by Harlan Coben
The renovations had been completed—they’d sliced a bit of space out of the conference room and reception area so that Esperanza could have an office of her own—but the new room remained unfurnished. So Esperanza had been using his office. He sat at his desk and immediately the phone started ringing. He ignored it for a few seconds, his eyes latched on the client wall, the one with action photos of all the athletes MB represented. He zeroed in on Clu Haid’s image. Clu was on the pitcher’s mound, leaning forward, about to go into a stretch, his cheek bulging with tobacco chaw, his eyes squinting at a sign he would undoubtedly shake off.
“What did you do this time, Clu?” he said out loud.
The photo didn’t reply, which was probably a good thing. But Myron continued to stare. He had pulled Clu out of so many jams over the years that he had to wonder: If he had not run off to the Caribbean, would he have been able to pull Clu out of this one too?
Useless introspection—one of Myron’s many talents.
Big Cyndi buzzed him. “Mr. Bolitar?”
“Yes.”
“I know you told me to only patch through clients, but Sophie Mayor is on the line.”
Sophie Mayor was the new owner of the Yankees.
“Put her through.” He heard a click and said hello.
“Myron, my God. What the hell is going on here?” Sophie Mayor wasn’t big on chitchat.
“I’m still trying to sort it out myself.”
“They think your secretary killed Clu.”
“Esperanza is my partner,” he corrected, though he was not sure why. “And she didn’t kill anyone.”
“I’m sitting here with Jared.” Jared was her son and the “co-general manager” of the Yankees—co meaning shares the title with someone who knows what he’s doing because he got the job through nepotism. Jared meaning born after 1973. “We need to tell the press something.”
“I’m not sure how I can help, Ms. Mayor.”
“You told me Clu was past all this, Myron.”
He said nothing.
“The drugs, the drinking, the partying, the trouble,” Sophie Mayor continued. “You said it was in the past.”
He was about to defend himself but thought better of it. “I think it’s better if we talk about all this in person,” Myron said.
“Jared and I are on the road with the team. We’re in Cleveland right now. We’re flying home tonight.”
“How about tomorrow morning then?”
“We’ll be at the stadium,” she said. “Eleven o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
He hung up the phone. Big Cyndi immediately put through a client call.
“Myron here.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
It was Marty Towey, a defensive tackle for the Vikings. Myron took a deep breath and let loose his semiprepared oration: he was back, things were great, don’t worry, the financials are terrific, got the new contract right here, busy securing new endorsements, blah, blah, soothe, soothe.
Marty was a tough sell. “Dammit, Myron, I chose MB because I didn’t want underlings handling me. I wanted to deal with the big boss. You know what I’m saying?”
“Sure, Marty.”
“Esperanza’s nice and all. But she ain’t you. I hired you. Do you understand?”
“I’m back now, Marty. Everything is going to be fine, I promise. Look, you guys are in town in a couple of weeks, right?”
“We play the Jets in two weeks.”
“Great. So I’ll meet you at the game and we’ll go out to dinner afterward.”
When Myron hung up, it dawned on him that he’d been so uninvolved in his clients’ affairs that he didn’t even know if Marty was playing at an All-Pro level or nearly waived. Christ, he had a lot of catching up to do.
The calls went on in a similar vein for the next two hours. Most clients were assuaged. Some sat on the fence. No additional ones left him. He had not fixed anything, but he had managed to lessen the blood flow to a serious trickle.
Big Cyndi knocked and opened the office door. “Trouble, Mr. Bolitar.”
An awful, though not unfamiliar, stench started emanating from the doorway.
“What the hell …?” Myron began.
“Out of the way, hot stuff.” The gruff voice came from behind Big Cyndi. Myron tried to see who it was, but Big Cyndi blocked his line of vision like a solar eclipse. Eventually she yielded, and the same two plainclothes officers from the courthouse hurried past her. The big one was fiftyish, bleary-eyed, world-weary and had the kind of face that looked unshaven even after a shave. He wore a trench coat with sleeves that barely reached his elbows and shoes that had more scuff marks than a Gaylord Perry baseball. The smaller guy was younger and really, well, ugly. His face reminded Myron of a magnified photo of head lice. He wore a light gray suit with vest—the Sears Casual Law Enforcer—and one of those Looney Tunes ties that screamed 1992.
The awful smell started permeating the walls.
“A warrant,” the big guy groused. He wasn’t chewing on a cigar, but he should have been. “And before you tell me we’re out of our jurisdiction, we’re still working with Michael Chapman, Manhattan North. Call him, you got a problem. Now get out of the chair, asshole, so we can search this place.”
Myron crinkled his nose. “Jesus, which one of you is wearing the cologne?”
Head Lice gave a quick look toward his partner. The look said, Hey, I’ll take a bullet for this guy, but I’m not taking the fall for that smell. Understandable.
“Listen up, dip shit,” the big one said. “My name is Detective Winters—”
“Really? Your mother named you Detective?”
Barely a sigh. “—and this is Detective Martinez. Move out here now, dim wad.”
The smell was getting to him. “Yo, Winters, you got to stop borrowing cologne from male flight attendants.”
“Keep at it, funnyman.”
“Seriously, does the label include the words glaze liberally!”
“You’re a real comedian, Bolitar. So many bad asses are funny it’s a pity they don’t televise Sing Sing.”
“I thought you already searched the place.”
“We did. Now we’re back for the financials.”
Myron pointed to Head Lice. “Can’t he do it alone?”
“What?”
“I’ll never get the smell out of here.”
Winters took out a pair of latex gloves, this so as not to mess up possible fingerprints. He snapped them on in dramatic fashion, including finger wiggling, and grinned.
Myron winked. “You want me to bend down and grab my ankles?”
“No.”
“Dang, and me needing a date.” Want to needle a cop? Use gay humor. Myron had yet to meet one who wasn’t a complete homophobe.
Winters said, “We’re going to trash this place, funnyman.”
“Doubtful,” Myron countered.
“Oh?”
Myron stood, reached into the file cabinet behind him.
“Hey, you can’t touch anything in here.”
Myron ignored him, pulled out a small videocamera. “Just keeping a record of your doings, officer. In today’s climate of false police corruption charges, we wouldn’t want any misunderstandings”—Myron snapped on the camera and aimed the lens at the big guy—“would we?”
“No,” the big guy said, staring straight into the lens. “We wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”
Myron kept his eye in the viewer. “The camera captures the real you, Detective. I bet if we played it back, we’d still smell your cologne.”
Head Lice hid a smile.
“Please get out of our way, Mr. Bolitar,” Winters said.
“Sure thing. Cooperation is my middle name.”
They began the search, which basically consisted of packing every document they could lay their hands on in crates and carrying them out. The gloved hands touched everything, and it felt to Myron like they were touching him. He tried to look in
nocent—whatever that looked like—but he couldn’t help being nervous. Guilt was a funny thing. He knew that there was nothing amiss in any of the files, but he still felt oddly defensive.
Myron gave the video camera to Big Cyndi and started making calls to clients who had left MB. Most didn’t pick up. The few who did tried to defect. Myron played it soft, figuring that any overaggression would backfire. He merely told them that he was back and would like very much to speak with them at their earliest convenience. A lot of hemming and hawing from those who actually spoke to him. Not unexpected. If he were to regain their confidence, it would take time.
The cops finished up and left without so much as a good-bye. Manners. Big Cyndi and Myron watched the elevators close.
“This is going to be very difficult,” Myron said.
“What?”
“Working without any files.”
Big Cyndi opened her purse and showed him computer disks. “Everything is on these.”
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
“You backed up everything on these?”
“Yes.”
“Letters and correspondences, okay, but I need the contracts—”
“Everything,” she said. “I bought a scanner and ran every paper in the office through it. There’s a backup set in a safety-deposit box at Citibank. I update the disks every week. In case of fire or other emergency.”
When she smiled this time, Myron’s cringe was barely perceptible.
“Big Cyndi, you are a surprising woman.”
It was hard to tell under the melted Masque de Crayola, but it almost looked like she was blushing.
The intercom buzzed. Big Cyndi picked up the phone.
“Yes?” Pause. Then her voice grew grave.
“Yes, send her up.” She replaced the receiver.
“Who is it?”
“Bonnie Haid is here to see you.”
Big Cyndi showed the Widow Haid into his office. Myron stood behind his desk, not sure what to do. He waited for her to make the first move, but she didn’t. Bonnie Haid had let her hair grow out, and for a moment he was back at Duke. Clu and Bonnie were sitting on the couch in the basement of the frat house, another major kegger behind them, his arm draped over her shoulder, she wearing a gray sweatshirt, her legs tucked under her.
He swallowed and moved toward her. She took a step back and closed her eyes. She put a hand up to stop him as though she could not bear the pain of his intimacy. Myron stayed where he was.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Thank you.”
They both stood there, two dancers waiting for the music to begin.
“Can I sit down?” Bonnie asked.
“Of course.”
She sat. Myron hesitated and then chose to go back around his desk.
“When did you get back?” she asked.
“Last night,” he said. “I didn’t know about Clu before then. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”
Bonnie cocked her head. “Why?”
“Pardon?”
“Why are you sorry you weren’t here? What could you have done?”
Myron shrugged. “Help maybe.”
“Help how?”
He shrugged again, spread his arms. “I don’t know what to say, Bonnie. I’m flailing here.”
She looked at him a moment, challenging, then dropped her eyes. “I’m just lashing out at whoever’s in front of me,” she said. “Don’t pay any attention.”
“I don’t mind; lash away.”
Bonnie almost managed a smile. “You’re a good guy, Myron. You always were. Even at Duke there was something about you that was—I don’t know—noble, I guess.”
“Noble?”
“Sounds silly, doesn’t it?”
“Very,” he said. “How are the boys?”
She shrugged. “Timmy is only eighteen months old so he doesn’t have a clue. Charlie is four so he’s just pretty confused right now. My parents are taking care of them.”
“I don’t want to keep sounding like a bad cliché,” Myron said, “but if there’s anything at all I can do …”
“One thing.”
“Name it.”
“Tell me about the arrest.”
Myron cleared his throat. “What about it?”
“I’ve met Esperanza a few times over the years. I guess I find it hard to believe she’d kill Clu.”
“She didn’t do it.”
Bonnie squinted a bit. “What makes you so sure?”
“I know Esperanza.”
“That’s it?”
He nodded. “For now.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I can’t talk about specifics”—mostly because he didn’t know any; Myron was almost grateful that Esperanza had not told him anything—“but she didn’t do it.”
“What about all the evidence the police found?”
“I can’t answer that yet, Bonnie. But Esperanza is innocent. We’ll find the real killer.”
“You sound so sure.”
“I am.”
They fell into silence. Myron waited, mapping out an approach. There were questions that needed to be asked, but this woman had just lost her husband. One had to tread gently lest one trip an emotional land mine.
“I’m going to look into the murder,” Myron said.
She looked confused. “What do you mean, look into?”
“Investigate.”
“But you’re a sports agent.”
“I have some background in this.”
She studied his face. “Win too?”
“Yes.”
She nodded as if something suddenly made sense. “Win always scared the crap out of me.”
“That’s only because you’re sane.”
“And now you’re going to try to figure out who killed Clu?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” she said. She shifted in her chair. “Tell me something, Myron.”
“Anything.”
“What’s your priority here: finding the murderer or getting Esperanza off?”
“One and the same.”
“And if they’re not? If you learn Esperanza killed him?”
Time to lie. “Then she’ll be punished.”
Bonnie started smiling as though she could see the truth. “Good luck,” she said.
Myron put an ankle up on a knee. Gentle now, he thought. “Can I ask you something?”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
Gently, gently. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Bonnie. I’m not asking this to be nosy—”
“Subtlety is not your strong suit, Myron; Just ask your question.”
“Were you and Clu having problems?”
A sad grin. “Weren’t we always?”
“I hear this was something more serious.”
Bonnie folded her arms below her chest. “My, my. Back less than a day and already you’ve learned so much. You work fast, Myron.”
“Clu mentioned it to Win.”
“So what do you want to know?”
“Were you suing him for divorce?”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
In the distance the fax machine started its primordial screech. The phone continued beeping. Myron had no fear that they’d be interrupted. Big Cyndi had worked for years as a bouncer at an S&M bar; when the situation called for it, she could be as nasty as a rabid rhino with a bad case of piles. Er, even when the situation didn’t call for it.
“Why do you want to know?” Bonnie asked.
“Because Esperanza didn’t kill him.”
“That’s becoming something of a mantra for you, Myron. Say it often enough and you start to believe it, right?”
“I believe it.”
“So?”
“So if she didn’t kill him, someone else did.”
Bonnie looked up. “If she didn’t kill him, someone else
did,” she repeated. Pause. “You weren’t just bragging before. You really do have a background in this.”
“I’m just trying to find out who killed him.”
“By asking about our marriage?”
“By asking about anything turbulent in his life.”
“Turbulent?” She let out a stab of a laugh. “This is Clu we’re talking about here, Myron. Everything was turbulent. The hard thing to find would be patches of calm.”
“How long were you two together?” Myron asked.
“You know the answer to that.”
He did. Junior year at Duke. Bonnie had come bopping down to the frat house basement dressed in a monogram sweater and pearls and, yep, ponytail. Myron and Clu had been working the keg. Myron liked working the keg because it kept him so busy he didn’t drink as much. Don’t get the wrong idea here. Myron drank. It was pretty much a college requirement in those days. But he wasn’t a very good drinker. He always seemed to miss that cusp of fun, that floaty buzz between sobriety and vomiting. It was almost nonexistent for him. Something in his ancestry, he assumed. It had actually helped him in recent months. Before running away with Terese, Myron had tried the old-fashioned approach of drowning one’s sorrows. But, put bluntly, he usually threw up before reaching oblivion.
Nice way to prevent alcohol abuse.
Anyway, Clu and Bonnie’s meeting was pretty simple. Bonnie walked in. Clu looked up from the keg and it was as if Captain Marvel had zapped him with a thunderbolt. “Wow,” Clu muttered, the beer overflowing onto a floor so coated with beer that rodents often got stuck on it and died. Then Clu leaped over the bar, staggered toward Bonnie, dropped to one knee, and proposed. Three years later they tied the knot for real.
“So after all these years what happened?”
Bonnie looked down. “It had nothing to do with his murder,” she said.
“That’s probably true, but I need to get the full picture of his life, travel down any possible avenue—”
“Bullshit, Myron. I said it had nothing to do with the murder, okay? Leave it at that.”
He licked his lips, folded his hands, put them on the desktop. “In the past you’ve thrown him out because of another woman.”
“Not woman. Women. Plural.”
“Is that what happened again this time?”
“He swore off women. He promised me that there’d be no more.”
