The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  “What the hell is the big deal?” Esperanza snapped. “I wanted to get out of the city for the weekend. I thought seeing the Open would be fun. You mind?”

  “I was just asking.”

  “You’re so nosy sometimes.”

  “Okay, okay.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Forget I asked.”

  “Forgotten,” she said. “You want to fill me in on what’s going on?”

  He told her about the Crusty Nazi at the mall and about losing the black-clad perpetrator.

  When he finished, Esperanza shook her head. “Jesus,” she said. “Without Win, you’re hopeless.”

  Ms. Morale Booster.

  “Speaking of Win,” Myron said, “don’t talk to him about the case.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s reacting badly.”

  She watched him closely. “How badly?”

  “He went night visiting.”

  Silence.

  “I thought he stopped doing that,” she said.

  “I thought so too.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There was a Chevy parked in the driveway,” Myron said. “He took it out of here last night and didn’t get back till three-thirty.”

  Silence. Win stored a bunch of old, unregistered Chevys. Disposable cars, he called them. Completely untraceable.

  Esperanza’s voice was soft. “You can’t have it both ways, Myron.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You can’t ask Win to do it when it suits you, then get pissed off when he does it on his own.”

  “I never ask him to play vigilante.”

  “Yeah, you do. You involve him in violence. When it suits your needs, you unleash him. Like he’s a weapon of some kind.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “It is like that,” she said. “It is exactly like that. When Win goes out on these night errands, he doesn’t hurt the innocent, does he?”

  Myron considered the question. “No,” he said.

  “So what’s the problem? He is just attacking a different type of guilty. He picks out the guilty instead of you.”

  Myron shook his head. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Because you judge?”

  “I don’t send him out to hurt people. I send him out to watch people or to back me up.”

  “I’m not sure I see the difference.”

  “Do you know what he does when he night visits, Esperanza? He walks through the worst neighborhoods he can find in the middle of the night. Old FBI buddies tell him where drug dealers or child pornographers or street gangs hang out—alleyways, abandoned buildings, whatever—and he goes strolling through those hellholes no cop would dare tread.”

  “Sounds like Batman,” Esperanza countered.

  “You don’t think it’s wrong?”

  “Oh, I think it’s wrong,” she replied steadily. “But I’m not sure you do.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Think about it,” she said. “About why you’re really upset.”

  Footsteps approached. Win stuck his head in the doorway. He was smiling like a guest star on the opening credits of the Love Boat. “Good morning, all,” he said with far too much cheer. He bussed Esperanza’s cheek. He was decked out in classic, though fairly understated, golf clothes. Ashworth shirt. Plain golf cap. Sky-blue pants with pleats.

  “Will you be staying with us, Esperanza?” he asked in his most solicitous tone.

  Esperanza looked at him, looked at Myron. Nodded.

  “Wonderful. You can use the bedroom down the hall on the left.” Win turned to Myron. “Guess what?”

  “I’m all ears, Mr. Happy Face,” Myron said.

  “Crispin still wants to meet with you. It appears that your walking out last night actually made something of an impression on him.” Big smile, spread hands. “The reluctant suitor approach. I must try it sometime.”

  Esperanza said, “Tad Crispin? The Tad Crispin?”

  “The very,” Win replied.

  She gave Myron an approving look. “Wow.”

  “Indeed,” Win said. “Well, I must be going. I’ll see you at Merion. I’ll be at the Lock-Horne tent most of the day.” Renewing the smile. “Ta-ta.”

  Win started to leave, stopped, snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot.” He tossed Myron a videotape. “Maybe this will save you some time.”

  The videotape landed on the bed. “Is this …?”

  “The bank security tape from First Philadelphia,” Win said. “Six-eighteen on Thursday afternoon. As per your request.” One more smile, one more wave. “Have a great day.”

  Esperanza watched him go. “ ‘Have a great day’?” she repeated.

  Myron shrugged.

  “Who the hell was that guy?” she asked.

  “Wink Martindale,” Myron said. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs and watch this.”

  12

  Linda Coldren opened the door before Myron knocked.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Linda’s face was drawn, accentuating the already high cheekbones. Her eyes had a lost and hollow look. She hadn’t slept. The pressure was growing unbearable. The worrying. The not knowing. She was strong. She was trying to stand up to it. But her son’s disappearance was beginning to gnaw away at her core.

  Myron held up the videotape. “Do you have a VCR?” he asked.

  In something of a daze, Linda Coldren led him to the same television he had seen her watching yesterday when they first met. Jack Coldren appeared from a back room, his golf bag on his shoulder. He, too, looked worn. There were sacks under his eyes, fleshy pouches like soft cocoons. Jack tried to toss up a welcoming smile, but it sputtered up like a lighter low on fluid.

  “Hey, Myron.”

  “Hey, Jack.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Myron slid the tape into the opening. “Do you know anybody who lives on Green Acres Road?” he asked.

  Jack and Linda looked at each other.

  “Why do you want to know that?” Linda asked.

  “Because last night I watched your house. I saw somebody crawl out a window.”

  “A window?” It was Jack. He lowered his eyebrows. “What window?”

  “Your son’s.”

  Silence.

  Then Linda asked, “What does that have to do with Green Acres Road?”

  “I followed whoever it was. He turned down Green Acres Road and disappeared—either into a house or into the woods.”

  Linda lowered her head. Jack stepped forward and spoke. “The Squires live on Green Acres Road,” he said. “Chad’s best friend, Matthew.”

  Myron nodded. He was not surprised. He flicked on the television. “This is a bank security tape from First Philadelphia.”

  “How did you get it?” Jack asked.

  “It’s not important.”

  The front door opened and Bucky entered. The older man, dressed today in checked pants with a yellow-and-green top, stepped into the den doing his customary neck craning bit. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  Nobody replied.

  “I said—”

  “Just watch the screen, Dad,” Linda interrupted.

  “Oh,” Bucky said softly, moving in closer.

  Myron turned the channel to Three and hit the PLAY button. All eyes were on the screen. Myron had already seen the tape. He studied their faces instead, watching for reactions.

  On the television, a black-and-white image appeared. The bank’s driveway. The view was from up high and a bit distorted, a concave fish-eye effect to capture as much space as possible. There was no sound. Myron had the tape all cued up on the right spot. Almost immediately a car pulled into view. The camera was on the driver’s side.

  “It’s Chad’s car,” Jack Coldren announced.

  They watched in rapt silence as the car window lowered. The angle was a bit odd—above the car and from the machine’s point of view—but there was no doubt. Chad Coldr
en was the driver. He leaned out the window and put his card in the ATM machine slot. His fingers tripped across the buttons like an experienced stenographer’s.

  Young Chad Coldren’s smile was bright and happy.

  When his fingers finished their little rumba, Chad settled back into the car to wait. He turned away from the camera for a moment. To the passenger seat. Someone was sitting next to Chad. Again Myron watched for a reaction. Linda, Jack, and Bucky all squinted, all trying to make out a face, but it was impossible. When Chad finally turned back to the camera, he was laughing. He pulled the money out, grabbed his card, leaned back into the car, closed the window, and drove off.

  Myron switched off the VCR and waited. Silence flooded the room. Linda Coldren slowly lifted her head. She kept her expression steady, but her jaw trembled from being so set.

  “There was another person in the car,” Linda offered. “He could have had a gun on Chad or—”

  “Stop it!” Jack shouted. “Look at his face, Linda! For crying out loud, just look at his goddamn smirking face!”

  “I know my son. He wouldn’t do this.”

  “You don’t know him,” Jack countered. “Face it, Linda. Neither one of us knows him.”

  “It’s not what it looks like,” Linda insisted, speaking more to herself than anyone in the room.

  “No?” Jack gestured at the television, his face reddening. “Then how the hell do you explain what we just saw? Huh? He was laughing, Linda. He’s having the time of his life at our expense.” He stopped, struggled with something. “At my expense,” he corrected himself.

  Linda gave him a long look. “Go play, Jack.”

  “That’s exactly what I am going to do.”

  He lifted his bag. His eyes met Bucky’s. Bucky remained silent. A tear slid down the older man’s cheek. Jack tore his gaze away and started for the door.

  Myron called out, “Jack?”

  Coldren stopped.

  “It still might not be what it looks like,” Myron said.

  Again with the eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I traced the call you got last night,” Myron explained. “It was made from a mall pay phone.” He briefly filled them in on his visit to the Grand Mercado Mall and the Crusty Nazi. Linda’s face kept slipping from hope to heartbreak and mostly confusion. Myron understood. She wanted her son to be safe. But at the same time, she did not want this to be some cruel joke. Tough mix.

  “He is in trouble,” Linda said as soon as he’d finished. “That proves it.”

  “That proves nothing,” Jack replied in tired exasperation. “Rich kids hang out at malls and dress like punks too. He’s probably a friend of Chad’s.”

  Again Linda looked at her husband hard. Again she said in a measured tone, “Go play, Jack.”

  Jack opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. He shook his head, adjusted the bag on his shoulder, and left. Bucky crossed the room. He tried to hold his daughter, but she stiffened at his touch. She moved away, studying Myron’s face.

  “You think he’s faking too,” she said.

  “Jack’s explanation makes sense.”

  “So you’re going to stop looking?”

  “I don’t know,” Myron said.

  She straightened her back. “Stay with it,” she began, “and I promise to sign with you.”

  “Linda …”

  “That’s why you’re here in the first place, right? You want my business. Well, here’s the deal. You stay with me and I’ll sign whatever you want. Hoax or no hoax. It’ll be quite a coup, no? Signing the number one–ranked female golfer in the world?”

  “Yes,” Myron admitted. “It would be.”

  “So there you go.” She stuck out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

  Myron kept his hands by his side. “Let me ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “Why are you so sure it’s not a hoax, Linda?”

  “You think I’m being naive?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I just want to know what makes you so certain.”

  She lowered her hand and turned away from him. “Dad?”

  Bucky seemed to snap out of a daze. “Hmm?”

  “Would you mind leaving us alone for a minute?”

  “Oh,” Bucky said. Neck crane. Then another. Two of them back-to-back. Good thing he wasn’t a giraffe. “Yes, well, I wanted to get to Merion anyway.”

  “You go ahead, Dad. I’ll meet you there.”

  When they were alone, Linda Coldren began to pace the room. Myron was again awed by her looks—the paradoxical combination of beauty, strength, and now delicacy. The strong, toned arms, yet the long, slender neck. The harsh, pointed features, yet the soft indigo eyes. Myron had heard beauty described as “seamless”; hers was quite the opposite.

  “I’m not big on”—Linda Coldren made quote marks in the air with her fingers—“woman’s intuition or any of that mother-knows-her-boy-best crap. But I know that my son is in danger. He wouldn’t just disappear like this. No matter how it looks, that’s not what happened.”

  Myron remained silent.

  “I don’t like asking for help. It’s not my way—to depend on someone else. But this is a situation.… I’m scared. I’ve never felt fear like this in all of my life. It’s all-consuming. It’s suffocating. My son is in trouble and I can’t do anything to help him. You want proof that this is not a hoax. I can’t provide that. I just know. And I’m asking you to please help me.”

  Myron wasn’t sure how to respond. Her argument came straight from the heart, sans facts or evidence. But that didn’t make her suffering any less real. “I’ll check out Matthew’s house,” he said finally. “Let’s see what happens after that.”

  13

  In the light of day, Green Acres Road was even more imposing. Both sides of the street were lined with ten-foot-high shrubs so thick that Myron couldn’t tell how thick. He parked his car outside a wrought iron gate and approached an intercom. He pressed a button and waited. There were several surveillance cameras. Some remained steady. Some whirred slowly from side to side. Myron spotted motion detectors, barbed wire, Dobermans. A rather elaborate fortress, he thought.

  A voice as impenetrable as the shrubs came through the speaker. “May I help you?”

  “Good morning,” Myron said, offering up a friendly-but-not-a-salesman smile to the nearest camera. Talking to a camera. He felt like he was on Nightline. “I’m looking for Matthew Squires.”

  Pause. “Your name, sir?”

  “Myron Bolitar.”

  “Is Master Squires expecting you?”

  “No.” Master Squires?

  “Then you do not have an appointment?”

  An appointment to see a sixteen-year-old? Who is this kid, Doogie Howser? “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “May I ask the purpose of your visit?”

  “To speak to Matthew Squires.” Mr. Vague.

  “I am afraid that will not be possible at this time,” the voice said.

  “Will you tell him it involves Chad Coldren?”

  Another pause. Cameras pirouetted. Myron looked around. All the lenses were aiming down from up high, glaring at him like hostile space aliens or lunchroom monitors.

  “In what way does it involve Master Coldren?” the voice asked.

  Myron squinted into a camera. “May I ask with whom I am speaking?”

  No reply.

  Myron waited a beat, then said, “You’re supposed to say, ‘I am the great and powerful Oz.’ ”

  “I am sorry, sir. No one is admitted without an appointment. Please have a nice day.”

  “Wait a second. Hello? Hello?” Myron pressed the button again. No reply. He leaned on it for several seconds. Still nothing. He looked up into the camera and gave his best caring-homespun-family-guy smile. Very Tom Brokaw. He tried a small wave. Nothing. He took a small step backward and gave a great big Jack Kemp fake-throwing-a-football wave. Nada.

  He stood there for another minute. Thi
s was indeed odd. A sixteen-year-old with this kind of security? Something was not quite kosher. He pressed the button one more time. When no one responded he looked into the camera, put a thumb in either ear, wiggled his fingers and stuck out his tongue.

  When in doubt, be mature.

  Back at his car, Myron picked up the car phone and dialed his friend.

  Sheriff Jake Courter.

  “Sheriff’s office.”

  “Hey, Jake. It’s Myron.”

  “Fuck. I knew I shouldn’t have come in on Saturday.”

  “Ooo, I’m wounded. Seriously, Jake, do they still call you the Henny Youngman of law enforcement?”

  Heavy sigh. “What the fuck do you want, Myron? I just came in to get a little paperwork done.”

  “No rest for those vigilantly pursuing peace and justice for the common man.”

  “Right,” Jake said.

  “This week, I went out on a whole twelve calls. Guess how many of them were for false burglar alarms?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Pretty close.”

  For more than twenty years, Jake Courter had been a cop in several of the country’s meanest cities. He’d hated it and craved a quieter life. So Jake, a rather large black man, resigned from the force and moved to the picturesque (read: lily-white) town of Reston, New Jersey. Looking for a cushy job, he ran for sheriff. Reston was a college (read: liberal) town, and thus Jake played up his—as he put it—“blackness” and won easily. The white man’s guilt, Jake had told Myron. The best vote-getter this side of Willie Horton.

  “Miss the excitement of the big city?” Myron asked.

  “Like a case of herpes,” Jake countered. “Okay, Myron, you’ve done the charm thing on me. I’m like Play-Doh in your paws now. What do you want?”

  “I’m in Philly for the U.S. Open.”

  “That’s golf, right?”

  “Yeah, golf. And I wanted to know if you’ve heard of a guy named Squires.”