by Harlan Coben
“Uh, right. Anyway, they’re having this big grand opening and they’re trying to generate excitement and media attention and all that. So they want you to make a, uh, guest appearance.”
“Topless?”
“Like I said on the phone, I had an offer I wanted you to refuse.”
“Totally topless?”
Myron nodded. “They insist on nipple visibility.”
“How much they willing to pay?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
She stopped. “Are you shitting me?”
“I shit you not.”
She whistled. “Lots of cha-ching.”
“Yes, but I still think—”
“This was, like, their first offer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you could get them up?”
“No, that would be your job.”
She stopped and looked at him. Myron shrugged his apology.
“Tell them yes,” she said.
“Suzze …”
“Two hundred grand for flashing a bit of booby? Christ, last night I think I did it in there for free.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“Did you see what I wore in Sports Illustrated? I might as well have been naked.”
“That isn’t the same thing either.”
“This is Rack, Myron, not some sleazoid place like Buddy’s. It’s upscale topless.”
“Saying ‘upscale topless’ is like saying ‘good toupee,’ ” Myron said.
“Huh?”
“It might be good,” he said, “but it’s still a toupee.”
She cocked her head. “Myron, I’m twenty-four years old.”
“I know that.”
“That’s like 107 in women-tennis years. I’m ranked thirty-one in the world right now. I haven’t made two hundred grand over the past two years on tour. This is a big score, Myron. And man, will it change my image.”
“Exactly my point.”
“No, listen up, tennis is looking for draws. I’ll be controversial. I’ll get tons of attention. I’ll suddenly be a big name. Admit it, my appearance fees will quadruple.”
Appearance fees are the money paid to the big names just to show up, win or lose. Most name players make far more in appearance fees than prize money. It’s where the potential major dinero is, especially for a player ranked thirty-first.
“Probably,” Myron said.
She stopped and grabbed his arm. “I love playing tennis.”
“I know that,” he said softly.
“Doing this will extend my career. That means a lot to me, okay?”
Christ, she looked so young.
“All of what you’re saying may be true,” Myron said. “But at the end of the day, you’re still appearing at a topless bar. And once it’s done, it’s done. You will always be remembered as the tennis player who appeared topless.”
“There are worse things.”
“Yes. But I didn’t become an agent to get in the stripping business. I’ll do what you want. You’re my client. I want what’s best for you.”
“But you don’t think this is best for me?”
“I have trouble advising a young woman to appear topless.”
“Even if it makes sense?”
“Even if it makes sense.”
She smiled at him. “You know something, Myron? You’re cute when you’re being a prude.”
“Yeah, adorable.”
“Tell them yes.”
“Think about it for a few days, okay?”
“It’s a no-brainer, Myron. Just do what you do best.”
“What’s that?”
“Get the number up. And tell them yes.”
18
Cross River Condos was one of those complexes that looked like a movie façade, like whole buildings might topple over if you pushed against any one wall. The development was sprawlingly cramped, with every building looking exactly the same. Walking through it was like something out of Alice in Wonderland, all avenues mirroring the others, until you got dizzy. Have too much drink and you’re bound to stick your key in the wrong lock.
Myron parked near the complex pool. The place was nice but too close to Route 80, the major artery that ran from, well, here in New Jersey to California. The traffic sounds sloshed over the fence. Myron located the door to 24 Acre Drive and then tried to figure out which windows belonged to it. If he had it right, the lights were on. So was the television. He knocked on the door. Myron saw a face peer through the window next to the door. The face did not speak.
“Mr. Gibbs?”
Through the glass, the face said, “Who are you?”
“My name is Myron Bolitar.”
A brief pause. “The basketball player?”
“At one time, yes.”
The face looked through the window for a few more seconds before opening the door. The odor of too many cigarettes wafted through the opening and happily nested inside Myron’s nostrils. Not surprisingly, Stan Gibbs had a cigarette in his mouth. He had a gray stubble-to-beard going, too far gone for retro Miami Vice. He wore a yellow Bart Simpson sweatshirt, dark green sweatpants, socks, sneakers, and a Colorado Rockies baseball cap—the standard fashion fare shared with equal fervor by joggers and couch potatoes. Myron suspected the latter here.
“How did you find me?” Stan Gibbs asked.
“It wasn’t difficult.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Myron shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter,” Stan said. “I have no comment.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
“So what are you?”
“A sports agent.”
Stan took a puff of the cigarette, didn’t remove it from his mouth. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I haven’t played competitive football since high school.”
“May I come in?”
“No, I don’t think so. What do you want?”
“I need to find the kidnapper you wrote about in your article,” Myron said.
Stan smiled with very white teeth, especially when you considered the smoking. His skin was sort of clumpy and winter-colorless, his hair thin and tired, but he had those bright eyes, superbright eyes, the kind that look like supernatural beacons are shining out from within. “Don’t you read the papers?” he asked. “I made the whole thing up.”
“Made it up or copied it from a book?”
“I stand corrected.”
“Or maybe you were telling the truth. In fact, maybe the subject of your articles called me on the phone last night.”
Stan shook his head, the growing ash on the cigarette holding on like a kid on an amusement park ride. “This is not something I want to revisit.”
“Did you plagiarize the story?”
“I already said I wouldn’t comment—”
“This isn’t for public consumption. If you did—if the story was a fake—just tell me now and I’ll go away. I don’t have time to waste on false leads.”
“Nothing personal,” Stan said, “but you’re not making a whole lot of sense here.”
“Does the name Davis Taylor mean anything to you?”
“No comment.”
“How about Dennis Lex?”
That threw him. The dangling cigarette started to slip from Stan’s lips, but he caught it with his right hand. He dropped it on the walkway and watched it sizzle for a moment.
“Maybe you better come in.”
The condo was a duplex centered with that staple of new American contruction, the cathedral ceiling. Plenty of light came in from the big windows, splashing down on a decor straight out of a Sunday circular. A blond-wood entertainment center took up one wall, a matching coffee table not far from it. There was also a white-and-blue-striped couch—Myron would bet his lunch money it was a Serta Sleeper—and matching love seat. The carpeting was the same neutral as the exterior, a sort of inoffensive tan, and the place was clean yet disorderly in a divorcé way, newspapers and magazines and books piled
here and there, nothing really put in a specific place.
He had Myron sit on the couch. “Want something to drink?”
“Sure, whatever,” Myron said. The coffee table had one photograph on it. A man had his arms around two boys. All three were smiling too hard, like they’d just come in second place and didn’t want to appear disappointed. They were standing in a garden of some sort. Behind them loomed a marble statue of a woman with a bow and arrow over her shoulder. Myron picked up the frame and studied it. “This you?”
Gibbs lifted his head while scooping a handful of ice into a glass. “I’m on the right,” he said. “With my brother and my father.”
“Who’s that a statue of?”
“Diana the Huntress. You familiar with her?”
“Didn’t she turn into Wonder Woman?”
Stan chuckled. “Sprite okay?”
Myron put the photograph down. “Sure.”
Stan Gibbs poured the drink, brought it out to Myron, handed it to him. “What do you know about Dennis Lex?”
“Just that he exists,” Myron said.
“So why mention his name to me?”
Myron shrugged. “Why did you react so strongly to hearing it?”
Gibbs took out another cigarette, lit it. “You’re the one who came to me.”
“True.”
“Why?”
No secret. “I’m looking for a man named Davis Taylor. He’s a bone marrow donor who matched a kid and then vanished. I traced him to an address in Connecticut, but he’s not there. So I dug a little more and found out that Davis Taylor is a name change. His real name is Dennis Lex.”
“I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“This might sound a little nutty,” Myron said. “But I left a voice mail message for Davis Taylor né Dennis Lex. When he called back, he made little sense. But he kept telling me to ‘sow the seeds.’ ”
A small quake ran through Stan Gibbs. It passed quickly. “What else did he say?”
“That was pretty much it. I should sow the seeds. I should say good-bye to the child. Stuff like that.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Gibbs said. “He probably just read my article and decided to have a little fun at your expense.”
“Probably,” Myron said. “Except that wouldn’t really explain your reaction to Dennis Lex’s name.”
Stan shrugged, but there wasn’t much behind it. “The family is famous.”
“If I said Ivana Trump, would you have reacted the same?”
Gibbs stood. “I need some time to think about this.”
“Think out loud,” Myron said.
Stan just shook his head.
“Did you make up the story, Stan?”
“Another time.”
“Not good enough,” Myron said. “You owe me something here. Did you plagiarize the story?”
“How do you expect me to answer that?”
“Stan?”
“What?”
“I don’t care about your situation. I’m not here to judge you or tell on you. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you made up the story or not. All I care about is finding the bone marrow donor. Period. End of story. El Fin.”
Stan’s eyes started to well up. He took another puff of the cigarette. “No,” he said. “I never plagiarized. I never saw that book in my life.”
It was like the room had been holding its breath and finally let go.
“How do you explain the similarities between your article and that novel?”
He opened his mouth, stopped, shook his head.
“Your silence makes you look guilty.”
“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”
“Yeah, you do. I’m trying to save a kid’s life here. You’re not that wrapped up in your problems, are you, Stan?”
Stan moved back into the kitchen. Myron stood and followed him. “Talk to me,” Myron said. “Maybe I can help.”
“No,” he said. “You can’t.”
“How do you explain the similarities, Stan? Just tell me that, okay? You must have thought about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it.”
“Meaning?”
He opened the refrigerator and grabbed another can of Sprite. “Do you think all psychotics are original?”
“I’m not following you.”
“You received a call from a guy who told you about sowing the seeds.”
“Right.”
“There are two possibilities that explain why he did that,” Stan said. “One, he is the same killer I wrote about. Or two?” Stan looked at Myron.
“He just repeated what he’d read in the article,” Myron said.
Stan snapped and pointed at Myron.
“So you’re saying that the kidnapper you interviewed read this novel and it, what, influenced him somehow? That he copied it?”
Stan took a swig from the can. “That’s a theory,” he said.
And a damn good one, Myron thought. “So why didn’t you say that to the press? Why didn’t you defend yourself?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
“Some people say it’s because you were afraid they’d look closer at your work. That they’d find other fabrications.”
“And some people are morons,” he finished.
“So why didn’t you fight?”
“I spent my whole life being a journalist,” Stan said. “Do you know what it means for a journalist to be called a plagiarist? It’s like a daycare worker being called a child molester. I’m done. No words can change that. I’ve lost everything to this scandal. My wife, my kids, my job, my reputation—”
“Your mistress?”
He shut his eyes suddenly, tightly, like a child trying to make the bogeyman go away.
“The police think you killed Melina,” Myron said.
“I’m well aware of that.”
“Tell me what’s going on here, Stan.”
He opened his eyes and shook his head. “I have to make some calls, check out some leads.”
“You can’t just cut me loose.”
“I have to,” he said.
“Let me help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“But I need yours.”
“Not right now,” Stan said. “You’ll have to trust me on this.”
“I’m not big on trust,” Myron said.
Stan smiled. “Neither am I,” he said. “Neither am I.”
19
Myron pulled out. So, too, he noticed, did two men in a black Oldsmobile Ciera. Hmm.
The cell phone rang.
“Have you learned anything?” It was Emily.
“Not really,” Myron said.
“Where are you?”
“Englewood.”
“Do you have any plans for dinner?” Emily asked.
Myron hesitated. “No.”
“I’m a good cook, you know. We dated in college, so I didn’t have much chance to demonstrate my culinary skills.”
“I remember you cooking for me once,” Myron said.
“I did?”
“In my wok.”
Emily chuckled. “That’s right, you had an electric wok in your dorm, right?”
“Yep.”
“I almost forgot about that,” Emily said. “Why did you have one, anyway?”
“To impress chicks.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I thought I’d invite a girl up to my room, slice up some vegetables, add a little soy sauce—”
“To the vegetables?” she asked.
“For starters.”
“So how come you never pulled that one on me?”
“Didn’t have to.”
“You calling me easy, Myron?”
“How exactly does one answer that,” Myron asked, “and maintain possession of both testicles?”
“Come on over,” Emily said. “I’ll make us some dinner. No soy sauce.”
Another hesitation.
“Please don�
��t make me ask again,” Emily said.
He wanted very much to say no. “Okay.”
“Just take Route 4—”
“I know the way, Emily.”
He hung up then and checked the rearview mirror. The black Oldsmobile Ciera was still following. Better safe than sorry. Myron hit the preprogrammed number on his cell phone. After one ring, Win answered.
“Articulate,” Win said.
“Got a tail, methinks.”
“License plate?”
Myron read it off to him.
“Where should we coordinate?”
“Garden State Plaza mall,” Myron said.
“On my way, fair maiden.”
Myron stayed on Route 4 until he saw a sign for the Garden State Plaza. He took a rather complicated cloverleaf overpass and veered into the mall’s lot. The black Olds followed, dropping back a bit. Stall time. Myron circled a few times before finding a parking space. The Olds kept its distance. He turned off the car and headed for the “Northeast Entrance.”
The Garden State Plaza had all the artificial elements endemic in malls—the mall ear-pop when you enter, the stale mall air, the mall hollow acoustics, as though all sound were traveling through a high-volume distorter—the audial equivalent of a shower door, voices somehow rendered both loud and incomprehensible. Too much with the high ceilings and faux marble, nothing soft to cushion the sound.
He strolled through the nouveau riche section of the Garden State Plaza, past several barren shoe stores, the kind that display maybe three pairs of shoes on the ends of what look like deer antlers. He reached a store called Aveda, which sold wildly overpriced cosmetics and lotions. The Aveda saleswoman, a starving young thang in tourniquet-tight black, informed Myron that they were having a sale on face moisturizers. Myron refrained from crying out “Yippee!” and went on his way. Victoria’s Secret was next, and Myron did that male surreptitious glance at the lingerie window displays. Most of your more sophisticated heterosexual males are well versed in this art, awarding the racily clad supermodels the most casual of once-overs, feigning a lack of interest in the blown-up, blown-clear images of Stephanie and Frederique in Miracle Bras. Myron, of course, did the same thing—and then he thought, why pretend? He stopped short, squared his shoulders, ogled in earnest. Honesty. Shouldn’t a woman respect that in a man too?
He checked his watch. Not yet. More stall. The plan, as it were, was fairly simple. Win drives to the Garden State Plaza. When he arrives, he calls Myron on the cell phone. Myron then goes back to his car. Win looks for the black Olds and follows the followee. Super clever, no?
