Deal Breaker

by Harlan Coben

  "You look like Jerry."

  Something dark crossed his face. "I'm sorry," he said, closing the door. "I really don't have time right now."

  "Sure about that, Jer?"

  "I already told you--"

  "Do you know Kathy Culver?"

  It was a sneak attack. And it drew blood. "Wha--what's this all about?" he snapped.

  "I think you know."

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is Myron Bolitar."

  "Am I supposed to know you?"

  "Well, if you're a big basketball fan ... actually, no. But I'd like to ask you a few questions."

  "I have nothing to say."

  Ace of spades time. Myron pulled out the magazine. "Sure about that, Jerry?"

  The whites of Slim's eyes grew tenfold, looking like Wedgwood china on the elongated face. "You have me mixed up with someone else. Good-bye."

  He slammed the door.

  Myron shrugged, headed back to the car.

  "Well?" Jessica asked.

  "We shook him," Myron said. "Let's see what falls out."

  The neighborhood newsstand.

  Win remembered a time when the phrase conjured up nostalgia and Rockwellian images of real America. No more. Any street, any corner, any hickville town was the same. Candy, newspapers, greeting cards--and porno mags. Kids could pick up a Snickers bar and get an eyeful, all in one. Porno had become a staple of American life. Hardcore porn. The kind of porn that made Penthouse look like Highlights magazine.

  Win approached the man behind the lottery ticket dispenser. "Pardon me," Win said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Would you be able to tell me if you have the most recent issues of Climaxx, Jiz, Orgasm Today, Licks, Quim, and Nips?"

  An elderly woman gasped and gave him an icy stare. Win smiled at her. "Let me guess," he said. "Playmate of the Month, June 1926?"

  She made a harumph noise and turned away.

  "Check over there," the man said. "Between the comic books and Disney videos."

  "Thank you."

  Win found three of them--Climaxx, Orgasm Today, and Quim. He tried three other newsstands and was able to pick up Lick, but there was no sign of Jiz or Nips. He finally found copies of them at a hardcore shop on Forty-second Street called King David's Smut Palace. They had a big sign out front that said OPEN 24 HOURS. How very convenient. Win considered himself fairly worldly, but the items and photographs in the "palace" proved that both his life experiences and his imagination had at best been limited.

  It was almost noon when he exited the palace. A productive and quasi-educational morning.

  With a total of eight magazines lodged under his arm, Win caught a taxi to midtown. He skimmed through a few in the backseat.

  "So far so good," he said out loud.

  The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, shrugged, looked back to the road.

  When Win arrived at his office, he spread the magazines across the vast breadth of his desk. He studied them closely, comparing them. Incredible. His suspicion had been sound. It was just as he thought.

  Five minutes later, Win put the magazines in his desk drawer. Then he buzzed Esperanza.

  "Kindly send Myron to my office as soon as he comes in."

  Chapter 9

  "I have a confession," Jessica said.

  They were coming out of the Kinney garage on Fifty-second Street, the smell of fumes and urine dissipating as they hit the relatively fresh air on the sidewalk. They turned down Fifth Avenue. The line for passports stretched past the statue of Atlas. A black man with long dreadlocks sneezed repeatedly, his hair flapping about like dozens of snakes. A woman behind him tsk-tsked a complaint. Many of the people waiting faced St. Patrick's across the street as though pleading for divine intervention, their faces lined with anguish. Japanese tourists took pictures of both the statue and the line.

  "I'm listening," Myron replied.

  They kept walking. Jessica did not face him, her gaze fixed on nothing straight ahead. "We weren't close anymore. In fact, Kathy and I barely spoke."

  Myron was surprised. "Since when?"

  "The last three years or so."

  "What happened?"

  She shook her head, but she still did not look at him. "I don't know exactly. She changed. Or maybe she just grew up and I couldn't handle it. We just drifted apart. When we saw each other, it was as if she couldn't stand to be in the same room with me."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Yeah, well, it's no big thing. Except Kathy called me the night she disappeared. First time in I don't know how long."

  "What did she want?"

  "I don't know. I was on my way out the door. I rushed her off."

  They fell into silence the rest of the way to Myron's office.

  When they got off the elevator, Esperanza handed him a sheet of paper and said, "Win wants to see you right away." She glared at Jessica the way a linebacker might glare at a limping quarterback on a blindside blitz.

  "Otto Burke or Larry Hanson call?" Myron asked.

  She swerved her glare toward Myron. "No. Win wants to see you right away."

  "I heard you the first time. Tell him I'll be up in five minutes."

  They moved into Myron's office. He closed the door and skimmed over the sheet. Jessica sat in front of him. She crossed her legs the way few women could, turning an ordinary event into a moment of sexual intrigue. Myron tried not to stare. He also tried not to remember the luscious feel of those legs in bed. He was unsuccessful in both endeavors.

  "What's it say?" she asked.

  He snapped to. "Our slim friend on Kenmore Street in Glen Rock is named Gary Grady."

  Jessica squinted. "The name sounds familiar." She shook her head. "But I can't place it."

  "He's been married seven years, wife Allison. No kids. Has a $110,000 mortgage on that house, pays it on time. Nothing else yet. We should know more in a little while." He put the paper on his desk. "I think we have to start attacking this on a few different fronts."

  "How?"

  "We have to go back to the night your sister disappeared. Start with that, and move forward. The whole case needs to be reinvestigated. The same with your father's murder. I'm not saying the cops weren't thorough. They probably were. But we now know some things they don't."

  "The magazine," she said.

  "Exactly."

  "How can I help?" she asked.

  "Start finding out all you can about what she was up to when she disappeared. Talk to her friends, roommates, sorority sisters, fellow cheerleaders--anyone."

  "Okay."

  "Also get her school records. Let's see if there's anything there. I want to see what courses she was taking, what activities she was involved with, anything."

  Esperanza threw open the door. "Meal Ticket. Line two."

  Myron checked his watch. Christian should be in the middle of practice by now. He picked up the phone. "Christian?"

  "Mr Bolitar, I don't understand what's going on."

  Myron could barely hear him. It sounded as if he were standing in a wind tunnel. "Where are you?"

  "A pay phone outside Titans Stadium."

  "What's the matter?"

  "They won't let me in."

  Jessica stayed in the office to make a few calls. Myron rushed out. Fifty-seventh Street to the West Side Highway was unusually clear. He called Otto Burke and Larry Hanson from the car. Neither one was in. Myron was not astounded.

  Then he dialed an unlisted phone in Washington. Few people had this particular number.

  "Hello?" the voice answered politely.

  "Hi, P.T."

  "Ah shit, Myron, what the fuck do you want?"

  "I need a favor."

  "Perfect. I was just telling someone, gee, I wish Bolitar would call so I could do him a favor. Few things bring me such joy."

  P.T. worked for the FBI. FBI chiefs come and go. P.T was a constant. The press didn't know about him, but every president since Nixon had had his number on their sp
eed dial.

  "The Kathy Culver case," Myron said. "Who's the best guy to talk to about it?"

  "The local cop," P.T. answered without hesitation.

  "He's an elected sheriff or something. Great guy, good friend of mine. I forget his name."

  "Can you get me an appointment?" Myron asked.

  "Why not? Serving your needs gives my life a sense of purpose."

  "I owe you."

  "You already owe me. More than you can pay. I'll call you when I have something."

  Myron hung up. The traffic was still clear. Amazing. He crossed the Washington Bridge and arrived at the Meadowlands in record time.

  The Meadowlands Sports Authority was built on useless swampland off the New Jersey Turnpike in a place called East Rutherford. From west to east stood the Meadowlands Race Track, Titans Stadium, and the Brendan Byrne Arena, named for the former governor who was about as well liked as a whitehead on prom night. Angry protests equal to the French Revolution had erupted over the name, but to no avail. Mere revolutions are hardly worthy adversaries for a politician's ego.

  "Oh, Christ."

  Christian's car--or he assumed it was Christian's--was barely visible under the blanket of reporters. Myron had expected this. He had told Christian to lock himself in his car and not say a word. Driving away would have been useless. The press would have just followed, and Myron was not up for a car chase.

  He parked nearby. The reporters turned toward him like lions smelling a wounded lamb.

  "What's going on, Myron?"

  "Why isn't Christian at practice?"

  "You pulling a holdout or what?"

  "What's happening with his contract?"

  Myron no-commented them, swimming through the sea of microphones, cameras, and flesh, squeezing his way into the car without allowing any of the slime to ooze in with him.

  "Drive off," Myron said.

  Christian started the car and pulled out. The reporters parted grudgingly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bolitar."

  "What happened?"

  "The guard wouldn't let me in. He said he had orders to keep me out."

  "Son of a bitch," Myron muttered. Otto Burke and his damn tactics. Little weasel. Myron should have been looking for something like this. But a lockout? That seemed a tad extreme, even by Otto Burke's standards. Despite the posturing, they had been fairly close to signing. Burke had expressed strong interest in getting Christian to minicamp as soon as possible, to get him ready for the season.

  So why would he lock Christian out?

  Myron didn't like it.

  "Do you have a car phone?" he asked.

  "No, sir."

  It didn't matter. "Turn back around," Myron said. "Park by Gate C."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Just come with me."

  The guard tried to stop them, but Myron pushed Christian past him. "Hey, you're not allowed in there!" he called after them. "Hey, stop!"

  "Shoot us," Myron said without stopping.

  They strode onto the field. Players were hitting the tackle dummies hard. Very hard. No one was holding back. These were tryouts. Most of these guys were fighting for a spot on the team. Most had been high school and college superstars, accustomed to unadulterated greatness on the field. Most would get cut. Most would not allow the dream to end there, scrounging other teams' rosters for a possible opening, holding on, slipping endlessly, dying slowly all the while.

  A glamour profession.

  The coaches blew whistles. The running backs practiced wind sprints Kickers were knocking down field goals at the far goal post. Punters boomed slow lazy arcs high into the air. Several players turned and spotted Christian. A buzz developed. Myron ignored it. He had spotted his target, sitting in the first row on the fifty-yard line.

  Otto Burke sat like Caesar at the Colosseum, that damn smile still plastered to his face, his arms spread over the seats on either side of him. Behind him sat Larry Hanson and a few other executives. Caesar's senate. Occasionally Otto would lean back and award his entourage a comment that brought on aneurysm-like fits of laughter.

  "Myron!" Otto called out pleasantly, waving one of those tiny hands. "Come on over. Have a seat."

  "Wait here," Myron told Christian. He climbed the steps. The entourage, led by Larry Hanson, stood in unison and marched away.

  Myron snapped a salute at them. "Hut two, three, four. Right face." No one laughed. Big surprise.

  "Sit down, Myron," Otto said, beaming. "Let's have a chat."

  "You haven't been returning my calls," Myron said.

  "Did you call?" He shook his head. "I'll have to get on my secretary about that."

  Myron let out a deep breath and sat. "Why was Christian locked out?"

  "Well, Myron, it's pretty simple, actually. Christian hasn't signed his contract yet. The Titans don't have time to invest in someone who may not be part of our future." He nodded toward the field. "Do you see who's here for a tryout? Neil Decker from Cincinnati. Fine quarterback."

  "Yeah, he's great. He can almost throw a spiral."

  Otto chuckled. "That's funny, Myron. You're a very amusing man."

  "I'm so. glad you think so Mind telling me what's going on?"

  Otto Burke nodded. "That's fair, Myron. So let's talk frankly, shall we?"

  "Rationally, frankly, whatever you want."

  "Great. We'd like to renegotiate your client's contract," he said. "Downward."

  "I see."

  "We feel your client's value has depreciated."

  "Uh-huh."

  Burke studied him. "You don't seem surprised, Myron."

  "So what is it this time?" Myron asked.

  "What is what this time?"

  "Well, let's start with Benny Keleher. You invited him to your house, plied him with booze, then had a cop arrest him on his ride home for drunk driving."

  Otto looked properly shocked. "I had nothing to do with that."

  "Amazing how he signed the next day. And then there's Eddie Smith. You had compromising photographs of him taken by a private eye and threatened to send them to his wife."

  "Another lie."

  "Fine, a lie. So let's cut to the chase, then. What has caused this sudden devaluation?"

  Otto sat back. He withdrew a cigarette from a gold case with a Titans emblem on the cover. "It's something I saw in a rather lewd magazine," he said. "Something that truly disheartened me." He didn't look disheartened. He looked rather pleased.

  "A new low," Myron said. "You should be proud."

  "Pardon me?"

  "You set it up. The magazine."

  Otto smiled. "Ah, so you knew about it."

  "How did you get that picture?"

  "What picture?"

  "The one in the ad."

  "I had nothing to do with it."

  "Sure," Myron said. "I guess you're just a charter subscriber to Nips."

  "I had nothing to do with that ad, Myron Honestly."

  "Then how did you get a hold of the magazine?"

  "Someone pointed it out to me."

  "Who?"

  "I am not at liberty to discuss it."

  "Very convenient."

  "I'm not sure I like your tone, Myron. And let me tell you something else: You're the one who has done wrong in the case. If you knew about the magazine, you had an ethical responsibility to tell me."

  Myron looked up at the sky. "You used the word ethical. Lightning did not strike. There is no God."

  The smile flickered but stayed on. "Much as we'd like to, Myron, we can't just wish this away. The magazine exists, and it must be dealt with. So let me tell you what I've come up with."

  "I'm all ears."

  "You're going to take our current offer and knock it down by a third. If not, the picture of Ms. Culver goes public. Think about it. You have three days to decide." Otto watched Neil Decker throw a pass. It looked like a duck with a broken wing, crashing well short of the receiver. He frowned, stroked his goatee. "Make that two days."

  Chapter 10<
br />
  Dean of Students Harrison Gordon made sure the door to his office was locked. Double-locked, in fact. He was taking no chances. Not with this.

  He sat back down and stared out his office window. Esteemed Reston University in all its glory. The view was a mesh of green grass and brick buildings. No ivy adorned these towers of learning, but it should have. The students were gone for summer break, but the commons still had a sprinkling of people on it--campers from the football and tennis camps, local people who used the campus as a park, the old throwback hippies who pilgrimage to liberal arts institutions like Moslems to Mecca. Lots of red bandannas and ponchos and granola-types. A bearded man tossed a Frisbee. A small boy caught it.

  Harrison Gordon saw none of it. He had not spun his chair around to enjoy the view. He had done so to avert his gaze from the ... thing on his desk. He wanted simply to destroy the damn thing and forget about it. But he couldn't. Something held him back. And something kept drawing him toward it, toward that page near the back. ...

  Destroy it, you fool. If somebody finds it ...

  What?

  He did not know. He spun his chair back around, keeping his eyes away from the magazine. The student file marked CULVER, KATHERINE lay to the right. He swallowed. With a shaking hand he sifted through the stacks of transcripts and recommendation letters. It was an impressive file, but Harrison had no time for that now.

  The buzz of his intercom--a horrid noise--startled him upright.

  "Dean Gordon?"

  "Yes," he said, nearly shouting. His heart was beating like a rabbit's.

  "I have someone here to see you. She doesn't have an appointment, but I thought you might want to see her."

  Edith's voice was hushed, a church-whisper.

  "Who is it?" he asked.

  "It's Jessica Culver. She's Kathy's sister."

  Panic punctured his heart like an icicle.

  "Dean Gordon?"

  He clamped his hand over his mouth, afraid he might scream.

  "Dean Gordon? Are you there?"

  There were no true options. He would have to see her and find out what she wanted. To act in any other manner would raise suspicion.

  He opened his bottom drawer and scooped the contents of his desk into it. He shut it, took out his key ring, and locked his desk. Better safe than sorry. Last, he unbolted his door.

  "Send Ms. Culver in," he said.

  Jessica was at least as beautiful as her sister, which was saying something quite extraordinary. He debated on how to greet her and settled for funeral director mode--detached sympathy, warm professionalism.

  He shook her hand with gentle firmness. "Miss Culver, I'm so sorry we have to meet under such circumstances. Our prayers are with your family during this difficult time."