by Harlan Coben
Myron glanced over at Win. Win appeared to be bored.
“Do you know a woman named Liz Gorman?” Myron tried.
In the corner of his eye, Myron saw Calvin sit up a bit.
“No,” Clip said. “Should I?”
“How about a woman named Carla or Sally?”
“What? You mean have I ever known a woman named—”
“Recently. Or any woman involved in some way with Greg Downing.”
Clip shook his head. “Calvin?” Calvin also shook his head, but the shake was a little too lingering. “Why do you ask?” Clip demanded.
“Because that’s whom Greg was with the night he vanished,” Myron said.
Clip sat up, his words coming scatter-gun. “Have you located her? Where is she now? Maybe they’re together.”
Myron looked at Win again. This time, Win nodded ever so slightly. He’d caught it too. “She’s dead,” Myron said.
Any traces of color on Clip’s face drained away. Calvin remained silent, but he crossed his legs. A big move for ol’ Frosty. “Dead?”
“Murdered, to be more specific.”
“Oh my God …” Clip’s eyes leapt from one face to another, as though seeking some sort of answer or solace there. He found none.
“Are you sure you don’t know the names Liz Gorman, Carla, or Sally?” Myron asked.
Clip opened his mouth, closed it. No sound came out. He tried again. “Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“And she was with Greg?”
“He’s the last known person to see her alive. His fingerprints are at the murder scene.”
“The murder scene?” His voice trembled, his eyes dazed. “My God, the blood you found in the basement,” he said. “The body was at Greg’s house?”
“No. She was killed in her apartment in New York.”
Clip looked puzzled. “But I thought you found blood in Greg’s basement. In the playroom.”
“Yes. But that blood is gone now.”
“Gone?” Clip sounded both confused and annoyed. “What do you mean, gone?”
“I mean somebody cleaned it up.” He looked straight at Clip. “I mean somebody entered Greg’s house in the past two days and tried to snuff out an unsavory scandal.”
Clip startled up at that one. Life came back into the eyes. “You think it was me?”
“You were the only one I told about the blood. You wanted to keep the discovery secret.”
“I left that up to you,” Clip countered. “I said I thought it was the wrong move, but I’d respect your decision. Of course, I would want to avoid a scandal. Who wouldn’t? But I would never do something like that. You know me better than that, Myron.”
“Clip,” Myron said, “I have the dead woman’s phone records. She called you four days before the murder.”
“What do you mean she called me?”
“Your office number is in the phone records.”
He started to say something, stopped, started again. “Well, maybe she called here, but that doesn’t mean she spoke to me.” His tone was far from convincing. “Maybe she spoke to my secretary.”
Win cleared his throat. Then he spoke for the first time since entering the office. “Mr. Arnstein?” he said.
“Yes.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Win continued, “your lies are growing tiresome.”
Clip’s mouth dropped. He was used to underlings kissing his rear, not to being called a liar. “What?”
“Myron has a great deal of respect for you,” Win said. “That’s admirable. People do not earn Myron’s respect easily. But you know the dead woman. You talked to her on the phone. We have proof.”
Clip’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of proof?”
“The phone records, for one—”
“—but I just told you—”
“And your own words, for another,” Win finished.
He slowed down, his expression wary. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Win steepled his fingers. “Earlier in this conversation, Myron asked you if you knew Liz Gorman or a woman named Carla or Sally. Do you recall that?”
“Yes. I told him no.”
“Correct. And then he told you—and I quote his exact words because they are relevant—‘that’s whom Greg was with the night he vanished.’ Awkward phrasing, I admit, but with a purpose. Do you recall your next two queries, Mr. Arnstein?”
Clip looked lost. “No.”
“They were—and again I quote exact words—‘Have you located her yet? Where is she now?’ ” Win stopped.
“Yeah, so?”
“You said, her. Then you said, she. Yet Myron asked you if you knew Liz Gorman or Carla or Sally. From his wording, wouldn’t it be natural to assume he was referring to three different women? A they rather than a she or her? But you, Mr. Arnstein, immediately concluded that these three names belonged to one woman. Don’t you find that odd?”
“What?” But Clip’s anger was all bluster now. “You call that evidence?”
Win leaned forward. “Myron is being well compensated for his efforts here. For that reason, I would normally recommend that he continue working for you. I would advise him to mind his own business and take your money. If you wish to muck up your own investigation, who are we to interfere? Not that Myron would listen. He is a nosy man. Worse, he has this warped sense of doing right, even when it is not required.”
Win stopped, took a breath, leaned back again. Instead of steepling his fingers, he gently bounced the tips against one another. All eyes were on him. “The problem is,” he continued, “a woman has been murdered. On top of that, someone has tampered with a crime scene. Someone has also vanished and may very well be a murderer or another victim. In other words, it is now far too dangerous to remain in such a situation with blinders on. The potential costs outweigh the possible benefits. As a businessman, Mr. Arnstein, you should understand that.”
Clip remained silent.
“So let us get to it, shall we?” Win spread his hands, then resteepled. “We know the murder victim spoke to you. Either tell us what she said, or we shake hands and part company.”
“She spoke to me first.” It was Calvin. He shifted in his seat. He avoided Clip’s eyes, but there was no need. Clip did not seem upset by the outburst. He sank farther down in his chair, a balloon continuing to deflate. “She used the name Carla,” Calvin continued.
With a small nod, Win settled back into his chair. He had done his part. The reins were back in Myron’s hands.
“What did she say?” Myron asked.
“She said she had some kind of dirt on Greg. She said she could destroy the franchise.”
“What was the dirt?”
Clip came back into the fold. “We never found out,” he chimed in. Clip hesitated a moment—to buy time or gather himself, Myron wasn’t sure which. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, Myron. I’m sorry. I was just trying to protect Greg.”
“You spoke to her too?” Myron asked.
Clip nodded. “Calvin came to me after she called. The next time she called we both spoke to her. She said she wanted money in exchange for silence.”
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand dollars. We were supposed to meet on Monday night.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” Clip said. “She was going to tell us the locale on Monday morning, but she never called.”
Probably because she was dead, Myron thought. Dead people rarely made phone calls. “And she never told you her big secret?”
Clip and Calvin looked a question at each other. Calvin nodded. Then Clip turned back to Myron. “She didn’t have to,” Clip said with resignation. “We already knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Greg gambled. He owed a lot of money to some very bad people.”
“You already knew about his gambling?”
“Yes,” Clip said.
“How?”
“Greg told me.”
“
When?”
“About a month ago,” Clip said. “He wanted help. I … I’ve always been something of a father figure to him. I care about him. I care about him very much.” He looked up at Myron, his eyes raw with pain. “I care about you too, Myron. That’s what makes this so hard.”
“Makes what so hard?”
But he shook it off. “I wanted to help him. I convinced him to start seeing somebody. A professional.”
“Did he listen?”
“Greg started with the doctor just last week. A psychiatrist who specializes in gambling addictions. We also talked about him signing an endorsement deal,” he added. “To pay off the gambling debt.”
“Did Marty Felder know about the gambling?” Myron asked.
“I can’t say for certain,” Clip said. “The doctor told me about the amazing lengths gamblers go to keep their addiction a secret. But Marty Felder handled most of Greg’s money. If he didn’t know, I’d be surprised.”
Behind Clip’s head was a poster of this year’s team. Myron looked at it a moment. The co-captains, TC and Greg, were kneeling in front. Greg smiled widely. TC sneered in typical fashion. “So even when you first hired me,” Myron said, “you suspected Greg’s disappearance had something to do with his gambling.”
“No.” Then thinking further, Clip added, “At least not in the way you think. I never thought Greg’s bookie would harm him. I figured the Forte deal bought him time.”
“Then in what way?”
“I worried about his sanity.” Clip motioned to Greg’s image on the poster behind him. “Greg is not the most balanced person to begin with, but I wondered how much the pressure from the gambling debt weighed on his already questionable sanity. He loved his image, you know, strange as that might sound. He loved being a fan favorite more than the money. But if his fans learned the truth, who knows how they’d react? So I wondered if all of this pressure was too much for him. If maybe he had snapped.”
“And now that a woman is dead,” Myron asked, “what do you think?”
Clip shook his head vehemently. “I know Greg better than anyone. When he feels trapped, he runs away. He wouldn’t kill anyone. I believe that with all my heart. He is not a violent man. Greg learned the dangers of violence a long time ago.”
No one spoke for several moments. Myron and Win both waited for Clip to elaborate. When he didn’t, Win said, “Mr. Arnstein, do you have anything else to tell us?”
“No. That’s all.”
Win rose without another word or gesture and walked out of the office. Myron sort of shrugged and started after him.
“Myron?”
He turned back to Clip. The old man was standing now. His eyes looked moist.
“Have a good game tonight,” he said softly. “It’s only a game, after all. Remember that.”
Myron nodded, discomfited yet again by Clip’s demeanor. He jogged ahead and caught up with Win.
“Do you have my ticket?” Win asked.
Myron handed it to him.
“Describe this Thumper person please.”
Myron did. When they reached the elevator, Win said, “Your Mr. Arnstein is still not telling us the truth.”
“Anything concrete or just a hunch?”
“I don’t do hunches,” Win said. “Do you believe him?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You are fond of Mr. Arnstein, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Even though he has already admitted lying to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me present you with an interesting scenario,” Win said. “Who, besides Greg, has the most to lose if his gambling addiction becomes public knowledge? Who, besides Greg, would have the greatest motive to keep Liz Gorman silent? And finally, if Greg Downing was about to become a terrible embarrassment to the franchise—to the point of devaluating if not destroying Clip Arnstein’s chances of maintaining control—who would have the best motive to make sure Greg Downing disappeared?”
Myron did not bother answering.
Chapter 25
The seat next to Thumper was open. Win took it and gave her the full-wattage smile.
“Good evening,” he said.
She smiled back. “Hello.”
“You must be Ms. Mason.”
She nodded. “And you are Windsor Horne Lockwood III. I recognize you from the picture in Forbes.”
They shook hands, their eyes meeting. Their hands released one another; their eyes didn’t. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mason.”
“Please call me Maggie.”
“Yes, fine.” Win upped the smile for a moment. A buzzer sounded on the court. The first quarter was over. He saw Myron stand up to let his teammates sit. Seeing him dressed in a uniform on an NBA court hit Win in a very weird, unpleasant way. He didn’t like to watch. He turned back toward Thumper. She looked at him expectantly.
“I understand that you are seeking employment with my firm,” Win said.
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Please do.” She motioned a welcome with her hand.
“You are currently employed by Kimmel Brothers, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“How many traders do they currently engage?” Win asked.
“Less than ten,” she said. “We’re very small.”
“I see.” Win did the steepling, feigning consideration of her words. “Do you work there on weekends?”
“Sometimes.”
“Weekend evenings?”
Her eyes narrowed just slightly, then relaxed back into place. “Sometimes,” she repeated.
“How about last Saturday night?”
“Pardon me?”
“You know Greg Downing, do you not?”
“Of course, but—”
“As you are no doubt aware,” Win continued, “he has been missing since last Saturday night. Interestingly enough, the last call Mr. Downing made from his home was to your office. Do you recall that phone call?”
“Mr. Lockwood—”
“Please. Call me Win.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do here—”
“It’s quite simple really,” Win interrupted. “Last night, you told my associate Mr. Bolitar that you had not spoken to Greg Downing in several months. Yet, as I have just told you, I have information that contradicts your statement. So there is a discrepancy here—a discrepancy that may cause some to view you, Ms. Mason, as less than honest. I cannot have that at Lock-Horne Securities. My employees must be beyond reproach. For that reason, I’d like you to explain this contradiction.”
Win took out a bag of peanuts from his coat pocket. He shelled a few in the neatest manner imaginable, swept the shells with small movements into a second bag, then placed the peanuts into his mouth one at a time.
“How do you know Mr. Downing called my office?” Thumper asked.
“Please,” Win said with a side glance. “Let us not waste time with trivialities. His call is an established fact. You know it. I know it. Let us move beyond it.”
“I didn’t work last Saturday night,” she said. “He must have been calling somebody else.”
Win frowned. “I grow weary of your tactics, Ms. Mason. As you just admitted to me, yours is a small firm. I could call your employer, if you wish. I am sure he would be glad to tell Mr. Windsor Horne Lockwood III if you were there or not.”
Thumper sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, looking out at the game. The Dragons were up 24 to 22. Her eyes followed the course of the ball down the court. “I have nothing more to say to you, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Ah. No longer interested in a job?”
“That’s right.”
“You misunderstand,” Win said. “I don’t mean just with Lock-Horne Securities. I mean with anybody, including your current employer.”
She turned to him. “What?”
“There are two options here,” Win said. “Let me spell th
em out for you clearly, so that you choose the one most suitable for you. One, you tell me why Greg Downing called you on Saturday night. You tell me why you lied to Myron about it. You tell me everything you know about his disappearance.”
“What disappearance?” she interrupted. “I thought he was injured.”
“Option two,” Win went on. “You continue to either stay silent or lie to me, in which case I will begin to circulate a rumor within our industry vis-à-vis your integrity. More specifically, I will let it be known that there are federal authorities looking into serious allegations of embezzlement.”
“But …” she started, stopped. “You can’t do that.”
“No?” He made an amused face. “I am Windsor Horne Lockwood III. My word on such matters will not be questioned. You, on the other hand, will have difficulty finding employment as a hat-check girl in a roadside Denny’s when I’m through.” He smiled and tilted the bag her way. “Peanut?”
“You’re insane.”
“And you are normal,” Win countered. He looked down at the court. “Say, that young towel boy is wiping a player’s sweat off the floor. That must be worth”—he gave a big shrug—“oh, I don’t know. Fellatio at the very least, wouldn’t you say?”
Win smiled at her sweetly.
“I’m leaving.” She started to stand.
“Would you sleep with me?” he asked.
She looked at him in horror. “What?”
“Would you sleep with me? If you’re very good, I may consider employing you at Lock-Horne.”
Her teeth were clenched. “I’m not a prostitute,” she hissed.
“No, you are not a prostitute,” Win said, loud enough so that a few heads turned. “But you are a hypocrite.”
“What are you talking about?”
Win motioned to her seat. “Please sit down.”
“I’d rather not.”
“And I’d rather not have to shout.” He motioned again. “Please.”
With wary eyes she did as he asked. “What do you want?”
“You find me attractive, do you not?”
She made a face. “I think you are the most repulsive man I have—”
“I am just speaking only about looks here,” Win said. “The physical, remember? As you told Myron just last night, having sex is merely a physical thing. Like shaking hands—though with an analogy like that I question your partners’ prowess. Now, at the risk of appearing immodest, I know that I am not physically unattractive. When you think back over the many Giants and Dragons you’ve bedded in your stellar career, surely there must be at least one that was less physically attractive than moi.”
