The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  Myron frowned. “Pretty flimsy motive.”

  “He had also recently assaulted her. Perhaps Clu blamed her for all the bad things that were happening to him. Perhaps she wanted vengeance. Who knows?”

  “You said something before about her not talking to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you asked Esperanza about the charges?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And she told me that she had the matter under control,” Win said. “And she told me not to contact you. That she did not wish to speak with you.”

  Myron looked puzzled. “Why not?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  He pictured Esperanza, the Hispanic beauty he had met in the days when she wrestled professionally under the moniker Little Pocahontas. A lifetime ago. She had been with MB SportsReps since its inception—first as a secretary and now that she’d graduated law school, as a full-fledged partner.

  “But I’m her best friend,” Myron said.

  “As I am well aware.”

  “So why would she say something like that?”

  Win guessed the question was rhetorical. He kept silent.

  The island was out of sight now. In every direction there was nothing but the churning warm blue of the Atlantic.

  “If I hadn’t run away,” Myron began.

  “Myron?”

  “What?”

  “You’re whining again. I cannot handle whining.” Myron nodded and leaned against the teakwood.

  “Any thoughts?” Win asked.

  “She’ll talk to me,” Myron said. “Count on it.”

  “I just tried to call her.”

  “And?”

  “No answer.”

  “Did you try Big Cyndi?”

  “She now rooms with Esperanza.”

  No surprise. “What’s today?” Myron asked.

  “Tuesday.”

  “Big Cyndi still bounces at Leather-N-Lust. She might be there.”

  “During the day?”

  Myron shrugged. “Sexual deviancy has no off hours.”

  “Thank God,” Win said.

  They fell into silence, the ship gently rocking them.

  Win squinted into the sun. “Beautiful, no?”

  Myron nodded.

  “Must be sick of it after all this time.”

  “Very,” Myron said.

  “Come below deck. I think you’ll be pleased.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Win had stocked the yacht with videos. They watched episodes of the old Batman show (the one with Julie Newmar as Cat Woman and Lesley Gore as Pussycat—double meow!), the Odd Couple (Oscar and Felix on Password), a Twilight Zone (“To Serve Man”), and for something more current, Seinfeld (Jerry and Elaine visit Jerry’s parents in Florida). Forget pot roast. This was comfort food. But on the off chance that it wasn’t substantial enough, there were also Doritos and Cheez Doodles and more Yoo-Hoos and even rewarmed pizza from Calabria’s Pizzeria on Livingston Avenue.

  Win. He might be a sociopath, but what a guy.

  The effect of all this was beyond therapeutic, the time spent at sea and later in the air an emotional pressure chamber of sorts, a chance for Myron’s soul to adjust to the bends, to the sudden reemergence into the real world.

  The two friends barely spoke, except to sigh over Julie Newmar as Cat Woman (whenever she came on the screen in her tight black cat suit, Win said, “Puuuurrrrfect”). They’d both been five or six years old when the show first aired, but something about Julie Newmar as Cat Woman completely blew away any Freudian notions of latency. Why, neither man could say. Her villainy perhaps. Or something more primal. Esperanza would no doubt have an interesting opinion. He tried not to think about her—useless and draining when he couldn’t do anything about it—but the last time he had done something like this was in Philadelphia with both Win and Esperanza. He missed her. Watching the videos was not the same without her running commentary.

  The boat docked and they headed for the private jet.

  “We’ll save her,” Win said. “We are, after all, the good guys.”

  “Questionable.”

  “Have confidence, my friend.”

  “No, I mean us being the good guys.”

  “You should know better.”

  “Not anymore I don’t,” Myron said.

  Win made his jutting jaw face, the one that had come over on the Mayflower. “This moral crisis of yours,” he said. “It’s très unbecoming.”

  A breathy blond bombshell like something out of an old burlesque skit greeted them in the cabin of the Lock-Horne company jet. She fetched them drinks between giggles and wiggles. Win smiled at her. She smiled back.

  “Funny thing,” Myron said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You always hire curvaceous stewardesses.”

  Win frowned. “Please,” he said. “She prefers to be called a flight attendant.”

  “Pardon my oafish insensitivity.”

  “Try a little harder to be tolerant,” Win said. Then: “Guess what her name is.”

  “Tawny?”

  “Close. Candi. With an i. And she doesn’t dot it. She draws a heart over it.”

  Win could be a bigger pig, but it was hard to imagine how.

  Myron sat back. The pilot came over the loudspeaker. He addressed them by name, and then they took off. Private jet. Yacht. Sometimes it was nice having wealthy friends.

  When they reached cruising altitude, Win opened what looked like a cigar box and pulled out a telephone. “Call your parents,” he said.

  Myron stayed still for a moment. A fresh wave of guilt rolled over him, coloring his cheeks. He nodded, took the phone, dialed. He gripped the phone a bit too tightly. His mother answered.

  Myron said, “Mom—”

  Mom started bawling. She managed to yell for Dad. Dad picked up the downstairs extension.

  “Dad—”

  And then he started bawling too. Stereo bawling. Myron held the phone away from his ear for a moment.

  “I was in the Caribbean,” he said, “not Beirut.”

  An explosion of laughter from both. Then more crying. Myron looked at Win. Win sat impassively. Myron rolled his eyes, but of course he was also pleased. Complain all you want, but who didn’t want to be loved like this?

  His parents settled into a meaningless chatter—meaningless on purpose, Myron supposed. While they could undoubtedly be pests, Mom and Dad had a wonderful ability to know when to back off. He managed to explain where he’d been. They listened in silence. Then his mother asked, “So where are you calling us from?”

  “Win’s airplane.”

  Stereo gasps now. “What?”

  “Win’s company has a private jet. I just told you he picked me—”

  “And you’re calling on his phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea how much that costs?”

  “Mom …”

  But the meaningless chatter died down in a hurry then. When Myron hung up seconds later, he sat back. The guilt came again, bathing him in something ice cold. His parents were not young anymore. He hadn’t thought about that before he ran. He hadn’t thought about a lot of things.

  “I shouldn’t have done that to them,” Myron said. “Or you.”

  Win shifted in his seat—major body language for him. Candi wiggled back into view. She lowered a screen and hit a switch. A Woody Allen film came on. Love and Death. Ambrosia of the mind. They watched without speaking. When it was over, Candi asked Myron if he wanted to take a shower before they landed.

  “Excuse me?” Myron said.

  Candi giggled, called him a “Big Silly,” and wiggled away.

  “A shower?”

  “There’s one in the back,” Win said. “I also took the liberty of bringing you a change of clothes.”

  “You are a friend.”

  “I am indeed, Big Silly.”

  Myron showered and dressed, and then everyone buckled their
seat belts for approach. The plane descended without delay, the landing so smooth it could have been choreographed by the Temptations. A stretch limousine was waiting for them on the dark tarmac. When they got off the plane, the air felt strange and unfamiliar, as though he’d been visiting another planet rather than another country. It was also raining hard. They ran down the steps and into the already-open limo doors.

  They shook off the wet. “I assume that you’ll be staying with me,” Win said.

  Myron had been living in a loft down on Spring Street with Jessica. But that was before. “If it’s okay.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I could move back in with my folks—”

  “I said, it’s okay.”

  “I’ll find my own place.”

  “No rush,” Win said. The limousine started up. Win steepled his fingers. He always did that. It looked good on him. Still holding the steeple, he bounced his forefingers against his lips. “I’m not the best one to discuss these matters with,” he said, “but if you want to talk about Jessica or Brenda or whatever …” He released the steeple, made a waving motion with his right hand. Win was trying. Matters of the heart were not his forte. His feelings on romantic entanglement could objectively be labeled “appalling.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Myron said.

  “Fine then.”

  “Thanks, though.”

  Quick nod.

  After more than a decade struggling with Jessica—years of being in love with the same woman, having one major breakup, finding each other again, taking tentative steps, growing, finally moving in together again—it was over.

  “I miss Jessica,” Myron said.

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”

  “Sorry.”

  Win shifted in his seat again. “No, go on.” Like he’d rather have an anal probe.

  “It’s just that … I guess part of me will always be enmeshed in Jessica.”

  Win nodded. “Like something in a machinery mishap.”

  Myron smiled. “Yeah. Like that.”

  “Then slice off the limb and leave it behind.”

  Myron looked at his friend.

  Win shrugged. “I’ve been watching Sally Jessy on the side.”

  “It shows,” Myron said.

  “The episode entitled ‘Mommy Took Away My Nipple Ring,’” Win said. “I’m not afraid to say it made me cry.”

  “Good to see you getting in touch with your sensitive side.” As if Win had one. “So what next?”

  Win checked his watch. “I have a contact at the Bergen County house of detention. He should be in by now.” He hit the speakerphone and pressed in some numbers. They listened to the phone ring. After two rings a voice said, “Schwartz.”

  “Brian, this is Win Lockwood.”

  The usual reverent hush when you first hear that name. Then: “Hey, Win.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Esperanza Diaz. Is she there?”

  Brief pause. “You didn’t hear it from me,” Schwartz said.

  “Hear what?”

  “Good, okay, long as we understand each other,” he said. “Yeah, she’s here. They dragged her through here in cuffs a coupla hours ago. Very hush-hush.”

  “Why hush-hush?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “When is she being arraigned?”

  “Tomorrow morning, I guess.”

  Win looked at Myron. Myron nodded. Esperanza would be held overnight. This was not a good thing.

  “Why did they arrest her so late?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “And you saw them drag her in cuffs?”

  “Yep.”

  “Didn’t they let her surrender on her own?”

  “Nope.”

  Again the two friends looked at each other. The late arrest. The handcuffs. The overnight. Someone in the DA’s office was pissed off and trying to make a point. Very not a good thing.

  “What else can you tell me?” Win asked.

  “Not much. Like I said, they’re being quiet on this one. The DA hasn’t even released it to the media yet. But he will. Probably before the eleven o’clock news. Quick statement, no time for questions, that kind of thing. Hell, I wouldn’t know about it if I wasn’t a big fan.”

  “A big fan?”

  “Of professional wrestling. See, I recognized her from her old wrestling days. Did you know Esperanza Diaz used to be Little Pocahontas, the Indian Princess?”

  Win glanced at Myron. “Yes, Brian, I know.”

  “Really?” Brian was big-time excited now. “Little Pocahontas was my absolute fave, bar none. An awesome wrestler. Top drawer. I mean, she used to enter the ring in this skimpy suede bikini, right, and then she’d start grappling with other chicks, bigger chicks really, writhing around on the floor and stuff—swear to God, she was so hot my fingernails would melt.”

  “Thank you for the visual,” Win said. “Anything else, Brian?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who her attorney of record is?”

  “No.” Then: “Oh, one other thing. She’s got someone, well, sort of with her.”

  “Sort of with her, Brian?”

  “Outside. On the front steps of the courthouse.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you,” Win said.

  “Out in the rain. Just sitting there. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was Little Pocahontas’s old tag team partner, Big Chief Mama. Did you know Big Chief Mama and Little Pocahontas were Intercontinental tag team champions three years running?”

  Win sighed. “You don’t say.”

  “Whatever Intercontinental means. I mean, what is that, Intercontinental? And I’m not talking about recently. Five, eight years ago, at least. But, man, they were awesome. Great wrestlers. Today, well, the league has no class anymore.”

  “Grappling bikini-clad women,” Win said. “They just don’t make them like they used to.”

  “Right, exactly. Too many fake, inflated breasts nowadays, at least that’s how I see it. One of them is going to land on her stomach and bam, her boob is going to blow out like a worn tire. So I don’t follow it much anymore. Oh, maybe if I’m flipping the channels and something catches my eye, I might watch a little—”

  “You were talking about a woman out in the rain?”

  “Right, Win, right, sorry. Anyway, she’s out there, whoever she is. Just sitting there. The cops went by before and asked her what she was doing. She said she was going to wait for her friend.”

  “So she’s there right now?”

  “Yep.”

  “What does she look like, Brian?”

  “Like the Incredible Hulk. Only scarier. And maybe greener.”

  Win and Myron exchanged glances. No doubt. Big Chief Mama aka Big Cyndi.

  “Anything else, Brian?”

  “No, not really.” Then: “So you know Esperanza Diaz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Personally?”

  “Yes.”

  Silent awe. “Jesus, you lead some life, Win.”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  “Think you can get me her autograph?”

  “I’ll do my best, Brian.”

  “A picture autograph maybe? Of Little Pocahontas in costume? I’m a really big fan.”

  “So I gather, Brian. Good-bye.”

  Win hung up and sat back. He looked over at Myron. Myron nodded. Win picked up the intercom and gave the driver directions to the courthouse.

  CHAPTER 4

  By the time they arrived at the courthouse in Hackensack, it was nearly 10:00 P.M. Big Cyndi sat in the rain, shoulders hunched; at least Myron thought it was Big Cyndi. From a distance, it looked like someone had parked a Volkswagen Bug on the courthouse steps.

  Myron stepped out of the car and approached. “Big Cyndi?”

  The dark heap let loose a low growl, a lioness warning off an inferior animal who’d wandered astray.

  “It’s Myron,” he
said.

  The growl deepened. The rain had plastered Big Cyndi’s hair spikes to her scalp, as if she were sporting an uneven Caesar coif. Today’s color was hard to decipher—Big Cyndi liked diversity in her follicular tint—but it didn’t look like any hue found in the state of nature. Big Cyndi sometimes liked to combine dyes randomly and see what happened. She also insisted on being called Big Cyndi. Not Cyndi. Big Cyndi. She had even had her name legally changed. Official documents read: Cyndi, Big.

  “You can’t stay here all night,” Myron tried.

  She finally spoke. “Go home.”

  “What happened?”

  “You ran away.” Big Cyndi’s voice was childlike, lost.

  “Yes.”

  “You left us alone.”

  “I’m sorry about that. But I’m back now.”

  He risked another step. If only he had something to placate her with. Like a half gallon of Häagen-Dazs. Or a sacrificial goat.

  Big Cyndi started to cry. Myron approached slowly, semileading with his right hand in case she wanted to sniff it. But the growls were all gone now, replaced by sobs. Myron put his palm on a shoulder that felt like a bowling ball.

  “What happened?” he asked again.

  She sniffled. Loudly. The sound almost dented the limo’s fender. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “She said not to.”

  “Esperanza?”

  Big Cyndi nodded.

  “She’s going to need help,” Myron said.

  “She doesn’t want your help.”

  The words stung. The rain continued to fall. Myron sat on the step next to her. “Is she angry about my leaving?”

  “I can’t tell you, Mr. Bolitar. I’m sorry.”

  “Why not?”

  “She told me not to.”

  “Esperanza can’t bear the brunt of this on her own,” Myron said. “She’s going to need a lawyer.”

  “She has one.”

  “Who?”

  “Hester Crimstein.”

  Big Cyndi gasped as though she realized she’d said too much, but Myron wondered if the slip had been intentional.

  “How did she get Hester Crimstein?” Myron asked.

  “I can’t say any more, Mr. Bolitar. Please don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad, Big Cyndi. I’m just concerned.”