by Harlan Coben
“That’s not my department.”
And, Myron knew, it would be a waste of time. If someone had gone to the trouble of destroying any computer evidence, chances were pretty good that all fingerprints had been wiped off too.
“I’m busy.” Dr. Czerski handed him back the diskette and left without so much as a back glance. Myron stared at it and shook his head.
What the hell was going on here?
The cell phone rang again. Myron picked it up.
“Mr. Bolitar?” It was Big Cyndi.
“Yes.”
“I am going through Mr. Clu Haid’s phone records, as you requested.”
“And?”
“Are you coming back to the office, Mr. Bolitar?”
“I’m on the way there now.”
“There is something here you might find bizarre.”
CHAPTER 12
When the elevator opened, Big Cyndi was waiting for him. She’d finally scrubbed her face clean. All the makeup was gone. Must have used a sand blaster. Or a jackhammer.
She greeted him by saying, “Very bizarre, Mr. Bolitar.”
“What’s that?”
“Per your instructions, I was checking through Clu Haid’s phone records,” she said. Then she shook her head. “Very bizarre.”
“What’s bizarre?”
She handed him a sheet of paper. “I highlighted the number in yellow.”
Myron looked at it while walking into this office. Big Cyndi followed, closing the door behind her. The number was in the 212 area code. That meant Manhattan. Other than that, it was totally unfamiliar. “What about it?”
“It’s for a nightclub.”
“Which one?”
“Take A Guess.”
“Pardon?”
“That’s the name of the place,” Big Cyndi said. “Take A Guess. It’s two blocks down from Leather-N-Lust.” Leather-N-Lust was the S&M bar that employed Big Cyndi as a bouncer. Motto: Hurt The Ones You Love.
“You know this place?” he asked.
“A little.”
“What kind of club is it?”
“Cross-dressers and transvestites, mostly. But they have a varied crowd.”
Myron rubbed his temples. “When you say varied …”
“It’s sort of an interesting concept really, Mr. Bolitar.”
“I’m sure.”
“When you go to Take A Guess, you never know for sure what you’re getting. You know what I mean?”
Myron didn’t have a clue. “Pardon my sexual naiveté, but could you explain?”
Big Cyndi scrunched her face in thought. It was not a pretty sight. “In part, it’s what you might expect: men dress like women, women dress like men. But then sometimes a woman is just a woman and a man is just a man. Follow?”
Myron nodded. “Not even a little.”
“That’s why it’s called Take A Guess. You never know for sure. For instance, you might see a beautiful woman who is unusually tall with a platinum wig. So you figure it’s a he-she. But—and this is what makes Take A Guess special—maybe it’s not.”
“Not what?”
“A he-she. A transvestite or transsexual. Maybe it is indeed a beautiful woman who put on extra-high heels and a wig to confuse you.”
“And the reason for this is?”
“That’s the fun of the place. The doubt. There’s a sign inside, TAKE A GUESS: IT’S ABOUT AMBIGUITY, NOT ANDROGYNY.”
“Catchy.”
“But that’s the idea. It’s a place of mystery. You bring someone home. You think it’s a beautiful woman or a handsome man. But until the pants are all the way down, you’re never sure. People come dressed to fool. You just never know until—well, you saw The Crying Game.”
Myron made a face. “And this is a desirable thing?”
“If you’re into that, sure.”
“Into what?”
She smiled. “Exactly.”
Myron rubbed the temples again. “So the patrons don’t have a problem with”—he searched for the right word, but there wasn’t one—“so a gay guy, for example, doesn’t get pissed off when he finds out he brought home a woman?”
“It’s why you go. The thrill. The uncertainty. The mystery.”
“Sort of the sexual equivalent of a grab bag.”
“Right.”
“Except in this case, you can really be surprised by what you grab.”
Big Cyndi considered that. “If you really think about it, Mr. Bolitar, there can be only one of two things.”
He was no longer so sure.
“But I like your grab bag analogy,” Big Cyndi continued. “You know what you’re bringing to the party, but you have no idea what you’re going to take home. One time a guy left with what he thought was an overweight woman. It turned out that it was a guy with a midget hiding under the dress.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
Big Cyndi just looked at him.
“So,” Myron continued, “you, uh, frequent this place?”
“I’ve been a couple of times. But not recently.”
“Why not?”
“Two reasons. First, they compete with Leather-N-Lust. It’s a different crowd, but we still draw from similar markets.”
Myron nodded. “The pervert pool.”
“They’re not hurting anybody.”
“At least nobody who doesn’t want to be hurt.”
She pouted, not a great look on a three-hundred-pound wrestler, especially without her mortarlike makeup. “Esperanza is right.”
“About?”
“You can be very closed-minded.”
“Yeah, I’m a regular Jerry Falwell. So what’s the second reason?”
She hesitated. “I’m obviously for sexual freedom. I don’t care what you’re doing as long as it’s consensual. And I’ve done some wild things myself, Mr. Bolitar.” She looked straight at him. “Very wild.”
Myron cringed, fearing she might share details.
“But Take A Guess started drawing the wrong kind of crowd,” she said.
“Gee, that’s surprising,” Myron said. “You’d think a place like that would be a natural for vacationing families.”
She shook her head. “You are so repressed, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Because I like to know my partner’s gender before getting naked?”
“Because of your attitude. People like you cause sexual hang-ups. Society becomes sexually repressed—so repressed, in fact, that they cross the line between sex and violence, between playacting and real danger. They reach a stage where they get off by hurting people who do not want to be hurt.”
“And Take A Guess attracts that kind of crowd?”
“More than most.”
Myron sat back and rubbed his face with both hands. He started hearing brain clicks. “This might explain a few things,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Why Bonnie finally threw Clu out for good. It’s one thing to have a string of girlfriends. But if Clu was frequenting a place like this, if he started leaning toward”—again, what would be the word?—“toward whatever. And if Bonnie found out, well, it would explain the legal separation.” He nodded to himself as he heard more internal clicks. “And it would explain her odd behavior today.”
“How so?”
“She made a point of asking me not to dig too deeply. She just wanted me to clear Esperanza and then drop the investigation.”
Big Cyndi nodded. “She was afraid this would get out.”
“Right. If something like this went public, what would it do to her kids?”
Another thought floating through Myron’s brain got snagged on some jagged rock. He looked at Big Cyndi. “I assume that Take A Guess appeals mostly to bisexuals. I mean, if you’re not sure what you’re getting, who better than someone who wouldn’t care?”
“More like ambisexuals,” Big Cyndi said. “Or people who want some mystery. Who want something new.”
“But bisexuals too.”
“Yes, of course.”
“How about Esperanza?”
Big Cyndi bristled. “What about her?”
“Did she frequent this place?”
“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Bolitar. And I don’t see the relevance.”
“I’m not asking because it gives me jollies. You want me to help her, right? That means digging where we don’t want to dig.”
“I understand that, Mr. Bolitar. But you know her better than I do.”
“Not this side of her,” Myron said.
“Esperanza is a private person. I really don’t know. She usually has a steady, but I don’t know if she’s gone there or not.”
Myron nodded. Didn’t matter much. If Clu had been hanging out in such a place, it would give Hester Crimstein more reasonable doubt. A rough trade place complete with a reputation for violence—it was a natural recipe for disaster. Clu could have brought home the wrong package. Or been the wrong package. And there was the cash to consider. Blackmail money? Did a customer recognize him? Threaten him? Videotape him?
Yep, lots of murky reasonable doubt.
And a good place to search for the elusive girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or in-between friend. He shook his head. It was not a question of the ethics or moral dilemma for Myron; deviancy simply confused him. Repugnancy aside, he didn’t get it. Lack of imagination, he supposed.
“I’ll have to pay the Take A Guess a visit,” he said.
“Not alone,” Big Cyndi said. “I’ll go with you.”
Subtle surveillance was out. “Fine.”
“And not now. Take A Guess doesn’t open until eleven.”
“Okay. We’ll go tonight then.”
“I have just the outfit,” she said. “What are you going to go as?”
“A repressed heterosexual man,” he said. “All I’ll have to do is slip on my Rockports.” He looked at the phone record again. “You have another number highlighted in blue.”
She nodded. “You mentioned an old friend named Billy Lee Palms.”
“This his number?”
“No. Mr. Palms doesn’t exist anywhere. No phone listing. And he hasn’t paid taxes in four years.”
“So whose number is this?”
“Mr. Palms’s parents. Mr. Haid called them twice in the past month.”
Myron checked the address. Westchester. He vaguely remembered meeting Billy Lee’s parents during a Family Day at Duke. He looked at his watch. It would take an hour to get there. He grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator.
CHAPTER 13
Myron’s car, the business’s Ford Taurus, had been confiscated by the police, so he rented a maroon Mercury Cougar. He hoped the women would be able to resist. When he started the car, the radio was tuned to Lite FM 106.7. Patti LaBelle and Michael McDonald were crooning a sad lite staple entitled “On My Own.” This once blissfully happy couple were breaking up. Tragic. So tragic that, as Michael McDonald put it, “Now we’re up to talking divorce … and we weren’t even married.”
Myron shook his head. For this Michael McDonald left the Doobie Brothers?
In college Billy Lee Palms had been the quintessential party boy. He had sneaky good looks, jet black hair, and a magnetic, albeit oily, combination of charisma and machismo, the kind of thing that played well with young coeds away from home for the first time. At Duke the frat brothers had dubbed him Otter, the pseudosuave character in the movie Animal House. It fitted. Billy Lee was also a great baseball player, a catcher who managed to reach the major leagues for a half season, riding the bench for the Baltimore Orioles the year they won the World Series.
But that was years ago.
Myron knocked on the door. Seconds later the door swung open fast and wide. No warning, nothing. Strange. In this day and age people looked through peepholes or cracks in chain-held doors or at the very least asked who it was.
A woman he vaguely recognized as Mrs. Palms said, “Yes?” She was small with a squirrel mouth and eyes that bulged like something behind them was pushing to get out. Her hair was tied back, but several strands escaped and drooped in front of her face. She pushed them back with splayed fingers.
“Are you Mrs. Palms?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“My name is Myron Bolitar. I went to Duke with Billy Lee.”
Her voice dropped an octave or two. “Do you know where he is?”
“No, ma’am. Is he missing?”
She frowned and stepped back. “Come in, please.”
Myron moved into the foyer. Mrs. Palms was already heading down a corridor. She pointed to her right without turning around or breaking stride. “Just go into Sarah’s wedding room. I’ll be there in a second.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sarah’s wedding room?
He followed where she had pointed. When he turned the corner, he heard himself give a little gasp. Sarah’s wedding room. The decor was run-of-the-mill living room, something out of a furniture store circular. An off-white couch and matching love seat formed a broken L, probably the monthly special, $695 for both, the couch might fold out into a Serta sleeper, something like that. The coffee table was a semi oak square, a short stack of attractive, unread magazines on one end, silk flowers in the middle, a couple of coffee books on the other end. The wall-to-wall carpeting was light beige, and there were two torchere lamps à la the Pottery Barn.
But the walls were anything but ordinary.
Myron had seen plenty of houses with photographs on the walls. They were hardly uncommon. He had even been in a house or two where the photographs dominated rather than complemented the surroundings. That too would hardly give him reason to pause. But this was beyond surreal. Sarah’s Wedding Room—heck, it should be capitalized—was a re-creation of that event. Literally. Color wedding photographs had been blown up to life size and pasted on as a wallpaper substitute. The bride and groom smiled at him invitingly from the right. On the left, Billy Lee in a tux, probably the best man or maybe just an usher, smiled at him. Mrs. Palms, dressed in a summer gown, danced with her husband. In front of him were the wedding tables, lots of them. Guests looked up and smiled at him—all life size. It was as though a panoramic wedding photo had been blown up to the size of Rembrandt’s Night Watch. People slow-danced. A band played. There was a minister of sorts and floral arrangements and a wedding cake and fine china and white linen—again, all life size.
“Please sit down.”
Myron turned to Mrs. Palms. Was it the real Mrs. Palms or one of the reproductions? No, she was casually dressed. The real McCoy. He almost reached out and touched her to make sure. “Thank you,” he said.
“This is our daughter Sarah’s wedding. She was married four years ago.”
“I see.”
“It was a very special day for us.”
“I’m sure.”
“We had it at the Manor in West Orange. You know it?”
“I was bar mitzvahed there,” Myron said.
“Really? Your parents must have very fond memories of the day.”
“Yes.” But now he wondered. I mean, Mom and Dad kept most of the photos in an album.
Mrs. Palms smiled at him. “It’s odd, I know, but … oh, I’ve explained this a thousand times. What’s one more?” She sighed, signaled to a couch. Myron sat. She did likewise.
Mrs. Palms folded her hands and looked at him with the blank stare of a woman who sat too close to life’s big screen. “People take pictures of their most special times,” she began too earnestly. “They want to capture the important moments. They want to enjoy them and savor them and relive them. But that’s not what they do. They take the picture, they look at it once, and then they stick it in a box and forget about it. Not me. I remember the good times. I wallow in them—re-create them, if I can. After all, we live for those moments, don’t we, Myron?”
He nodded.
“So when I sit in this room, it warms me. I’m surrounded by one of the happiest moments in my life. I’ve created the most positive aura imaginable.�
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He nodded again.
“I’m not a big art fan,” she continued. “I don’t relish the idea of hanging impersonal lithographs on the walls. What’s the point of looking at images of people and places I don’t know? I don’t care that much about interior design. And I don’t like antiques or phony-baloney Martha Stewart stuff. But do you know what I do find beautiful?” She stopped and looked at him expectantly.
Myron picked up his cue. “What?”
“My family,” she replied. “My family is beautiful to me. My family is art. Does that make sense to you, Myron?”
“Yes.” Oddly enough, it did.
“So I call this Sarah’s Wedding Room. I know that’s silly. Naming rooms. Blowing up old photographs and using them as wallpaper. But all the rooms are like this. Billy Lee’s bedroom upstairs I call the Catcher’s Mitt. It’s where he still stays when he’s here. I think it comforts him.” She raised her eyebrows. “Would you like to see it?”
“Sure.”
She practically leaped off the couch. The stairwell was plastered with giant, seemingly old black and whites. A stern-faced couple in wedding gear. A soldier in full uniform. “This is the Generational Wall. That’s my great-grandparents over there. And Hank’s. My husband. He died three years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “This stairwell goes back three generations. I think it’s a nice way of remembering our ancestors.”
Myron didn’t argue. He looked at the photograph of the young couple, just starting out their life together, probably a little scared. Now they were dead.
Deep Thoughts by Myron Bolitar.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But is it any stranger than hanging oils of dead relatives? Just more lifelike.”
Hard to argue.
The walls in the upstairs corridor featured some sort of costume party from the seventies. Lots of leisure suits and bell-bottoms. Myron didn’t ask, and Mrs. Palms didn’t explain. Just as well. She turned left and Myron trailed her into the Catcher’s Mitt. It lived up to its billing. Billy Lee’s baseball life was laid out like a Hall of Fame display room. It started with Billy Lee in Little League, squatting in his catcher’s stance, his smile huge and strangely confident for so young a child. The years flashed by. Little League to Babe Ruth League to high school to Duke, ending with his one glorious year with the Orioles, Billy Lee proudly showing off his World Series ring. Myron studied the Duke photographs. One had been taken out in front of Psi U, their frat house. A uniformed Billy Lee had his arm around Clu, plenty of frat brothers in the background, including, he saw now, him and Win. Myron remembered when the picture had been taken. The baseball team had just beaten Florida State to win the national championship. The party had lasted three days.
