by Harlan Coben
“What are you talking about?”
“You heard about what happened last night. You’re trying to be—dare I say it?—nice to me.”
The fire in her eyes flamed up. “You think I give a shit about that game? That you got your butt burned at every turn?”
Myron shook his head. “Too late,” he said. “You care.”
“I do not. You sucked. Get over it.”
“Nice try.”
“What, nice try? You sucked. S-U-C-K-E-D. A pitiful display. I was embarrassed to know you. I hid my head in shame when I came in.”
He bent down and kissed her cheek.
Esperanza wiped it off with the back of her hand. “Now I got to get a cootie shot.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Really.”
“Like I care. Really.”
The phone rang. She picked it up. “MB SportsReps. Why yes, Jason, he is here. Hold on a moment.” She put a hand over the receiver. “It’s Jason Blair.”
“The vermin who said you had a nice ass?”
She nodded. “Remind him about my legs.”
“I’ll take it in my office.” A photograph on the top of a stack of papers on her desk caught his eye. “What’s this?”
“The Raven Brigade file,” she said.
He picked up a grainy photo of the group taken in 1973, the only shot of the seven of them together. He quickly found Liz Gorman. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her, but from what he saw, there was no way anyone would ever imagine that Carla and Liz Gorman were one and the same. “Mind if I keep this for a few minutes?” he asked.
“Suit yourself.”
He moved into his office and picked up the phone. “What’s up, Jason?”
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Not much. How about you?”
“Don’t play smart guy with me. You put that little lady on my contract and she fucked it all up. I got half a mind to leave MB.”
“Calm down, Jason. How did she fuck it up?”
His voice cracked with incredulity. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Here we are, hot in the middle of negotiating with the Red Sox, right?”
“Right.”
“I want to stay in Boston. We both know that. But we have to make a lot of noise like I’m leaving. That’s what you said to do. Make them think you want to switch teams. To up the money. I’m a free agent. This is what we got to do, right?”
“Right.”
“We don’t want them to know I want to be on the team again, right?”
“Right. To a degree.”
“Fuck to a degree,” he snapped. “The other day my neighbor gets a mailing from the Sox, asking him to renew his season tickets. Guess whose picture is on the brochure saying I’m gonna be back? Go ahead. Guess.”
“Would that be yours, Jason?”
“Damn straight mine! So I call up little Miss Nice Ass—”
“She’s got great legs too.”
“What?”
“Her legs. She’s not that tall, so they’re not very long. But they’re nicely toned.”
“Will you quit fucking around here, Myron? Listen to me. She tells me the Sox called up and asked if they could use my picture in the ad, even though I wasn’t signed. She tells them to go ahead! Go right fucking ahead! Now what are those Red Sox assholes supposed to think, huh? I’ll tell you what. They think I’m gonna sign with them no matter what. We lost all our leverage because of her.”
Esperanza opened the door without knocking. “This came in this morning.” She tossed a contract on Myron’s desk. It was Jason’s. Myron began to skim through it. Esperanza said, “Put the pea brain on the speakerphone.”
Myron did.
“Jason.”
“Oh Christ, Esperanza, get the fuck off the line. I’m talking to Myron here.”
She ignored him. “Even though you don’t deserve to know, I finalized your contract. You got everything you wanted and more.”
That slowed him down. “Four hundred thou more per year?”
“Six hundred thousand. Plus an extra quarter million on the signing bonus.”
“How the … what …?”
“The Sox screwed up,” she said. “Once they printed your picture in that mailer, the deal was as good as done.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Simple,” she said. “The mailer went out with your picture on it. People bought tickets based on that. Meanwhile I called the front office and said that you’d decided to sign with the Rangers down in Texas. I told them the deal was almost final.” She shifted in the chair. “Now, Jason, pretend you are the Red Sox for a moment. What are you going to do? How are you going to explain to all those ticket holders that Jason Blair, whose picture was on your latest mailer, won’t be around because the Texas Rangers outbid them?”
Silence. Then: “To hell with your ass and legs,” Jason said. “You got the most gorgeous set of brains I ever laid eyes on.”
Myron said, “Anything else, Jason?”
“Go practice, Myron. After the way you played last night, you need it. I want to talk over the details with Esperanza.”
“I’ll take it at my desk,” Esperanza said.
Myron put him back on hold. “Nice move,” he said to her.
She shrugged. “Some kid in the Sox marketing department screwed up. It happens.”
“You read it very well.”
Her tone was an exaggerated monotone. “My heaving bosom is swelling with pride.”
“Forget I said anything. Go take the call.”
“No, really, my goal in life is to be just like you.”
Myron shook his head. “You’ll never have my ass.”
“There’s that,” she agreed before leaving.
Left alone, Myron picked up the Raven Brigade photo. He located the three members still at large—Gloria Katz, Susan Milano, and the Ravens’ enigmatic leader and most famous member, Cole Whiteman. No one had drawn the press’s attention and ire more than Cole Whiteman. Myron had been in elementary school when the Ravens went into hiding, yet he still remembered the stories. For one thing, Cole could have passed for Win’s brother—blond, patrician-featured, well-to-do family. While everyone else in the picture was scraggly and long haired, Cole was freshly shaven with a conservative haircut, his one sixties concession being sideburns that went down a tad too far. Hardly your Hollywood-cast, radical leftist. But as Myron had learned from Win, looks could often be deceiving.
He put down the photograph and dialed Dimonte’s line at One Police Plaza. After Dimonte snarled a hello, Myron asked him if he had anything new.
“You think we’re partners now, Bolitar?”
“Just like Starsky and Hutch,” Myron said.
“God, I miss those two,” Dimonte said. “That hot car. Hanging out with Fuzzy Bear.”
“Huggy Bear,” Myron said.
“What?”
“His name was Huggy Bear, not Fuzzy Bear.”
“Really?”
“Time’s short, Rolly. Let me help if I can.”
“You first. What have you got?”
Another negotiation. Myron told him about Greg’s gambling. Figuring that Rolly had the phone records too, he also told him about the suspected blackmail scheme. He didn’t tell him about the videotape. It wouldn’t be fair, not until he spoke to Emily first. Dimonte asked a few questions. When he was satisfied, he said, “Okay, what do you want to know?”
“Did you find anything else at Greg’s house?”
“Nothing,” Dimonte said. “And I mean, nothing. Remember how you told me you found some feminine doodads in the bedroom? Some woman’s clothes or lotions or something?”
“Yes.”
“Well, someone got rid of them too. No sign of any female apparel.”
So, Myron thought, the lover theory rears its ugly head once again. The lover comes back to the house and cleans up the blood to protect Greg. Then she covers her own tracks too, making sure that
their relationship remains a secret. “How about witnesses?” Myron asked. “Anybody in Liz Gorman’s building see anything?”
“Nope. We canvassed the whole neighborhood. No one saw nada. Everybody was studying or something. Oh, another thing: the press picked up the murder. The story hit the morning editions.”
“You gave them her real name?”
“You crazy? Of course not. They think it’s just another breaking and entering homicide. But get this. We got an anonymous tip called in this morning. Someone suggested we check out Greg Downing’s house.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Female voice.”
“He’s being set up, Rolly.”
“No shit, Sherlock. By a chick nonetheless. And the murder didn’t exactly make a big news splash. It was stuck in the back pages like every other unspectacular homicide in this cesspool. Got a little extra juice because it was so close to a college campus.”
“Have you looked into that connection?” Myron asked.
“What connection?”
“Columbia University being so close by. Half of the sixties movements started there. They must still have some sympathizers in the ranks. Maybe someone there helped Liz Gorman.”
Dimonte gave a dramatic sigh. “Bolitar, do you think all cops are morons?”
“No.”
“You think you’re the only one who thought of that?”
“Well,” Myron said, “I have been called gifted.”
“Not in today’s sports section.”
Touché. “So what did you find out?”
“She rented the place from some whacko, fanatic, leftist, commie, pinko so-called Columbia professor named Sidney Bowman.”
“You’re so tolerant, Rolly.”
“Yeah, well, I lose touch when I keep missing those ACLU meetings. Anyway, this pinko won’t talk. He says she just rented from him and paid in cash. We all know he’s lying. The feds grilled him, but he got a team of faggot, liberal lawyers down here to spring him. Called us a bunch of Nazi pigs and stuff.”
“That’s not a compliment, Rolly. In case you don’t know.”
“Thanks for clueing me in. I got Krinsky tailing him right now, but he’s got nothing. I mean, this Bowman’s not a retard. He’s got to know we’re watching.”
“What else have you got on him?”
“Divorced. No kids. He teaches a class in existential, worthless-in-the-real-world bullshit. According to Krinsky he spends most of his time helping the homeless. That’s supposed to be his daily ritual—hanging out with hobos in parks and shelters. Like I said, a whacko.”
Win entered the office without knocking. He headed straight for the corner and opened the closet door, revealing a full-length mirror. He checked his hair. Patted it though every strand was perfect. Then he spread his legs a bit and put his arms straight down. Pretending to be gripping a golf club. Win slowly began to turn into a backswing, watching his motion in the mirror, making sure the front arm remained straight, the grip relaxed. He did this all the time, sometimes stopping in front of store windows while walking down the street. This was the golf equivalent, Myron surmised, to the weight lifters who flex whenever they happen past their reflection. It was also annoying as all hell.
“Got anything else, Rolly?”
“No. You?”
“Nothing. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Can hardly wait, Hutch,” Dimonte said. “You know something? Krinsky’s so young he doesn’t even remember the show. Sad, ain’t it?”
“Today’s youth,” Myron said. “They got no culture.”
Myron hung up. Win continued to study his shot in the mirror. “Fill me in please,” he said. Myron did. When he finished, Win said, “This Fiona, the ex-playmate. She sounds like a perfect candidate for a Windsor Horne Lockwood III interrogation.”
“Uh huh,” Myron said. “But why don’t you first tell me about the Windsor Horne Lockwood III interrogation of Thumper?”
Win frowned at the mirror, adjusted his grip. “She is rather close mouthed,” he said. “So I took a distinctive tack.”
“What tack is that?”
Win told him about their conversation. Myron just shook his head. “So you followed her?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And there is not much to report. She went to TC’s house after the game. She slept over. No calls of any consequence were made from his residence. Either she was not rattled by our conversation, or she doesn’t know anything.”
“Or,” Myron added, “she knew she was being followed.”
Win frowned again. He either didn’t like Myron’s suggestion or he’d spotted a problem with his swing. Probably the latter. He turned away from the mirror and glanced at Myron’s desk. “Is that the Raven Brigade?”
“Yes. One of them looks like you.” Myron pointed to Cole Whiteman.
Win studied it for a moment. “While the man is indeed handsome, he lacks both my sense of style and my striking, debonair good looks.”
“Not to mention your humility.”
Win put out his hand. “Then you understand.”
Myron looked at the picture again. He thought again about what Dimonte said about Professor Sidney Bowman’s daily routine. Then it came to him all at once. Ice flooded his veins in a gush. In his mind he changed around Cole’s features a bit, imagined distortions from plastic surgery and twenty years of aging. It didn’t fit exactly, but it was close enough.
Liz Gorman had disguised herself by perverting her most distinguishing characteristic. Wouldn’t it make sense to assume that Cole Whiteman had done the same?
“Myron?”
He looked up. “I think I know where to find Cole Whiteman.”
Chapter 30
Hector was not thrilled to see Myron back at the Parkview Diner.
“We think we found Sally’s accomplice,” Myron said.
Hector cleaned the counter with a rag.
“His name is Norman Lowenstein. Do you know him?”
Hector shook his head.
“He’s a homeless man. He hangs out in the back and uses your pay phone.”
Hector stopped cleaning. “You think I’d let a homeless man in my kitchen?” he said. “And we don’t even have a back. Take a look.”
The answer did not surprise Myron. “He was sitting at the counter when I was here the other day,” he tried. “Unshaven. Long black hair. Tattered beige overcoat.”
Still working the rag over the Formica, Hector nodded. “I think I know who you mean. Black sneakers?”
“Right.”
“He comes in a lot. But I don’t know his name.”
“Did you ever see him talk to Sally?”
Hector shrugged. “Maybe. When she was his waitress. I really don’t know.”
“When was he here last?”
“I haven’t seen him since the day you came in,” Hector said.
“And you never met him?”
“No.”
“Or know anything about him?”
“No.”
Myron wrote down his phone number on a scrap of paper. “If you see him, please call. There’s a thousand-dollar reward.”
Hector studied the phone number. “This your work number? At AT&T?”
“No. It’s my personal phone.”
“Uh huh,” Hector said. “I called AT&T after you left last time. There’s no such thing as Y511 and there’s no employee named Bernie Worley.” He did not look particularly upset, but he wasn’t dancing the hula either. He just waited, watching Myron with steady eyes.
“I lied to you,” Myron said. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s your real name?” he asked.
“Myron Bolitar.” He gave the man one of his cards. Hector studied it for a moment.
“You’re a sports agent?”
“Yes.”
“What does a sports agent have to do with Sally?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You shouldn’
t have lied like that. It wasn’t right.”
“I know,” Myron said. “I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t important.”
Hector put the card in his shirt pocket. “I have customers.” He turned away. Myron debated explaining further, but there was no point.
Win was waiting for him on the sidewalk. “Well?”
“Cole Whiteman is a homeless man who calls himself Norman Lowenstein.”
Win waved down a taxi. A driver in a turban slowed down. They got in. Myron told him where to go. The driver nodded; as he did, his turban buffed the taxi’s ceiling. Sitar music blew forth from the front speakers, plucking at the air with razor-sharp nails. Awful. It made Benny and His Magical Sitar sound like Itzhak Perlman. Still it was preferable to Yanni.
“He looks nothing like that old picture,” Myron said. “He’s had plastic surgery. He grew his hair and dyed it jet black.”
They waited at a traffic light. A blue TransAm pulled up next to them, one of those souped-up models that hip-hopped up and down while playing music loud enough to crack the earth’s core. The taxi actually started shaking from the decibel level. The light turned green. The TransAm sped ahead.
“I started thinking about how Liz Gorman had disguised herself,” Myron continued. “She’d taken her defining attribute and stood it on its head. Cole was the well-bred, clean-cut rich boy. What better way to stand that on its head than to become an unkempt vagrant?”
“A Jewish unkempt vagrant,” Win corrected.
“Right. So when Dimonte told me that Professor Bowman liked to hang out with the homeless, something clicked.”
The turban barked, “Route.”
“What?”
“Route. Henry Hudson or Broadway.”
“Henry Hudson,” Win replied. He glanced over at Myron. “Continue.”
“This is what I think happened,” Myron said. “Cole Whiteman suspected Liz Gorman was in some kind of trouble. Maybe she hadn’t called him or met up with him. Something. The problem was, he couldn’t check it out himself. Whiteman hasn’t survived underground all these years by being stupid. He knew that if the police found her, they’d set a trap for him—the way they’re doing right now.”
“So,” Win said, “he gets you to go in for him.”
Myron nodded. “He hangs around the diner, hoping to hear something about ‘Sally.’ When he overhears me talking to Hector, he figures I’m his best bet. He gives me this weird story about how he knows her from using the phone at the diner. Claimed they were lovers. The story didn’t really mesh, but I didn’t bother questioning it. Anyway, he takes me to her place. Once I’m inside, he hides and waits to see what happens. He sees the cops come. He probably even sees the body being taken out—all from a safe distance. It confirms what he probably suspected all along. Liz Gorman is dead.”
