The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  “Do you know what she had on Greg?” he asked.

  Emily shook her head. “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “But you were prepared to pay her a hundred grand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you didn’t know what it was for?”

  “Yes.”

  Myron gestured with both hands. “How did you know she wasn’t just a crackpot?”

  “The truth? I didn’t know. But I was going to lose my kids, for chrissake. I was desperate.”

  And, Myron thought, Emily had shown that desperation to Liz Gorman who, in turn, took full advantage of it. “So you still have no idea what she had on him?”

  Emily shook her head. “None.”

  “Could it have been Greg’s gambling?”

  Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “What about it?”

  “Did you know Greg gambled?”

  “Sure. But so what?”

  “Do you know how much he gambled?” Myron asked.

  “Just a little,” she said. “A trip to Atlantic City once in a while. Maybe fifty dollars on a football game.”

  “Is that what you thought?”

  Her eyes moved over his face, trying to read it. “What are you saying?”

  Myron looked out the back window. The pool was still covered, but some of the robins had returned from the yearly aliya to the south. A dozen or so crowded a bird feeder, heads down, wings flapping happily like dog tails. “Greg is a compulsive gambler,” Myron said. “He’s lost away millions over the years. Felder didn’t embezzle money—Greg lost it gambling.”

  Emily gave him a little head shake. “That can’t be,” she said. “I lived with him for almost ten years. I would have seen something.”

  “Gamblers learn how to hide it,” Myron said. “They lie and cheat and steal—anything to keep on betting. It’s an addiction.”

  Something in her eyes seemed to spark up. “And that’s what this woman had on Greg? The fact that he gambled?”

  “I think so,” Myron said. “But I can’t say for sure.”

  “But Greg definitely gambled, right? To the point where he lost all his money?”

  “Yes.”

  The answer kindled Emily’s face with hope. “Then no judge in the world would award him custody,” she said. “I’ll win.”

  “A judge is more likely to give the kids to a gambler than a murderer,” Myron said. “Or someone who plants false evidence.”

  “I told you already. It’s not false.”

  “So you say,” Myron said. “But let’s get back to what happened with the blackmailer. You were saying she wanted a hundred grand.”

  Emily moved back to her coffee press. “That’s right.”

  “How were you to pay her?”

  “She told me to wait by a pay phone outside a Grand Union supermarket on Saturday night. I was supposed to get there at midnight and have the money ready. She called at midnight on the dot and gave me an address on One Hundred Eleventh Street. I was supposed to get there at two in the morning.”

  “So you drove to One Hundred Eleventh Street at two in the morning with one hundred thousand dollars?” He tried not to sound too incredulous.

  “I could only raise sixty thousand,” she corrected.

  “Did she know that?”

  “No. Look, I know this all sounds crazy, but you don’t understand how desperate I was. I would have done anything at this point.”

  Myron understood. He had seen up-close how far mothers would go. Love twists; maternal love twists absolutely. “Go on,” he said.

  “When I turned the corner, I saw Greg come out of the building,” Emily said. “I was stunned. He had his collar up, but I could still see his face.” She looked up at Myron. “I was married to him a long time, but I’ve never seen his face like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “So filled with terror,” she replied. “He practically sprinted toward Amsterdam Avenue. I waited until he turned the corner. Then I approached the door and pressed her apartment button. Nobody answered. I started pressing other buttons. Somebody finally buzzed me in. I went upstairs and knocked on her door for a while. Then I tried the knob. It was unlocked. So I opened the door.”

  Emily stopped. A trembling hand brought the cup up to her lips. She took a sip.

  “This is going to sound awful,” she went on, “but I didn’t see a dead human being lying there. I only saw my last hope of keeping my kids.”

  “So you decided to plant evidence.”

  Emily put down the cup and looked at him. Her eyes were clear. “Yes. And you were right about everything else too. I chose the playroom because I knew he’d never go down there. I figured that when Greg got back home—I didn’t know he’d run—the blood would be safe. Look, I know I went too far, but it’s not like I was lying. He killed her.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “What?”

  “He might have stumbled across the body the same way you did.”

  “Are you serious?” Her tone was sharp now. “Of course Greg killed her. The blood on the floor was still fresh. He was the one who had everything to lose. He had motive, opportunity.”

  “Just as you do,” Myron said.

  “What motive?”

  “You wanted to set him up for murder. You wanted to keep your children.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Do you have any proof your story is true?” Myron asked.

  “Do I have what?”

  “Proof. I don’t think the police are going to buy it.”

  “Do you buy it?” she asked him.

  “I’d like to see proof.”

  “What do you mean, proof?” she snapped. “Like what? It’s not like I took pictures.”

  “Any facts that back up your story?”

  “Why would I kill her, Myron? What possible motive could I have? I needed her alive. She was my best chance of keeping my kids.”

  “But let’s assume for a moment that this woman did indeed have something on Greg,” Myron said. “Something concrete. Like a letter he wrote or a videotape”—he watched for a reaction—“or something like that.”

  “All right,” she said with a nod. “Go ahead.”

  “And suppose she double-crossed you. Suppose she sold the incriminating evidence to Greg. You admit Greg was there before you. Maybe he paid her enough so that she’d back out of your agreement. Then you go into her apartment. You find out what she’s done. You realize your one chance at keeping your kids is gone. So you kill her and pin it on the man who had seemed to have the most to gain from her death: Greg.”

  Emily shook her head. “That’s nuts.”

  “You hated Greg enough,” Myron continued. “He played dirty with you; you’d play dirty back.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  Myron took another look at the robins, but they were gone. The yard looked barren now, stripped of any life. He waited a few seconds before he turned back toward her. “I know about the videotape of you and Thumper.”

  A quick bolt of anger hit Emily’s eyes. Her fingers clutched the coffee mug. Myron half-expected her to throw it at him. “How the hell …?” Then her grip suddenly slackened. She backed away. She sort of shrugged into a slouch. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It must have made you furious,” he said.

  She shook her head. A small sound like a chuckle escaped from her lips. “You just don’t get it, do you, Myron?”

  “Don’t get what?”

  “I wasn’t looking for revenge. The only thing that mattered was that the tape could take away my kids.”

  “No, I do get it,” Myron countered. “You’d do anything to keep your kids.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  Myron shifted gears. “Tell me about you and Thumper,” he said.

  Emily snorted a derisive laugh. “I didn’t think you were that type, Myron.”

  “I’m not.”

  She picked up her coffee mug and took a deep s
ip. “Did you watch the whole tape from beginning to end?” she asked in a tone somewhere between flirtatious and furious. “Did you hit the slow motion button a few times, Myron? Rewind and replay certain parts over and over? Drop your pants to your knees?”

  “No to all of the above.”

  “How much did you see?”

  “Just enough to know what was going on.”

  “Then you stopped?”

  “Then I stopped.”

  She regarded him from behind the mug. “You know something? I actually believe you. You’re that kind of Goody Two-shoes.”

  “Emily, I’m trying to help.”

  “Help me or Greg?”

  “Help get to the truth. I assume you want that too.”

  She shrugged noncommittally.

  “So when did you and Thumper …?” He made vague coming-together motions with his hand.

  She laughed at his discomfort. “It was the first time,” she replied. “In all respects.”

  “I’m not judging—”

  “I don’t care if you are or not. You want to know what happened, right? It was my first time. That little whore set me up.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean, how?” she countered. “You want me to go into details—how many drinks I had, how I was feeling lonely, how her hand started up my leg?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Then let me give you the quick capsule: she seduced me. We’d flirted innocently a few times in the past. She invited me to the Glenpointe for drinks. It was like a dare on myself—I was drawn and repelled, but I knew I wouldn’t go through with it. One thing led to another. We went upstairs. End of capsule.”

  “So you’re saying Thumper knew you were being filmed?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know? Did she say anything?”

  “She didn’t say anything. But I know.”

  “How?”

  “Myron, please stop asking so many goddamn questions. I just know, okay? How else would anyone know to set up a camera in that room? She set me up.”

  That made sense, Myron thought. “But why would she do it?”

  Her face registered her exasperation. “Christ, Myron, she’s the team whore. Didn’t she fuck you yet? Or no, let me guess. You refused, right?”

  Emily stormed away into the living room and collapsed on a couch. “Get me the aspirin,” she said. “They’re in the bathroom. In the medicine chest.”

  Myron shook out two tablets and filled a cup with water. When he came back, he said, “I have to ask you about one more thing.”

  She sighed. “What?”

  “I understand you made allegations against Greg,” he said.

  “My attorney made allegations.”

  “Were they true?”

  She put the pills on her tongue, took some water, swallowed. “Some of them.”

  “How about the ones about him abusing the children?”

  “I’m tired, Myron. Can we talk more later?”

  “Were they true?”

  Emily looked into Myron’s eyes, and a cold gust of air blew across his heart. “Greg wanted to take my kids away from me,” she said slowly. “He had money, power, prestige on his side. We needed something.”

  Myron broke the eye contact. He walked toward the door. “Don’t destroy that coat.”

  “You have no right to judge me.”

  “Right now,” he said, “I don’t want to be near you.”

  Chapter 33

  Audrey was leaning against his car. “Esperanza told me you’d be here.”

  Myron nodded.

  “Jesus, you look like hell,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Long story.”

  “And one that you will soon tell me in riveting detail,” Audrey added. “But I’ll go first. Fiona White was indeed a Miss September in 1992—or as that particular rag calls it, the September Babe-A-Rama.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Fiona’s turn-ons include moonlit walks on the beach and cozy nights by a fireplace.”

  He smiled in spite of himself. “My, what originality.”

  “Her turn-offs include shallow men who only care about looks. And men with back hair.”

  “Did they list her favorite movies?”

  “Schindler’s List,” Audrey said. “And Cannonball Run II.”

  He laughed. “You’re making this up.”

  “All except the part about being the September Babe-A-Rama in 1992.”

  Myron shook his head. “Greg Downing and his best friend’s wife,” he sighed. In a way, the news sort of buoyed him. Myron’s ten-year-old indiscretion with Emily no longer seemed quite so bad. He knew that he shouldn’t find comfort in such logic, but man takes solace where he can find it.

  Audrey motioned toward the house. “So what’s up with the ex?”

  “Long story.”

  “You said that already. I got time.”

  “I don’t.”

  She held up her palm like a cop directing traffic. “Not fair, Myron. I’ve been a good girl. I’ve been running your errands and keeping my big mouth shut. Not to mention the fact that I got zippo from you for my birthday. Please don’t make me start with the exposure threats again.”

  She was right. Myron gave her an abbreviated update, leaving out two parts: the Thumper videotape (no reason anyone had to know about that) and the fact that Carla was the infamous Liz Gorman (it was simply too big a story; no reporter could be trusted to keep it off the record).

  Audrey listened intently. Her page-boy cut had grown a little too long in the front. Hairs dangled close to her eyes. She kept sticking out her lower lip and blowing strands off her forehead. Myron had never before seen this particular gesture done by anybody over the age of eleven. It was kind of sweet.

  “Do you believe her?” Audrey asked, motioning again to Emily’s house.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied. “Her story sort of makes sense. She had no motive to kill the woman, except to frame Greg and that’s reaching.”

  Audrey tilted her head as if to say, maybe yes—maybe no.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Well,” she began, “isn’t there’s a chance that we’re looking at this from the wrong perspective?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We assume that this blackmailer had dirt on Downing,” Audrey said. “But maybe she had dirt on Emily.”

  Myron stopped, looked back at the house as though it held some answers, looked back at Audrey.

  “According to Emily,” Audrey went on, “the blackmailer approached her. But why? She and Greg aren’t together anymore.”

  “Carla didn’t know that,” Myron replied. “She figured Emily was his wife and would want to protect him.”

  “That’s one possibility,” Audrey agreed. “But I’m not sure it’s the best one.”

  “Are you saying that they were blackmailing her, not Greg?”

  Audrey turned her palms skyward. “All I’m saying is that it could work the other way too. The blackmailer might have had something on Emily—something Greg would want to use against her in the child custody case.”

  Myron folded his arms and leaned against the car. “But what about Clip?” he asked. “If they had something on Emily, why would he be interested?”

  “I don’t know.” Audrey shrugged. “Maybe she had dirt on both of them.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Sure. Something that could destroy them both. Or maybe Clip thought whatever it was—even if it was about Emily—would distract Greg.”

  “Any guesses?”

  “Not a one,” Audrey said.

  Myron mulled it over for a few seconds, but nothing came to him. “There’s a chance,” he said, “we’ll find out tonight.”

  “How?”

  “The blackmailer called. He wants to sell me the information.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t
know yet. He’s going to call. I got my home line forwarded to the cellular.”

  As if on cue, the cellular rang. Myron took it out of his pocket.

  It was Win. “The dear professor’s schedule was posted on his office door,” he said. “He is in class for another hour. After that, he has open office hours so the kiddies can whine about grades.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On Columbia’s campus,” Win replied. “By the way, Columbia women are fairly attractive. I mean, for the Ivy Leagues and all.”

  “Glad you haven’t lost your powers of observation.”

  “Indeed,” Win said. “Have you finished speaking to our girl?”

  Our girl was Emily. Win did not trust cellular phones with names. “Yes,” he said.

  “Goodie. What time should I expect you then?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 34

  Win was sitting on a bench near the Columbia gate on 116th Street. He was wearing Eddie Bauer khakis, Top-Siders without socks, a blue button-down Oxford, and a power tie.

  “I’m blending in,” Win explained.

  “Like a Hasid at Christmas mass,” Myron agreed. “Is Bowman still in class?”

  Win nodded. “He should be exiting that door in ten minutes.”

  “Do you know what he looks like?”

  Win handed him a faculty handbook. “Page two ten,” he said. “So tell me about Emily.”

  Myron did. A tall brunette dressed in a black, skintight cat suit strolled by with her books pressed up against her chest. Julie Newmar on Batman. Win and Myron watched her closely. Meow.

  When Myron finished, Win didn’t bother with any questions. “I have a meeting at the office,” he said as he stood. “Do you mind?”

  Myron shook his head and sat down. Win left. Myron kept his eye on the door. Ten minutes later students began to file out the door. Two minutes after that, Professor Sidney Bowman followed suit. He had the same unkempt, academic beard as in the photo. He was bald but kept his fringe hair ridiculously long. He wore jeans, Timberland boots, and a red flannel shirt. He was either trying to look like a working stiff or Jerry Brown on the campaign trail.