by Harlan Coben
“What?” It was Linda.
“Not long after the Open, Lloyd totaled his car while DWI. His wife was killed.”
Victoria asked, “Did you know her?”
Linda shook her head. “We never met his family. In fact, I don’t think I ever saw Lloyd outside of our home or the golf course.”
Victoria crossed her arms and leaned back. “I still do not see what makes him a viable suspect.”
“Rennart wanted vengeance. He waited twenty-three years to get it.”
Victoria frowned again.
“I admit that it’s a bit of a stretch.”
“A bit? It’s ridiculous. Do you know where Lloyd Rennart is now?”
“That’s a little complicated.”
“Oh?”
“He may have committed suicide.”
Victoria looked at Linda, then at Myron. “Would you please elaborate?”
“The body was never found,” Myron said. “But everyone thinks he jumped off a cliff in Peru.”
Linda groaned. “Oh, no …”
“What is it?” Victoria asked.
“We got a postcard from Peru.”
“Who did?”
“It was addressed to Jack, but it was unsigned. It arrived last fall or winter.”
Myron’s pulse raced. Last fall or winter. About the time Lloyd allegedly jumped. “What did it say?”
“It only had two words on it,” Linda said. “ ‘Forgive me.’ ” Silence.
Victoria broke it. “That doesn’t sound like the words of a man out for revenge.”
“No,” Myron agreed. He remembered what Esperanza had learned about the money Rennart had used to buy his house and bar. This postcard now confirmed what he had already suspected: Jack had been sabotaged. “But it also means that what happened twenty-three years ago was no accident.”
“So what good does that do us?” Victoria asked.
“Someone paid Rennart off to throw the U.S. Open. Whoever did that would have motive.”
“To kill Rennart maybe,” Victoria countered. “But not Jack.”
Good point. Or was it? Somebody had hated Jack enough twenty-three years ago to destroy his chances of winning the Open. Maybe that hatred had not died. Or maybe Jack had learned the truth and thus had to be quieted. Either way, it was worth looking into.
“I do not want to go digging into the past,” Victoria said. “It could make things very messy.”
“I thought you liked messy. Messy is fertile land for reasonable doubt.”
“Reasonable doubt, I like,” she said. “But the unknown, I don’t. Look into Esme Fong. Look into the Squires family. Look into whatever. But stay away from the past, Myron. You never know what you might find back there.”
37
On the car phone: “Mrs. Rennart? This is Myron Bolitar.”
“Yes, Mr. Bolitar.”
“I promised that I’d call you periodically. To keep you updated.”
“Have you learned something new?”
How to proceed? “Not about your husband. So far, there is no evidence that suggests Lloyd’s death was anything other than a suicide.”
“I see.”
Silence.
“So why are you calling me, Mr. Bolitar?”
“Have you heard about Jack Coldren’s murder?”
“Of course,” Francine Rennart said. “It’s on every station.” Then: “You don’t suspect Lloyd—”
“No,” Myron said quickly. “But according to Jack’s wife, Lloyd sent Jack a postcard from Peru. Right before his death.”
“I see,” she said again. “What did it say?”
“It had only two words on it: ‘Forgive me.’ He didn’t sign it.”
There was a brief pause and then she said, “Lloyd is dead, Mr. Bolitar. So is Jack Coldren. Let it lie.”
“I’m not out to damage your husband’s reputation. But it is becoming clear that somebody either forced Lloyd to sabotage Jack or paid him to do it.”
“And you want me to help you prove that?”
“Whoever it was may have murdered Jack and maimed his son. Your husband sent Jack a postcard asking for forgiveness. With all due respect, Mrs. Rennart, don’t you think Lloyd would want you to help?”
More silence.
“What do you want from me, Mr. Bolitar? I don’t know anything about what happened.”
“I realize that. But do you have any old papers of Lloyd’s? Did he keep a journal or a diary? Anything that might give us a clue?”
“He didn’t keep a journal or a diary.”
“But there might be something else.” Gently, fair Myron. Tread gently. “If Lloyd did receive compensation”—a nice way of saying a bribe—“there may be bank receipts or letters or something.”
“There are boxes in the basement,” she said. “Old photos, some papers maybe. I don’t think there are any bank statements.” Francine Rennart stopped talking for a moment. Myron kept the receiver pushed against his ear. “Lloyd always did have a lot of cash,” she said softly. “I never really asked where it came from.”
Myron licked his lips. “Mrs. Rennart, can I look through those boxes?”
“Tonight,” she said. “You can come by tonight.”
Esperanza was not back at the cottage yet. But Myron had barely sat down when the intercom buzzed.
“Yes?”
The guard manning the front gate spoke with perfect diction. “Sir, a gentleman and a young lady are here to see you. They claim that they are not with the media.”
“Did they give a name?”
“The gentleman said his name is Carl.”
“Let them in.”
Myron stepped outside and watched the canary-yellow Audi climb the drive. Carl pulled to a stop and got out. His flat hair looked freshly pressed, like he’d just gotten it “martinized,” whatever that was. A young black woman who couldn’t have been twenty years old came out of the passenger door. She looked around with eyes the size of satellite dishes.
Carl turned to the stables and cupped his big hand over his eyes. A female rider decked out in full gear was steering a horse through some sort of obstacle course.
“That what they call steeplechasing?” Carl asked.
“Got me,” Myron said.
Carl continued to watch. The rider got off the horse. She unstrapped her black hat and patted the horse. Carl said, “You don’t see a lot of brothers dressed like that.”
“What about lawn jockeys?”
Carl laughed. “Not bad,” he said. “Not great, but not bad.”
Hard to argue. “You here to take riding lessons?”
“Not likely,” Carl said. “This is Kiana. I think she may be of help to us.”
“Us?”
“You and me together, bro.” Carl smiled. “I get to play your likable black partner.”
Myron shook his head. “No.”
“Excuse me?”
“The likable black partner always ends up dead. Usually early on, too.”
That stopped Carl a second. “Damn, I forgot about that.”
Myron shrugged a what-can-you-do. “So who is she?”
“Kiana works as a maid at the Court Manor Inn.”
Myron looked at her. She was still out of earshot. “How old is she?”
“Why?”
Myron shrugged. “Just asking. She looks young.”
“She’s sixteen. And guess what, Myron? She’s not an unwed mother, she’s not on welfare, and she’s not a junkie.”
“I never said she was.”
“Uh-huh. Guess none of that racist shit ever seeps into your color-blind cranium.”
“Hey Carl, do me a favor. Save the racial-sensitivity seminar for a less active day. What does she know?”
Carl beckoned her forward with a tight nod. Kiana approached, all long limbs and big eyes. “I showed her this photo”—he handed Myron a snapshot of Jack Coldren—“and she remembered seeing him at the Court Manor.”
Myron glanced at the photog
raph, and then at Kiana. “You saw this man at the motel?”
“Yes.” Her voice was firm and strong and belied her years. Sixteen. She was the same age as Chad. Hard to imagine.
“Do you remember when?”
“Last week. I saw him there twice.” Twice?
“Yes.”
“Would that have been Thursday or Friday?”
“No.” Kiana kept up with the poise. No ringing hands or happy feet or darting eyes. “It was Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest.”
Myron tried to process this tidbit. Jack had been at the Court Manor twice before his son. Why? The reason was fairly obvious: If the marriage was dead for Linda, it was probably dead for Jack. He, too, would be engaging in extramarital liaisons. Maybe that was what Matthew Squires witnessed. Maybe Jack had pulled in for his own affair and spotted his son’s car. It kinda made sense.…
But it was also a hell of a coincidence. Father and son end up at the same hot sheets at the same time? Stranger things have happened, but what were the odds?
Myron gestured to Jacks photograph. “Was he alone?”
Kiana smiled. “The Court Manor doesn’t rent out a lot of single rooms.”
“Did you see who was with him?”
“Very briefly. The guy in the photograph checked them in. His partner stayed in the car.”
“But you saw her? Briefly anyway.”
Kiana glanced at Carl, then back at Myron. “It wasn’t a her.”
“Excuse me?”
“The guy in the photograph,” she said. “He wasn’t there with a woman.”
A large boulder fell from the sky and landed on Myron’s head. It was his turn now to glance at Carl. Carl nodded. Another click. A big click. The loveless marriage. He had known why Linda Coldren stayed in it—she was afraid of losing custody of her son. But what about Jack? Why hadn’t he left? The answer was suddenly transparent: Being married to a beautiful, constantly traveling woman was the perfect cover. He remembered Diane Hoffman’s reaction when he asked her if she’d been sleeping with Jack—the way she laughed and said, “Not likely with ol’ Jack.”
Because ol’ Jack was gay.
Myron turned his focus back to Kiana. “Could you describe the man he was with?”
“Older—maybe fifty or sixty. White. He had this long dark hair and a bushy beard. That’s about all I can tell you.”
But Myron did not need more.
It was starting to come together now. It wasn’t there. Not yet anyway. But he was suddenly a quantum leap closer.
38
As Carl drove out, Esperanza drove in.
“Find anything?” Myron asked her.
Esperanza handed him a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping. “Read this.”
The headline read: CRASH FATALITY
Economy of words. He read on:
Mr. Lloyd Rennart of 27 Darby Place crashed his automobile into a parked car on South Dean Street near the intersection of Coddington Terrace. Mr. Rennart was taken into police custody under suspicion of driving while intoxicated. The injured were rushed to St. Elizabeth’s Medical Center, where Lucille Rennart, Mr. Lloyd Rennart’s wife, was pronounced dead. Funeral services are to be arranged.
Myron reread the paragraph twice. “ ‘The injured were rushed,’ ” he read out loud. “As in more than one.”
Esperanza nodded.
“So who else was hurt?”
“I don’t know. There was no follow-up article.”
“Nothing on the arrest or the arraignment or the court case?”
“Nothing. At least, nothing I could find. There was no further mention of any Rennarts. I also tried to get something from St. Elizabeth’s, but they wouldn’t help. Hospital-patient confidentiality, they claimed. I doubt their computers go back to the seventies anyway.”
Myron shook his head. “This is too weird,” he said.
“I saw Carl heading out,” Esperanza said. “What did he want?”
“He came by with a maid from the Court Manor. Guess who Jack Coldren was linking up with for a little afternoon delight?”
“Tonya Harding?”
“Close. Norm Zuckerman.”
Esperanza tilted her head back and forth, as though sizing up an abstract work at the Met. “I’m not surprised. About Norm anyway. Think about it. Never married. No family. In public, he always surrounds himself with young, beautiful women.”
“For show,” Myron said.
“Right. They’re beards. Camouflage. Norm is the front man for a major sports fashion business. Being a known gay could destroy him.”
“So,” Myron said, “if it got out that he was gay …”
“It would hurt a lot,” Esperanza said.
“Is that a motive for murder?”
“Sure,” she said. “It’s millions of dollars and a man’s reputation. People kill for a lot less.”
Myron thought about it. “But how did it happen? Let’s say Chad and Jack meet up at the Court Manor by accident. Suppose Chad figures out what Daddy and Norm are up to. Maybe he mentions it to Esme, who works for Norm. Maybe she and Norm …”
“They what?” Esperanza finished. “They kidnap the kid, cut off his finger, and then let him go?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t mesh,” Myron agreed. “Not yet anyway. But we’re getting close.”
“Oh sure, we’re really narrowing down the field. Let’s see. It could be Esme Fong. It could be Norm Zuckerman. It could be Tad Crispin. It could be a still-alive Lloyd Rennart. It could be his wife or his kid. It could be Matthew Squires or his father or both. Or it could be a combination plan of any of the above—the Rennart family perhaps, or Norm and Esme. And it could be Linda Coldren. How does she explain the gun from her house being the murder weapon? Or the envelopes and the pen she bought?”
“I don’t know,” Myron said slowly. Then: “But you may be on to something here.”
“What?”
“Access. Whoever killed Jack and cut off Chad’s finger had access to the Coldren house. Barring a break-in, who could have gotten hold of the gun and the stationery supplies?”
Esperanza barely hesitated. “Linda Coldren, Jack Coldren, maybe the Squires kid, since he liked to crawl in through the window.” She paused. “I guess that’s it.”
“Okay, good. Now let’s move on a little. Who knew that Chad Coldren was at the Court Manor Inn? I mean, whoever kidnapped him had to know where he was, right?”
“Right. Okay, Jack again, Esme Fong, Norm Zuckerman, Matthew Squires again. Boy, Myron, this is really helpful.”
“So what names show up on both lists?”
“Jack and Matthew Squires. And I think we can leave Jack’s name off—his being the victim and all.”
But Myron stopped for a moment. He thought about his conversation with Win. About the naked desire to win. How far would Jack go to guarantee victory? Win had said that he would stop at nothing. Was he right?
Esperanza snapped her fingers in his face. “Yo, Myron?”
“What?”
“I said, we can eliminate Jack Coldren. Dead people rarely bury murder weapons in nearby woods.”
That made sense. “So that leaves Matthew Squires,” Myron said, “and I don’t think he’s our boy.”
“Neither do I,” Esperanza said. “But we’re forgetting someone—someone who knew where Chad Coldren was and had complete access to the gun and stationery supplies.”
“Who?”
“Chad Coldren.”
“You think he cut off his own finger?”
Esperanza shrugged. “What about your old theory? The one where the kidnapping was a hoax that went out of control. Think about it. Maybe he and Tito had a falling-out. Maybe it was Chad who killed Tito.”
Myron considered the possibility. He thought about Jack. He thought about Esme. He thought about Lloyd Rennart. Then he shook his head. “This is getting us nowhere. Sherlock Holmes warned that you should never theorize without all the facts because then you twist facts to suit theo
ries rather than theories to suit facts.”
“That never stopped us before,” Esperanza said.
“Good point.” Myron checked his watch. “I gotta go see Francine Rennart.”
“The caddie’s wife.”
“Yup.”
Esperanza went sniff, sniff.
“What?” Myron asked.
One more big sniff. “I smell a complete waste of time,” she said.
She smelled wrong.
39
Victoria Wilson called on the car phone. What, Myron wondered, did people do before the car phone, before the cell phone, before the beeper?
Probably had a lot more fun.
“The police found the body of your neo-Nazi friend,” she said. “His last name is Marshall.”
“Tito Marshall?” Myron frowned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I don’t joke, Myron.”
Of that he had little doubt. “Do the police have any idea he’s tied into this?” Myron asked.
“None whatsoever.”
“And I assume he died of a gunshot wound.”
“That’s the preliminary finding, yes. Mr. Marshall was shot twice in the head at close range with a thirty-eight.”
“A thirty-eight? But Jack was killed with a twenty-two.”
“Yes, Myron, I know.”
“So different guns killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall.”
Victoria did the bored thing again. “Hard to believe you’re not a professional ballistics expert.”
Everyone’s a smart-ass. But this new development threw a whole bunch of scenarios out of whack. If two different guns had killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall, did that mean there were two different killers? Or was the killer smart enough to use different weapons? Or had the killer disposed of the thirty-eight after killing Tito and was thus forced to use the twenty-two on Jack? And what kind of warped mind names a kid Tito Marshall? Bad enough to go through life with a moniker like Myron. But Tito Marshall? No wonder the kid had turned out as a neo-Nazi. Probably started out as a virulent anti-Communist.
Victoria interrupted his thoughts. “I called for another reason, Myron.”
