by Harlan Coben
True enough. "Can we have dinner tonight?"
Win hesitated. "Of course."
"At the cottage. Six-thirty."
"Fine."
Win hung up. Myron tried to put it out of his mind. He had other things to worry about.
Esme Fong paced the sidewalk outside the entrance to the Omni Hotel on the corner of Chestnut Street and Fourth. She wore a white suit and white stockings. Killer legs. She kept wringing her hands.
Myron got out of the taxi. "Why are you waiting out here?" he asked.
"You insisted on talking privately," Esme answered. "Norm is upstairs."
"You two live in the same room?"
"No, we have adjoining suites."
Myron nodded. The no-tell motel was making more sense now. "Not much privacy, huh?"
"No, not really." She gave him a tentative smile. "But it's okay. I like Norm."
"I'm sure you do."
"What's this about, Myron?"
"You heard about Jack Coldren?"
"Of course. Norm and I were shocked. Absolutely shocked."
Myron nodded. "Come on," he said. "Let's walk."
They headed up Fourth Street. Myron was tempted to stay on Chestnut Street, but that would have meant strolling past Independence Hall and that would have been a tad too cliche for his liking. Still, Fourth Street was in the colonial section. Lots of brick. Brick sidewalk, brick walls and fence, brick buildings of tremendous historical significance that all looked the same. White ash trees lined the walk. They turned right into a park that held the Second Bank of the United States. There was a plaque with a portrait of the bank's first president. One of Win's ancestors. Myron looked for a resemblance but could not find one.
"I've tried to reach Linda," Esme said. "But the phone is busy."
"Did you try Chad's line?"
Something hit her face, then fled. "Chad's line?"
"He has his own phone in the house," he said. "You must have known that."
"Why would I know that?"
Myron shrugged. "I thought you knew Chad."
"I do," she said, but her voice was slow, careful. "I mean, I've been over to the house a number of times."
"Uh-huh. And when was the last time you saw Chad?"
She put her hand to her chin. "I don't think he was there when I went over Friday night," she said, the voice still slow. "I don't really know. I guess a few weeks ago."
Myron made a buzzing noise. "Incorrect answer."
"Excuse me?"
"I don't get it, Esme."
"What?"
Myron continued walking, Esme stayed in step. "You're what," he said, "twenty-four years old?"
"Twenty-five."
"You're smart. You're successful. You're attractive. But a teenage boy--what's up with that?"
She stopped. "What are you talking about?"
"You really don't know?"
"I don't have the slightest idea."
His eyes bore into hers. "You. Chad Coldren. The Court Manor Inn. That help?"
"No."
Myron gave her skeptical. "Please."
"Did Chad tell you that?"
"Esme ..."
"He's lying, Myron. My God, you know how teenage boys are. How could you believe something like that?"
"Pictures, Esme."
Her face went slack. "What?"
"You two stopped at an ATM machine next door to the motel, remember? They have cameras. Your face was clear as day." It was a bluff. But it was a damn good one. She caved a little piece at a time. She looked around and then collapsed on a bench. She turned and faced a colonial building with a lot of scaffolding. Scaffolding, Myron thought, ruined the effect--like armpit hair on a beautiful woman. It shouldn't really matter, but it did.
"Please don't tell Norm," she said in a faraway voice. "Please don't."
Myron said nothing.
"It was dumb. I know that. But it shouldn't cost me my job."
Myron sat next to her. "Tell me what happened."
She looked back at him. "Why? What business is this of yours?"
"There are reasons."
"What reasons?" Her voice was a little sharper now. "Look, I'm not proud of myself. But who appointed you my conscience?"
"Fine. I'll go ask Norm then. Maybe he can help me."
Her mouth dropped. "Help you with what? I don't understand. Why are you doing this to me?"
"I need some answers. I don't have time to explain."
"What do you want me to say? That I was dumb? I was. I could tell you that I was lonely being in a nice place. That he seemed like a sweet, handsome kid and that at his age, I figured there'd be no fear of disease or attachments. But at the end of the day, that does not change much. I was wrong. I'm sorry, okay?"
"When was the last time you saw Chad?"
"Why do you keep asking me that?" Esme insisted.
"Just answer my questions or I'll go to Norm, I swear it."
She studied his face. He put on his most impermeable face, the one he'd learned from really tough cops and toll collectors on the New Jersey Turnpike. After a few seconds she said, "At that motel."
"The Court Manor Inn?"
"Whatever it was called. I don't remember the name."
"What day was that?" Myron asked.
She thought a moment. "Friday morning. Chad was still sleeping."
"You haven't seen or spoken to him since?"
"No."
"You didn't have any plans to rendezvous for another tryst?"
She made an unhappy face. "No, not really. I thought he was just out for some fun, but once we were there, I could see he was developing a crush. I didn't count on that. Frankly I was worried."
"Of what exactly?"
"That he'd tell his mother. Chad swore he wouldn't, but who knew what he'd do if I hurt him? When I didn't hear from him again, I was relieved."
Myron searched her face and her story for lies. He couldn't find one. Didn't mean they weren't there.
Esme shifted on the bench, crossing her legs. "I still don't understand why you're asking me all this." She thought about it a moment and then something seemed to spark in her eyes. She squared her shoulders toward Myron. "Does this have something to do with Jack's murder?"
Myron said nothing.
"My God." Her voice quaked. "You can't possibly think that Chad has something to do with it."
Myron waited a beat. All-or-nothing time. "No," he said. "But I'm not so sure about you."
Confusion set camp on her face. "What?"
"I think you kidnapped Chad."
She raised both hands. "Are you out of your mind? Kidnapped? It was completely consensual. Chad was more than willing, believe me. Okay, he was young. But do you think I took him to that motel at gunpoint?"
"That's not what I mean," Myron said.
Confusion again. "Then what the hell do you mean?"
"After you left the motel on Friday. Where did you go?"
"To Merion. I met you there that night, remember?"
"How about last night? Where were you?"
"Here."
"In your suite?"
"Yes."
"What time?"
"From eight o'clock on."
"Anybody who can verify that?"
"Why would I need someone to verify that?" she snapped. Myron put on the impermeable face again--not even gases could get through. Esme sighed. "I was with Norm until midnight. We were working."
"And after that?"
"I went to bed."
"Would the hotel's nightman be able to verify that you never left your suite after midnight?"
"I think so, yes. His name is Miguel. He's very nice."
Miguel. He'd have Esperanza track down that one. If her alibi stuck, his neat little scenario went down the toilet. "Who else knew about you and Chad Coldren?"
"No one," she said. "At least, I told no one."
"How about Chad? Did he tell anyone?"
"It sounds to me like he told you," she said pointe
dly. "He might have told someone else, I don't know."
Myron thought about it. The black-clad man crawling out Chad's bedroom window. Matthew Squires. Myron remembered his own teenage years. If he had somehow managed to bed an older woman who looked like Esme Fong, he would have been busting to tell someone--especially if he'd been staying at his best friend's house the night before.
Once again, things circled back to the Squires kid.
Myron asked, "Where will you be if I need to reach you?"
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. "My cell phone number is on the bottom."
"Good-bye, Esme."
"Myron?"
He turned to her.
"Are you going to tell Norm?"
She seemed only worried about her reputation and her job, not a murder rap. Or was this just a clever diversion? No way of knowing for sure.
"No," he said. "I won't tell."
At least, not yet.
31
Episcopal Academy. Win's high school alma mater.
Esperanza had picked him up in front of Esme Fong's and driven him here. She parked across the street. She turned off the ignition and faced him.
"Now what?" she asked.
"I don't know. Matthew Squires is in there. We can wait for a lunch break. Try to get in then."
"Sounds like a plan," Esperanza said with a nod. "A really bad one."
"You have a better idea?"
"We can go in now. Pretend we're touring parents."
Myron thought about it. "You think that'll work?"
"Better than hanging out here doing nothing."
"Oh, before I forget. I want you to check out Esme's alibi. The hotel nightman named Miguel."
"Miguel," she repeated. "It's because I'm Hispanic, right?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
She had no problem with that. "I put a call in to Peru this morning."
"And?"
"I spoke to some local sheriff. He says Lloyd Rennart committed suicide."
"What about the body?"
"The cliff is called El Garganta del Diablo--in English, Throat of the Devil. No bodies are ever located. It's actually a fairly common suicide plunge."
"Great. Think you can do a little more background stuff on Rennart?"
"Like what?"
"How did he buy the bar in Neptune? How did he buy the house in Spring Lake Heights? Stuff like that."
"Why would you want to know that?"
"Lloyd Rennart was a caddie for a rookie golfer. That isn't exactly loads of dough."
"So?"
"So maybe he had a windfall after Jack blew the U.S. Open."
Esperanza saw where he was going. "You think somebody paid Rennart off to throw the Open?"
"No," Myron said. "But I think it's a possibility."
"It's going to be hard to trace after all this time."
"Just give it a shot. Also, Rennart got into a serious car accident twenty years ago in Narberth. It's a small town right around here. His first wife was killed in the crash. See what you can find out about it."
Esperanza frowned. "Like what?"
"Like was he drunk. Was he charged with anything. Were there other fatalities."
"Why?"
"Maybe he pissed off someone. Maybe his first wife's family wants vengeance."
Esperanza kept the frown. "So they--what?--waited twenty years, followed Lloyd Rennart to Peru, pushed him off a cliff, came back, kidnapped Chad Coldren, killed Jack Coldren.... Are you getting my point?"
Myron nodded. "And you're right. But I still want you to run down everything you can on Lloyd Rennart. I think there's a connection somewhere. We just have to find what it is."
"I don't see it," Esperanza said. She tucked a curl of black hair behind her ear. "Seems to me that Esme Fong is still a much better suspect."
"Agreed. But I'd still like you to look into it. Find out what you can. There's also a son. Larry Rennart. Seventeen years old. See if we can find out what he's been up to."
She shrugged. "A waste of time, but okay." She gestured toward the school. "You want to go in now?"
"Sure."
Before they moved, a giant set of knuckles gently tapped on Myron's window. The sound startled him. Myron looked out his window. The large black man with the Nat King Cole hair--the one from the Court Manor Inn--was smiling at him. "Nat" made a cranking motion with his hand, signaling Myron to lower the window. Myron complied.
"Hey, I'm glad we ran into you," Myron said. "I never got the number of your barber."
The black man chuckled. He made a frame with his large hands--thumbs touching, arms outstretched--and tilted it back and forth the way a movie director does. "You with my doo," he said with a shake of his head. "Somehow I just don't see it."
He leaned into the car and stuck his hand across Myron toward Esperanza. "My name is Carl."
"Esperanza." She shook his hand.
"Yes, I know."
Esperanza squinted at him. "I know you."
"Indeed you do."
She snapped her fingers. "Mosambo, the Kenyan Killer, the Safari Slasher."
Carl smiled. "Nice to see Little Pocahontas remembers."
Myron said, "The Safari Slasher?"
"Carl used to be a professional wrestler," Esperanza explained. "We were in the ring together once. In Boston, right?"
Carl climbed into the backseat of the car. He leaned forward so his head was between Esperanza's right shoulder and Myron's left. "Hartford," he said. "At the Civic Center."
"Mixed tag-team," Esperanza said.
"That's right," Carl said with his easy smile. "Be a sweetheart, Esperanza, and start up the car. Head straight until the third traffic light."
Myron said, "You mind telling us what's going on?"
"Sure thing. See that car behind you?"
Myron used the passenger-side mirror. "The one with the two goons?"
"Yep. They're with me. And they are bad men, Myron. Young. Far too violent. You know how the kids are today. Bam, bam, no talk. The three of us are supposed to escort you to an unknown destination. In fact, I'm supposed to be holding a gun on you now. But hell, we're all friends here, right? No need, the way I see it. So just start heading straight. The goons will follow."
"Before we take off," Myron said, "do you mind if we let Esperanza go?"
Carl chuckled. "Kinda sexist, don't you think?"
"Excuse me?"
"If Esperanza were a man--like, say, your buddy Win--would you be making this gallant gesture?"
"I might," he said. But even Esperanza was shaking her head.
"Me thinks not, Myron. And trust me here: It would be the wrong move. The young goons back there, they'd want to know what's up. They'd see her get out of the car and they got those itchy fingers and those crazy eyes and they like hurting people. Especially women. And maybe, just maybe, Esperanza here is an insurance policy. Alone, you might try something dumb; with Esperanza right there, you might not be so inclined."
Esperanza glanced at Myron. Myron nodded. She started the car.
"Make a left at the third light," Carl said.
"Tell me something," Myron said. "Is Reginald Squires as big a nut-job as I hear?"
Still leaning forward, Carl turned to Esperanza. "Am I supposed to be wowed by his sharp deductive reasoning skills?"
"Yes," Esperanza replied. "He'll be terribly disappointed if you aren't."
"Figured that. And to answer your question, Squires is not that big a nut-job--when he stays on his medication."
"Very comforting," Myron said.
The young goons stayed right on their tail for the entire fifteen-minute drive. Myron was not surprised when Carl told Esperanza to turn down Green Acres Road. When they approached the ornate front entrance, the iron gates swung open like on the closing credits of Get Smart. They continued up a windy driveway through the heavily wooded property. After about a half mile, they hit a clearing with a building. The building was big and plain and rectangular, l
ike a high school gym.
The only entrance Myron could see was a garage door. As if on cue, the door slid open. Carl told Esperanza to pull into it. Once far enough inside, he told her to park and kill the engine. The goon car came in behind them and did likewise.
The garage door came back down, slowly slicing out the sun. No lights were on inside; the room was submerged in total darkness.
"This is just like the haunted house at Six Flags," Myron said.
"Give me your gun, Myron."
Carl had his game face on. Myron handed him the gun.
"Step out of the car."
"But I'm afraid of the dark," Myron said.
"You too, Esperanza."
They all stepped out of the car. So did the two goons behind them. Their movements echoed off the cement floor, hinting to Myron that they were in a very large room. The interior car lights provided a modicum of illumination, but that didn't last long. Myron made out nothing before the doors were closed.
Absolute blackness.
Myron made his way around the car and found Esperanza. She took his hand in hers. They remained still and waited.
A beacon, the kind used at a lighthouse or a movie premiere, snapped on in their faces. Myron's eyes slammed shut. He shaded them with his hand and slowly squinted them open. A man stepped in front of the bright light. His body cast a giant shadow on the wall behind Myron. The effect reminded Myron of the Bat Signal.
"No one will hear your screams," the man said.
"Isn't that a line from a movie?" Myron asked. "But I think the line was, 'No one will hear you scream.' I could be wrong about that."
"People have died in this room," the voice boomed. "My name is Reginald Squires. You will tell me everything I want to know. Or you and your friend will be next."
Oh, boy. Myron looked at Carl. Carl's face remained stoic. Myron turned back toward the light. "You're rich, right?"
"Very rich," Squires corrected.
"Then maybe you could afford a better scriptwriter."
Myron glanced back at Carl. Carl slowly shook his head no. One of the two young goons stepped forward. In the harsh light, Myron could see the man's psychotic, happy smile. Myron tensed, waited.
The goon cocked a fist and threw it at Myron's head. Myron ducked, and the punch missed. As the fist flew by him, Myron grabbed the goon's wrist. He put his forearm against the back of the man's elbow and pulled the joint back in a way it was never intended to bend. The goon had no choice. He dropped to the ground. Myron added a bit more pressure. The goon tried to squirm free. Myron snapped his knee straight into the goon's nose. Something splattered. Myron could actually feel the nose cartilage give way and fan out.
The second goon took out his gun and pointed it at Myron.
"Stop," Squires shouted.
Myron let the goon go. He slid to the floor like wet sand through a torn bag.
