Deal Breaker

by Harlan Coben

  "Thank you for seeing me without an appointment."

  He waved his hand as if to scoff, It's nothing. "Please have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, soda?"

  "No, thank you."

  He moved back to his chair. He sat and folded his hands on the desk. "Is there something I can do for you?"

  "I need my sister's file," Jessica replied.

  Harrison felt his fingers bunch, but he kept his face steady. "Your sister's school file?"

  "Yes."

  "May I inquire as to why?"

  "It involves her disappearance."

  "I see," he said slowly. His voice, he was surprised to hear, remained calm. "I believe the police were very thorough with the file. They made copies of everything in it--"

  "I understand that. I'd like to see the file for myself."

  "I see," he said again.

  Several seconds passed. Jessica shifted in her chair. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

  "No, no. Well, perhaps. I'm afraid it may not be possible to give you the file."

  "What?"

  "What I mean to say is, I'm not sure you have any legal right to it. Parents certainly do. But I'm not sure about siblings. I'll need to check this with a university attorney."

  "I'll wait," Jessica said.

  "Uh, fine. Would you mind waiting in the other room, please?"

  She stood, turned, stopped. She looked back over her shoulder at him. "You knew my sister, didn't you, Dean Gordon?"

  He managed a smile. "Yes, I did. Wonderful young lady."

  "Kathy worked for you."

  "Filing, answering the phone, that sort of thing," he said quickly. "She was a terrific worker. We all miss her very much."

  "Did she seem okay to you?"

  "Okay?"

  "Before she disappeared," Jessica continued, her eyes boring into his. "Was she acting strangely?"

  Beads of sweat popped onto his forehead, but he dared not wipe them away. "No, not that I could see. She seemed perfectly fine. Why do you ask?"

  "Just checking. I'll wait out front."

  "Thank you."

  She closed the door.

  Harrison let loose a long breath. What now? He would have to give her the file; to do otherwise would do far more than merely raise suspicion. But he could not, of course, just pull the file out of his bottom drawer and hand it to Jessica. No, he would wait a few minutes, walk down to the filing room to handle her case "personally," then return with the file.

  Why, he wondered, did Jessica Culver need the file? Was there something he had missed?

  No. He was sure of that.

  Harrison had spent the last year hoping, praying, that it was over. But he should have known better. Matters like this never truly die. They hide, take root, grow stronger, prepare for a fresh onslaught.

  Kathy Culver was not dead and buried. Like some gothic ghost, she had arisen, haunting him, crying out from some great beyond.

  For vengeance.

  Myron returned to the office.

  "Win buzzed down twice," Esperanza said. "He wants to see you. Now."

  "On my way."

  "Myron?"

  "What?"

  Esperanza's lovely dark eyes were solemn. "Is she back? Jessica, I mean."

  "No. She's just visiting."

  Her face registered doubt. Myron did not press it. He no longer knew what to think himself.

  He ran up the stairs two at a time. Win was two floors above him, but he might as well have been in another dimension. As soon as he opened the big steel door, the tireless clamor swarmed in, attacking. The large open space was in perpetual motion. Two, maybe three hundred desks covered the huge floor like throw rugs. Every desk had at least two computer terminals on it. There were no partitions. Hundreds of men sat and stood at every angle, each wearing a white button-down shirt with tie and suspenders, suit jackets draped from the back of their chairs. There were painfully few women. The men were all on the phone, most covering the mouthpiece to scream at someone else. They all looked alike. They all sounded alike. They were all pretty much the same person.

  Welcome to Lock-Horne Investments & Securities.

  All six floors were exactly the same. In fact, Myron often suspected that Lock-Horne had only one floor and that the elevator was set to stop on the same floor no matter which number you hit from floor fourteen to floor nineteen, giving the illusion of a bigger company.

  Office after office made up the compound's perimeter. These were saved for the head honchos, the top dogs, the numero unos, or in securities talk, the Big Producers. The BPs all had windows and sunshine, unlike the peons on the inside, who sickened and paled from the unnatural light.

  Win had a corner office with a view of both Forty-seventh Street and Park Avenue--a view that screamed major dinero. His office was decorated in Early American Wasp. Dark-paneled walls. Forest green carpet. Wing-back chairs. Paintings of a fox hunt on the wall. Like Win had ever seen a fox.

  Win looked up from his massive oak desk when Myron entered. The desk weighed slightly less than a cement mixer. He'd been studying a computer print-out, one of those never-ending reams with green and white stripes. The desk was blanketed with them. They sort of matched the carpet.

  "How did your morning rendezvous go with our friend Jerry the Phone-icator?" Win asked.

  "Phone-icator?"

  Win smiled. "I spent the whole morning working that one."

  "It was worth it," Myron said.

  He filled Win in on his encounter with Gary "Jerry" Grady. Win sat back and steepled. Myron then filled him in on his encounter with Otto Burke. Win leaned forward and unsteepled.

  "Otto Burke," Win said, his voice measured, "is a scoundrel. Perhaps I should pay him a private visit." He looked up at Myron hopefully.

  "No. Not yet Please."

  "Are you quite positive?"

  "Yes. Promise me, Win. No visits."

  He was clearly disappointed. "Fine," Win said, grudgingly.

  "So what did you want to see me about?"

  "Ah." Win's face lit up again. "Take a look at this."

  He lifted the reams of computer print-outs and unceremoniously dumped them on the floor. Underneath were a pile of magazines. The top one was called Climaxx. The subheadline read, "Double Xs for Double the Pleasure." Nifty sales technique. Win fanned them out as if he were doing a card trick.

  "Six magazines," he said.

  Myron read the titles. Climaxx, Licks, Jiz, Quim, Orgasm Today, and of course, Nips. "Nickler's publications?"

  "God, you are good," Win said.

  "Years of training. So what about them?"

  "Take a look at the pages I have marked off."

  Myron started with Climaxx. The cover featured another freakishly endowed woman, this time licking her own nipple. Handy. Win had used leather bookmarks to mark the page. Leather bookmarks in porno magazines. Like cigarettes in an aerobics class.

  The page marked off was already too familiar. Myron felt his stomach churn all over again.

  Live Fantasy Phone--Pick Your Girl

  There were still three rows, still four in each row. His eyes immediately moved down to the bottom row, second from the right. It still read, "I'll Do Anything!" The phone number was still 1-900-344-LUST. Still $3.99 per minute. Still discreetly billed to your telephone or charge card, Visa and MasterCard accepted.

  But the woman in the picture was not Kathy Culver.

  He quickly scanned the rest of the page. Nothing else was different. The same Oriental girl was still waiting. The same buttock still craved a spanking. "Tiny Titties" had not pubesced.

  "This same advertising page is in all six magazines," Win explained. "But only Nips has Kathy Culver's picture."

  "Interesting." Myron thought a moment. "Nickler probably sells package deals to advertisers--buy space in six for the price of three, that kind of thing."

  "Precisely. I would venture to say that all six magazines have the exact same ads."

  "But so
meone stuck Kathy's picture in Nips." Myron was getting used to saying the name of the magazine. It no longer felt grimy on his lips, which in itself made him feel grimier.

  Win said, "Do you remember Nickler telling us that Nips was doing poorly?"

  Myron nodded.

  "Well, I had a devil of a time locating it. Most of the other rags were fairly easy to find on corner newsstands. But I had to go to a hardcore porno palace on Forty-second Street to come up with Nips."

  "Yet," Myron added, "Otto Burke was able to get a copy."

  "Precisely. I am sure you've considered the possibility that Mr. Burke is behind it."

  "The idea has crossed my mind."

  There was a knock on the door. Esperanza entered.

  "Your handwriting expert is on the phone," she said. "I put it on Win's line."

  Win picked up the receiver and handed it to Myron.

  "Hello."

  "Hey, Myron, it's Swindler. I just went over the two samples you gave me."

  Myron had given Swindler the envelope Nips had come in as well as a letter in Kathy's handwriting.

  "Well?"

  "They match. It's her or a very professional forgery.

  Myron felt his stomach dive. "You're sure?"

  "Positive."

  "Thanks for calling."

  "Yeah, no problem."

  Myron handed the receiver back to Win.

  "A match?" Win asked.

  "Yep."

  Win tilted back in his chair and smiled. "Yowzer."

  Chapter 11

  Myron ran into Ricky Lane in the corridor. He hadn't seen him in three months. Ricky looked a lot bigger. The Jets would be pleased.

  "What are you doing here?" Myron asked.

  "I made an appointment with Win," Ricky said with a big grin. "Just like my agent advised."

  "Good to see you listen to your agent."

  "Always. The man is brilliant."

  "And he never argues with a client."

  Ricky laughed. "Say, I heard Christian got locked out of camp."

  News traveled fast. "Where did you hear that?"

  "The FAN."

  WFAN was New York's all-sports radio station. "Have you spoken to him lately?"

  Ricky made a face. "Christian?"

  "Yeah."

  "Not since my last college football game, what, year and a half ago."

  "I thought you were friends." Myron had, in fact, assumed that Ricky had recommended his services to Christian.

  "We were teammates," Ricky replied steadily. "We were never friends."

  "You don't like him?"

  Ricky shrugged. "Not really. None of us did."

  "Who is 'us'?"

  "Guys on the team."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "Long story, man. Not worth telling."

  "I'd be interested."

  "Put it like this," Ricky said. "Christian was a little too perfect for most of us, okay?"

  "An egomaniac?"

  Ricky paused, considering. "Not really. I mean, to be straight, I guess a lot of it was jealousy. Christian wasn't just good. Shit, he wasn't even just great. He was incredible. Best I ever seen."

  "So?"

  "So he expected the same from everyone else."

  "He got on people's case when they made mistakes?"

  Ricky paused again, shook his head. "No, that ain't it either."

  "You're being a tad obtuse, Ricky."

  Ricky Lane looked up, looked down, looked left, looked right, looked very uneasy. "I can't explain it," he said. "It's going to sound like a lot of griping, but guys weren't crazy about all the attention he was getting. I mean, we won two national championships, and the only guy they ever talked to was Christian."

  "I heard those interviews. He always gave his teammates all the credit."

  "Yeah, a real gentleman," Ricky replied with more than a hint of sarcasm. "All that 'it's a team effort' bullshit just made the press love him even more. Guys on the team thought he was a promo-hog, you know? His own best PR firm. They blamed him for being too popular."

  "Did you?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. Truth was, I just didn't really like him. We had nothing in common except football. He's a pure Midwest white-boy. I'm a city-slicking black man. It ain't a winning combination."

  "That's all it was?"

  He gave a half-shrug. "I guess so. But man, this is all ancient history. I don't know why I brought it up. It don't matter no more. Christian just didn't fit in, okay. He was a nice guy, I guess. He was always polite. But that don't play so well in a locker room, you know?"

  Myron knew. Juvenile, sexist, homophobic bantering--that was the stuff of locker-room popularity.

  "I gotta go, man. Win will be wondering where I am."

  "Okay. I'll see you around."

  Ricky had almost turned away when Myron thought of something else. "What can you tell me about Kathy Culver?"

  Ricky's face blanched. "What about her?"

  "Did you know her?"

  "A little, I guess. I mean, she was a cheerleader and dated the quarterback. But we never hung out or anything." He looked very unhappy now. "Why you asking?"

  "Was she popular? Or was she hated too?"

  Ricky's eyes darted about like birds trying to find a safe place to land. "Look, Myron, you always been straight with me, I always been straight with you, right?"

  "Right."

  "I don't want to say nothing else. She's dead. Might as well let her be."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Nothing. I just don't like talking about her, okay. It's kinda creepy. I'll see you later."

  Ricky hurried down the corridor as if Reggie White were chasing him. Myron watched him. He debated following him but decided against it. Ricky would say no more today.

  Chapter 12

  Esperanza stuck her head in the door. "Someone--or something--is here to see you."

  Myron held up a silencing hand. The headset had been on since his return to his office. "Look, I have to go," he said. "See if you can get him upgraded to first class. He's a big guy. Thanks." He took off the headset. "Who is it?"

  She made a face. "Aaron. He didn't give a last name."

  He didn't have to. "Send him in."

  Seeing Aaron was like falling into a time warp. He was as big as Myron remembered, as big as the lummox in the garage. He was dressed in a freshly pressed white suit, but he wore no shirt with it, displaying plenty of tan pectoral cleavage. He wasn't wearing socks either. Nifty haircut, the swept-back look a la Pat Riley. A saunter for a walk. Designer sunglasses. Designer cologne that smelled suspiciously like insect repellent. Aaron was the pure definition of "supersmooth"--just ask him, he'd tell you.

  He smiled widely. "Nice to see you, Myron."

  They shook hands. Myron did not squeeze. He was far too mature. That, and Aaron could probably squeeze harder. "Have a seat."

  "Wonderful." Aaron made a production of it, spreading out his arms as if he were wearing a cloak. He removed his sunglasses with an audible snap. "I like your office. It's really great."

  "Thank you."

  "Great address. Great view."

  The password is great. "You looking to rent space?"

  Aaron laughed as if that were the gem of gems. "No," he said. "I don't like being cooped in an office. It's not my style. I like my freedom. I like being out on my own, on the road. I wouldn't do well chained to a desk."

  "Wow, that's fascinating, Aaron. Really."

  He laughed again. "Ah, Myron, you haven't changed a bit. I'm glad to see it."

  They hadn't seen each other since high school. Myron had gone to Livingston High School in New Jersey. Aaron had gone to his archenemy, West Orange High. The teams played each other twice a year, and it was rarely a pleasant encounter.

  In those days Myron's best friend was a huge ox named Todd Midron. Todd was a big, softhearted, simple kid with a lisp. He played Lenny to Myron's George. He was also the toughest kid Myron had ever met.

&
nbsp; Todd never lost a fight. Never. No one ever came close to him. He was just too powerful. During a game their senior year, Aaron undercut and nearly injured Myron Todd took exception. He went after Aaron. Aaron destroyed him. Myron tried to help his friend, but Aaron shrugged Myron off like a dandruff flake. He continued to pulverize Todd, steadily, methodically, glaring at Myron the whole time, not even glancing at his limp victim. The beating was ferocious. By the time it ended, Todd's face was an unrecognizable pulpy mess. Todd spent four months in a hospital. His jaw was wired shut for nearly a year.

  "Hey," Aaron said. He pointed to a movie still on the wall. "That's Woody Allen and what's-her-name."

  "Diane Keaton."

  "Right, Diane Keaton."

  "Is there something I can do for you?" Myron asked.

  Aaron turned his whole body toward Myron. The glare from his shaved chest was nearly blinding. "I think there is, Myron. In fact, I think there's something we can do for each other."

  "Oh?"

  "I represent a competitor of yours. A certain dispute has arisen between the two of you. My client wishes to settle it peacefully."

  "Are you an attorney now, Aaron?"

  He smiled. "Not likely."

  "Oh."

  "I am referring to a young man named Chaz Landreaux. He recently signed a contract with your company, MB SportReps."

  "I thought of the name myself."

  "Pardon me."

  "MB SportReps. I came up with the name by myself."

  Aaron renewed his smile. It was a good smile. Lots of teeth. "There is a problem with the contract."

  "Do tell."

  "You see, Mr Landreaux has also signed a contract with Roy O'Connor at TruPro Enterprises, Incorporated. The contract predates yours. So you see the problem: Your contract is invalid."

  "Why don't we let a court of law decide that?"

  He sighed deeply. "My client feels it is in everyone's best interest to avoid litigation."

  "Gee, what a surprise. So what does your client suggest?"

  "Mr. O'Connor would be willing to pay you for your time."

  "Very generous of him."

  "Yes."

  "And if I say no?"

  "We hope it won't come to that."

  "But if it does?"

  Aaron sighed, stood, leaned on Myron's desk. "I'll be forced to make you disappear."

  "Like in a magic trick?"

  "Like in dead."

  Myron put his hand to his chest. "Gasp. Oh. Gasp."

  Aaron laughed again, this time without humor. "I know all about your tae kwon do display in the garage. But that guy was a stupid musclehead. I am not. I boxed professionally. I'm a black belt in jujitsu and a grand master in aikido. I've killed people."