by Harlan Coben
“Please …”
“Where is Chad Coldren?”
“Look, I was there, okay? When he jumped you. Tit said he’d give me a hundred bucks. But I don’t know no Chad Coldren.”
“Where is Tit?” That name again.
“At his crib, I guess. I don’t know.”
Crib? The neo-Nazi was using dated urban street lingo. Life’s ironies. “Doesn’t Tito usually hang out with you guys at the Parker Inn?”
“Yeah, but he never showed.”
“Was he supposed to?”
“I guess. It’s not like we talk about it.”
Myron nodded. “Where does he live?”
“Mountainside Drive. Right down the street. Third house on the left after you make the turn.”
“If you’re lying to me, I will come back here and slice your eyes out.”
“I ain’t lying. Mountainside Drive.”
Myron pointed at the swastika tattoo with the barrel of the gun. “Why do you have this?”
“What?”
“The swastika, moron.”
“I’m proud of my race, that’s why.”
“You want to put all the ‘kikes’ in gas chambers? Kill all the ‘niggers’?”
“That ain’t what we’re about,” he said. More confidence in his voice now that he was on well-rehearsed ground. “We’re for the white man. We’re tired of being overrun by niggers. We’re sick of being trampled on by the Jews.”
Myron nodded. “Well, by this Jew anyway,” he said. In life, you take satisfaction where you can. “You know what duct tape is?”
“Yeah.”
“Gee, and I thought all neo-Nazis were dumb. Where is yours?”
Escape’s eyes kinda narrowed. Like he was actually thinking. You could almost hear rusty gears churning. Then: “I don’t have none.”
“Too bad. I was going to use it to tie you up, so you couldn’t warn Tito. But if you don’t have any, I’ll just have to shoot both your kneecaps.”
“Wait!”
Myron used up almost the entire roll.
Tito was in the driver’s seat of his pickup truck with the monster wheels.
He was also dead.
Two shots in the head, probably from very close range. Very bloody. There wasn’t much of a head left anymore. Poor Tito. No head to match his no ass. Myron didn’t laugh. Then again, gallows humor was not his forte.
Myron remained calm, probably because he was still in Win mode. No lights were on in the house. Tito’s keys were still in the ignition. Myron took them and unlocked the front door. His search confirmed what he’d already guessed: No one was there.
Now what?
Ignoring the blood and brain matter, Myron went back to the truck and did a thorough search. Talk about not his forte. Myron reclicked the Win icon. Just protoplasm, he told himself. Just hemoglobin and platelets and enzymes and other stuff he’d forgotten since ninth-grade biology. The blocking worked enough to allow him to dig his hands under the seats and into the cushion crevices. His fingers located lots of crud. Old sandwiches. Wrappers from Wendy’s. Crumbs of various shapes and sizes.
Fingernail clippings.
Myron looked at the dead body and shook his head. A little late for a scolding, but what the hell.
Then he hit pay dirt.
It was gold. It had a golf insignia on it. The initials C.B.C. were engraved lightly on the inside—Chad Buckwell Coldren.
It was a ring.
Myron’s first thought was that Chad Coldren had cleverly taken it off and left it behind as a clue. Like in a movie. The young man was sending a message. If Myron was playing his part correctly he would shake his head, toss the ring in the air, and mutter admiringly, “Smart kid.”
Myron’s second thought, however, was far more sobering.
The severed finger in Linda Coldren’s car had been the ring finger.
24
What to do?
Should he contact the police? Just leave? Make an anonymous call? What?
Myron had no idea. He had to think first and foremost of Chad Coldren. What risk would calling the police put the kid in?
No idea.
Christ, what a mess. He wasn’t even supposed to be involved in this anymore. He was supposed to have—should have—stayed out. But now the proverbial doo-doo was hitting a plethora of proverbial fans. What should he do about finding a dead body? And what about Escape? Myron couldn’t just leave him tied and gagged indefinitely. Suppose he vomited into the duct tape, for chrissake?
Okay, Myron, think. First, you should not—repeat, not—call the police. Someone else will discover the body. Or maybe he should make an anonymous call from a pay phone. That might work. But don’t the police tape all incoming calls nowadays? They’d have his voice on tape. He could change it maybe. The rhythm and tempo. Make the tone a little deeper. Add an accent or something. Oh, right, like Meryl Streep. Tell the dispatcher to hurry because “the dingo’s got ma baby.”
Wait, hold the phone.
Think about what had just happened. Rewind to about an hour ago and see how it looks. Without provocation, Myron had broken into a man’s house. He had physically assaulted the man, threatened him in terrible ways, left him tied and gagged—all in the pursuit of Tito. Not long after this incident, the police get an anonymous call. They find Tito dead in his pickup.
Who is going to be the obvious suspect?
Myron Bolitar, sports agent of the terminally troubled.
Damn.
So now what? No matter what Myron did at this stage—call or not call—he was going to be a suspect. Escape would be questioned. He would tell about Myron, and then Myron would look like the killer. Very simple equation when you thought about it.
So the question remained: What to do?
He couldn’t worry about what conclusions the police might leap upon. He also couldn’t worry about himself. The focus must be on Chad Coldren. What would be best for him? Hard to say. The safest bet, of course, would be to upset the apple cart as little as possible. Try not to make his presence in all this known.
Okay, good, that made sense.
So the answer was: Don’t report it. Let the body lay where it was. Put the ring back in the seat cushion in case the police need it as evidence later. Good, this looked like a plan—a plan that seemed the best way of keeping the kid safe and also obeying the Coldrens’ wishes.
Now, what about Escape?
Myron drove back to Escape’s shack. He found Escape right where he left him—on his bed, hog-tied and gagged with gray duct tape. He looked half dead. Myron shook him. The punk started to, his face the green of seaweed. Myron ripped off the gag.
Escape retched and did a few dry heaves.
“I have a man outside,” Myron said, removing more duct tape. “If he sees you move from this window, you will experience an agony very few have been forced to endure. Do you understand?”
Escape nodded quickly.
Experience an agony very few have been forced to endure. Jesus.
There was no phone in the house, so he didn’t have to worry about that. With a few more harsh warnings lightly sprinkled with torture clichés—including Myron’s personal favorite, “Before I’m finished, you’ll beg me to kill you”—he left the neo-Nazi alone to quake in his goose-stepping black boots.
No one was outside. The proverbial coast was clear. Myron got in the car, wondering yet again about the Coldrens. What was going on with them right now? Had the kidnapper already called? Had he given them instructions? How did Tito’s death affect what was happening? Had Chad suffered more bloodshed or had he escaped? Maybe he’d gotten hold of the gun and shot someone.
Maybe. But doubtful. More likely, something had gone awry. Someone had lost control. Someone had gone nuts.
He stopped the car. He had to warn the Coldrens.
Yes, Linda Coldren had clearly instructed him to stay away. But that was before he’d found a dead body. How could he sit back now and leave them blind? Someo
ne had chopped off their son’s finger. Someone had murdered one of the kidnappers. A “simple” kidnapping—if there is such a thing—had spun off its axis. Blood had been splattered about freely.
He had to warn them. He had to contact the Coldrens and let them know what he had learned.
But how?
He pulled onto Golf House Road. It was very late now, almost two in the morning. Nobody would be up. Myron flicked off his lights and cruised silently. He glided the car into a spot on the property line between two houses—if by some chance one of the occupants was awake and looked out the window, he or she might believe the car belonged to someone visiting a neighbor. He stepped out and slowly made his way on foot toward the Coldren house.
Keeping out of sight, Myron moved closer. He knew, of course, that there was no chance the Coldrens would be asleep. Jack might give it a token effort; Linda wouldn’t even sit down. But right now, that didn’t much matter.
How was he going to contact them?
He couldn’t call on the phone. He couldn’t walk up and knock on the door. And he couldn’t throw pebbles at the window, like some clumsy suitor in a bad romantic comedy. So where did that leave him?
Lost.
He moved from shrub to shrub. Some of the shrubs were familiar from his last sojourn into these parts. He said hello to them, chatted, offered up his best cocktail-party banter. One shrub gave him a stock tip. Myron ignored it. He circled closer to the Coldren house, slowly, still careful not to be seen. He had no idea what he was going to do, but when he got close enough to see a light on in the den, an idea came to him.
A note.
He would write a note, telling them of his discovery, warning them to be extra careful, offering up his services. How to get the note close to the house? Hmm. He could fold the note into a paper airplane and fly it in. Oh, sure, with Myron’s mechanical skills, that would work. Myron Bolitar, the Jewish Wright Brother. What else? Tie the note to a rock maybe? And then what? Smash a window?
As it happened, he didn’t have to do any of that.
He heard a noise to his right. Footsteps. On the street. At two in the morning.
Myron quickly dove back down behind a shrub. The footsteps were moving closer. Faster. Someone approaching. Running.
He kept down, his heart beating wildly in his chest. The footsteps grew louder and then suddenly stopped. Myron peeked around the side of the shrub. His view was blocked by still more hedges.
He held his breath. And waited.
The footsteps started up again. Slower this time. Unhurried. Casual. Taking a walk now. Myron craned his neck around the other side of the shrub. Nothing. He moved into a crouch now. Slowly he raised himself, inch by inch, his bad knee protesting. He fought through the pain. His eyes reached the top of the shrub. Myron looked out and finally saw who it was.
Linda Coldren.
She was dressed in a blue sweat suit with running sneakers. Out for a jog? Seemed like a very strange time for it. But you never know. Jack drove golf balls. Myron shot baskets. Maybe Linda was into late-night jogging.
He didn’t think so.
She neared the top of the driveway. Myron had to reach her. He clawed a rock out of the dirt and skimmed it toward her. Linda stopped and looked up sharply, like a deer interrupted while drinking. Myron threw another rock. She looked toward the bush. Myron waved a hand. Christ, this was subtle. But if she had felt safe enough to leave the house—if the kidnapper had not minded her taking a little night stroll—then walking toward a bush shouldn’t cause a panic either. Bad rationale, but it was getting late.
If not out for a jog, why was Linda out so late? Unless …
Unless she was paying off the ransom.
But no, it was still Sunday night. The banks wouldn’t be open. She couldn’t raise one hundred grand without going to a bank. She had made that clear, hadn’t she?
Linda Coldren slowly approached the bush. Myron was almost tempted to light the bush on fire, deepen his voice, and say, “Come forward, Moses.” More gallows humor. More not-funny.
When she was about ten feet away, Myron raised his head into view. Linda’s eyes nearly leaped out of their sockets.
“Get out of here!” Linda whispered.
Myron wasted no time. Whispering back, he said, “I found the guy from the pay phone dead. Shot twice in the head. Chad’s ring was in his car. But no sign of Chad.”
“Get out!”
“I just wanted to warn you. Be careful. They’re playing for keeps.”
Her eyes darted about the yard. She nodded and turned away.
“When’s the drop-off?” Myron tried. “And where’s Jack? Make sure you see Chad with your own eyes before you hand over anything.”
But if Linda heard him, she gave no indication. She hurried down the driveway, opened the door, and disappeared from sight.
25
Win opened the bedroom door. “You have visitors.”
Myron kept his head on the pillow. Friends not knocking hardly fazed him anymore. “Who is it?”
“Law enforcement officials,” Win said.
“Cops?”
“Yes.”
“Uniformed?”
“Yes.”
“Any idea what it’s about?”
“Oooo, sorry. That would be a no. Let’s move on to Kitty Carlisle.”
Myron picked the sleep out of his eyes and threw on some clothes. He slipped into a pair of Top-Siders without socks. Very Win-like. A quick brush of the teeth, for the sake of breath rather than long-term dental health. He opted for a baseball cap rather than taking the time to wet his hair. The baseball cap was red and said TRIX CEREAL in the front and SILLY RABBIT on the back. Jessica had bought it for him. Myron loved her for it.
The two uniforms waited with cop-patience in the living room. They were young and healthy-looking. The taller one said, “Mr. Bolitar?”
“Yes.”
“We’d appreciate it if you would accompany us.”
“Where?”
“Detective Corbett will explain when we arrive.”
“How about a hint?”
Two faces of stone. “We’d rather not, sir.”
Myron shrugged. “Let’s go then.”
Myron sat in the back of the squad car. The two uniforms sat in the front. They drove at a pretty good clip but kept their siren off. Myron’s cell phone rang.
“Do you guys mind if I take a call?”
Taller said, “Of course not, sir.”
“Polite of you.” Myron hit the on switch. “Hello.”
“Are you alone?” It was Linda Coldren.
“Nope.”
“Don’t tell anyone I’m calling. Can you please get here as soon as possible? It’s urgent.”
“What do you mean you can’t deliver it until Thursday?” Mr. Throw Them Off Track.
“I can’t talk right now either. Just get here as soon as you can. And don’t say anything until you do. Please. Trust me on this.”
She hung up.
“Fine, but then I better get free bagels. You hear me?”
Myron turned off the cell phone. He looked out the window. The route the cops were taking was overly familiar. Myron had taken the same one to Merion. When they reached the club entranceway on Ardmore Avenue, Myron saw a plethora of media vans and cop cars.
“Dang,” the taller cop said.
“You knew it wouldn’t stay quiet for long,” Shorter added.
“Too big a story,” Taller agreed.
“You fellas want to clue me in?”
The shorter cop twisted his head toward Myron. “No, sir.” He turned back around.
“Okeydokey,” Myron said. But he didn’t have a good feeling about this.
The squad car drove steadily through the press gauntlet. Reporters pushed against the windows, peering in. Flashes popped in Myron’s face. A policeman waved them through. The reporters slowly peeled off the car like dandruff flakes. They parked in the club lot. There were at least a dozen other
police cars, both marked and unmarked, nearby.
“Please come along,” Taller said.
Myron did so. They walked across the eighteenth fairway. Lots of uniformed officers were walking with their heads down, picking up pieces of lord-knows-what and putting them in evidence bags.
This was definitely not good.
When they reached the top of the hill, Myron could see dozens of officers making a perfect circle in the famed stone quarry. Some were taking photos. Crime scene photos. Others were bent down. When one stood up, Myron saw him.
He felt his knees buckle. “Oh no …”
In the middle of the quarry—sprawled in the famed hazard that had cost him the tournament twenty-three years ago—lay the still, lifeless body of Jack Coldren.
The uniforms watched him, gauging his reaction. Myron showed them nothing. “What happened?” he managed.
“Please wait here, sir.”
The taller cop walked down the hill; the shorter stayed with Myron. Taller spoke briefly to a man in plainclothes Myron suspected was Detective Corbett. Corbett glanced up at Myron as the man spoke. He nodded to the shorter cop.
“Please follow me, sir.”
Still dazed, Myron trudged down the hill into the stone quarry. He kept his eye on the corpse. Coagulated blood coated Jack’s head like one of those spray-on toupees. The body was twisted into a position it was never supposed to achieve. Oh, Christ. Poor, sad bastard.
The plainclothes detective greeted him with an enthusiastic handshake. “Mr. Bolitar, thank you so much for coming. I’m Detective Corbett.”
Myron nodded numbly. “What happened?”
“A groundskeeper found him this morning at six.”
“Was he shot?”
Corbett smiled crookedly. He was around Myron’s age and petite for a cop. Not just short. Plenty of cops were on the short side. But this guy was small-boned to the point of being almost sickly. Corbett covered up the small physique with a trench coat. Not a great summer look. Too many episodes of Columbo, Myron guessed.
