by Harlan Coben
3
They got a quick break.
Myron was still sitting in the Coldrens’ den with Linda when Esperanza called back. Bucky had gone back to Merion to get Jack.
“The kid’s ATM card was accessed yesterday at 6:18 P.M.,” Esperanza said. “He took out $180. A First Philadelphia branch on Porter Street in South Philly.”
“Thanks.”
Information like that was not difficult to obtain. Anybody with an account number could pretty much do it with a phone by pretending they were the account holder. Even without one, any semi-human who had ever worked in law enforcement had the contacts or the access numbers or at least the wherewithal to pay off the right person. It didn’t take much anymore, not with today’s overabundance of user-friendly technology. Technology did more than depersonalize; it ripped your life wide open, gutted you, stripped away any pretense of privacy.
A few keystrokes revealed all.
“What is it?” Linda Coldren asked.
He told her.
“It doesn’t necessarily mean what you think,” she said. “The kidnapper could have gotten the PIN number from Chad.”
“Could have,” Myron said.
“But you don’t believe it, do you?”
He shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m more than a little skeptical.”
“Why?”
“The amount, for one thing. What was Chad’s max?”
“Five hundred dollars a day.”
“So why would a kidnapper only take $180?”
Linda Coldren thought a moment. “If he took too much, someone might get suspicious.”
Myron sort of frowned. “But if the kidnapper was that careful,” he began, “why risk so much for $180? Everyone knows that ATMs are equipped with security cameras. Everyone also knows that even the simplest computer check can yield a location.”
She looked at him evenly. “You don’t think my son is in danger.”
“I didn’t say that. This whole thing may look like one thing and be another. You were right before. It’s safest to assume that the kidnapping is real.”
“So what’s your next step?”
“I’m not sure. The ATM machine was on Porter Street in South Philadelphia. Is that someplace Chad likes to hang out?”
“No,” Linda Coldren said slowly. “In fact, it’s a place I would never imagine him going.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s a dive. One of the sleaziest parts of the city.”
Myron stood. “You got a street map?”
“In my glove compartment.”
“Good. I’ll need to borrow your car for a little while.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to drive around this ATM.”
She frowned. “What for?”
“I don’t know,” Myron admitted. “Like I said before, investigating is not very scientific. You do some legwork and you push some buttons and you hope something happens.”
Linda Coldren reached into a pocket for her keys. “Maybe the kidnappers grabbed him there,” she said. “Maybe you’ll see his car or something.”
Myron almost slapped himself in the head. A car. He had forgotten something so basic. In his mind, a kid disappearing on his way to or from school conjured up images of yellow buses or strolling sprightly with a book bag. How could he have missed something as obvious as a car trace?
He asked her the make and model. Gray Honda Accord. Hardly a car that stands out in a crowd. Pennsylvania license plate 567 AHJ. He called it in to Esperanza. Then he gave Linda Coldren his cellular phone number.
“Call me if anything happens.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be back soon,” he said.
The ride wasn’t far. He traveled, it seemed, from green splendor to concrete crap instantaneously—like on Star Trek where they step through one of those time portals.
The ATM was a drive-through located in what would generously be labeled a business district. Tons of cameras. No human tellers. Would a kidnapper really risk this? Very doubtful. Myron wondered where he could get a copy of the bank’s videotape without alerting the police. Win might know somebody. Financial institutions were usually anxious to cooperate with the Lockwood family. The question was, would Win be willing to cooperate?
Abandoned warehouses—or at least, they looked abandoned—lined the road. Eighteen-wheelers hurried by like something out of an old convoy movie. They reminded Myron of the CB craze from his childhood. Like everyone else, his dad had bought one—a man born in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn who grew up to own an undergarment factory in Newark, barking “breaker one nine” with an accent he had picked up watching the movie Deliverance. Dad would be driving on Hobart Gap Road between their house and the Livingston Mall—maybe a one-mile drive—asking his “good buddies” if there was any sign of “smokeys.” Myron smiled at the memory. Ah, CBs. He was sure that his father still had his someplace. Probably next to the eight-track player.
On one side of the ATM was a gas station so generic that it didn’t even bother having a name. Rusted cars stood upon crumbling cinder blocks. On the other side, a dirt-bag, no-tell motel called the Court Manor Inn greeted customers with green lettering that read: $19.99 PER HOUR.
Myron Bolitar Traveling Tip #83: You may not be dealing with a five-star deluxe property when they prominently advertise hourly rates.
Under the price, in smaller black print, the sign read, MIRRORED CEILINGS AND THEME ROOMS SLIGHTLY EXTRA. Theme rooms. Myron didn’t even want to know. The last line, back in the green big print: ASK ABOUT OUR FREQUENT VISITORS CLUB. Jesus.
Myron wondered if it was worth a shot and decided, why not? It probably wouldn’t lead to anything, but if Chad was hiding out—or even if he’d been kidnapped—a no-tell was as good a place as any to disappear.
He parked in the lot. The Court Manor was a textbook two-level dump. The outer stairs and walkway terraces were made of rotting wood. The cement walls had that unfinished, swirling look that could cut your hand if you leaned against it wrong. Small chunks of concrete lay on the ground. An unplugged Pepsi machine guarded the door like one of the Queen’s guards. Myron passed it and entered.
He’d expected to find the standard no-tell lobby interior—that is, an unshaven Neanderthal in a sleeveless, too-short undershirt chewing on a toothpick while sitting behind bullet-proof glass burping up a beer. Or something like that. But that was not the case. The Court Manor Inn had a high wooden desk with a bronze sign reading CONCIERGE on top of it. Myron tried not to snicker. Behind the desk, a well-groomed, baby-faced man in his late twenties stood at attention. He wore a pressed shirt, starched collar, dark tie tied in a perfect Windsor knot. He smiled at Myron.
“Good afternoon, sir!” he exclaimed. He looked and sounded like a John Tesh substitute on Entertainment Weekly. “Welcome to the Court Manor Inn!”
“Yeah,” Myron said. “Hi.”
“May I be of some service to you today, sir?”
“I hope so.”
“Great! My name is Stuart Lipwitz. I’m the new manager of the Court Manor Inn.” He looked at Myron expectantly.
Myron said, “Congrats.”
“Well, thank you, sir, that’s very kind. If there are any problems—if anything at the Court Manor does not meet your expectations—please let me know immediately. I will handle it personally.” Big smile, puffed-out chest. “At the Court Manor, we guarantee your satisfaction.”
Myron just looked at him for a minute, waiting for the full-wattage smile to dim a bit. It didn’t. Myron took out the photograph of Chad Coldren.
“Have you seen this young man?”
Stuart Lipwitz did not even look down. Still smiling, he said, “I’m sorry, sir. But are you with the police?”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m very sorry.”
“Pardon me?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but here at the Court Manor Inn we pride ourselves on our d
iscretion.”
“He’s not in any trouble,” Myron said. “I’m not a private eye trying to catch a cheating husband or anything like that.”
The smile did not falter or sway. “I’m sorry, sir, but this is the Court Manor Inn. Our clientele use our services for a variety of activities and often crave anonymity. We at the Court Manor Inn must respect that.”
Myron studied the man’s face, searching for some signal that this was a put-on. Nothing. His whole persona glowed like a performer in an Up with People halftime show. Myron leaned over the desk and checked out the shoes. Polished like twin mirrors. The hair was slicked back. The sparkle in the eye looked real.
It took Myron some time, but he finally saw where this was leading. He took out his wallet and plucked a twenty from the billfold. He slid it across the counter. Stuart Lipwitz looked at it but made no move.
“What’s this for, sir?”
“It’s a present,” Myron said.
Stuart Lipwitz did not touch it.
“It’s for one piece of information,” Myron continued. He plucked out another and held it in the air. “I have another, if you’d like.”
“Sir, we have a credo here at the Court Manor Inn: The guest must come first.”
“Isn’t that a prostitute’s credo?”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Never mind,” Myron said.
“I am the new manager of the Court Manor Inn, sir.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I also own ten percent.”
“Your mom must be the envy of her mah-jongg group.”
Still the smile. “In other words, sir, I am in it for the long term. That’s how I look at this business. Long term. Not just today. Not just tomorrow. But into the future. For the long term. You see?”
“Oh,” Myron said flatly. “You mean long term?”
Stuart Lipwitz snapped his fingers. “Precisely. And our motto is this: There are many places you can spend your adultery dollar. We want it to be here.”
Myron waited a moment. Then he said, “Noble.”
“We at the Court Manor Inn are working hard to earn your trust, and trust has no price. When I wake up in the morning, I have to look at myself in the mirror.”
“Would that mirror be on the ceiling?”
Still smiling. “Let me explain it another way,” he said. “If the client knows that the Court Manor Inn is a place he can feel safe to commit an indiscretion, he or she will be more likely to return.” He leaned forward, his eyes wet with excitement. “Do you see?”
Myron nodded. “Repeat business.”
“Precisely.”
“Referrals too,” Myron added. “Like, ‘Hey Bob, I know a great place to get some ass on the side.’ ”
A nod added to the smile. “So you understand.”
“That’s all very nice, Stuart, but this kid is fifteen years old. Fifteen.” Actually, Chad was sixteen, but what the hey. “That’s against the law.”
The smile stayed, but now it signaled disappointment in the favorite pupil. “I hate to disagree with you, sir, but the statutory rape law in this state is fourteen. And secondly, there is no law against a fifteen-year-old renting a motel room.”
The guy was dancing too much, Myron thought. No reason to go through this rigmarole if the kid had never been here. Then again, let’s face facts. Stuart Lipwitz was probably enjoying this. The guy was several french fries short of a Happy Meal. Either way, Myron thought, it was time to shake the tree a bit.
“It is when he is assaulted in your motel,” Myron said. “It is when he claims that someone got an extra key from the front desk and used it to break into the room.” Mr. Bluff Goes to Philadelphia.
“We don’t have extra keys,” Lipwitz said.
“Well, he got in somehow.”
Still the smile. Still the polite tone. “If that were the case, sir, the police would be here.”
“That’s my next stop,” Myron said, “if you don’t cooperate.”
“And you want to know if this young man”—Lipwitz gestured to the photograph of Chad—“stayed here?”
“Yes.”
The smile actually brightened a bit. Myron almost shaded his eyes. “But, sir, if you are telling the truth, then this young man would be able to tell if he was here. You wouldn’t need me for that, correct?”
Myron’s face remained neutral. Mr. Bluff had just been outsmarted by the new manager of the Court Manor Inn. “That’s right,” he said, changing tactics on the fly. “I already know he was here. It was just an opening question. Like when the police ask you to state your name even though they already know it. Just to get the ball rolling.” Mr. Improvision Takes Over for Mr. Bluff.
Stuart Lipwitz took out a piece of paper and began to scribble. “This is the name and telephone number of the Court Manor Inn’s attorney. He will be able to help you with any problems you may have.”
“But what about that handling it personally stuff? What about the satisfaction guarantee?”
“Sir.” He leaned forward, maintaining eye contact. Not a hint of impatience had crept into his voice or face. “May I be bold?”
“Go for it.”
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
“Thanks for the boldness,” Myron said.
“No, thank you, sir. And do come again.”
“Another prostitution credo.”
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing,” Myron said. “May I too be bold?”
“Yes.”
“I may punch you in the face very hard if you don’t tell me if you’ve seen this kid.” Mr. Improvisation Loses His Cool.
The door swung open hard. A couple entwined about one another stumbled in. The woman was openly rubbing the man’s crotch. “We need a room pronto,” the man said.
Myron turned to them and said, “Do you have your frequent visitor card?”
“What?”
Still the smile from Stuart Lipwitz. “Good-bye, sir. And have a nice day.” Then he rejuvenated the smile and moved toward the writhing mound. “Welcome to the Court Manor Inn. My name is Stuart Lipwitz. I’m the new manager.”
Myron headed out to his car. He took a deep breath in the parking lot and looked back behind him. The whole visit already had an unreal feeling, like one of those descriptions of alien abductions sans the anal probe. He got in the car and dialed Win’s cellular. He just wanted to leave him a message on the machine. But to Myron’s surprise, Win answered.
“Articulate,” he drolled.
Myron was momentarily taken aback. “It’s me,” he said.
Silence. Win hated the obvious. “It’s me,” was both questionable grammar (at best) and a complete waste. Win would know who it was by the voice. If he didn’t, hearing “It’s me” would undeniably not help.
“I thought you didn’t answer the phone on the course,” Myron said.
“I’m driving home to change,” Win said. “Then I’m dining at Merion.” Mainliners never ate; they dined. “Care to join me?”
“Sounds good,” Myron said.
“Wait a second.”
“What?”
“Are you properly attired?”
“I don’t clash,” Myron said. “Will they still let me in?”
“My, my, that was very funny, Myron. I must write that one down. As soon as I stop laughing, I plan on locating a pen. However, I am so filled with mirth that I may wrap my precious Jag around an upcoming telephone pole. Alas, at least I will die with jocularity in my heart.”
Win.
“We have a case,” Myron said.
Silence. Win made this so easy.
“I’ll tell you about it at dinner.”
“Until then,” Win said, “it’ll be all I can do to douse my mounting excitement and anticipation with a snifter of cognac.”
Click. Gotta love that Win.
Myron hadn’t driven a mile when the cellular phone rang. Myron switched it on.
It was Bucky. “The kidn
apper called again.”
4
“What did he say?” Myron asked.
“They want money,” Bucky said.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
Myron was confused. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Didn’t they say?”
“I don’t think so,” the old man said.
There was noise in the background. “Where are you?” Myron asked.
“I’m at Merion. Look, Jack answered the phone. He’s still in shock.”
“Jack answered?”
“Yes.”
Doubly confused. “The kidnapper called Jack at Merion?”
“Yes. Please, Myron, can you get back over here? It’ll be easier to explain.”
“On my way.”
He drove from the seedy motel to a highway and then into green. Lots of green. The Philadelphia suburbs were lush lawns and high bushes and shady trees. Amazing how close it was—at least in a geographic sense—to the meaner streets of Philly. Like most cities, there was tremendous segregation in Philadelphia. Myron remembered driving with Win to Veterans Stadium for an Eagles game a couple of years back. They’d gone through an Italian block, a Polish block, an African American block; it was as if some powerful, invisible force field—again, like on Star Trek—isolated each ethnicity. The City of Brotherly Love could almost be called Little Yugoslavia.
Myron turned down Ardmore Avenue. Merion was about a mile away. His thoughts turned to Win. How, he wondered, would his old friend react to the maternal connection in this case?
Probably not well.
In all the years they had been friends, Myron had heard Win mention his mother on only one occasion.
It had been during their junior year at Duke. They were college roommates, just back from a wild frat party. The beer had flowed. Myron was not what you’d call a good drinker. Two drinks and he’d usually end up trying to French-kiss a toaster. He blamed this on his ancestry—his people had never handled spirits well.
Win, on the other hand, seemed to have been weaned on schnapps. Liquor never really affected him much. But at this particular party, the grain alcohol–laced punch made even his steps wobble a bit. It took Win three tries to unlock their dorm room door.
