by Harlan Coben
Myron made his way to his car. For several minutes he sat and took deep breaths, willing himself to calm down. He had studied martial arts since Win had first introduced him to tae kwon do when they were college freshmen. Meditation was a big part of what they’d learned, yet Myron never quite grasped the critical nuances. His mind had a habit of drifting. Now he tried to practice the simple rules. He closed his eyes. He breathed in through the nose slowly forcing it down low, letting only his stomach, not his chest, expand. He released it through the mouth, even slower, draining his lungs fully.
Okay, he thought, what is your next step?
The first answer to float to the surface was the most basic: Give up. Cut your losses. Realize that you are very much out of your element. You never really worked for the feds. You only accompanied Win. You were way out of your league on this and it cost a sixteen-year-old boy his finger and maybe more. As Esperanza had said, “Without Win, you’re hopeless.” Learn your lesson and walk away.
And then what? Let the Coldrens face this crisis alone?
If he had, maybe Chad Coldren would still have ten fingers.
The thought made something inside of him crumble. He opened his eyes. His heart started trip-hammering again. He couldn’t call the Coldrens. He couldn’t call the feds. If he pursued this on his own, he would be risking Chad Coldren’s life.
He started up the car, still trying to regain his balance. It was time to be analytical. It was time to be cold. He had to look at this latest development as a clue for a moment. Forget the horror. Forget the fact that he might have screwed up. The finger was just a clue.
One: The placement of the envelope was curious—inside Linda Coldren’s locked (yes, it had been locked—Linda had used the remote control to open it) car. How had it gotten there? Had the kidnapper simply broken into the vehicle? Good possibility, but would he have had time in Merion’s parking lot? Wouldn’t someone have reported it? Probably. Did Chad Coldren have a key that the kidnapper could have used? Hmm. Very good possibility, but one he couldn’t confirm unless he spoke to Linda, which was out of the question.
Dead end. For now.
Two: More than one person was involved in this kidnapping. This hardly took brilliant detective work. First off, you have the Crusty Nazi. The phone call at the mall proved that he had something to do with this—not to mention his subsequent behavior. But there was no way a guy like Crusty could sneak into Merion and plant the envelope in Linda Coldren’s car. Not without drawing suspicion. Not during the U.S. Open. And the note had warned the Coldrens not to “cross” them again. Cross. Did that sound like a Crusty word?
Okay good. What else?
Three: The kidnappers were both vicious and dumb. Vicious was again obvious—the dumb part maybe less so. But look at the facts. For example, making a large ransom demand over a weekend when you know that the banks won’t be open until Monday—was that bright? Not knowing how much to ask for the first two times they called—didn’t that say ding-a-ling? And lastly was it really prudent to cut off a kid’s finger just because his parents happened to talk to a sports agent? Did that even make sense?
No.
Unless, of course, the kidnappers knew that Myron was more than a sports agent.
But how?
Myron pulled into Win’s long driveway. Unfamiliar people were taking horses out of the stable. As he approached the guest house, Win appeared in the doorway. Myron pulled into a spot and got out.
“How did your meeting with Tad Crispin go?” Win asked.
Myron hurried over to him. “They chopped off his finger,” he managed, breathy to the point of almost hyperventilating. “The kidnappers. They cut off Chad’s finger. Left it in Linda’s car.”
Win’s expression did not change. “Did you discover this before or after your meeting with Tad Crispin?”
Myron was puzzled by the question. “After.”
Win nodded slowly. “Then my original question remains: How did your meeting go with Tad Crispin?”
Myron stepped back as though slapped. “Jesus Christ,” he said in an almost reverent tone. “You can’t be serious.”
“What happens to that family does not concern me. What happens to your business dealings with Tad Crispin does.”
Myron shook his head, stunned. “Not even you could be that cold.”
“Oh please.”
“Please what?”
“There are far greater tragedies in this world than a sixteen-year-old boy losing his finger. People die, Myron. Floods wipe out entire villages. Men do horrible things to children every day.” He paused. “Did you, for example, read this afternoon’s paper?”
“What are you rambling about?”
“I’m just trying to make you understand,” Win continued in too slow, too measured a voice. “The Coldrens mean nothing to me—no more than any other stranger and perhaps less. The newspaper is filled with tragedies that hit me on a more personal level. For example …”
Win stopped and looked at Myron very steadily.
“For example what?” Myron asked.
“There was a new development in the Kevin Morris case,” Win replied. “Are you familiar with that one?”
Myron shook his head.
“Two seven-year-old boys—Billy Waters and Tyrone Duffy—have been missing for nearly three weeks. They disappeared while riding their bikes home from school. The police questioned one Kevin Morris, a man with a long record of perversion, including molestation, who had been hanging around the school. But Mr. Morris had a very sharp attorney. There was no physical evidence and despite a fairly convincing circumstantial case—they found the boys’ bikes in a Dumpster not far from his home—Mr. Morris was set free.”
Myron felt something cold press against his heart. “So what was the new development, Win?”
“The police received a tip late last night.”
“How late?”
Again Win looked at him steadily. “Very late.”
Silence.
“It seems,” Win went on, “that someone had witnessed Kevin Morris burying the bodies off a road in the woods near Lancaster. The police dug them up last night. Do you know what they found?”
Myron shook his head again, afraid to even open his mouth.
“Billy Waters and Tyrone Duffy were both dead. They’d been sexually molested and mutilated in ways that even the media couldn’t report. The police also found enough evidence at the burial site to arrest Kevin Morris. Fingerprints on a medical scalpel. Plastic bags that matched ones in his kitchen. Semen samples that offer a preliminary match in both boys.”
Myron flinched.
“Everyone seems quite confident that Mr. Morris will be convicted,” Win finished.
“What about the person who called in the tip? Will he be a witness?”
“Funny thing,” Win said. “The man called from a pay phone and never gave his name. No one, it seems, knows who he was.”
“But the police captured Kevin Morris?”
“Yes.”
The two men stared at each other.
“I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” Myron said.
“Then you really don’t know me.”
A horse whinnied. Win turned and looked at the magnificent animal. Something strange came across his face, a look of loss.
“What did she do to you, Win?”
Win kept staring. They both knew whom Myron was talking about.
“What did she do to make you hate so much?”
“Don’t engage in too much hyperbole, Myron. I am not that simple. My mother is not solely responsible for shaping me. A man is not made up of one incident, and I am a far cry from crazy, as you suggested earlier. Like any other human being, I choose my battles. I battle quite a bit—more than most—and usually on the right side. I battled for Billy Waters and Tyrone Duffy. But I do not wish to battle for the Coldrens. That is my choice. You, as my closest friend, should respect that. You should not try to prod or guilt me into a battle I do n
ot wish to fight.”
Myron was not sure what to say. It was scary when he could understand Win’s cold logic. “Win?”
Win wrested his gaze from the horse. He looked at Myron.
“I’m in trouble,” Myron said, hearing the desperation in his tone. “I need your help.”
Win’s voice was suddenly soft, his face almost pained. “If that were true, I’d be there. You know that. But you are not in any trouble from which you cannot easily disentangle. Just back away, Myron. You have the option of ending your involvement. To draw me into this against my will—using our friendship in that way—is wrong. Walk away this time.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Win nodded and headed toward his car. “Like I said, we all choose our battles.”
When he entered the guest house, Esperanza was screaming, “Bankrupt! Lose a turn! Bankrupt!”
Myron came up behind her. She was watching Wheel of Fortune.
“This woman is so greedy,” Esperanza said, gesturing at the screen. “She’s got over six thousand dollars and she keeps spinning. I hate that.”
The wheel stopped, landing on the glittery $1,000. The woman asked for a B. There were two of them. Esperanza groaned. “You’re back early,” she said. “I thought you were going out to dinner with Linda Coldren.”
“It didn’t work out.”
Esperanza finally turned around and looked at his face. “What happened?”
He told her. Her dark complexion lost a bit of color along the way. When he finished, Esperanza said, “You need Win.”
“He won’t help.”
“Time to swallow your macho pride and ask him. Beg him if you have to.”
“Been there, done that. He’s out.” On the television, the greedy woman bought a vowel. This always baffled Myron. Why do contestants who clearly know the puzzle’s solution still buy vowels? To waste money? To make sure their opponents know the answer too?
“But,” he said, “you’re here.”
Esperanza looked at him. “So?”
It was, he knew, the real reason she had come down in the first place. On the phone she had told him that he didn’t work well alone. The words spoke volumes about her true motivation for fleeing the Big Apple.
“Do you want to help?” he asked.
The greedy woman leaned forward, spun the wheel, and then started clapping and shouting, “Come on, a thousand!” Her opponents clapped too. Like they wanted her to do well. Right.
“What do you want me to do?” Esperanza asked.
“I’ll explain on the way. If you want to come.”
They both watched the wheel decelerate. The camera moved in for a close-up. The arrow slowed and slowed before settling on the word BANKRUPT. The audience groaned. The greedy woman kept the smile, but now she looked like someone had just punched her hard in the stomach.
“That’s an omen,” Esperanza said.
“Good or bad?” Myron asked.
“Yes.”
19
The girls were still at the mall. Still at the food court. Still at the same table. It was amazing, when you thought about it. The long summer days beckoned with sunny skies and chirping birds. School was out, and yet so many teenagers spent all their time inside a glorified school cafeteria, probably lamenting the day they would have to return to school.
Myron shook his head. He was complaining about teenagers. A sure sign of lost youth. Soon he’d be screaming at someone for turning up the thermostat.
As soon as he entered the food court, the girls all turned in his direction. It was like they had people-we-know detectors at every entrance. Myron did not hesitate. Making his expression as stern as possible, he rushed toward them. He studied each face as he approached. These were, after all, just teenagers. The guilty one, Myron was sure, would show it.
And she did. Almost instantly.
She was the one who had been teased yesterday, the one they taunted for being the recipient of a Crusty smile. Missy or Messy or something. It all made sense now. Crusty hadn’t spotted Myron’s tail. He’d been tipped off. In fact, the whole thing had been arranged. That was how Crusty had known that Myron had been asking questions about him. That explained the seemingly fortuitous timing—that is, Crusty hanging around the food court just long enough for Myron to arrive.
It had all been a big setup.
The one with Elsa Lancaster hair screwed up her face and said, “Like, what’s the matter?”
“That guy tried to kill me,” Myron said.
Lots of gasps. Faces lit up with excitement. To most of them, this was like a television show come to life. Only Missy or Messy or some name with an M remained rock-still.
“Not to worry though,” Myron continued. “We’ve just about got him. In an hour or two, he’ll be under arrest. The police are on their way to find him right now. I just wanted to thank you all for your cooperation.”
The M girl spoke: “I thought you weren’t a cop.”
A sentence without the word like. Hmm. “I’m undercover,” Myron said.
“Oh. My. God.”
“Get out!”
“Whoa!”
“You mean like on New York Undercover?”
Myron, no stranger to TV, had no idea what she was talking about. “Exactly,” he said.
“This is so cool.”
“Are we, like, going to be on TV?”
“The six o’clock news?”
“That guy on Channel Four is so cute, you know?”
“My hair totally sucks.”
“No way, Amber. But mine is like a total rat nest.”
Myron cleared his throat. “We have this pretty much all wrapped up. Except for one thing. The accomplice.”
Myron waited for one of them to say, “Accomplice?” No one did. Myron elaborated. “Someone in this very mall helped that creep set me up.”
“In, like, here?”
“In our mall?”
“Not our mall. No way.”
They said the word mall like some people said the word synagogue.
“Someone helped that skank?”
“Our mall?”
“Eeeuw.”
“I can’t, like, believe it.”
“Believe it,” Myron said. “In fact, he or she is probably here right now. Watching us.”
Heads swirled about. Even M managed to get into the act, though it was an uninspired display.
Myron had shown the stick. Now the carrot. “Look, I want you ladies to keep your eyes and ears open. We’ll catch the accomplice. No question about it. Guys like that always talk. But if the accomplice was just a hapless dupe …”
Blank faces.
“If she, like, didn’t really know the score”—not exactly hip-hop lingo, but they nodded now—“and she came to me right away, before the cops nail her, well, then I’d probably be able to help her out. Otherwise, she could be charged with attempted murder.”
Nothing. Myron had expected that. M would never admit this in front of her friends. Jail was a great fear-inducer, but it was little more than a wet match next to the bonfire that was teenage peer pressure.
“Good-bye, ladies.”
Myron moved to the other side of the food court. He leaned against a pillar, putting himself in the path between the girls’ table and the bathroom. He waited, hoping she’d make an excuse and come over. After about five minutes, M stood up and began walking toward Myron. Just as he planned. Myron almost smiled. Maybe he should have been a high school guidance counselor. Mold young minds, change lives for the better.
The M girl veered away from him and toward the exit.
Damn.
Myron quickly trotted over, the smile on full blast. “Mindy?” He had suddenly remembered her name.
She turned to him but said nothing.
He put on the soft voice and the understanding eyes. A male Oprah. A kinder, gentler Regis. “Whatever you say to me is confidential,” he said. “If you’re involved in this—”
“
Just stay away from me, okay? I’m not, like, involved in anything.”
She pushed past him and hurried past Foot Locker and the Athlete’s Foot—two stores Myron had always assumed were the same, alter egos if you will, like you never saw Batman and Bruce Wayne in the same room.
Myron watched her go. She hadn’t cracked, which was a bit of a surprise. He nodded and his backup plan went into action. Mindy kept hurrying away, glancing behind her every few steps to make sure Myron wasn’t following her. He wasn’t.
Mindy, however, did not notice the attractive, jean-clad Hispanic woman just a few feet to her left.
Mindy found a pay phone by the record store that looked exactly like every other mall record store. She glanced about, put a quarter into the slot, and dialed a number. Her finger had just pressed the seventh digit when a small hand reached over her shoulder and hung up the phone.
She spun toward Esperanza. “Hey!”
Esperanza said, “Put down the phone.”
“Hey!”
“Right, hey. Now put down the phone.”
“Like, who the fuck are you?”
“Put down the phone,” Esperanza repeated, “or I’ll shove it up a nostril.”
Wide-eyed with confusion, Mindy obeyed. Several seconds later, Myron appeared. He looked at Esperanza. “Up a nostril?”
She shrugged.
Mindy shouted, “You can’t, like, do that.”
“Do what?” Myron said.
“Like”—Mindy stopped, struggled with the thought—“like, make me hang up a phone?”
“No law against that,” Myron said. He turned to Esperanza. “You know any law against that?”
“Against hanging up a phone?” Esperanza emphatically shook her head. “No, señor.”
“See, no law against it. On the other hand, there is a law against aiding and abetting a criminal. It’s called a felony. It means jail time.”
“I didn’t aid nothing. And I don’t bet.”
Myron turned to Esperanza. “You get the number?”
She nodded and gave it to him.
“Let’s trace it.”
Again, the cyber-age made this task frighteningly easy. Anybody can buy a computer program at their local software store or hop on certain Web sites like Biz, type in the number, and voilà, you have a name and address.
