The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  “Get your hand off my shoulder,” Myron said.

  Pomeranz ignored the request. “Everything okay here?”

  Wickner spoke up. “We were just talking, Roy.”

  “Talking about what?”

  Myron handled that one. “About you.”

  Big smile. “Oh?”

  Myron pointed. “We were just saying that if you got a hoop earring, you’d be the spitting image of Mr. Clean.”

  Pomeranz’s smile vanished.

  Myron lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you one more time. Move your hand, or I’ll break it in three places.” Note the three-places reference. Specific threats were always the best. He’d learned that from Win.

  Pomeranz kept the hand there a second or two longer—to keep face—and then he slid it off.

  “You’re still on the force, Roy,” Myron said. “So you got the most to lose. But I’ll make you the same offer. Tell me what you know about the Bradford case, and I’ll try to keep your name out of it.”

  Pomeranz smirked at him. “Funny thing, Bolitar.”

  “What?”

  “You digging into all this in an election year.”

  “Your point being?”

  “You’re working for Davison,” he said. “You’re just trying to drag down a good man like Arthur Bradford for that scum sucker.”

  Davison was Bradford’s opponent for governor. “Sorry, Roy, that’s incorrect.”

  “Yeah? Well, either way, Elizabeth Bradford died from a fall.”

  “Who pushed her?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Someone accidentally pushed her?”

  “Nobody pushed her, wise guy. It was late at night. The terrace was slippery. She fell. It was an accident. Happens all the time.”

  “Really? How many deaths has Livingston had in the past twenty years where a woman accidentally fell to her death from her own balcony?”

  Pomeranz crossed his arms over his chest. His biceps bulged like baseballs. The guy was doing one of those subtle flexes, where you’re trying to look like you’re not flexing. “Accidents in the home. You know how many people die in home accidents every year?”

  “No, Roy, how many?”

  Pomeranz didn’t answer. Big surprise. He met Wickner’s eye. Wickner remained silent. He looked vaguely ashamed.

  Myron decided to go for the whammy. “And what about the assault on Anita Slaughter? Was that an accident too?”

  Stunned silence. Wickner involuntarily groaned a little. Pomeranz’s thigh-thick arms dropped back to his sides.

  Pomeranz said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do, Roy. Eli even alluded to it in the police file.”

  Angry smirk. “You mean the file that Francine Neagly stole from the records room?”

  “She didn’t steal it, Roy. She looked at it.”

  Pomeranz smiled slowly. “Well, it’s missing now. She had it last. We firmly believe that Officer Neagly stole it.”

  Myron shook his head. “Not that easy, Roy. You can hide that file. You can even hide the file on the Anita Slaughter assault. But I already got my hand on the hospital file. From St. Barnabas. They keep records, Roy.”

  More stunned looks. It was a bluff. But it was a good one. And it drew blood.

  Pomeranz leaned very close to Myron, his breath reeking of a poorly digested meal. He kept his voice low. “You’re poking your nose where it don’t belong.”

  Myron nodded. “And you’re not brushing after every meal.”

  “I’m not going to let you drag down a good man with false innuendos.”

  “Innuendos,” Myron repeated. “You been listening to vocabulary tapes in the squad car, Roy? Do the taxpayers know about this?”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, funny man.”

  “Oooo, I’m so scared.” When short a comeback, fall back on the classics.

  “I don’t have to start with you,” Pomeranz said. He leaned back a bit, the smile returning. “I got Francine Neagly.”

  “What about her?”

  “She had no business with that file. We believe that someone in Davison’s campaign—probably you, Bolitar—paid her to steal it. To gather any information that can be used in a distorted fashion to hurt Arthur Bradford.”

  Myron frowned. “Distorted fashion?”

  “You think I won’t do it?”

  “I don’t even know what that means. Distorted fashion? Was that on one of your tapes?”

  Pomeranz stuck a finger in Myron’s face. “You think I won’t suspend her sorry ass and ruin her career?”

  “Pomeranz, not even you can be that dumb. You ever heard of Jessica Culver?”

  The finger came down. “She’s your girlfriend, right?” Pomeranz said. “She’s a writer or something.”

  “A big writer,” Myron said. “Very well respected. And you know what she would love to do? A big expose on sexism in police departments. You do anything to Francine Neagly, you so much as demote her or give her one shit detail or breathe on her between meals, and I promise you that when Jessica gets done, you’ll make Bob Packwood look like Betty Friedan.”

  Pomeranz looked confused. Probably didn’t know who Betty Friedan was. Maybe he should have said Gloria Steinem. To his credit, Pomeranz took his time. He fought for recovery, offering up an almost sweet smile.

  “Okay,” he said, “so it’s the cold war all over again. I can nuke you, you can nuke me. It’s a stalemate.”

  “Wrong, Roy. You’re the one with the job, the family, the rep, and maybe a looming jail term. Me, I got nothing to lose.”

  “You can’t be serious. You’re dealing with the most powerful family in New Jersey. Do you really think you’ve got nothing to lose?”

  Myron shrugged. “I’m also crazy,” he said. “Or to put it another way, my mind works in a distorted fashion.”

  Pomeranz looked over at Wickner. Wickner looked back. There was a crack of the bat. The crowd got to its feet. The ball hit the fence. “Go, Billy!” Billy rounded second and slid into third.

  Pomeranz walked away without another word.

  Myron looked at Wickner for a long time. “Are you a total sham, Detective?”

  Wickner said nothing.

  “When I was eleven, you spoke to my fifth-grade class and we all thought you were the coolest guy we’d ever seen. I used to look for you at games. I used to want your approval. But you’re just a lie.”

  Wickner kept his eyes on the field. “Let it go, Myron.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Davison is a scum. He’s not worth it.”

  “I’m not working for Davison. I’m working for Anita Slaughter’s daughter.”

  Wickner kept his eyes on the field. His mouth was set, but Myron could see the tremor starting back up in the corner of his mouth. “All you’re going to do is hurt a lot of people.”

  “What happened to Elizabeth Bradford?”

  “She fell,” he said. “That’s all.”

  “I’m not going to stop digging,” Myron said.

  Wickner adjusted his cap again and began to walk away. “Then more people are going to die.”

  There was no threat in his tone, just the stilted, pained timber of inevitability.

  When Myron headed back to his car, the two goons from Bradford Farms were waiting for him. The big one and the skinny, older guy. The skinny guy wore long sleeves so Myron could not see if there was a snake tattoo, but the two looked right from Mabel Edwards’s description.

  Myron felt something inside him start to simmer.

  The big guy was show. Probably a wrestler in high school. Maybe a bouncer at a local bar. He thought he was tough; Myron knew that he would be no problem. The skinny, older guy was hardly a formidable physical specimen. He looked like an aged version of the puny guy who gets the sand kicked on him in the old Charles Atlas cartoon. But the face was so ferretlike, the eyes so beady that he made you pause. Myron knew better than to judge on appearance, but th
is guy’s face was simply too thin and too pointed and too cruel.

  Myron spoke to the Skinny Ferret. “Can I see your tattoo?” Direct approach.

  The big guy looked confused, but Skinny Ferret took it all in stride.

  “I’m not used to guys using that line on me,” Skinny said.

  “Guys,” Myron repeated. “But with your looks, the chicks must be asking all the time.”

  If Skinny was offended by the crack, he was laughing his way through it. “So you really want to see the snake?”

  Myron shook his head. The snake. The question had been answered. These were the right guys. The big one had punched Mabel Edwards in the eye.

  The simmer flicked up a notch.

  “So what can I do for you fellas?” Myron said. “You collecting donations for the Kiwanis Club?”

  “Yeah,” the big guy said. “Blood donations.”

  Myron looked at him. “I’m not a grandmother, tough guy.”

  Big said, “Huh?”

  Skinny cleared his throat. “Governor-to-be Bradford would like to see you.”

  “Governor-to-be?”

  The Skinny Ferret shrugged. “Confidence.”

  “Nice to see. So why doesn’t he call me?”

  “The next governor thought it would be best if we accompanied you.”

  “I think I can manage to drive the mile by myself.” Myron looked at the big guy again and spoke slowly. “After all, I’m not a grandmother.”

  The big guy sniffed and rolled his neck. “I can still beat you like one.”

  “Beat me as you would a grandmother,” Myron said. “Gee, what a guy.”

  Myron had read recently about self-help gurus who taught their students to picture themselves successful. Visualize it, and it will happen or some such credo. Myron was not sure, but he knew that it worked in combat. If the chance presents itself, picture how you will attack. Imagine what countermoves your opponent might make and prepare yourself for them. That was what Myron had been doing since Skinny had admitted to the tattoo. Now that he saw that no one was in sight, he struck.

  Myron’s knee landed squarely in the big guy’s groin. The big guy made a noise like he was sucking through a straw that still had drops of liquid in it. He folded like an old wallet. Myron pulled out his gun and pointed it at the Skinny Ferret. The big guy’s body melted to the pavement and formed a puddle.

  The Skinny Ferret had not moved. He looked slightly amused.

  “Wasteful,” Skinny said.

  “Yeah,” Myron agreed. “But I feel much better.” He looked at the big guy. “That was for Mabel Edwards.”

  Skinny shrugged. Not a care in the world. “So now what?”

  “Where’s your car?” Myron asked.

  “We were dropped off. We’re supposed to go back to the house with you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The big guy writhed and tried to suck in a breath. Neither standing man cared. Myron put away his gun.

  “I’ll drive myself over, if you don’t mind.”

  The skinny guy spread his arms. “Suit yourself.”

  Myron started to get into his Taurus.

  “You don’t know what you’re up against,” Skinny said.

  “I keep hearing that.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But now you’ve heard it from me.”

  Myron nodded. “Consider me scared.”

  “Ask your father, Myron.”

  That made him pull up. “What about my father?”

  “Ask him about Arthur Bradford.” The smile of a mongoose gnawing on a neck. “Ask him about me.”

  Icy water flooded Myron’s chest. “What does my father have to do with any of this?”

  But Skinny was not about to answer. “Hurry now,” he said. “The next governor of New Jersey is waiting for you.”

  Myron put a call in to Win. He quickly told him what’d happened.

  “Wasteful,” Win agreed.

  “He hit a woman.”

  “Then shoot him in the knee. Permanently injure him. A kick in the scrotum is wasteful.”

  Proper Payback Etiquette by Windsor Horne Lockwood III. “I’m going to leave the cellular on. Can you get down here?”

  “But of course. Please refrain from further violence until I am present.”

  In other words: Save some for me.

  The guard at Bradford Farms was surprised to see Myron alone. The gate was open, probably in expectation of a threesome. Myron did not hesitate. He drove through without stopping. The guard panicked. He jumped out of his booth. Myron gave him a little finger wave, like Oliver Hardy used to do. He even scrunched up his face into that same Hardy smile. Heck, if he had a bowler, he would have gotten that into the act too.

  By the time Myron parked at the front entrance, the old butler was already standing in the doorway. He bowed slightly.

  “Please follow me, Mr. Bolitar.”

  They headed down a long corridor. Lots of oils on the walls, mostly of men on horses. There was one nude. A woman, of course. No horse in this one. Catherine the Great was truly dead. The butler made a right at the hallway. They entered a glass corridor that resembled a passageway in the Biosphere or maybe Epcot Center. Myron figured that they must have traveled close to fifty yards already.

  The manservant stopped and opened a door. His face was perfect butler deadpan.

  “Please enter, sir.”

  Myron smelled the chlorine before he heard the tiny splashes.

  The manservant waited.

  “I didn’t bring my bathing suit,” Myron said.

  The manservant looked at him blankly.

  “I usually wear a thong,” Myron said. “Though I can make due with bikini mesh.”

  The manservant blinked.

  “I can borrow yours,” Myron continued, “if you have an extra.”

  “Please enter, sir.”

  “Right, well, let’s stay in touch.”

  The butler or whatever left. Myron went inside. The room had that indoor-pool mustiness. Everything was done in marble. Lots of plant life. There were statues of some goddess at each corner of the pool. What goddess, Myron did not know. The goddess of indoor pools, he surmised. The pool’s sole occupant sliced through the water with nary a ripple. Arthur Bradford swam with easy, almost lazy movements. He reached the edge of the pool near Myron and stopped. He was wearing swimming goggles with dark blue lenses. He took them off and ran his hand across his scalp.

  “What happened to Sam and Mario?” Bradford asked.

  “Mario.” Myron nodded. “That has to be the big guy, right?”

  “Sam and Mario were supposed to escort you here.”

  “I’m a big boy, Artie. I don’t need an escort.” Bradford had of course sent them to intimidate; Myron needed to show him that the move had not produced the desired effect.

  “Fine then,” Bradford replied, his voice crisp. “I have six more laps to go. Do you mind?”

  Myron waved a dismissal. “Hey,” he said. “Please go ahead. I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure than watching another man swim. Hey, here’s an idea. Why not film a commercial here? Slogan: Vote for Art, He’s Got an Indoor Pool.”

  Bradford almost smiled. “Fair enough.” He pushed himself out of the pool in one lax motion. His body was long and lean and looked sleek when wet. He grabbed a towel and signaled to two chaise longues. Myron sat in one but did not lean back. Arthur Bradford did likewise.

  “It’s been a long day,” Arthur said. “I’ve already made four campaign stops, and I have three more this afternoon.”

  Myron nodded through the small talk, encouraging Bradford to move on. Bradford picked up the hint. He slapped his thighs with his palms. “Well, then, you’re a busy man. I’m a busy man. Shall we get to it?”

  “Sure.”

  Bradford leaned in a bit. “I wanted to talk to you about your previous visit here.”

  Myron tried to keep his face blank.

  “You’ll agree, will y
ou not, that it was all rather bizarre?”

  Myron made a noise. Sort of like “Uh-huh” but more neutral.

  “Put simply, I’d like to know what you and Win were up to.”

  “I wanted the answers to some questions,” Myron said.

  “Yes, I realize that. My question is, why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why were you asking about a woman who hasn’t been in my employ for twenty years?”

  “What’s the difference? You barely remember her, right?”

  Arthur Bradford smiled. The smile said that they both knew better. “I would like to help you,” Bradford said. “But I must first question your motives.” He opened his arms. “This is, after all, a major election.”

  “You think I’m working for Davison?”

  “You and Windsor come to my home under false pretenses. You start asking bizarre questions about my past. You pay off a police officer to steal a file on my wife’s death. Yon are connected with a man who recently tried to blackmail me. And you’ve been seen conversing with known criminal associates of Davison’s.” He gave the political smile, the one that couldn’t help being a touch condescending. “If you were I, what would you think?”

  “Back up,” Myron said. “One, I didn’t pay off anybody to steal a file.”

  “Officer Francine Neagly. Do you deny meeting with her at the Ritz Diner?”

  “No.” Too long to explain the truth, and what was the point? “Okay, forget that one for now. Who tried to blackmail you?”

  The manservant entered the room. “Iced tea, sir?”

  Bradford thought it over. “Lemonade, Mattius. Some lemonade would be divine.”

  “Very well, sir. Mr. Bolitar?”

  Myron doubted that Bradford stocked much Yoo-Hoo. “Same here, Mattius. But make mine extra divine.”

  Mattius the Manservant nodded. “Very well, sir.” He slid back out the door.

  Arthur Bradford wrapped a towel around his shoulders. Then he lay back on the chaise. The lounges were long so that his legs would not hang over the ends. He closed his eyes. “We both know that I remember Anita Slaughter. As you implied, a man does not forget the name of the person who found his wife’s body.”

  “That the only reason?”

  Bradford opened one eye. “Excuse me?”