The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  “You fucked my fiancée.”

  “And she fucked me. I didn’t owe you anything. She did.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t understand?”

  “I understand. It just doesn’t absolve you.”

  “I’m not looking for absolution.”

  “Then what do you want, Greg? You want us to clasp hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’? Do you know what you did to me? Do you know what the one moment cost me?”

  “I think maybe I do,” Greg said. He swallowed, put out a pleading hand as though he wanted to explain more, and then he let the hand drop to the side. “I’m so sorry.”

  Myron started shooting but he felt his throat swell.

  “You don’t know how sorry I am.”

  Myron said nothing. Greg tried to wait him out. It didn’t work.

  “What else do you want me to say here, Myron?”

  Myron kept shooting.

  “How do I tell you I’m sorry?”

  “You’ve already done it,” Myron said.

  “But you won’t accept it.”

  “No, Greg. I won’t. I live without playing pro ball. You live without my accepting your apology. Pretty good deal for you, you ask me.”

  Myron’s cell phone rang. He ran over, picked it up, said hello.

  A whisper asked, “Did you do as I instructed?”

  His bones turned to solid ice. He swallowed away something thick and said, “As you instructed?”

  “The boy,” the voice whispered.

  The stale air pressed against him, weighed down his lungs. “What about him?”

  “Did you say one last good-bye?”

  Something inside of Myron withered up and blew away. His knees buckled as the realization seeped into his chest. And the voice came on again:

  “Did you say one last good-bye to the boy?”

  29

  Myron snapped his head toward Greg. “Where’s Jeremy?”

  “What?”

  “Where is he?”

  Greg saw whatever it was on Myron’s face and dropped the basketball. “He’s with Emily, I guess. I don’t get him until noon.”

  “Got a cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call her.”

  Greg was already heading toward his gym bag, the athlete with the wonderful reflexes. “What’s going on?”

  “Probably nothing.”

  Myron explained about the call. Greg did not slow down to listen. He dialed. Myron started running toward his car. Greg followed, the phone pressed against his ear.

  “No answer,” Greg said. He left a message on the machine.

  “Does she have a cell phone?”

  “If she does, I don’t have the number.”

  Myron hit a stored number as they walked. Esperanza picked up.

  “I need Emily’s cell phone number.”

  “Give me five,” Esperanza said.

  Myron hit another stored number. Win answered and said, “Articulate.”

  “Possible trouble.”

  “I’m here.”

  They reached the car. Greg was calm. That surprised Myron. On the court, when the pressure mounted, Greg’s modus operandi was to get freaky, start screaming, psych himself into a frenzy. But of course, this was not a game. As his father had recently told him, when real bombs drop, you never know how someone will react.

  Myron’s phone rang. Esperanza gave him Emily’s cell phone number. Myron dialed it. After six rings, Emily’s voice mail picked up. Damn. Myron left a message. He turned to Greg.

  “Any clue where Jeremy might be?” Myron asked.

  “No,” Greg said.

  “How about a neighbor we can call? Or a friend?”

  “When Emily and I were married, we lived in Ridgewood. I don’t know the neighbors in Franklin Lakes.”

  Myron gripped the steering wheel. He hit the accelerator. “Jeremy’s probably safe,” Myron said, trying to believe it. “I don’t even know how this guy would know his name. It’s probably a bluff.”

  Greg started shaking.

  “He’ll be all right.”

  “Jesus, Myron, I read those articles. If that guy has my kid …”

  “We should call the FBI,” Myron said. “Just in case.”

  “You think that’s the way to go?” Greg asked.

  Myron looked at him. “Why? You don’t?”

  “I just want to pay the ransom and get my boy back. I don’t want anybody screwing it up.”

  “I think we should call,” Myron said. “But it’s your decision.”

  “There’s something else we have to consider,” Greg said.

  “What?”

  “There’s a good chance this wacko is our donor, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “If the FBI kills him, it’s over for Jeremy.”

  “First things first,” Myron said. “We have to find Jeremy. And we have to find this kidnapper.”

  Greg kept shaking.

  “What do you want to do, Greg?”

  “You think we should call?”

  “Yes.”

  Greg nodded slowly. “Call,” he said.

  Myron dialed Kimberly Green’s number. He felt waves pounding in his head, the blood flowing to his ears. He tried not to think about Jeremy’s face, what his smile had looked like when he opened that door.

  Did you say one last good-bye to the boy?

  A voice said, “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Myron Bolitar calling Kimberly Green.”

  “Special Agent Green is unavailable.”

  “The Sow the Seeds kidnapper may have taken somebody else. Put her on.”

  The hold was longer than Myron expected.

  Kimberly Green started with a bark. “What the hell are you ranting about?”

  “He just called me.” Myron filled her in.

  “We’re on our way,” she said.

  They hit a patch of traffic where Route 4 met Route 17, but Myron went up on the grass and knocked over several orange construction buckets. He broke off at Route 208 and exited near the synagogue. Two miles later, they made the final turn onto Emily’s street. Myron could see two FBI cars making the turn at the same time.

  Greg, who had gone into something of a trance, woke up and pointed. “There she is.”

  Emily was putting her key in the front door. Myron started honking madly. She looked back confused. He turned the car and skidded. The FBI car followed. Myron and Greg were both out the door almost before the car had stopped.

  “Where’s Jeremy?” they both said in unison.

  Emily had her head tilted to the side. “What?” she called back. “What’s going on here?”

  Greg took it. “Where is he, Emily?”

  “He’s with a friend—”

  From inside the house, the phone started ringing. Everyone froze. Emily snapped out of it first. She ran inside and picked up the phone. She put the phone to her ear, cleared her throat, and said, “Hello.”

  Through the receiver, they could all hear Jeremy’s scream.

  30

  There were six federal agents in all. Kimberly Green was the task force leader. They set up with quiet efficiency. Myron sat on one couch, Greg the other. Emily paced between them. There was probably something symbolic in that, but Myron was not sure what. He tried to push himself past the numb so he could get to a place where he could do some good.

  The phone call had been brief. After the scream, the whispery voice had said, “We’ll call back.” That was it. No warnings not to contact the authorities. No telling them to prepare funds. No setting up another time to call. Nothing.

  They all sat there, the boy’s scream still echoing, mauling, shredding, conjuring up images of what could have made a thirteen-year-old boy scream like that. Myron shut his eyes and pushed hard. That was what the bastard wanted. Unwise to play into that.

  Greg had contacted his bank. He was not a risky investor, and so most of his assets were liquid. If ransom money was needed, he’
d be ready. The various feds, all male except for Kimberly Green, put traces on all the possible phones, including Myron’s. She and her men were doing a lot of sotto voce. Myron hadn’t pressed them yet. But that wasn’t going to last.

  Kimberly caught his eyes and waved him over. He stood and excused himself. Greg and Emily paid no attention, still lost in the vortex of that scream.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “Okay,” Myron said. “Start by telling me what happened when you checked out Dennis Lex.”

  “You’re not family,” she said. “I could throw you out.”

  “This isn’t your house,” he said. “What happened with Dennis Lex?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “It’s a dead end.”

  “How so?”

  “We traced it down. He’s not involved in any of this.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Myron, come on. We’re not stupid.”

  “So where is Dennis Lex?”

  “It’s not relevant,” she said.

  “The hell it’s not. Even if he’s not the kidnapper, we still have him as the bone marrow donor.”

  “No,” she said. “Your donor is Davis Taylor.”

  “Who changed his name from Dennis Lex.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  Myron made a face. “What are you talking about?”

  “Davis Taylor was an employee in the Lex conglomerate.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “So why did he donate blood for a bone marrow drive?”

  “It was a work thing,” she said. “The plant boss had a sick nephew. Everyone at the plant gave.”

  Myron nodded. Something finally made sense. “So if he didn’t give a blood sample,” he said, “it would have been conspicuous.”

  “Right.”

  “You got a description on him?”

  “He worked on his own, kept to himself. All anyone remembers is a man with a full beard, glasses, and long blond hair.”

  “A disguise,” Myron said. “And we know Davis Taylor’s original name was Dennis Lex. What else?”

  Kimberly Green raised her hand. “Enough.” She sort of hitched herself up, trying to alter momentum. “Stan Gibbs is still our top suspect here. What did you talk about last night?”

  “Dennis Lex,” Myron said. “Don’t you get it?”

  “Get what?”

  “Dennis Lex is connected into all this. He’s either the kidnapper, or maybe he was the first victim.”

  “Neither,” she said.

  “Then where is he?”

  She shook it off. “What else did you two talk about?”

  “Stan’s father.”

  “Edwin Gibbs?” That got her attention. “What about him?”

  “That he vanished eight years ago. But you already know about that, don’t you?”

  She nodded a little too firmly. “We do,” she said.

  “So what do you think happened to him?” Myron asked.

  She hesitated. “You believe that Dennis Lex may be Sow the Seeds’ first victim, correct?”

  “I think it’s something to look into, yes.”

  “Our theory,” she went on, “is that the first victim may have been Edwin Gibbs.”

  Myron made a face. “You think Stan kidnapped his own father?”

  “Killed him. And the others. We don’t believe any of them are still alive.”

  Myron tried not to let that sink in. “You have any evidence or motive?”

  “Sometimes the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Oh, that’ll go over big with a jury. Ladies and gentlemen, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And you should never put the cart before the horse. Plus every dog has his day.” He shook his head. “Are you listening to yourself?”

  “On its own, I admit it doesn’t make sense. But put it all together. Eight years ago, Stan was starting out on his own. He was twenty-four, his father forty-six. By all accounts, the two men did not get along. Suddenly Edwin Gibbs vanishes. Stan never reports it.”

  “This is silly.”

  “Maybe. But then add back everything else we already know. The only columnist to get this scoop. The plagiarism. Melina Garston. Everything that Eric Ford discussed with you yesterday.”

  “It still doesn’t add up.”

  “Then tell me where Stan Gibbs is.”

  Myron looked at her. “Isn’t he at the condo?”

  “Last night, after you two talked, Stan Gibbs slipped surveillance. He’s done that before. We usually pick him up a few hours later. But that hasn’t happened this time. He’s suddenly out of sight—and by coincidence, Jeremy Downing has been snatched by the Sow the Seeds kidnapper. You want to explain that one to me?”

  Myron’s mouth felt dry. “You’re searching for him?”

  “We got an APB. But we know he’s good at hiding. You got any clue where he went?”

  “None.”

  “He said nothing to you about it?”

  “He mentioned that he might go away for a few days. But that I should trust him.”

  “Bad advice,” she said. “Anything else?”

  Myron shook his head. “Where is Dennis Lex?” he tried again. “Did you see him?”

  “I didn’t have to,” she said. But her voice had a funny monotone to it. “He’s not involved in this.”

  “You keep saying that,” Myron said. “But how do you know?”

  She slowed down. “The family.”

  “You mean Susan and Bronwyn Lex?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about them?”

  “They gave us reassurances.”

  Myron almost stepped back. “You just took their word for it?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She glanced around, let loose a sigh. “And it’s not my call.”

  “What?”

  She looked straight through him. “Eric Ford handled it personally.”

  Myron could not believe what he was hearing.

  “He told me to stay away,” she said, “that he had it covered.”

  “Or covered up,” Myron said.

  “Nothing I can do about it.” She looked at him. She had stressed the word I. Then she walked away without another word. Myron dialed his cell phone.

  “Articulate,” Win said.

  “We’re going to need help,” Myron said. “Is Zorra still working freelance?”

  “I’ll call her.”

  “Maybe Big Cyndi too.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “No time for a plan,” Myron said.

  “Ooo,” Win said. “Then we’re going to get nasty.”

  “Yes.”

  “And here I thought you weren’t going to break the rules anymore.”

  “Just this once,” Myron said.

  “Ah,” Win countered. “That’s what they all say.”

  31

  Win, Esperanza, Big Cyndi, and Zorra were all in his office.

  Zorra wore a yellow monogrammed sweater (the monogram being one letter: Z), large white pearls à la Wilma Flintstone, a plaid skirt, and white bobby socks. Her—or if you want to be anatomically correct, his—wig looked like early Bette Midler or maybe Little Orphan Annie on methadone. Shiny red high-heel shoes like something stolen from a trampy Dorothy in Oz adorned the men’s-size-twelve feet.

  Zorra smiled at Myron. “Zorra is happy to see you.”

  “Yeah,” Myron said. “And Myron is happy to see you too.”

  “This time, we’re on the same side, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Zorra pleased.”

  Zorra’s real name was Shlomo Avrahaim, and she was a former Israeli Mossad agent. The two had had a nasty run-in not long ago. Myron still carried the wound near his rib cage—a scar-shaped Z made by a blade Zorra hid in her heel.

  Win said, “The Lex Building is too well guarded.”

  “So we go with Plan B,” Myron said.

  “Already in motio
n,” Win said.

  Myron looked at Zorra. “You armed?”

  Zorra pulled a weapon out from under her skirt. “The Uzi,” Zorra said. “Zorra likes the Uzi.”

  Myron nodded. “Patriotic.”

  “Question,” Esperanza said.

  “What?”

  Esperanza settled her eyes on his. “What if this guy doesn’t cooperate?”

  “We don’t have time to worry about it,” Myron said.

  “Meaning?”

  “This psycho has Jeremy,” Myron said. “You understand that? Jeremy has to be the priority here.”

  Esperanza shook her head.

  “Then stay behind,” he said.

  “You need me,” she said.

  “Right. And Jeremy needs me.” He stood. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Esperanza shook her head again, but she went along. The group—a sort of cut-rate Dirty (One-Third of a) Dozen—broke off when they reached the street. Esperanza and Zorra would walk. Win, Myron, and Big Cyndi headed into a garage three blocks away. Win had a car there. Chevy Nova. Totally untraceable. Win had a bunch of them. He referred to them as disposable vehicles. Like paper cups or something. The rich. You don’t want to know what he does with them.

  Win drove, Myron took the front passenger seat, and Big Cyndi squeezed into the back, which was a little like watching a film of childbirth on rewind. Then they were off.

  The Stokes, Layton and Grace law firm was one of the most prestigious in New York. Big Cyndi stayed in reception. The receptionist, a skinny skirt-suit of gray, tried not to stare. So Big Cyndi stared at her, daring her not to look. Sometimes Big Cyndi would growl. Like a lion. No reason. She just liked to do it.

  Myron and Win were ushered into a conference room that looked like a million other big Manhattan law firm conference rooms. Myron doodled on a yellow legal pad that looked like a million other big Manhattan law firm legal pads, watched through the window the smug, pink, fresh-scrubbed Harvard grads stroll by, again all looking exactly the same as the ones at a million other big Manhattan law firms. Reverse discrimination maybe, but all young white male lawyers looked the same to him.

  Then again, Myron was a white Harvard law school graduate. Hmm.

  Chase Layton trollied in with his rolly build and well-fed face and chubby hands and gray comb-over, looking like, well, a name partner at a big Manhattan law firm. He wore a gold wedding band on one hand and a Harvard ring on the other. He greeted Win warmly—most wealthy people do—and then gave a firm, I’m-your-guy handshake to Myron.