by Harlan Coben
Myron knocked on the door. A woman he guessed was Francine Rennart pushed open the screen. Her ready smile was shadowed by a daunting beak of a nose. Her burnt-auburn hair was wavy and undisciplined, like she’d just taken out her curlers but hadn’t had time to comb it out.
“Hi,” Myron said.
“You must be from the Coastal Star.”
“That’s right.” Myron stuck out his hand. “I’m Bernie Worley.” Scoop Bolitar uses a disguise.
“Your timing is perfect,” Francine said. “I’ve just started a new exhibit.”
The living room furniture didn’t have plastic on it, but it should have. The couch was off-green. The BarcaLounger—a real, live BarcaLounger—was maroon with duct tape mending rips. The console television had rabbit ears on top. Collectors’ plates Myron had seen advertised in Parade were neatly hung on a wall.
“My studio’s in the back,” she said.
Francine Rennart led him to a big addition off the kitchen. It was a sparsely furnished room with white walls. A couch with a spring sticking out of it sat in the middle of the room. A kitchen chair leaned against it. So did a rolled-up carpet. There was something that looked like a blanket draped over the top in a triangular pattern. Four bathroom wastepaper baskets lined the back wall. Myron guessed that she must have a leak.
Myron waited for Francine Rennart to ask him to sit down. She didn’t. She stood with him in the entranceway and said, “Well?”
He smiled, his brain stuck in a cusp where he was not dumb enough to say, “Well what?” but not smart enough to know what the hell she was talking about. So Myron froze there with his anchorman-waiting-to-go-to-commercial grin.
“You like it?” Francine Rennart asked.
Still the grin. “Uh-huh.”
“I know it’s not for everybody.”
“Hmm.” Scoop Bolitar engages in sparkling repartee.
She watched his face for a moment. He kept up the idiot grin. “You don’t know anything about installation art, do you?”
He shrugged. “Got me.” Myron shifted gears on the fly. “Thing is, I don’t do features normally. I’m a sports writer. That’s my beat.” Beat. Note the authentic reporter lingo. “But Tanya—she’s my boss—she needed somebody to handle a lifestyle piece. And when Jennifer called in sick, well, the job fell to me. It’s a story on a variety of local artists—painters, sculptors …” He couldn’t think of any other kind of artist, so he stopped. “Anyway, maybe you could explain a little bit about what it is you do.”
“My art is about space and concepts. It’s about creating a mood.”
Myron nodded. “I see.”
“It’s not art, per se, in the classic sense. It goes beyond that. It’s the next step in the artistic evolutionary process.”
More nods. “I see.”
“Everything in this exhibit has a purpose. Where I place the couch. The texture of the carpeting. The color of the walls. The way the sunlight shines in through the windows. The blend creates a specific ambience.”
Oh, boy.
Myron motioned at the, uh, art. “So how do you sell something like this?”
She frowned. “You don’t sell it.”
“Pardon?”
“Art is not about money, Mr. Worley. True artists do not put a monetary value on their work. Only hacks do that.”
Yeah, like Michelangelo and Da Vinci, those hacks. “But what do you do with this?” he asked. “I mean, do you just keep the room like this?”
“No. I change it around. I bring in other pieces. I create something new.”
“And what happens to this?”
She shook her head. “Art is not about permanence. Life is temporary. Why shouldn’t art be the same?”
Oooookay.
“Is there a name for this art?”
“Installation art. But we do not like labels.”
“How long have you been an, uh, installation artist?”
“I’ve been working on my masters at the New York Art Institute for two years.”
He tried not to look shocked. “You go to school for this?”
“Yes. It’s a very competitive program.”
Yeah, Myron thought, like a TV/VCR repair course advertised by Sally Struthers.
They finally moved back into the living room. Myron sat on the couch. Gently. Might be art. He waited to be offered a cookie. Might be art too.
“You still don’t get it, do you?”
Myron shrugged. “Maybe if you threw in a poker table and some dogs.”
She laughed. Mr. Self-Deprecation strikes again. “Fair enough,” she said.
“Let me shift gears for a moment, if I may,” Myron said. “How about a little something on Francine Rennart, the person?” Scoop Bolitar mines the personal angle.
She looked a bit wary, but she said, “Okay, ask away.”
“Are you married?”
“No.” Her voice was like a slamming door.
“Divorced?”
“No.”
Scoop Bolitar loves a garrulous interviewee. “I see,” he said. “Then I guess you have no children.”
“I have a son.”
“How old is he?”
“Seventeen. His name is Larry.”
A year older than Chad Coldren. Interesting. “Larry Rennart?”
“Yes.”
“Where does he go to school?”
“Right here at Manasquan High. He’s going to be a senior.”
“How nice.” Myron risked it, nibbled on a cookie. “Maybe I could interview him too.”
“My son?”
“Sure. I’d love a quote from the prodigal son on how proud he is of his mom, of how he supports what she’s doing, that kinda thing.” Scoop Bolitar grows pathetic.
“He’s not home.”
“Oh?”
He waited for her to elaborate. Nothing.
“Where is Larry?” Myron tried. “Is he staying with his father?”
“His father is dead.”
Finally. Myron put on the big act. “Oh, sheesh, I’m sorry. I didn’t … I mean, you being so young and all. I just didn’t consider the possibility that …” Scoop Bolitar as Robert DeNiro.
“It’s okay,” Francine Rennart said.
“I feel awful.”
“No need to.”
“Have you been widowed long?”
She tilted her head. “Why do you ask?”
“Background,” he said.
“Background?”
“Yes. I think it’s crucial to understanding Francine Rennart the artist. I want to explore how being widowed affected you and your art.” Scoop Bolitar shovels it good.
“I’ve only been a widow a short time.”
Myron motioned toward the, uh, studio. “So when you created this work, did your husband’s death have any bearing on the outcome? On the color of the wastebaskets maybe. Or the way you rolled up that rug.”
“No, not really.”
“How did your husband die?”
“Why would you—”
“Again, I think it’s important for digesting the entire artistic statement. Was it an accident, for example? The kind of death that makes you ponder fickle fate. Was it a long illness? Seeing a loved one suffer—”
“He committed suicide.”
Myron feigned aghast. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
Her breathing was funny now, her chest giving off short hitches. As Myron watched her, an awful pang struck him deep in the chest. Slow down, he told himself. Stop focusing solely on Chad Coldren and remember that this woman, too, has suffered. She had been married to this man. She had loved him and lived with him and built a life with him and had a child with him.
And after all that, he had chosen to end his life rather than spend it with her.
Myron swallowed. Fiddling with her pathos like this was, at best, unfair. Belittling her artistic expression because he did not understand it was cruel. Myron did not like himself much right now. For a moment he debated
just going away—the odds that any of this had anything to do with the case were so remote—but then again, he couldn’t simply forget a sixteen-year-old boy with a missing finger, either.
“Were you married long?”
“Almost twenty years,” she said softly.
“I don’t mean to intrude, but may I ask you his name?”
“Lloyd,” she said. “Lloyd Rennart.”
Myron narrowed his eyes as though scanning for a memory. “Why does that name ring a bell?”
Francine Rennart shrugged. “He co-owned a tavern in Neptune City. The Rusty Nail.”
“Of course,” Myron said. “Now I remember. He hung out there a lot, right?”
“Yes.”
“My God, I met the man. Lloyd Rennart. Now I remember. He used to teach golf, right? Was in the big time for a while.”
Francine Rennart’s face slid closed like a car window. “How do you know that?”
“The Rusty Nail. And I’m a huge golf fan. A real duffer, but I follow it like some people follow the Bible.” He was flailing, but maybe he was getting somewhere. “Your husband caddied Jack Coldren, right? A long time ago. We talked about it a bit.”
She swallowed hard. “What did he say?”
“Say?”
“About being a caddie.”
“Oh, not much. We mostly talked about some of our favorite golfers. Nicklaus, Trevino, Palmer. Some great courses. Merion mostly.”
“No,” she said.
“Ma’am?”
Her voice was firm. “Lloyd never talked about golf.”
Scoop Bolitar steps in it in a big way.
Francine Rennart skewered him with her eyes. “You can’t be from the insurance company. I didn’t even try to make a claim.” She pondered that for a moment. Then: “Wait a second. You said you’re a sports writer. That’s why you’re here. Jack Coldren is making a comeback, so you want to do a where-are-they-now story.”
Myron shook his head. Shame flushed his face. Enough, he thought. He took a few deep breaths and said, “No.”
“Then who are you?”
“My name is Myron Bolitar. I’m a sports agent.”
She was confused now. “What do you want with me?”
He searched for the words, but they all sounded lame. “I’m not sure. It’s probably nothing, a complete waste of time. You’re right. Jack Coldren is making a comeback. But it’s like … it’s like the past is haunting him. Terrible things are happening to him and his family. And I just thought—”
“Thought what?” she snapped. “That Lloyd came back from the dead to claim vengeance?”
“Did he want vengeance?”
“What happened at Merion,” she said. “It was a long time ago. Before I met him.”
“Was he over it?”
Francine Rennart thought about that for a while. “It took a long time,” she said at last. “Lloyd couldn’t get any golf work after what happened. Jack Coldren was still the fair-haired boy and no one wanted to cross him. Lloyd lost all his friends. He started drinking too much.” She hesitated. “There was an accident.”
Myron stayed still, watching Francine Rennart draw breaths.
“He lost control of his car.” Her voice was robot-like now. “It slammed into another car. In Narberth. Near where he used to live.” She stopped and then looked at him. “His first wife died on impact.”
Myron felt a chill rush through him. “I didn’t know,” he said softly.
“It was a long time ago, Mr. Bolitar. We met not long after that. We fell in love. He stopped drinking. He bought the tavern right away—I know, I know, it sounds weird. An alcoholic owning a bar. But for him, it worked. We bought this house too. I—I thought everything was okay.”
Myron waited a beat. Then he asked, “Did your husband give Jack Coldren the wrong club on purpose?”
The question did not seem to surprise her. She plucked at the buttons on her blouse and took her time before answering. “The truth is, I don’t know. He never talked about this incident. Not even with me. But there was something there. It may have been guilt, I don’t know.” She smoothed her skirt with both hands. “But all of this is irrelevant, Mr. Bolitar. Even if Lloyd did harbor ill feelings toward Jack, he’s dead.”
Myron tried to think of a tactful way of asking, but none came to him. “Did they find his body, Mrs. Rennart?”
His words landed like a heavyweight’s hook. “It—it was a deep crevasse,” Francine Rennart stammered. “There was no way … the police said they couldn’t send anyone down there. It was too dangerous. But Lloyd couldn’t have survived. He wrote a note. He left his clothes there. I still have his passport.…” Her voice faded away.
Myron nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I understand.”
But as he showed himself out, he was pretty sure that he understood nothing.
23
Tito the Crusty Nazi never showed at the Parker Inn.
Myron sat in a car across the street. As usual, he hated surveillance. Boredom didn’t set in this time, but the devastated face of Francine Rennart kept haunting him. He wondered about the long-term effects of his visit. The woman had been privately dealing with her grief, locking her private demons in a back closet, and then Myron had gone and blown the hinges off the door. He had tried to comfort her. But in the end what could he say?
Closing time. Still no sign of Tito. His two buddies—Beneath and Escape—were another matter. They’d arrived at ten-thirty. At one A.M. they both exited. Escape was on crutches—the aftertaste, Myron was sure, of the nasty side kick to the knee. Myron smiled. It was a small victory, but you take them where you can.
Beneath had his arm slung around a woman’s neck. She had a dye job from the planet Bad Bottle and basically looked like the type of woman who might go for a tattoo-infested skinhead—or to say the same thing in a slightly different way, she looked like a regular on the Jerry Springer show.
Both men stopped to urinate on the outside wall. Beneath actually kept his arm around the girl while emptying his bladder. Jesus. So many men peed on that wall that Myron wondered if there was a bathroom inside. The two men broke off. Beneath got into the passenger side of a Ford Mustang. Bad Bleach drove. Escape hobbled onto his own chariot, a motorcycle of some kind. He strapped the crutches onto the side. The two vehicles drove off in separate directions.
Myron decided to follow Escape. When in doubt, tail the one that’s lame.
He kept far back and remained extra careful. Better to lose him than risk in the slightest way the possibility of being spotted. But the tail didn’t last long. Three blocks down the road, Escape parked and headed into a shabby excuse for a house. The paint was peeling off in flakes the size of manhole covers. One of the support columns on the front porch had completely given way, so the front lip of the roof looked like it’d been ripped in half by some giant. The two upstairs windows were shattered like a drunk’s eyes. The only possible reason that this dump hadn’t been condemned was that the building inspector had not been able to stop laughing long enough to write up a summons.
Okay, so now what?
He waited an hour for something to happen. Nothing did. He had seen a bedroom light go on and off. That was it. The whole night was fast turning into a complete waste of time.
So what should he do?
He had no answer. So he changed the question around a bit.
What would Win do?
Win would weigh the risks. Win would realize that the situation was desperate, that a sixteen-year-old boy’s finger had been chopped off like a bothersome thread. Rescuing him imminently was paramount.
Myron nodded to himself. Time to play Win.
He got out of the car. Making sure he kept out of sight, Myron circled around to the back of the dump. The yard was bathed in darkness. He trampled through grass long enough to hide Viet Cong, occasionally stumbling across a cement block or rake or a garbage can top. His shin got whacked twice; Myron had to bite down expletives.
; The back door was boarded up with plywood. The window to its left, however, was open. Myron looked inside. Dark. He carefully climbed into the kitchen.
The smell of spoilage assaulted his nostrils. Flies buzzed about. For a moment, Myron feared that he might find a dead body, but this stink was different, more like the odor of a Dumpster at a 7-Eleven than anything in the rotting flesh family. He checked the other rooms, walking on tiptoes, avoiding the several spots on the floor where there was no floor. No sign of a kidnap victim. No sixteen-year-old boy tied up. No one at all. Myron followed the snoring to the room he had seen the light in earlier. Escape was on his back. Asleep. Without a care.
That was about to change.
Myron leapt into the air and landed hard on Escape’s bad knee. Escape’s eyes widened. His mouth opened in a scream that Myron cut off with a snap punch in the mouth. He moved quickly, straddling Escape’s chest with his knees. He put his gun against the punk’s cheek.
“Scream and die,” Myron said.
Escape’s eyes stayed wide. Blood trickled out of his mouth. He did not scream. Still, Myron was disappointed in himself. Scream and die? He couldn’t come up with anything better than scream and die?
“Where is Chad Coldren?”
“Who?”
Myron jammed the gun barrel into the bleeding mouth. It hit teeth and nearly gagged the man. “Wrong answer.”
Escape stayed silent. The punk was brave. Or maybe, just maybe, he couldn’t talk because Myron had stuck a gun in his mouth. Smooth move, Bolitar. Keeping his face firm, Myron slowly slid the barrel out.
“Where is Chad Coldren?”
Escape gasped, caught his breath. “I swear to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Give me your hand.”
“What?”
“Give me your hand.”
Escape lifted his hand into view. Myron grabbed the wrist, turned it, and plucked out the middle finger. He curled it inward and flattened the folded digit against the palm. The kid bucked in pain. “I don’t need a knife,” Myron said. “I can just grind it into splinters.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the kid managed. “I swear!”
Myron squeezed a little harder. He did not want the bone to snap. Escape bucked some more. Smile a little, Myron thought. That’s how Win does it. He has just a hint of a smile. Not much. You want your victim to think you are capable of anything, that you are completely cold, that you might even enjoy it. But you don’t want him thinking you are a complete lunatic, out of control, a nut who would hurt you no matter what. Mine that middle ground.
