by Harlan Coben
“Yep. They’re with me. And they are bad men, Myron. Young. Far too violent. You know how the kids are today. Bam, bam, no talk. The three of us are supposed to escort you to an unknown destination. In fact, I’m supposed to be holding a gun on you now. But hell, we’re all friends here, right? No need, the way I see it. So just start heading straight. The goons will follow.”
“Before we take off,” Myron said, “do you mind if we let Esperanza go?”
Carl chuckled. “Kinda sexist, don’t you think?”
“Excuse me?”
“If Esperanza were a man—like, say, your buddy Win—would you be making this gallant gesture?”
“I might,” he said. But even Esperanza was shaking her head.
“Me thinks not, Myron. And trust me here: It would be the wrong move. The young goons back there, they’d want to know what’s up. They’d see her get out of the car and they got those itchy fingers and those crazy eyes and they like hurting people. Especially women. And maybe, just maybe, Esperanza here is an insurance policy. Alone, you might try something dumb; with Esperanza right there, you might not be so inclined.”
Esperanza glanced at Myron. Myron nodded. She started the car.
“Make a left at the third light,” Carl said.
“Tell me something,” Myron said. “Is Reginald Squires as big a nut-job as I hear?”
Still leaning forward, Carl turned to Esperanza. “Am I supposed to be wowed by his sharp deductive reasoning skills?”
“Yes,” Esperanza replied. “He’ll be terribly disappointed if you aren’t.”
“Figured that. And to answer your question, Squires is not that big a nut-job—when he stays on his medication.”
“Very comforting,” Myron said.
The young goons stayed right on their tail for the entire fifteen-minute drive. Myron was not surprised when Carl told Esperanza to turn down Green Acres Road. When they approached the ornate front entrance, the iron gates swung open like on the closing credits of Get Smart. They continued up a windy driveway through the heavily wooded property. After about a half mile, they hit a clearing with a building. The building was big and plain and rectangular, like a high school gym.
The only entrance Myron could see was a garage door. As if on cue, the door slid open. Carl told Esperanza to pull into it. Once far enough inside, he told her to park and kill the engine. The goon car came in behind them and did likewise.
The garage door came back down, slowly slicing out the sun. No lights were on inside; the room was submerged in total darkness.
“This is just like the haunted house at Six Flags,” Myron said.
“Give me your gun, Myron.”
Carl had his game face on. Myron handed him the gun.
“Step out of the car.”
“But I’m afraid of the dark,” Myron said.
“You too, Esperanza.”
They all stepped out of the car. So did the two goons behind them. Their movements echoed off the cement floor, hinting to Myron that they were in a very large room. The interior car lights provided a modicum of illumination, but that didn’t last long. Myron made out nothing before the doors were closed.
Absolute blackness.
Myron made his way around the car and found Esperanza. She took his hand in hers. They remained still and waited.
A beacon, the kind used at a lighthouse or a movie premiere, snapped on in their faces. Myron’s eyes slammed shut. He shaded them with his hand and slowly squinted them open. A man stepped in front of the bright light. His body cast a giant shadow on the wall behind Myron. The effect reminded Myron of the Bat Signal.
“No one will hear your screams,” the man said.
“Isn’t that a line from a movie?” Myron asked. “But I think the line was, ‘No one will hear you scream.’ I could be wrong about that.”
“People have died in this room,” the voice boomed. “My name is Reginald Squires. You will tell me everything I want to know. Or you and your friend will be next.”
Oh, boy. Myron looked at Carl. Carl’s face remained stoic. Myron turned back toward the light. “You’re rich, right?”
“Very rich,” Squires corrected.
“Then maybe you could afford a better scriptwriter.”
Myron glanced back at Carl. Carl slowly shook his head no. One of the two young goons stepped forward. In the harsh light, Myron could see the man’s psychotic, happy smile. Myron tensed, waited.
The goon cocked a fist and threw it at Myron’s head. Myron ducked, and the punch missed. As the fist flew by him, Myron grabbed the goon’s wrist. He put his forearm against the back of the man’s elbow and pulled the joint back in a way it was never intended to bend. The goon had no choice. He dropped to the ground. Myron added a bit more pressure. The goon tried to squirm free. Myron snapped his knee straight into the goon’s nose. Something splattered. Myron could actually feel the nose cartilage give way and fan out.
The second goon took out his gun and pointed it at Myron.
“Stop,” Squires shouted.
Myron let the goon go. He slid to the floor like wet sand through a torn bag.
“You will pay for that, Mr. Bolitar.” Squires liked to project his voice. “Robert?”
The goon with the gun said, “Yes, Mr. Squires.”
“Hit the girl. Hard.”
“Yes, Mr. Squires.”
Myron said, “Hey, hit me. I’m the one who smarted off.”
“And this is your punishment,” Squires said calmly. “Hit the girl, Robert. Now.”
Goon Robert moved toward Esperanza.
“Mr. Squires?” It was Carl.
“Yes, Carl.”
Carl stepped into the light. “Allow me to do it.”
“I did not think you were the type, Carl.”
“I’m not, Mr. Squires. But Robert might do serious damage to her.”
“But that’s my intent.”
“No, I mean, he’ll leave bruising or break something. You want her to feel pain. That’s my area of expertise.”
“I realize that, Carl. It’s why I pay you what I do.”
“So then let me do my job. I can hit her without leaving a mark or permanent injury. I know control. I know the right spots.”
The shadowy Mr. Squires considered this a moment. “Will you make it painful?” he asked. “Very painful?”
“If you insist.” Carl sounded reluctant but resolved.
“I do. Right now. I want it to hurt her a great deal.”
Carl walked up to Esperanza. Myron start to move toward him, but Robert placed the gun against his head. There was nothing he could do. He tried fire-throwing a warning glare at Carl.
“Don’t,” Myron said.
Carl ignored him. He stood in front of Esperanza now. She looked at him defiantly. Without preamble he punched her deep in the stomach.
The power of the blow lifted Esperanza off her feet. She made an oofing noise and folded at the waist like an old wallet. Her body landed on the floor. She curled up into a protective ball, her eyes wide, her chest heaving for air. Carl looked down at her without emotion. Then he looked at Myron.
“You son of a bitch,” Myron said.
“It’s your fault,” Carl said.
Esperanza continued to roll on the ground in obvious agony. She still couldn’t get any air into her lungs. Myron’s whole body felt hot and red. He moved toward her, but Robert again stopped him by pressing the gun hard against his neck.
Reginald Squires did the big voice-projection again. “You will listen now, won’t you, Mr. Bolitar?”
Myron took deep breaths. His muscles bunched. Every part of him fumed. Every part of him craved vengeance. He watched in silence as Esperanza writhed on the floor. After a while she managed to get to all fours. Her head was down. Her body heaved. A retching noise came out of her. Then another retching noise.
The sound made Myron pause.
Something about the sound … Myron searched his memory banks. Something about th
e whole scenario, the way she doubled up, the way she rolled on the floor—it was strangely familiar. As though he’d seen it before. But that was impossible. When would he …? He stopped as the answer came to him.
In the wrestling ring.
My God, Myron thought. She was faking it!
Myron looked over at Carl. There was a hint of a smile on his face.
Son of a bitch. It was an act!
Reginald Squires cleared his throat. “You have taken an unhealthy interest in my son, Mr. Bolitar,” he continued, voice thundering. “Are you some sort of pervert?”
Myron almost flew off another wisecrack, but he bit it back. “No.”
“Then tell me what you want with him.”
Myron squinted into the light. He still couldn’t see anything but the shadowy outline of Squires. What should he say? The guy was a major loony tune. No question about that. So how to play this …?
“You’ve heard about Jack Coldren’s murder,” Myron said. “Of course.”
“I’m working on the case.”
“You’re trying to find out who murdered Jack Coldren?”
“Yes.”
“But Jack was murdered last night,” Squires countered. “You were asking about my son Saturday.”
“It’s a long story,” Myron said.
The shadows hands spread. “We have all the time in the world.”
How did Myron know he was going to say that?
With nothing much to lose, Myron told Squires about the kidnapping. Most of it anyway. He emphasized several times that the actual abduction had happened at the Court Manor Inn. There was a reason for that. It had to do with the egocentricity. Reginald Squires—the ego in question—reacted in predictable fashion.
“Are you telling me,” he shouted, “that Chad Coldren was kidnapped at my motel?”
His motel. Myron had figured that out by now. It was the only explanation for why Carl had run interference for Stuart Lipwitz.
“That’s right,” Myron said.
“Carl?”
“Yes, Mr. Squires?”
“Did you know anything about this kidnapping?”
“No, Mr. Squires.”
“Well, something has to be done,” Squires shouted. “No one does something like that on my turf. You hear me? No one.”
This guy had seen waaaaaay too many gangster films.
“Whoever did this is dead,” he ranted on. “Do you hear me? I want them dead. D-E-A-D. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Bolitar?”
“Dead,” Myron said with a nod.
The shadow pointed a long finger at Myron. “You find him for me. You find who did this and then you call me. You let me handle it. Do you understand, Mr. Bolitar?”
“Call you. You handle.”
“Go then. Find the wretched bastard.”
Myron said, “Sure thing, Mr. Squires. Sure thing.” Hey, two can play the Bad Movie Dialogue game. “But the thing is, I need some help.”
“What sort of help?”
“With your permission, I’d like to speak with your son Matthew. Find out what he knows about all this.”
“What makes you think he knows anything?”
“He’s Chad’s best friend. He may have heard or seen something. I don’t know, Mr. Squires, but I’d like to check it out.”
There was a brief silence. Then Squires snapped, “Do it. Carl will take you back to the school. Matthew will speak freely to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Squires.”
The light went off, bathing them again in thick darkness. Myron felt his way to the car door. The “recovering” Esperanza managed to do likewise. So did Carl. The three of them got in.
Myron turned around and looked at Carl. Carl shrugged his shoulders and said, “Guess he forgot to take his medication.”
32
“Chad, like, told me he was hooking up with an older babe.”
“Did he tell you her name?” Myron asked.
“Nah, man,” Matthew Squires said. “Just that she was take-out.”
“Take-out?”
“You know. Chinese.”
Jesus.
Myron sat facing Matthew Squires. The kid was pure Yah Dude. His long, stringy hair was parted in the middle and hung past his shoulders. The coloring and texture reminded Myron of Cousin It from the Addams Family. He had acne, a fair amount of it. He was over six feet and weighed maybe one hundred twenty pounds. Myron wondered what it had been like for this kid growing up with Mr. Spotlight as a father.
Carl was on his right. Esperanza had taken a taxi to check out Esme Fong’s alibi and look into Lloyd Rennart’s past.
“Did Chad tell you where he was meeting her?”
“Sure, dude. That hot sheet is, like, my dad’s haunt, you know.”
“Did Chad know your father owned the Court Manor?”
“Nah. We don’t, like, talk daddy’s dinero or anything. Not righteous, you know what I’m saying?”
Myron and Carl exchanged a glance. The glance bemoaned today’s youth.
“Did you go with him to the Court Manor?”
“Nah. I went later, you know. I figured the dude would want to party after getting a little, you know. Kinda celebrate and shit.”
“So what time did you go to the Court Manor?”
“Ten-thirty, eleven, something like that.”
“Did you see Chad?”
“Nah. Things got, like, so weird right away. Never got the chance.”
“What do you mean, weird?”
Matthew Squires hesitated a bit. Carl leaned forward. “Its okay, Matthew. Your father wants you to tell him the whole story.”
The kid nodded. When the chin went down, the stringy hair slid across the face. It was like a tasseled curtain opening and closing in rapid succession. “Okay, like, here’s the deal: When I pulled my Benz into the parking lot, I saw Chad’s old man.”
Myron felt a queasy surge. “Jack Coldren? You saw Jack Coldren? At the Court Manor Inn?”
Squires nodded. “He was just, like, sitting in his car,” he said. “Next to Chad’s Honda. He looked really pissed off, man. I wanted no part of it, you know? So I took a hike.”
Myron tried not to look too stunned. Jack Coldren at the Court Manor Inn. His son inside a room screwing Esme Fong. The next morning Chad Coldren would be kidnapped.
What the hell was going on?
“Friday night,” Myron continued, “I saw someone climb out the window of Chad’s room. Was that you?”
“Yeah.”
“You want to tell me what you were doing?”
“Seeing if Chad was home. That’s what we do. I climb through his window. Like Vinny used to do with Doogie Howser. Remember that show?”
Myron nodded. He did know. Kinda sad when you thought about it.
There was not much more to extract from young Matthew. When they finished up, Carl walked Myron to his car.
“Strange shit,” Carl said.
“Yep.”
“You’ll call when you learn something?”
“Yep.” Myron didn’t bother telling him that Tito was already dead. No point. “Nice move, by the way. The fake punch with Esperanza.”
Carl smiled. “We’re professionals. I’m disappointed you spotted it.”
“If I hadn’t seen Esperanza in the ring, I wouldn’t have. It was very nice work. You should be proud.”
“Thanks.” Carl stuck out his hand. Myron shook it. He got in the car and drove away. Now where?
Back to the Coldren house, he guessed.
His mind still reeled from this latest revelation: Jack Coldren had been at the Court Manor Inn. He had seen his son’s car there. How the heck did that fit into this? Was Jack Coldren following Chad? Maybe. Was he just there by coincidence? Doubtful. So what other options were there? Why would Jack Coldren be following his own son? And where had he followed him from—Matthew Squires’s house? Did that make sense? The man plays in the U.S. Open, has a great opening round, and then goes parking
in front of the Squires estate waiting for his kid to pull out?
Nope.
Hold the phone.
Suppose Jack Coldren had not been following his son. Suppose he had been following Esme Fong.
Something in his brain went “click.”
Maybe Jack Coldren had been having an affair with Esme Fong too. His marriage was on the rocks. Esme Fong was probably a bit of a kinkster. She had seduced a teenage boy—what would have stopped her from seducing his father? But did this make sense either? Was Jack stalking her? Had he somehow found out about the tryst? What?
And the larger question: What does any of this have to do with Chad Coldren’s kidnapping and Jack Coldren’s murder?
He pulled up to the Coldren house. The media had been kept back, but there were now at least a dozen cops on hand. They were hauling out cardboard boxes. As Victoria Wilson had feared, the police had gotten a search warrant.
Myron parked around the corner and walked toward the house. Jack’s caddie, Diane Hoffman, sat alone on the curb across the street. He remembered the last time he had seen her at the Coldren house: in the backyard, fighting with Jack. He also realized that she had been one of the very few people who knew about the kidnapping—hadn’t she been standing right there when Myron first talked about it with Jack at the driving range?
She was worth a conversation.
Diane Hoffman was smoking a cigarette. The several stubs by her feet indicated that she had been there for more than a few minutes. Myron approached.
“Hi,” he said. “We met the other day.”
Diane Hoffman looked up at him, took a deep drag of the cigarette, released it into the still air. “I remember.” Her hoarse voice sounded like old tires on rough pavement.
“My condolences,” Myron said. “You and Jack must have been very close.”
Another deep drag. “Yeah.”
“Caddy and golfer. Must be a tight relationship.”
She looked up at him, squinting suspiciously. “Yeah.”
“Almost like husband and wife. Or business partners.”
“Uh-huh. Something like that.”
“Did you two ever fight?”
She glared at him for a second, then she broke into a laugh that ended in a hacking cough. When she could talk again, she asked, “Why the hell do you want to know that?”
