The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  Nobody wore shorts anymore either. Every kid was dressed in blue or black jeans that journeyed far south of baggy, like something a circus clown might sport for an extra laugh. The waist drooped below the butt, revealing designer boxer shorts. Myron did not want to sound like an old man, grousing over the younger generation’s fashion sense, but these made bell-bottoms and platforms seem practical. How do you play your best when you’re constantly pausing to pull up your pants?

  But the biggest change was in those glares. Myron had been scared when he first came down here as a fifteen-year-old high school student, but he had known that if he wanted to rise to the next level, he had to face down the best competition. That meant playing here. He had not been welcomed at first. Not even close. But the looks of curious animosity he received back then were nothing compared with the dagger-death glares of these kids. Their hatred was naked, up front, filled with cold resignation. Corny to say, but back then—less than twenty years ago—there had been something different here. More hope maybe. Hard to say.

  As though reading his thoughts, Brenda said, “I wouldn’t even play down here anymore.”

  Myron nodded.

  “It wasn’t easy on you, was it? Coming down here to play.”

  “Your father made it easy,” he said.

  She smiled. “I never understood why he took such a liking to you. He usually hated white people.”

  Myron feigned a gasp. “I’m white?”

  “As Pat Buchanan.”

  They both forced out a laugh. Myron tried again. “Tell me about the threats.”

  Brenda stared out the window. They passed a place that sold hubcaps. Hundreds, if not thousands, of hubcaps gleamed in the sun. Weird business when you thought about it. The only time people need a new hubcap is when one of theirs is stolen. The stolen ones end up in a place like this. A mini fiscal cycle.

  “I get calls,” she began. “At night mostly. One time they said they were going to hurt me if they didn’t find my father. Another time they told me I better keep Dad as my manager or else.” She stopped.

  “Any idea who they are?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea why someone would want to find your father?”

  “No.”

  “Or why your father would disappear?”

  She shook her head.

  “Norm said something about a car following you.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” she said.

  “The voice on the phone,” Myron said. “Is it the same one every time?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Male, female?”

  “Male. And white. Or at least, he sounds white.”

  Myron nodded. “Does Horace gamble?”

  “Never. My grandfather gambled. Lost everything he had, which wasn’t much. Dad would never go near it.”

  “Did he borrow money?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Even with financial aid, your schooling had to cost.”

  “I’ve been on scholarship since I was twelve.”

  Myron nodded. Up ahead a man stumbled about the sidewalk. He was wearing Calvin Klein underwear, two different ski boots, and one of those big Russian hats like Dr. Zhivago. Nothing else. No shirt, no pants. His fist gripped the top of a brown paper bag like he was helping it cross the street.

  “When did the calls start?” Myron asked.

  “A week ago.”

  “When your dad disappeared?”

  Brenda nodded. She had more to say. Myron could see it in the way she stared off. He kept silent and waited her out.

  “The first time,” she said quietly, “the voice told me to call my mother.”

  Myron waited for her to say more. When it was apparent she wouldn’t, he said, “Did you?”

  She smiled sadly. “No.”

  “Where does your mother live?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I was five years old.”

  “When you say ‘haven’t seen her’—”

  “I mean just that. She abandoned us twenty years ago.” Brenda finally turned toward him. “You look surprised.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Why? You know how many of those boys back there had their fathers abandon them? You think a mother can’t do the same thing?”

  She had a point, but it sounded more like hollow rationalization than true conviction. “So you haven’t seen her since you were five?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know where she lives? A city or state or anything?”

  “No idea.” She tried hard to sound indifferent.

  “You’ve had no contact with her?”

  “Just a couple of letters.”

  “Any return address?”

  Brenda shook her head. “They were postmarked in New York City. That’s all I know.”

  “Would Horace know where she lives?”

  “No. He’s never so much as spoken her name in the past twenty years.”

  “At least not to you.”

  She nodded.

  “Maybe the voice on the phone didn’t mean your mother,” Myron said. “Do you have a stepmother? Did your father remarry or live with someone—”

  “No. Since my mother there has been no one.”

  Silence.

  “So why would someone be asking about your mother after twenty years?” Myron asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “None. For twenty years she’s been a ghost to me.” She pointed up ahead. “Make a left.”

  “Do you mind if I get a trace put on your phone? In case they call again?”

  She shook her head.

  He steered the car per her instructions. “Tell me about your relationship with Horace,” he said.

  “No.”

  “I’m not asking to be nosy—”

  “It’s irrelevant, Myron. If I loved him or hated him, you still need to find him.”

  “You got a restraining order to keep him away from you, right?”

  She said nothing for a moment. Then: “Do you remember how he was on the court?”

  Myron nodded. “A madman. And maybe the best teacher I ever had.”

  “And the most intense?”

  “Yes,” Myron said. “He taught me not to play with so much finesse. That wasn’t always an easy lesson.”

  “Right, and you were just some kid he took a liking to. But imagine being his own child. Now imagine that on-court intensity mixed with his fear that he would lose me. That I would run away and leave him.”

  “Like your mother.”

  “Right.”

  “It would be,” Myron said, “stifling.”

  “Try suffocating,” she corrected. “Three weeks ago we were playing a promotional scrimmage at East Orange High School. You know it?”

  “Sure.”

  “A couple of guys in the crowd were getting rowdy. Two high school kids. They were on the basketball team. They were drunk or high, or maybe they were just punks. I don’t know. But they started yelling things out at me.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Graphic and ugly things. About what they’d like to do to me. My father stood up and went after them.”

  “I can’t say I blame him,” Myron said.

  She shook her head. “Then you’re another Neanderthal.”

  “What?”

  “Why would you have gone after them? To defend my honor? I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman. I don’t need any of that chivalry crap.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. This whole thing, your being here—I’m not a radical feminist or anything, but it’s a load of sexist bullshit.”

  “What?”

  “If I had a penis between my legs, you wouldn’t be here. If my name was Leroy and I got a couple of weird phone calls, you wouldn’t be so hot to protect poor little me, would you?”

  Myron hesitated a second too long.

  “And,” she cont
inued, “how many times have you seen me play?”

  The change of subject caught him off guard. “What?”

  “I was the number one collegiate player three years in a row. My team won two national championships. We were on ESPN all the time, and during the NCAA finals we were on CBS. I went to Reston University, which is only half an hour from where you live. How many of my games did you see?”

  Myron opened his mouth, closed it, said, “None.”

  “Right. Chicks’ basketball. It’s not worth the time.”

  “That’s not it. I don’t watch much sports anymore.” He realized how lame he sounded.

  She shook her head and grew quiet.

  “Brenda—”

  “Forget I said anything. It was dumb to raise the subject.”

  Her tone left little room for follow-up. Myron wanted to defend himself, but he had no idea how. He opted for silence, an option he should probably exercise more often.

  “Take your next right,” she said.

  “So what happened next?” he asked.

  She looked at him.

  “To the punks who called you names. What happened after your father went after them?”

  “The security guards broke it up before anything really happened. They threw the kids out of the gym. Dad too.”

  “I’m not sure I see the point of this story.”

  “It’s not over yet.” Brenda stopped, looked down, summoned up a little something, raised her head again. “Three days later the two boys—Clay Jackson and Arthur Harris—were found on the roof of a tenement building. Someone had tied them up and cut their Achilles tendon in half with pruning shears.”

  Myron’s face lost color. His stomach took a nosedive. “Your father?”

  Brenda nodded. “He’s been doing stuff like that my whole life. Never this bad. But he’s always made people who cross me pay. When I was a little girl with no mother, I almost welcomed the protection. But I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  Myron absently reached down and touched the back of his ankle. Cut the Achilles tendon in half. With pruning shears. He tried not to look too stunned. “The police must have suspected Horace.”

  “Yes.”

  “So how come he wasn’t arrested?”

  “Not enough evidence.”

  “Couldn’t the victims identify him?”

  She turned back to the window. “They’re too scared.” She pointed to the right. “Park there.”

  Myron pulled over. People toddled about the street. They stared at him as though they had never seen a white man; in this neighborhood that was entirely possible. Myron tried to look casual. He nodded a polite hello. Some people nodded back. Some didn’t.

  A yellow car—nay, a speaker on wheels—cruised by, blaring a rap tune. The bass was set so high that Myron felt the vibrations in his chest. He could not make out the lyrics, but they sounded angry. Brenda led him to a stoop. Two men were sprawled on the stairs like war wounded. Brenda stepped over them without a second glance. Myron followed. He suddenly realized that he had never been here before. His relationship with Horace Slaughter had been strictly basketball. They had always hung out on the playground or in a gym or maybe grabbing a pizza after a game. He had never been in Horace’s home, and Horace had never been in his.

  There was no doorman, of course, no lock or buzzers or any of that. The lighting was bad in the corridor, but not bad enough to conceal the paint flaking off like the walls had psoriasis. Most of the mailboxes were doorless. The air felt like a beaded curtain.

  She climbed up the cement stairs. The railing was industrial metal. Myron could hear a man coughing as if he were trying to dislodge a lung. A baby cried. Then another joined in. Brenda stopped on the second floor and turned right. Her keys were already in her hand and at the ready. The door too was made of some sort of reinforced steel. There was a peephole and three bolt locks.

  Brenda unlocked the three bolts first. They jerked back noisily, like the prison scene in a movie where the warden yells, “Lockdown!” The door swung open. Myron was hit by two thoughts at exactly the same time. One was how nice Horace’s setup was. Whatever was outside this apartment, whatever grime and rot were on the streets or even in his corridor, Horace Slaughter had not allowed to sneak past the steel door. The walls were as white as a hand cream commercial. The floors looked newly buffed. The furniture was a mix of what looked like fixed-up family pieces and newer Ikea acquisitions. It was indeed a comfortable home.

  The other thing Myron noticed as soon as the door was open was that someone had trashed the room.

  Brenda rushed in. “Dad?”

  Myron followed, wishing that he had his gun. This scene called for a gun. He would signal her to be quiet, take it out, have her stand behind him, creep through the apartment with her clutching on to his free arm in fear. He would do that gun swing thing into each room, his body crouched and prepared for the worst. But Myron did not regularly carry a gun. It was not that he disliked guns—when in trouble, in fact, he rather enjoyed their company—but a gun is bulky and chafed like a tweed condom. And let’s face it, for most prospective clients, a sports agent packing heat does not inspire confidence, and for those it does, well, Myron would rather do without them.

  Win, on the other hand, always carried a gun—at least two, actually, not to mention a prodigious potpourri of concealed weaponry. The man was like a walking Israel.

  The apartment consisted of three rooms and a kitchen. They hurried through them. Nobody. And no body.

  “Anything missing?” Myron asked.

  She looked at him, annoyed. “How the hell would I know?”

  “I mean, anything noticeable. The TV is here. So is the VCR. I want to know if you think it’s a robbery.”

  She glanced about the living room. “No,” she said. “It doesn’t look like a robbery.”

  “Any thoughts on who did this or why?”

  Brenda shook her head, her eyes still taking in the mess.

  “Did Horace hide money someplace? A cookie jar or under a floorboard or something?”

  “No.”

  They started in Horace’s room. Brenda opened up his closet. For a long moment she stood and said nothing.

  “Brenda?”

  “A lot of his clothes are missing,” she said softly. “His suitcase too.”

  “That’s good,” Myron said. “It means he probably ran; it makes it less likely that he met up with foul play.”

  She nodded. “But it’s creepy.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s just like my mother. I can still remember Dad just standing here, staring at the empty hangers.”

  They moved back into the living room and then into a small bedroom.

  “Your room?” Myron asked.

  “I’m not here very much, but yeah, this is my room.”

  Brenda’s eyes immediately fell on a spot near her night table. She gave a little gasp and dived to the floor. Her hands began to paw through her effects.

  “Brenda?”

  Her pawing grew more intense, her eyes aflame. After a few minutes she got up and ran to her father’s room. Then the living room. Myron kept back.

  “They’re gone,” she said.

  “What?”

  Brenda looked at him. “The letters my mother wrote me. Someone took them.”

  Myron parked the car in front of Brenda’s dorm room. Except for monosyllabic directions, Brenda had not spoken during the drive. Myron did not push it. He stopped the car and turned toward her. She continued to stare ahead.

  Reston University was a place of green grass and big oaks and brick buildings and Frisbees and bandannas. Professors still had long hair and unkempt beards and tweed jackets. There was such a feeling of innocence here, of make-believe, of youth, of startling passion. But that was the beauty of such a university: students debating over life-and-death issues in an environment as insulated as Disney World. Reality had nothing to do with the equation. And that was okay. In fact, that was how it sh
ould be.

  “She just left,” Brenda said. “I was five years old, and she just left me alone with him.”

  Myron let her speak.

  “I remember everything about her. The way she looked. The way she smelled. The way she’d come home from her job so tired she could barely put her feet up. I don’t think I’ve talked about her five times in the past twenty years. But I think about her every day. I think about why she gave me up. And I think about why I still miss her.”

  She put her hand to her chin then and turned away. The car stayed silent.

  “You good at this, Myron?” she asked. “At investigating?”

  “I think so,” he said.

  Brenda grabbed the door handle and pulled. “Could you find my mother?”

  She did not wait for a response. She hurried out of the car and up the steps. Myron watched her disappear into the colonial brick building. Then he started up the car and headed home.

  Myron found a spot on Spring Street right outside Jessica’s loft. He still referred to his new dwelling as Jessica’s loft, even though he now lived here and paid half the rent. Weird how that worked.

  Myron took the stairs to the third floor. He opened the door and immediately heard Jessica yell out, “Working.”

  He did not hear any clacking on the computer keyboard, but that didn’t mean anything. He made his way into the bedroom, closed the door, and checked the answering machine. When Jessica was writing, she never answered the phone.

  Myron hit the play button. “Hello, Myron? This is your mother.” Like he wouldn’t recognize the voice. “God, I hate this machine. Why doesn’t she pick up? I know she’s there. Is it so hard for a human being to pick up a phone and say hello and take a message? I’m in my office, my phone rings, I pick it up. Even if I’m working. Or I have my secretary take a message. Not a machine. I don’t like machines, Myron, you know that.” She continued on in a similar vein for some time. Myron longed for the old days when there was a time limit on answering machines. Progress was not always a good thing.

  Finally Mom began to wind down. “Just calling to say hello, doll face. We’ll talk later.”

  For the first thirty-plus years of his life, Myron had lived with his parents in the New Jersey suburb of Livingston. As an infant he’d started life in the small nursery upstairs on the left. From the age of three to sixteen, he lived in the bedroom upstairs on the right; from sixteen to just a few months ago, he’d lived in the basement. Not all the time, of course. He went to Duke down in North Carolina for four years, spent summers working basketball camps, stayed on occasion with Jessica or Win in Manhattan. But his true home had always been, well, with Mommy and Daddy—by choice, strangely enough, though some might suggest that serious therapy would unearth deeper motives.