by Harlan Coben
By the time he got back to his house, Brenda was showered and dressed. The cornrows in her hair cascaded down her shoulders in a wondrous dark wave. The café con leche skin was luminous. She gave him a smile that corkscrewed right through his heart.
He wanted very much to hold her.
“I called Aunt Mabel,” Brenda said. “People are gathering at her house.”
“I’ll drop you off.”
They said good-bye to Mom. Mom warned them sternly not to talk to the police without an attorney present. And to wear seat belts.
When they got in the car, Brenda said, “Your parents are great.”
“Yeah, I guess they are.”
“You’re lucky.”
He nodded.
Silence. Then Brenda said, “I keep waiting for one of us to say, ‘About last night.’ ”
Myron smiled. “Me too.”
“I don’t want to forget it.”
Myron swallowed. “Neither do I.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Decisiveness,” she said. “I love that in a man.”
He smiled again and turned right on Hobart Gap Road.
Brenda said, “I thought West Orange was the other way.”
“I want to make a quick stop, if you don’t mind.”
“Where?”
“The Holiday Inn. According to your father’s charge cards, he was there a week ago Thursday. It was the last time he used any of his cards. I think he met someone for a meal or drinks.”
“How do you know he didn’t stay overnight?”
“The charge was for twenty-six dollars even. That’s too low for a room yet too high for a meal for one. It’s also a straight twenty-six dollars. No cents. When people tip, they often round off. Best guess is that he met someone there for lunch.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Myron gave a half shrug. “I have the photograph of Horace from the paper. I’m going to show it around and see what happens.”
On Route 10 he made a left and pulled into the Holiday Inn lot. They were less than two miles from Myron’s house. The Holiday Inn was a typical two-level highway motel. Myron had last been here four years ago. An old high school buddy’s bachelor party. Someone had hired a black hooker aptly named Danger. Danger put on a supposed “sex show” far closer to freaky than erotic. She also handed out business cards. They read: “FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL DANGER.” Original. And now that Myron thought about it, he bet that Danger was not even her real name.
“You want to wait in the car?” he asked.
Brenda shook her head. “I’ll walk around a little.”
The lobby had prints of flowers on the wall. The carpet was pale green. The reception desk was on the right. A plastic sculpture that looked like two fish tails stuck together was on the left. Serious ugly.
Breakfast was still being served. Buffet-style. Dozens of people jockeyed about the spread, moving as though choreographed—step forward, spoon food onto plate, step back, step right, step forward again. Nobody bumped into anyone else. Hands and mouths were a blur. The whole thing looked a bit like a Discovery Channel special on the anthill.
A perky hostess stepped up to him. “How many?”
Myron put on his best cop face, adding just a hint of a smile. From his Peter Jennings line—professional yet accessible. He cleared his throat and asked, “Have you seen this man?” Just like that. No preamble.
He held up the photograph from the newspaper. The perky hostess studied it. She did not ask who he was; as he had hoped, his demeanor made her assume that he was someone official.
“I’m not the one to ask,” the hostess said. “You should speak to Caroline.”
“Caroline?” Myron Bolitar, Parrot Investigator.
“Caroline Gundeck. She was the one who had lunch with him.”
Every once in a while you just get lucky.
“Would that have been last Thursday?” he asked.
The hostess thought about it a moment. “I think so, yeah.”
“Where can I find Miss Gundeck?”
“Her office is on level B. Down at the end of the corridor.”
“Caroline Gundeck works here?” He’d been told that Caroline Gundeck has an office on level B, and just like that he’d deduced that she worked here. Sherlock reincarnated.
“Caroline’s worked here forever,” the hostess said with a friendly eye roll.
“What’s her title?”
“Food and beverage manager.”
Hmm. Her occupation was not enlightening—unless Horace had been planning to throw a party before his murder. Doubtful. Nonetheless, this was a solid clue. He took the steps down to the basement and quickly found her office. But his luck did not hold. A secretary informed him that Miss Gundeck was not in today. Was she expected? The secretary would not say. Could he get her home number? The secretary frowned. Myron did not push it. Caroline Gundeck had to live in the area. Getting her phone number and address would be no problem.
Back in the corridor Myron dialed information. He asked for Gundeck in Livingston. Nothing. He asked for Gundeck in East Hanover or the area. Bingo. There was a C Gundeck in Whippany. Myron dialed the number. After four rings a machine picked up. Myron left a message.
When he came back up to the lobby, he found Brenda standing alone in a corner. Her face looked drained, her eyes wide as though someone had just poked her hard in the solar plexus. She did not move or even glance his way as he approached.
“What is it?” he asked.
Brenda gulped some air and turned to him. “I think I’ve been here before,” she said.
“When?”
“A long time ago. I don’t remember really. It’s just a feeling … or maybe I’m just imagining. But I think I was here as a little kid. With my mother.”
Silence.
“Do you remember—”
“Nothing,” Brenda interrupted him. “I’m not even sure it was here. Maybe it was another motel. It’s not like this one is special. But I think it was here. That weird sculpture. It’s familiar.”
“What were you wearing?” he tried.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“What about your mother? What was she wearing?”
“What are you, a fashion consultant?”
“I’m just trying to jar something loose.”
“I don’t remember anything. She vanished when I was five. How much do you remember from back then?”
Point taken. “Let’s walk around a little,” he suggested. “See if something comes back to you.”
But nothing surfaced, if indeed there was anything there to surface. Myron had not expected anything anyway. He was not big on repressed memory or any of that stuff. Still, the whole episode was curious, and once again it fit into his scenario. As they made their way back to Myron’s car, he decided that it was time to voice his theory.
“I think I know what your father was doing.”
Brenda stopped and looked at him. Myron kept moving. He got into the car. Brenda followed. The car doors closed.
Myron said, “I think Horace was looking for your mother.”
The words took a moment to sink in. Then Brenda leaned back and said, “Tell me why.”
He started up the car. “Okay, but remember I used the word think. I think that’s what he was doing. I don’t have any real proof.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
He took a deep breath. “Let’s start with your father’s phone records. One, he calls Arthur Bradford’s campaign headquarters several times. Why? As far as we know, there is only one connection between your father and Bradford.”
“The fact that my mother worked in his house.”
“Right. Twenty years ago. But here’s something else to consider. When I started searching for your mother, I stumbled upon the Bradfords. I thought they might somehow be connected. Your father might have come to the same conclusion.”
She looked less than impressed. “W
hat else?”
“The phone records again. Horace called the two attorneys who handled your scholarships.”
“So?”
“So why would he call them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your scholarships are strange, Brenda. Especially the first one. You weren’t even a basketball player yet and you get a vague academic scholarship to a ritzy private school plus expenses? It doesn’t make sense. Scholarships just don’t work that way. And I checked. You are the only recipient of the Outreach Education scholarship. They only awarded it that one year.”
“So what are you getting at?”
“Somebody set up those scholarships with the sole intent of helping you, with the sole intent of funneling you money.” He made the U-turn by Daffy Dan’s, a discount clothing store, and started heading back down Route 10 toward the circle. “In other words, somebody was trying to help you out. Your father may have been trying to find out who that was.”
He glanced over at her, but she would not face him now. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was throaty. “And you think it was my mother?”
Myron tried to tread gently. “I don’t know. But why else would your father call Thomas Kincaid so many times? The man had not handled your scholarship money since you left high school. You read that letter. Why would Horace pester him to the point of near harassment? The only thing I can think of is that Kincaid had information that your father wanted.”
“Where the scholarship money originated from?”
“Right. My guess is, if we can trace that back”—again, tread gently—“we would find something very interesting.”
“Can we do that?”
“I’m not sure. The attorneys will undoubtedly claim privilege. But I’m going to put Win on it. If it involves money, he’ll have the connections to track it down.”
Brenda sat back and tried to digest all this. “Do you think my father traced it back?”
“I doubt it, but I don’t know. Either way your father was starting to make some noise. He hit up the lawyers, and he even went so far as to start questioning Arthur Bradford. That was where he probably went too far. Even if there’d been no wrongdoing, Bradford would not be happy with someone poking into his past, raising old ghosts, especially during an election year.”
“So he killed my father?”
Myron was not sure how to answer that one. “It’s too early to say for sure. But let’s assume for a second that your father did a little too much poking. And let’s also assume the Bradfords scared him off with a beating.”
Brenda nodded. “The blood in the locker.”
“Right. I keep wondering why we found the blood there, why Horace didn’t go home to change or recuperate. My guess is he was beaten near the hospital. In Livingston, at the very least.”
“Where the Bradfords live.”
Myron nodded. “And if Horace escaped from the beating or if he was just afraid they’d come after him again, he wouldn’t go home. He’d probably change at the hospital and run. In the morgue I noticed clothes in the corner—a security guard uniform. It was probably what he changed into when he got to the locker. Then he hit the road and—”
Myron stopped.
“And what?” she asked.
“Damn,” Myron said.
“What?”
“What’s Mabel’s phone number?”
Brenda gave it to him. “Why?”
Myron switched on the cell phone and dialed Lisa at Bell Atlantic. He asked her to check the number. It took Lisa about two minutes.
“Nothing official on it,” Lisa said. “But I checked the line. There’s a noise there.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone’s probably got a tap on it. Internal. You’d have to send someone by there to be sure.”
Myron thanked her and hung up. “They have Mabel’s phone tapped too. That’s probably how they found your father. He called your aunt, and they traced it.”
“So who’s behind the tap?”
“I don’t know,” Myron said.
Silence. They passed the Star-Bright Pizzeria. In Myron’s youth it was rumored that a whorehouse operated out of the back. Myron had gone several times there with his family. When his dad went to the bathroom, Myron followed. Nothing.
“There’s something else that doesn’t make sense,” Brenda said.
“What?”
“Even if you’re right about the scholarships, where would my mother get that kind of money?”
Good question. “How much did she take from your dad?”
“Fourteen thousand, I think.”
“If she invested well, that might be enough. There were seven years between the time she disappeared and the first scholarship payment, so …” Myron calculated the figures in his head. Fourteen grand to start. Hmm. Anita Slaughter would have had to score big to make the money last this long. Possible, sure, but even in the Reagan years, not likely.
Hold the phone.
“She may have found another way to get money,” he said slowly.
“How?”
Myron stayed quiet for a moment. The head gears were churning again. He checked his rearview mirror. If there was a tail, he didn’t spot it. But that did not mean much. A casual glance rarely gave it away. You had to watch the cars, memorize them, study their movements. But he could not concentrate on that. Not right now.
“Myron?”
“I’m thinking.”
She looked like she was about to say something but then thought better of it.
“Suppose,” Myron continued, “your mother did learn something about the death of Elizabeth Bradford.”
“Didn’t we already try this?”
“Just stay with me a second, okay? Before, we came up with two possibilities. One, she was scared and ran. Two, they tried to hurt her and she ran.”
“And now you have a third?”
“Sort of.” He drove past the new Starbucks on the corner of Mount Pleasant Avenue. He wanted to stop—his caffeine craving worked like a magnetic pull—but he pushed on. “Suppose your mother did run away. And suppose once she was safe, she demanded money to keep quiet.”
“You think she blackmailed the Bradfords?”
“More like compensation.” He spoke even as the ideas were still forming. Always a dangerous thing. “Your mother sees something. She realizes that the only way to guarantee her safety, and her family’s safety, is to run away and hide. If the Bradfords find her, they’ll kill her. Plain and simple. If she tries to do something cute—like hide evidence in a safety-deposit box in the event she disappears or something like that—they’ll torture her until she tells them where it is. Your mother has no choice. She has to run. But she wants to take care of her daughter too. So she makes sure that her daughter gets all the things she herself could never have provided for her. A top-quality education. A chance to live on a pristine campus instead of the bowels of Newark. Stuff like that.”
More silence.
Myron waited. He was voicing theories too fast now, not giving his brain a chance to process or even to inspect his words. He stopped now, letting everything settle.
“Your scenarios,” Brenda said. “You’re always looking to put my mother in the best light. It blinds you, I think.”
“How so?”
“I’ll ask you again: If all that is true, why didn’t she take me with her?”
“She was on the run from killers. What kind of mother would want to put her child in that kind of danger?”
“And she was so paranoid that she could never call me? Or see me?”
“Paranoid?” Myron repeated. “These guys have a tap on your phone. They have people tailing you. Your father is dead.”
Brenda shook her head. “You don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
Her eyes were watery now, but she kept her tone a little too even. “You can make all the excuses you want, but you can’t get around the fact that she abandoned her child. Even if she had good reason,
even if she was this wonderful self-sacrificing mother who did all this to protect me, why would she let her daughter go on believing that her own mother would abandon her? Didn’t she realize how this would devastate a five-year-old girl? Couldn’t she have found some way to tell her the truth—even after all these years?”
Her child. Her daughter. Tell her the truth. Never I or me. Interesting. But Myron kept silent. He had no answer to that one.
They drove past the Kessler Institute and hit a traffic light. After some time had passed, Brenda said, “I still want to go to practice this afternoon.”
Myron nodded. He understood. The court was comfort.
“And I want to play in the opener.”
Again Myron nodded. It was probably what Horace would have wanted too.
They made the turn near Mountain High School and arrived at Mabel Edwards’s house. There were at least a dozen cars parked on the road, most American-made, most older and beaten up. A formally dressed black couple stood by the door. The man pressed the bell. The woman held a platter of food. When they spotted Brenda, they glared at her and then turned their backs.
“They’ve read the papers, I see,” Brenda said.
“No one thinks you did it.”
Her look told him to stop with the patronizing.
They walked her to the front door and stood behind the couple. The couple huffed and looked away. The man tapped his foot. The woman made a production out of sighing. Myron opened his mouth, but Brenda closed it with a firm shake of her head. Already she was reading him.
Someone opened the door. There were lots of people already inside. All nicely dressed. All black. Funny how Myron kept noticing that. A black couple. Black people inside. Last night at the barbecue he had not found it strange that everyone except Brenda was white. In fact, Myron could not recall a black person ever attending one of the neighborhood barbecues. So why should he be surprised to be the only white person here? And why should it make him feel funny?
The couple disappeared inside as though sucked up by a vortex. Brenda hesitated. When they finally stepped through the doorway, it was like something out of a saloon scene in a John Wayne film. The low murmurs ceased as if somebody had snapped off a radio. Everyone turned and glowered. For a half a second Myron thought it was a racial thing—he being the only white guy—but then he saw the animosity was aimed directly at the grieving daughter.
