money to help pay back the B Man? If so, why didn’t his men take it? Or better yet, why didn’t Downing take it back when he was there?”

  Myron shook his head. “So many holes,” he said. “And we still haven’t come up with what connection there is between Downing and this Carla or Sally or whatever her name is.”

  Win nodded. They continued walking.

  “One more thing,” Myron said. “Do you really think the mob would kill a woman just because she happened to be with Greg at a bar?”

  “Very doubtful,” Win agreed.

  “So basically, that whole theory is blown to hell.”

  “Not basically,” Win corrected. “Entirely.”

  They kept walking.

  “Of course,” Win said, “Carla could have been working for the B Man.”

  An icy finger poked at Myron. He saw where Win was going but he still said, “What?”

  “Perhaps this Carla woman was the B Man’s contact. She collected for him. She was meeting Downing because he owed a great deal of money. Downing promises to pay. But he doesn’t have the money. He knows they are closing in on him. He has stalled long enough. So he goes back to her apartment, kills her, and runs.”

  Silence. Myron tried to swallow, but his throat felt frozen. This was good, this talking it through. It helped. His legs were still rubbery from the incident, but what really bothered him now was how easily he had forgotten the dead man lying in the van. True, the man was probably a professional scum bag. True, the man had jammed the barrel of a gun into his mouth and had not dropped his weapon when Win told him to. And true, the world was probably a better place without him. But in the past Myron would have still felt some remorse for this fellow human being; in all honesty, he didn’t now. He tried to muster some sympathy, but the only thing he felt sad about was that he didn’t feel sad.

  Enough self-analysis. Myron shook it off and said, “There are problems with that scenario too.”

  “Such as?”

  “Why would Greg kill her? Why not just run off before the back-booth meeting?”

  Win considered this. “Fair point. Unless something happened during their meeting to set him off.”

  “Like what?”

  Win shrugged.

  “It all comes back to this Carla,” Myron said. “Nothing about her adds up. I mean, even a drug dealer doesn’t have a setup like hers—working as a diner waitress, hiding sequentially numbered hundred-dollar bills, wearing wigs, having all those fake passports. And on top of that, you should have seen Dimonte this afternoon. He knew who she was and he was in a panic.”

  “You contacted Higgins at Treasury?” Win asked.

  “Yes. He’s tracing those serial numbers.”

  “That could help.”

  “We also need to get ahold of the telephone records from the Parkview Diner. See who Carla called.”

  They fell back into silence and kept walking. They didn’t want to hail a taxi too close to the scene.

  “Win?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why didn’t you want to go to the game the other night?”

  Win kept on walking. Myron kept pace. After some time, Win said, “You’ve never watched a replay of it, have you?”

  He knew he meant the knee injury. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Myron shrugged. “No point.”

  “No, there is a point.” Win kept walking.

  “Mind telling me what that is?” Myron said.

  “Watching what happened to you might have meant dealing with it. Watching it might have meant closure.”

  “I don’t understand,” Myron said.

  Win nodded. “I know.”

  “I remember you watched it,” Myron said. “I remember you watched it over and over.”

  “I did that for a reason,” Win said.

  “For vengeance.”

  “To see if Burt Wesson injured you on purpose,” Win corrected.

  “You wanted to pay him back.”

  “You shou
ld have let me. Then you might have been able to put it behind you.”

  Myron shook his head. “Violence is always the answer for you, Win.”

  Win frowned. “Stop sounding melodramatic. A man committed a vile act upon you. Squaring things would have helped put it behind you. It’s not about vengeance. It’s about equilibrium. It’s about man’s basic need to keep the scales balanced.”

  “That’s your need,” Myron said, “not mine. Hurting Burt Wesson wouldn’t have fixed my knee.”

  “But it might have given you closure.”

  “What does that mean, closure? It was a freak injury. That’s all.”

  Win shook his head. “You never watched the tape.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. The knee was still ruined. Watching a tape wouldn’t have changed that.”

  Win said nothing.

  “I don’t understand this,” Myron continued. “I went on after the injury. I never complained, did I?”

  “Never.”

  “I didn’t cry or curse the gods or do any of that stuff.”

  “Never,” Win said again. “You never let yourself be a burden on any of us.”

  “So why do you think I needed to relive it?”

  Win stopped and looked at him. “You’ve answered your own question, but you choose not to hear it.”

  “Spare me the Kung-Fu-grasshopper philosophical bullshit,” Myron shot back. “Why didn’t you go to the game?”

  Win started walking again. “Watch the tape,” he said.

  Chapter 19

  Myron didn’t watch the tape. But he had the dream.

  In the dream he could see Burt Wesson bearing down on him. He could see the gleeful, almost giddy violence in Burt’s face as he drew closer and closer. In the dream, Myron had plenty of time to step out of harm’s way. Too much time really. But in this dream—as in many—Myron could not move. His legs would not respond, his feet mired in thick, dream-world quicksand while the inevitable approached.

  But in reality, Myron had never seen Burt Wesson coming. There had been no warning. Myron had been pivoting on his right leg when the blinding collision befell him. He heard rather than felt a snap. At first there had been no pain, just wide-eyed astonishment. The astonishment had probably lasted less than a second, but it was a frozen second, a snapshot Myron only took out in dreams. Then came the pain.

  In the dream Burt Wesson was almost on him now. Burt was a huge man, an enforcer-type player, the basketball equivalent of a hockey goon. He did not have much talent, but he had tremendous bulk and he knew how to use it. It had gotten him far, but this was the pros now. Burt would be cut before the start of the season—poetic irony that neither he nor Myron would play in a real professional basketball game. Until two nights ago anyway.

  In the dream Myron watched Burt Wesson approach and waited. Somewhere in his subconscious, he knew that he would awaken before the collision. He always did. He lingered now in that cusp between nightmare and being awake—that tiny window where you are still asleep but you know it is a dream and even though it may be terrifying, you want to go on and see how it will end because it is only a dream and you are safe. But reality would not keep that window open for long. It never did. As Myron swam to the surface, he knew that whatever the answer was, he would not find it in any nocturnal voyage to the past.

  “Phone for you,” Jessica said.

  Myron blinked his eyes and rolled onto his back. Jessica was already dressed. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Nine.”

  “What? Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “You needed the sleep.” She handed him the phone. “It’s Esperanza.”

  He took it. “Hello.”

  “Christ, don’t you ever sleep in your own bed?” Esperanza said.

  He was hardly in the mood. “What is it?”

  “Fred Higgins from Treasury is on the line,” she said. “I thought you’d want it.”

  “Pass it through.” A click. “Fred?”

  “Yeah, how you doing, Myron?”

  “I’m okay. You got anything on those serial numbers?”

  There was a brief hesitation. “You stumbled into some heavy shit, Myron. Some very heavy shit.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “People don’t want this out, you understand? I had to jump through all kinds of hoops to get this.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  “Okay then.” Higgins took a deep breath. “The bills are from Tucson, Arizona,” he said. “More specifically, First City National Bank of Tucson, Arizona. They were stolen in an armed bank heist.”

  Myron shot up in the bed. “When?”

  “Two months ago.”

  Myron remembered a headline, and his blood turned cold.

  “Myron?”

  “The Raven Brigade,” Myron managed. “That was one of theirs, right?”

  “Right. You ever work on their case with the feds?”

  “No, never.” But he remembered. Myron and Win had worked on cases with a special and almost contradictory nature: high profile with the need for undercover. They had been perfect for such situations—who, after all, would suspect a former basketball star and a rich, Main Line prep of being undercover agents? They could travel in whatever circles they wanted to and not raise suspicion. Myron and Win didn’t have to create a cover; their reality was the best one the agency had. But Myron was never full-time with them. Win was their fair-haired boy; Myron was more a utility fielder Win called in when he thought it necessary.

  But of course he knew about the Raven Brigade. Most people with even a passing familiarity with sixties extremism knew about them. Started by a charismatic leader named Cole Whiteman, the Ravens had been yet another splinter group of the Weather Underground. They were very much like the Symbionese Liberation Army, the group that kidnapped Patty Hearst. The Ravens, too, attempted a high-profile kidnapping, but the victim ended up dead. The group had gone underground. Four of them. Despite the FBI’s best efforts, the four escapees—including Cole Whiteman, who with his Win-like blond hair and Waspy background never looked the part of an extremist—had remained hidden for nearly a quarter century.

  Dimonte’s bizarre questions about radical politics and “perversives” no longer seemed so bizarre.

  “Was the victim one of the Ravens?” Myron asked.

  “I can’t say.”

  “You don’t have to,” Myron said. “I know it was Liz Gorman.”

  There was another brief hesitation. Then: “How the hell did you know that?”

  “The implants,” Myron said.

  “What?”

  Liz Gorman, a fiery redhead, had been one of the founding members of the Raven Brigade. During their first “mission”—a failed attempt to burn down a university chemistry lab—the police had picked up a code name on the scanner: CD. It was later revealed that the male members of the Brigade called her CD, short for Carpenter’s Dream, because she was “flat as a board and easy to screw.” Sixties radicals, for all their so-called progressive thoughts, were some of the world’s biggest sexists. Now the implants made sense. Everyone Myron had interviewed remembered one thing about “Carla”—her cup size. Liz Gorman had been famous for her flat chest—what better disguise than oversized breast implants?

  “The feds and cops are cooperating on this one,” Higgins said. “They’re trying to keep this quiet for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “They got her place under surveillance. They’re hoping to maybe draw out another member.”

  Myron felt completely numb. He had wanted to learn more about the mystery woman and now he had: she was Liz Gorman, a famous radical who had not been seen since 1975. The disguises, the various passports, the implants—they all added up now. She wasn’t a drug dealer, she was a woman on the run.

  But if Myron had hoped learning the truth about Liz Gorman would help clarify his own investigation, he had been sadly mistaken. What possible connection could there be between Greg Downing and
Liz Gorman? How had a professional basketball player gotten enmeshed with a wanted extremist who had gone underground when Greg was still a kid? It made absolutely no sense.

  “How much did they get in the bank heist?” Myron asked.

  “Hard to say,” Higgins answered. “About fifteen thousand in cash, but they also blew open the safe-deposit boxes. Over a half million in goods have been declared for insurance purposes, but a lot of it is bullshit. A guy gets robbed, all of a sudden he was keeping ten Rolexes in the box instead of one—trying to rip off the insurance company, you know how it is.”

  “On the other hand,” Myron said, “anyone keeping illegal dollars in there wouldn’t declare it. They’d just have to swallow the loss.” Back to drugs and drug money. The extremists in the underground needed resources. They’d been known to rob banks, blackmail former followers who had gone mainstream, deal drugs, whatever. “So it could have been even more.”

  “Right, hard to say.”

  “You got anything else on this?”

  “Nothing,” Higgins said. “It’s being kept sealed tight, and I’m not in the loop. I can’t tell you how hard it was to get this, Myron. You owe me big.”

  “I already promised you the tickets, Fred.”

  “Courtside?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Jessica came back into the room. When she saw Myron’s face, she stopped and looked a question at him. Myron hung up and told her. She listened. Remembering Esperanza’s crack, Myron realized that he had now spent four nights in a row here—a post-breakup world and Olympic record. He worried about that. It wasn’t that he didn’t like staying here. He did. It wasn’t that he feared commitment or any of that other drivel; to the contrary, he craved it. But part of him was still afraid—old wounds that wouldn’t heal and all that.

  Myron had a habit of exposing too much of himself. He knew that. With Win or Esperanza it was okay. He trusted them absolutely. He loved Jessica with all his heart, but she had hurt him. He wanted to be tentative. He wanted to hold back, to not leave himself so open, but the heart don’t know from stop. At least, Myron’s didn’t. Two primal internal forces were at odds here: his natural instinct to give all he had when it came to love vs. the survival instinct of pain avoidance.