by Harlan Coben
“Plenty. Clu had spent his lifetime beating these tests. If he knew they were coming, he’d be prepared.”
“Prepared how?” Sophie asked.
“Lots of ways, depending on the sophistication of the test,” Myron said. “If the testing was more primitive, you can put motor oil on your fingers and let the urine hit them while urinating. The phosphates throw the results out of whack. Some testers know this, so they check for phosphates. If the tester lets the guy urinate in a stall, he can strap clean urine onto his inner thigh and use that. Or the testee keeps the clean urine hidden in a condom or small balloon. He stores it in the lining of his boxer shorts maybe. Or between his toes. Under his armpit. In his mouth even.”
“Are you serious?”
“It gets worse. If the testee gets tipped off a strict test is coming up—one where the administrators are watching every move he makes—he’ll drain his bladder and use a catheter to pump in clean urine.”
Sophie Mayor looked horror-stricken. “He pumps someone else’s urine into his bladder?”
“Yes,” Myron said.
“Jesus.” Then she pinned him down with her eyes. “You seem to know quite a bit about this, Myron.”
“So did Clu.”
“What are you saying?”
“It raises some questions, that’s all.”
“He probably got caught by surprise.”
“Maybe,” Myron said. “But if you were testing him every week, how surprised could he have been?”
“He might have just messed up,” Sophie went on. “Drug addicts have a way of doing that.”
“Could be. But I’d like to speak with the person who administered the test.”
“Dr. Stilwell,” Jared said. “He’s the team doctor. He handled it. Sawyer Wells assisted him.”
“Sawyer Wells, as in the self-help guru?”
“He’s a psychologist specializing in human behavior and an excellent motivational therapist,” Jared corrected.
Motivational therapist. Uh-huh. “Are either of them around now?”
“No, I don’t think so. But they’ll be here later. We have a home game tonight.”
“Who on the team was especially friendly with Clu? A coach, a player?”
“I really wouldn’t know,” Jared said.
“Who did he room with on the road?”
Sophie almost smiled. “You really were out of touch, weren’t you?”
“Cabral,” Jared said. “Enos Cabral. He’s a Cuban pitcher.”
Myron knew him. He nodded, glancing about, and that was when he saw it. His heart lurched, and it took all his willpower not to scream.
He had just been sweeping the room with his eyes, taking the room in but not really seeing anything, just the normal thing everyone does, when an object snagged his gaze as though on a rusted hook. Myron froze. On the credenza. On the right side of the credenza, mixed in with the other framed photos and the trophies and those latex cubes that encased civic awards and the first issue of Mayor Software stock and the like. Right there. A framed photograph.
A framed photograph of the girl on the computer diskette.
Myron tried to maintain a calm facade. Deep breath in, deep breath out. But he could feel his pulse quicken. His mind fought through the haze, searching for a temporary clearing. He scanned his internal memory banks. Okay, slow down. Breathe. Keep breathing.
No wonder the girl had looked familiar to him.
But what was her deal? More memory bank scanning. She was Sophie Mayor’s daughter, of course. Jared Mayor’s sister. What was her name again? His recollections were vague. What had happened to her? A runaway, right? Ten, fifteen years ago. There had been an estrangement or something. Foul play was not suspected. Or was it? He didn’t remember.
“Myron?”
He needed to think. Calmly. He needed space, time. He couldn’t just blurt out, “Oh, I got this weird diskette with an image of your daughter melting in blood on it.” He had to get out of here. Do some research. Think it through. He stood, clumsily looking at his watch.
“I have to go,” he said.
“What?”
“I’d like to speak with Dr. Stilwell as soon as possible,” he said.
Sophie’s eyes stayed on him. “I don’t see the relevance.”
“I just explained—”
“What difference would it make? Clu is dead now. The drug test isn’t relevant.”
“There might be a connection.”
“Between his death and a drug test?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I agree.”
“I’d still like to check it out. I have that right.”
“What right?”
“If the drug test was inconclusive, it changes things.”
“Changes what—” Then Sophie stopped, smiled a bit, and nodded to herself. “I think I see now.”
Myron said nothing.
“You mean in terms of his contract, don’t you?”
“I have to go,” he repeated.
She leaned back and recrossed her arms. “Well, Myron, I have to hand it to you. You are definitely an agent. Trying to squeeze one more commission out of a corpse, eh?”
Myron let the insult roll off. “If Clu was clean, his contract would still be valid. You’d owe the family at least three million dollars.”
“So this is a shakedown? You’re here for money?”
He glanced at the picture of the young girl again. He remembered the diskette, the laugh, the blood. “Right now,” he said, “I’d just like to talk with the team doctor.”
Sophie Mayor looked at him like he was a turd on the carpet. “Get out of my office, Myron.”
“Will you let me speak to the doctor?”
“You don’t have any legal standing here.”
“I think I do.”
“You don’t, believe me. The blood money has run dry here. Get out, Myron. Now.”
He took one more look at the photograph. Now was not the time to argue the point. He hurried out the door.
CHAPTER 18
Myron was starting to hurt. The Tylenol alone wasn’t doing the trick. He had Tylenol with codeine in his back pocket, but he did not dare. He needed to stay sharp, and that stuff put him to sleep faster than, er, sex. He quickly cataloged the sore spots. His sliced-up shin hurt most, followed closely by his bruised ribs. The rest of the aches were an almost welcome distraction. But the pain made him conscious of every movement.
When he got back to his office, Big Cyndi handed him a huge pile of message slips.
“How many reporters have called?” he asked.
“I stopped counting, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Any messages from Bruce Taylor?”
“Yes.”
Bruce covered the Mets, not the Yankees. But every reporter wanted in on this story. Bruce was also something of a friend. He would know about Sophie Mayor’s daughter. The question was, of course, how to raise the subject without getting him overly curious.
Myron closed his office door, sat down, dialed a number. A voice answered on the first ring.
“Taylor.”
“Hey, Brucie.”
“Myron? Jesus Christ. Hey, I appreciate you calling me back.”
“Sure, Bruce. I love to cooperate with my favorite reporter.”
Pause. Then: “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Myron said.
“This is too easy.”
“Pardon.”
“Okay, Myron, let’s skip the part where you break down my defenses with your supernatural charisma. Cut to it.”
“I want to make a deal.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not willing to make a statement yet. But when I do, you get first crack. An exclusive.”
“An exclusive? Sheesh, Myron, you really do know your media lingo, don’t you?”
“I could have said scoop. It’s one of my favorite words.”
“Okay, Myron, great. So in return for your not telling me anythin
g, you get what?”
“Just some information. But you don’t read into anything that I ask and you don’t report on it. You’re just my source.”
“More like your bitch,” Bruce said.
“If that’s what you’re into.”
“Not today, dear, I have a headache. So let me get this straight. You tell me nothing. I report nothing. In return I get to tell you everything. Sorry, big guy, no deal.”
“Bye-bye, Brucie.”
“Whoa, whoa, Myron, hold up. Christ, I’m not a general manager. Don’t pull that negotiating crap on me. Look, let’s stop tugging each other’s chains here. This is what we do: You give me something. A statement, anything. It can be as innocuous as you want to make it. But I want to be the first with a statement from Myron Bolitar. Then I tell you what you want, I keep quiet, you give me the exclusive scoop or whatever before everyone else. Deal?”
“Deal,” Myron said. “Here’s your statement: Esperanza Diaz did not kill Clu Haid. I stand behind her one hundred percent.”
“Was she having an affair with Clu?”
“That’s my statement, Bruce. Period.”
“Okay, fine, but what’s this about your being out of the country at the time of the murder?”
“A statement, Bruce. As in, ‘no further comment.’ As in, ‘I’ll be answering no questions today.’ ”
“Hey, it’s already public knowledge. I just want a confirmation. You were in the Caribbean, right?”
“Right.”
“Where in the Caribbean?”
“No comment.”
“Why not? Were you really in the Cayman Islands?”
“No, I was not in the Caymans.”
“Then where?”
See how reporters work? “No comment.”
“I called you immediately following Clu’s positive drug test. Esperanza said you were in town but would not comment.”
“And I still won’t,” Myron said. “Now it’s your turn, Bruce.”
“Come on, Myron, you’re giving me nothing here.”
“We had a deal.”
“Yeah, all right, sure, I want to be fair,” he said in a tone that made it clear he would start up again later. “Ask away.”
Casual, casual. He couldn’t just ask about Sophie Mayor’s daughter. Subtlety. That was the key. Myron’s office door opened, and Win swept into the room. Myron signaled with one finger. Win nodded and opened a closet door. There was a full-length mirror on the inside back. Win stared at his reflection and smiled. A nice way of passing the time.
“What were the rumors about Clu?” Myron asked.
“You mean before the positive test results?”
“Yes.”
“Time bomb,” Bruce said.
“Explain.”
“He was pitching great, no question. And he looked good. Thinned down, seemed focused. But then a week or so before the drug test, he started looking like hell. Christ, you must have seen it, right? Or were you out of the country then too?”
“Just go on, Bruce.”
“What else can I tell you? With Clu you’ve seen it a hundred times before. The guy breaks your heart. His arm was touched by God. The rest of him was, well, just touched, if you follow my meaning.”
“So there were signs before the positive test?”
“Yeah, I guess. In hindsight, sure there were lots of signs. I hear his wife threw him out. He was unshaven, red-eyed, that kind of thing.”
“It didn’t have to be drugs,” Myron said.
“True. It could have been booze.”
“Or maybe it was just the strain of marital discord.”
“Look, Myron, maybe some guys like Orel Hershiser get the benefit of the doubt. But when it comes to Clu Haid or Steve Howe or some other perennial screwup, you figure it’s substance abuse, and eleven times out of ten you’re right.”
Myron looked over at Win. Win had finished patting the blond locks and was now using the mirror to practice his different smiles. Right now he was working on roguish.
Subtle, Myron reminded himself, subtle.… “Bruce?”
“Yeah?”
“What can you tell me about Sophie Mayor?”
“What about her?”
“Nothing specific.”
“Just curious, huh?”
“Right, curious.”
“Sure you are,” Bruce said.
“How much damage did Clu’s drug test do to her?”
“Tremendous damage. But you know this. Sophie Mayor stuck her neck out, and for a while she was a genius. Then Clu fails the drug test, and presto, she’s an idiotic bimbo who should let the men run things.”
“So tell me about her background.”
“Background?”
“Yes. I want to get a feel for her.”
“Why?” Bruce asked. Then: “Ah, what the hell. She’s from Kansas, I think, or Iowa or Indiana or Montana. Someplace like that. An aged Ivory Girl type. Loves fishing, hunting, all that nature stuff. She was also something of a math prodigy. Came East to go to MIT. That’s where she met Gary Mayor. They got married and lived most of their lives as science professors. He taught at Brandeis; she taught at Tufts. They developed a software program for personal finance in the early eighties and suddenly went from middle-class professors to millionaires. They took the company public in ’94 and changed the m to a b.”
“The m to a b?”
“Millionaire to billionaire.”
“Oh.”
“So the Mayors did what lots of superwealthy people do: They bought a sports franchise. In this case, the Yankees. Gary Mayor grew up loving them. It was going to be a nice toy for him, but of course he never got to enjoy it.”
Myron cleared his throat. “And they, uh, have children?” Señor Subtle-o.
“They had two. You know Jared. He’s actually a pretty good kid, smart, went to your alma mater, Duke. But everyone hates him because he got the job through nepotism. His main responsibility is to keep an eye on Mommy’s investment. My understanding is that he’s actually pretty good at that and that he leaves the baseball to the baseball guys.”
“Uh-huh.”
“They also have a daughter. Or had a daughter.”
With great effort, Win sighed, closed the closet door. So difficult to pull himself away from a mirror. He sat across from Myron looking, as always, completely at ease. Myron cleared his throat and said into the phone, “What do you mean, had a daughter?”
“The daughter’s very estranged. Don’t you remember the story?”
“Vaguely. She ran away, right?”
“Right. Her name was Lucy. She took off with a boyfriend, some grunge musician, a few weeks before her eighteenth birthday. This was, I don’t know, ten, fifteen years ago. Before the Mayors had any money.”
“So where does she live now?”
“Well, that’s the thing. No one knows.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She ran away, that much is known for sure. She left them a note, I think. She was going to hit the road with her boyfriend and seek her fortune, the usual teenage stuff. Sophie and Gary Mayor were typical East Coast college professors who read too much Dr. Spock, so they gave their daughter ‘space,’ figuring of course that she’d come back.”
“But she didn’t.”
“Duh.”
“And they never heard from her?”
“Duh again.”
“But I remember reading about this a few years ago. Didn’t they start a search for her or something?”
“Yeah. First off, the boyfriend came back after a few months. They’d broken up and gone their separate ways. Big shock, right? Anyway, he didn’t know where she went. So the Mayors called the police, but they treated it like no big deal. Lucy was eighteen by this time, and she had clearly run away on her own. There was no evidence of foul play or anything and remember that this was before the Mayors had beaucoup bucks.”
“And after they became rich?”
“Sophie and Gar
y tried to find her again. They made it like a search for the missing heiress. The tabloids loved it for a while. There were some wild reports but nothing concrete. Some say Lucy moved overseas. Some say she’s living in a commune somewhere. Some say she’s dead. Whatever. They never found her, and there was still no sign of foul play, so the story eventually petered out.”
Silence. Win looked at Myron and arched an eyebrow. Myron shook his head.
“So why the interest?” Bruce asked.
“I just want to get a feel for the Mayors.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No big deal.”
“Okay, I buy that. Not.”
“It’s the truth,” Myron lied. “And how about using a more up-to-date reference? No one says not anymore.”
“They don’t?” Pause: “Guess I gotta watch more MTV. But Vanilla Ice is still hip, right?”
“Ice, ice, baby.”
“Fine, okay, we’ll play it your way for now, Myron. But I don’t know anything else about Lucy Mayor. You can try a search on Lexis. The papers might have more detail.”
“Good idea, thanks. Listen, Bruce, I got another call coming in.”
“What? You’re just going to cut me loose?”
“That was our deal.”
“So why all the questions about the Mayors?”
“Like I said, I want to get a feel for them.”
“Does the phrase what a crock mean anything to you?”
“Good-bye, Bruce.”
“Wait.” Pause. Then Bruce said, “Something serious is going down here, right?”
“Clu Haid has been murdered. Esperanza’s been arrested for the crime. I’d say that’s pretty serious.”
“There’s more to it. Tell me that much. I won’t print it, I promise.”
“Truth, Bruce? I don’t know yet.”
“And when you do?”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“You really think Esperanza’s innocent? Even with all that evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Call me, Myron. If you need anything else. I like Esperanza. I want to help if I can.”
Myron hung up. He looked over at Win. Win seemed in deep thought. He was tapping his chin with his index finger. They sat in silence for several seconds.
Win stopped tapping and asked, “Whatever happened to the King Family?”
“You mean the ones with the Christmas specials?”
