The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  “Where can I find Jeremy’s doctor?” he asked.

  4

  When the elevator doors opened into the reception area of MB SportsReps, Big Cyndi reached out to Myron with two arms the approximate circumference of the marble columns at the Acropolis. Myron almost leaped out of the way—involuntary survival reflex and all—but he stayed still and closed his eyes. Big Cyndi embraced him, which was like being wrapped in wet attic insulation, and lifted him into the air. “Oh, Mr. Bolitar!” she cried.

  He grimaced and rode it out. Eventually she put him back down as though he were a porcelain doll she was returning to a shelf. Big Cyndi is six-six and on the planetoid side of three hundred pounds, the former intercontinental tag-team wrestling champion with Esperanza, aka Big Chief Mama to Esperanza’s Little Pocahontas. Her head was cube shaped and topped with hair spiked to look like the Statue of Liberty on a bad acid trip. She wore more makeup than the cast of Cats, her clothing form-fitted like sausage casing, her scowl the stuff of sumos.

  “Uh, everything okay?” Myron ventured.

  “Oh, Mr. Bolitar!”

  Big Cyndi looked like she was about to hug him again, but something stopped her, perhaps the stark terror in Myron’s eyes. She picked up luggage that in her manhole-paw resembled a Close’N Play phonograph from the early seventies. She was that kind of big, the kind of big where the world around her always looked like a bad B-monster movie set and she was walking through a miniature Tokyo, knocking over power lines and swatting at buzzing fighter planes.

  Esperanza appeared in her office doorway. She folded her arms and rested against the frame. Even after her recent ordeal, Esperanza still looked immensely beautiful, the shiny black ringlets still falling over her forehead just so, the dark olive skin still radiant—the whole image a sort of gypsy, peasant-blouse fantasy. But he could see some new lines around the eyes and a slight slouch in the perfect posture. He’d wanted her to take time off after her release, but he knew she wouldn’t. Esperanza loved MB SportsReps. She wanted to save it.

  “What’s going on?” Myron asked.

  “It’s all in the letter, Mr. Bolitar,” Big Cyndi said.

  “What letter?”

  “Oh, Mr. Bolitar!” she cried again.

  “What?”

  But she didn’t respond, hiding her face in her hands and ducking into the elevator as though entering a tepee. The elevator doors slid closed, and she was gone.

  Myron waited a beat and then turned to Esperanza. “Explanation?”

  “She’s taking a leave of absence,” Esperanza said.

  “Why?”

  “Big Cyndi isn’t stupid, Myron.”

  “I didn’t say she was.”

  “She sees what’s going on here.”

  “It’s only temporary,” Myron said. “We’ll snap back.”

  “And when we do, Big Cyndi will come back. In the meantime she got a good job offer.”

  “With Leather-N-Lust?” Big Cyndi worked nights as a bouncer at an S&M bar called Leather-N-Lust. Motto: Hurt the ones you love. Sometimes—or so he had heard—Big Cyndi was part of the stage show. What part she played Myron had no idea nor had he worked up the courage to ask—another taboo abyss his mind did its best to circumvent.

  “No,” Esperanza said. “She’s returning to FLOW.”

  For the wrestling uninitiated, FLOW is the acronym for the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling.

  “Big Cyndi is going to wrestle again?”

  Esperanza nodded. “On the senior circuit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “FLOW wanted to expand its product. They did some research, saw how well the PGA is doing with the senior golf tour and …” She shrugged.

  “A senior ladies’ wrestling tour?”

  “More like retired,” Esperanza said. “I mean, Big Cyndi is only thirty-eight. They’re bringing back a lot of the old favorites: Queen Qaddafi, Cold War Connie, Brezhnev Babe, Cellblock Celia, Black Widow—”

  “I don’t remember the Black Widow.”

  “Before our time. Hell, before our parents’ time. She must be in her seventies.”

  Myron tried not to make a face. “And people are going to pay money to see a seventy-year-old woman wrestle?”

  “You shouldn’t discriminate on the basis of age.”

  “Right, sorry.” Myron rubbed his eyes.

  “And professional women’s wrestling is struggling right now, what with the competition from Jerry Springer and Ricki Lake. They need to do something.”

  “And grappling old ladies is the answer?”

  “I think they’re aiming more for nostalgia.”

  “A chance to cheer on the wrestler of your youth?”

  “Didn’t you go see Steely Dan in concert a couple of years ago?”

  “That’s different, don’t you think?”

  She shrugged. “Both past their prime. Both mining more on what you remember than what you see or hear.”

  It made sense. Scary sense maybe. But sense. “How about you?” Myron asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Didn’t they want Little Pocahontas to return?”

  “Yep.”

  “Were you tempted?”

  “To what? Return to the ring?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, sure,” Esperanza said. “I busted my shapely ass working full-time while getting my law degree, so I could once again don a suede bikini and grope aging nymphs in front of drooling trailer trash.” She paused. “Still, it is a step above being a sports agent.”

  “Ha-ha.” Myron walked over to Big Cyndi’s desk. There was an envelope with his name scrawled across the top in glow-in-the-dark orange.

  “She wrote it in crayon?” Myron said.

  “Eye shadow.”

  “I see.”

  “So are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Myron said.

  “Bullshit,” she said. “You look like you just heard Wham split up.”

  “Don’t bring that up,” Myron said. “Sometimes, late at night, I still suffer flashbacks.”

  Esperanza studied his face a few more seconds. “This have something to do with your college sweetheart?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “What?”

  “How do I say this nicely, Myron? You are beyond moronic in the ways of women. Exhibits A and B are Jessica and Emily.”

  “You don’t even know Emily.”

  “I know enough,” she said. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to her.”

  “I didn’t. She found me at my parents’ place.”

  “She just showed up there?”

  “Yep.”

  “What did she want?”

  He shook his head. He still wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. “Any messages?”

  “Not as many as we’d like.”

  “Win upstairs?”

  “I think he went home already.” She picked up her coat. “I think I’ll do likewise.”

  “Good night.”

  “If you hear anything from Lamar—”

  “I’ll call you.”

  Esperanza put on her coat, flipping the glistening black flow out of the collar. Myron headed into his office and made a few phone calls, mostly of a recruiting nature. It was not going well.

  Several months ago, a friend’s death had sent Myron into a tail-spin, causing him to—and we’re using complex psychiatric jargon here—wig out. Nothing overly drastic, no nervous breakdown or institutional commitment. He had instead fled to a deserted Caribbean island with Terese Collins, a beautiful TV anchorwoman he didn’t know. He had told no one—not Win, not Esperanza, not even Mom and Dad—where he was going or when he’d be back.

  As Win put it, when he wigged out, he wigged out in style.

  By the time Myron was forced to return, their clients were scattering into the night like kitchen help during an immigration bust. Now Myron and Esperanza were back, attempting to revive the comato
se and perhaps dying MB SportsReps. This was no easy task. The competition in this business was a dozen starving lions, and Myron was one heavily limping Christian.

  The MB SportsReps office was nicely situated on Park Avenue and Forty-sixth Street in the Lock-Horne Building, owned by the family of Myron’s college-and-current roommate, Win. The building was in a primo midtown location and offered up some semi-dazzling views of the Manhattan skyline. Myron soaked it in for a moment and then looked down at the suits speeding below. The sight of the working ants always depressed him, a chorus of “Is That All There Is?” playing in his head.

  He turned now toward his Client Wall, the one with action shots of all the athletes represented by MB SportsReps, which now looked as spotty and sparse as a bad hair transplant. He wanted to care, but unfair as it was to Esperanza, his heart wasn’t really in it. He wanted to go back, to love MB and have that old hunger, but no matter how much he tried to stoke the old fire, it wouldn’t flame up.

  Emily called about an hour later.

  “Dr. Singh doesn’t have office hours tomorrow,” Emily said. “But you can hook up during rounds tomorrow morning.”

  “Where?”

  “Babies and Children’s Hospital. It’s part of Columbia Presbyterian on 167th Street. Tenth floor, south.”

  “What time?”

  “Rounds start at eight,” Emily said.

  “Okay.”

  Brief silence.

  “You okay, Myron?”

  “I want to see him.”

  It took her a few seconds. “Like I said before, I can’t stop you. But sleep on it, okay?”

  “I just want to see him,” Myron said. “I won’t say anything. Not yet, at least.”

  “Can we talk about this tomorrow?” Emily asked.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  She hesitated again. “Do you have Web access, Myron?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have a private URL.”

  “What?”

  “A private Web address. I take photos with the digital camera and post them there. For my parents. They moved to Miami last year. They check it out every week. Get to see new pictures of the grandkids. So if you want to see what Jeremy looks like …”

  “What’s the address?”

  She gave it to him and Myron typed it in. He hung up before hitting the return button. The images came up slowly. He drummed his fingers on the desk. On top of the screen was a banner saying HI, NANA AND POP-POP. Myron thought about his parents and shook it off.

  There were four photographs of Jeremy and Sara. Myron swallowed. He placed the arrow on Jeremy’s image and clicked the mouse, zooming in closer, enlarging the boy’s face. He tried to keep his breathing steady. He stared at the boy’s face for a long time without really registering anything. Eventually his vision blurred, his own face reflecting on the monitor over the boy’s, blending the images together, creating a visual echo of he knew not what.

  5

  Myron heard the cries of ecstasy through the door.

  Win—real name: Windsor Horne Lockwood III—was letting Myron temporarily crash at his apartment in the Dakota on Seventy-second Street and Central Park West. The Dakota was an old New York landmark whose rich and lush history had been totally eclipsed by the murder of John Lennon twenty-some-odd years ago. Entering meant crossing over the spot where Lennon had bled to death, the feeling not unlike trampling over a grave. Myron was finally getting used to it.

  From the outside, the Dakota was beautiful and dark and resembled a haunted house on steroids. Most apartments, including Win’s, had more square footage than a European principality. Last year, after a lifetime of living in Mom and Dad’s suburban sprawl, Myron had finally moved out of the basement and into a SoHo loft with his ladylove, Jessica. It was a huge step, the first sign that after more than a decade, Jessica was ready to—gasp!—commit. So the two lovers clasped hands and took the live-together plunge. And like so many plunges in life, it ended in an ugly splat.

  More cries of ecstasy.

  Myron pressed his ear against the door. Cries, yes, and a soundtrack. Not live action, he decided. He used his key and pushed open the door. The cries were coming from the TV room. Win never used that room for, uh, filming. Myron sighed and stepped through the portal.

  Win wore his casual WASP uniform: khakis, shirt with a color so loud you couldn’t look at it straight on except through a pinhole, loafers, no socks. His blond locks had been parted with the precision of old ladies dividing up a lunch check; his skin was the color of white china with dabs of golf-ruddy red on both cheeks. He sat yoga-lotus-style, his legs pretzeled to a point man was never supposed to achieve. His index fingers and thumbs formed two circles, the hands resting against the knees. Yuppie Zen. Old World European clashing heads with Ancient Oriental. The sweet smell of Main Line mixed with the heavy Asian incense.

  Win breathed in for a twenty count, held it, breathed out for a twenty count. He was meditating, of course, but with a Win-like twist. He did not, for example, listen to soothing nature sounds or chimes; no, he preferred meditating to the sound tracks of, uh, skin flicks from the seventies, which basically sounded like a bad Jimi Hendrix impersonator making wah-wah-wah noises on an electric kazoo. Just listening to it was enough to make you rush out for a shot of antibiotics.

  Win did not close his eyes either. He did not visualize a deer sipping water by a lapping stream or a gentle waterfall against green foliage or any of that. His gaze remained fixed on the television screen; more specifically, on homemade videotapes of himself and a potpourri of females in the throes of passion.

  Myron stepped fully into the room. Win turned one of his finger-Os into a flat-palm stop sign, then lifted the index finger up to indicate he wanted another moment. Myron risked a glance at the screen, saw the writhing flesh, turned away.

  A few seconds later, Win said, “Hello.”

  “I’d like my disgust noted for the record,” Myron said.

  “So noted.”

  Win moved fluidly from the lotus position to a full stand. He popped out the tape and put it in a box. The box was labeled Anon 11. Anon, Myron knew, stood for Anonymous. It meant Win had either forgotten her name or never learned it.

  “I can’t believe you still do this,” Myron said.

  “Are we moralizing again?” Win asked with a smile. “How nice for us.”

  “Let me ask you something.”

  “Oh, please do.”

  “Something I always wanted to know.”

  “My ears are all atwitter.”

  “Putting aside my repugnancy for a moment—”

  “Not on my account,” Win said. “I so enjoy when you’re superior.”

  “You claim this”—Myron motioned vaguely at the videotape and then the TV screen—“relaxes you.”

  “Yes.”

  “But doesn’t it also … I mean, sick as it is … doesn’t it also arouse you?”

  “Not at all,” Win replied.

  “That’s the part I don’t understand.”

  “Viewing the act does not arouse me,” Win explained. “Thinking about the act does not arouse me. Videos, dirty magazines, Penthouse Forum, cyber-porn—none of them arouse me. For me, there is no substitute for the real thing. A partner must be present. The rest has the same effect as tickling myself. It’s why I never masturbate.”

  Myron said nothing.

  “Problem?” Win asked.

  “I’m just wondering what possessed me to ask,” Myron said.

  Win opened a Ming dynasty cabinet that had been converted into a small fridge and tossed Myron a Yoo-Hoo. He poured himself a snifter of cognac. The room was lush antiques and rich tapestries and Oriental carpets and busts of men with long, curly hair. If not for the state-of-the-art home entertainment system, the room could have been something you’d stumble across on a tour of a Medici palace.

  They grabbed their usual seats.

  Win said, “You look troubled.”

  “I have a case for us.
”

  “Ah.”

  “I know I said we weren’t going to do this anymore. But this is sort of a special circumstance.”

  “I see,” Win said.

  “Do you remember Emily?”

  Win did that swirl thing with his snifter. “College girlfriend. Used to make monkey noises during sex. Dumped you in the beginning of our senior year. Married your archenemy Greg Downing. Dumped him too. Probably still makes monkey noises.”

  “She has a son,” Myron said. “He’s sick.” He quickly explained the situation, leaving out the part about possibly being the kid’s father. If he couldn’t talk about it with Esperanza, there was no way he could raise the subject with Win.

  When he finished, Win said, “It shouldn’t be too difficult. You’re going to talk to the doctor tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Find out what you can about who handles the records.”

  Win picked up the remote and flicked on the television. He flipped the channels because there were a lot of commercials on and because he was male. He stopped at CNN. Terese Collins was anchoring the news.

  “Is the lovely Ms. Collins visiting us tomorrow?” Win asked.

  Myron nodded. “Her flight comes in at ten.”

  “She’s been visiting quite a bit.”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you two”—Win crinkled his face as if someone had just flashed him a particularly nasty case of jock rot—“getting serious?”

  Myron looked at Terese on the screen. “Still too new,” he said.

  There was an All in the Family marathon on cable, so Win flipped to it. They ordered in some Chinese food and watched two episodes. Myron tried to get lost in the bliss of Archie and Edith, but it wasn’t happening. His thoughts naturally kept returning to Jeremy. He managed to deflect the paternity issue, concentrating, as Emily had asked, on the disease and task at hand. Fanconi anemia. That was what she said the boy had. Myron wondered if they had anything about it on the Web.

  “I’ll be back in a little while,” Myron said.

  Win looked at him. “The Stretch Cunningham funeral episode is up next.”

  “I want to check something on the Web.”

  “The episode where Archie gives the eulogy.”

  “I know.”