by Harlan Coben
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."
Chapter 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 a 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 motion," 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 hand-shake to Myron.
"We're in a rush," Win said.
Chase Layton shoved the big smile out of the room and strapped on his best battle-ready face. Everyone sat. Chase Layton folded his hands in front of him. He leaned forward, putting a bit of a belly push on the vest buttons. "What can I do for you, Windsor?"
Rich people always called him Windsor.
"You've been after my business for a long time," Win said.
"Well, I wouldn't say—"
"I'm here to give it to you. In exchange for a favor."
Chase Layton was too smart to snap-bite at that. He looked at Myron. An underling. Maybe there'd be a clue how to play on this plebeian's face. Myron kept up the neutral. He was getting better at it. Must be from hanging around Win so much.
"We need to see Susan Lex," Win said. "You are her attorney. We'd like you to get her to come here immediately."
"Here?"
"Yes," Win said. "At your office. Immediately."
Chase opened his mouth, closed it, checked on the underling again. Still no clue. "Are you serious, Windsor?"
"You do that, you get the Lock-Horne business. You know how much income that would generate?"
"A great deal," Chase Layton said. "And yet not even a third of what we receive from the Lex family."
Win smiled. "Talk about having your cake and eating it too."
"I don't understand this," Chase said.
"It's pretty straightfoward, Chase."
"Why do you want to see Ms. Lex?"
"We can't divulge that."
"I see." Chase Layton scratched a ham-red cheek with a manicured finger. "Ms. Lex is a very private person."
"Yes, we know."
"She and I are friends."
"I'm sure," Win said.
"Perhaps I can set up an introduction."
"No good. It has to be now."
"Well, she and I usually conduct business at her office—"
"Again no good. It has to be here."
Chase rolled his neck a bit, stalling for time, trying to sort through this, find an angle to play. "She's a very busy woman. I wouldn't even know what to say to get her here."
"You're a good attorney, Chase," Win said, steepling his fingers. "I'm sure you'll come up with something."
Chase nodded, looked down, studied his manicure.
"No," he said. He looked back up slowly. "I don't sell out clients, Windsor."
"Even if it meant landing a client as big as Lock-Horne?"
"Even then."
"And you're not doing this just to impress me with your discretion?"
Chase smiled, relieved, as though he finally got the joke. "No," he said. "But wouldn't that be having my cake and eating it too?" He tried to laugh it off. Win didn't join him.
"This isn't a test, Chase. I need you to get her here. I guarantee that she won't find out you helped me."
"Do you think that's all that concerns me here — how it would look?"
Win said nothing.
"If that's the case, you've misread me. The answer is still no, I'm afraid."
"Thank about it," Win said.
"Nothing to think about," Chase said. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, making sure the crease sat right. "You didn't really think I'd go along with this, did you, Windsor?"
"I hoped."
Chase again looked at Myron, then back at Win. "I'm afraid I can't help you, gentlemen."
"Oh, you'll help us," Win said.
"Pardon me?"
"It's just a matter of what we need to do to get your cooperation."
Chase frowned. "Are you trying to bribe me?"
"No," Win said. "I already did that. By offering you our business."
"Then I don't understand—"
Myron spoke for the first time. "I'm going to make you," he said.
Chase Layton looked at Myron and smiled. Again he said, "Pardon me?"
Myron rose. He kept his expression flat, remembering what he'd learned from Win about intimidation. "I don't want to hurt you," Myron said. "But you will call Susan Lex and get her to come here. And you'll do it now."
Chase folded his arms and sat them atop his belly. "If you wish to discuss this further—"
"I don't," Myron said.
Myron walked around the table. Chase did not back away. "I will not call her," he said firmly. "Windsor, would you tell your friend to sit down?"
Win feigned a helpless shrug.
Myron stood directly over Chase. He looked back at Win. Win said, "Let me handle it."
Myron shook his head. He loomed over Chase and let his gaze fall. "One last chance."
Chase Layton's face was calm, almost amused. He probably saw this as a bizarre put-on — or perhaps he was just certain that Myron would back down. That was how it was with men like Chase Layton. Physical violence was not a part of the Layton equation. Oh, sure, those uneducated animals on the street might engage in it. They might knock him on the head for his wallet. Other people — lesser people, really — yes, they solved problems with physical violence. But that was another planet — one filled with a more primitive species. In Chase Layton's world, a world of status and position and lofty manners, you were untouchable. Men threatened. Men sued. Men cursed. Men schemed behind one another's backs. Men never engaged in face-to-face violence.
That was why Myron knew that no bluff would work here. Men like Chase Layton believed that anything remotely physical was a bluff. Myron could probably point a gun at him, and he wouldn't budge. And in that scenario, Chase Layton would be right.
But not this one.
Myron boxed Chase Layton's ears hard with his palms.
Chase's eyes widened in a way they probably never had before. Myron put his hand over the lawyer's mouth, muffling the scream. He cupped the back of the man's skull and pulled him back, knocking him off his chair and onto the floor.
Chase lay on his back. Myron looked him straight in the eye and saw a tear roll down the man's cheek. Myron felt ill. He thought about Jeremy and that helped keep his face neutral. Myron said, "Call her."
He slowly released his hand.
Chase's breathing was labored. Myron glanced at Win. Win shook his
head.
"You," Chase said, spitting out the word, "are going to jail."
Myron closed his eyes, made a fist, and punched the lawyer up and under the ribs, toward the liver. The lawyer's face fell into itself. Myron held the man's mouth again, but this time there was no scream to smother.
Win eased back in his chair. "For the record, I am the sole witness to this event. I'll swear under oath that it was self-defense."
Chase looked lost.
"Call her," Myron said. He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice. He looked down at Chase Layton. Chase's shirttail was out of his pants, his tie askew, his comb-over unraveling, and Myron realized that nothing would ever be the same for this man. Chase Layton had been physically assaulted. He would always walk a little more warily now. He would sleep a little less deeply. He would always be a little different inside.
Maybe so too would Myron.
Myron punched him again. Chase made an oof noise. Win stood by the door. Keep your face even, Myron told himself. A man at work. A man who won't stop no matter what. Myron cocked his fist again.
Five minutes later, Chase Layton called Susan Lex.
Chapter 32
Would have been better," Win said, "if you let me hurt him."
Myron kept walking. "It would have been the same," he said.
Win shrugged. They had an hour to set up. Big Cyndi was now in the conference room with Chase Layton, supposedly going over her new professional-wrestling contract. When she entered the room, all six-six, three hundred pounds of her wearing her Big Chief Mama costume, Chase Layton barely looked up. The pain from the punches, Myron was sure, was ebbing. He had not struck the man in any place that would do lasting damage, except maybe to the obvious.
Esperanza was set up in the lobby. Myron and Win met Zorra two levels down, on the seventh floor. Zorra had staked out the lower floors and decided that this would be the quietest and easiest to contain. The office suites on the northern side were empty, Zorra noted. Anyone entering or leaving had to do so from the west. Zorra was stationed there with one cell phone.
