by Harlan Coben
"I don't want to hurt you, Lucy," Myron said. "I'm just interested in the girl in the picture."
Lucy hesitated. "All right," she said at last. "But back off."
Myron gave a quick nod of agreement. "Jerry brought this girl to you?"
"Yeah, when I had my other studio a couple blocks away. Like I said, he brought in a few girls over the years. He wanted their photos for all kinds of stuff. Porno mags, smut film stills, that kind of thing. Most were a cut or two above the average hosebag who comes through the door. But he usually keeps the photos under wraps until they're a little older. Legal age, I guess."
The rage again. Myron's hands tightened into fists. "So Jerry asked you about this picture yesterday?"
"Yeah."
"What did he want to know?"
"If I sold any copies recently."
"Have you?"
Pause. "Yeah. Couple months ago."
"Who bought them?"
"You think I keep records?"
"A he or a she?"
"A he."
"Do you remember what he looks like?"
She took out a cigarette, lit it, took a deep puff. "I'm not real good with faces."
"Anything, Lucy," Esperanza added. "Young, old, anything you can remember."
Another puff. Then: "Old. Not ancient, but not a young guy. Might have been my father's age. And he knew what he was doing." She looked at Myron. "Not like you. Bernie Worley. Jesus."
Myron pressed on. "What do you mean, he knew what he was doing?"
"The man paid me top dollar under one condition: I hand over every photo and negative in front of him right now. Smart. He wanted to make sure I didn't have time to make any extra copies or an extra set of negatives."
"How much did he pay you?"
"Sixty-five hundred altogether. In cash. Five grand for the photos and negatives. Plus another grand for Jerry's phone number. Said he wanted to get in touch with the girl personally. Then he gave me another five hundred if I didn't say anything to Jerry."
In the background there was yet another bloodcurdling scream. It went ignored. "Would you know the man if you saw him again?" Myron asked.
"I don't know," she said. "I can't picture him now, but if we met up face to face ... who knows?" There was a pounding noise from the darkroom. "Mind if I let Hector out now?"
"We were just leaving," Myron said. He handed her a card. "If you remember anything else--"
"Yeah, I'll call." She looked over to Esperanza. "Don't be a stranger, Poca."
Esperanza nodded but said nothing. They were quiet the entire way down. When they stepped into the hot air, surrounded by the night street, she said, "Didn't mean to shock you in there."
"Not my business," he said. "I was a little surprised, that's all."
"Lucy is a lesbian. I experimented with it a little. Long time ago."
"You don't have to explain," he said. But he was glad she told him. Myron had no secrets from Esperanza. He didn't like thinking she had some from him.
They were about to head back to the car when Myron felt the muzzle of a gun against his ribs.
A voice said, "Stay cool, Myron."
It was the man with the fedora hat from the garage. He reached into Myron's jacket and took out the 38. A second man, this one with a Gene Shalit-like mustache, grabbed Esperanza and pressed his gun against her temple.
"If Myron moves," Fedora said to the other man, "blow the bitch's brains all over the sidewalk."
The man nodded, half-smiling.
"Come on," Fedora said, nudging Myron forward with the gun. "Let's take a little walk."
Chapter 24
Jessica parked in front of the house Nancy Serat was renting for the semester. It was more a cottage really, located at the end of a dark street about a mile from the campus of Reston University. Even at night Jessica could see the house's salmon-pink hue, which seemed to clash with the planet earth. The landscape looked like the trees had vomited--the front yard of The Munsters. A faded 118 ACRE STREET was stenciled on the weather-beaten sign. A blue Honda Accord with a Reston University bumper sticker sat in the driveway.
Jessica headed down the broken remnants of what must have once been a cement path. She rang the bell and immediately heard a scurrying sound. Several seconds passed. No one approached the door. She tried again. No scurrying sound this time. No sound at all.
"Nancy?" she called out. "It's Jessica Culver."
She hit the bell a few more times, though in a house this small there was not much chance she hadn't been heard. Unless Nancy was in the shower. A possibility. The lights, she could see through the window shades, were on. The car was in the driveway. Jessica had heard movement.
Nancy had to be home.
Jessica reached out for the knob. Under normal conditions some filter in her mind would probably have stopped her from simply trying to open the door of a virtual stranger (she had only met Nancy once). But these conditions were hardly normal. She took hold of the knob and turned.
Locked.
Now what?
She stood at the door five more minutes ringing the bell. Still nothing. Jessica circled the house, using a distant streetlight and the house's glow-in-the-dark properties to guide her. She stumbled over a tricycle that looked like something recovered from an archaeological dig. Her feet got tangled in the high grass, the prickly ends tickling her calves. As she circled, Jessica peeked through the small openings in the window shades. She could make out rooms and spotted an occasional piece of furniture or wall hanging, but no people.
In the backyard she saw the shades were not pulled down in the kitchen. The lights were off too. It was pitch black here, the pink not getting the illumination of the streetlight to cast its glow. She peered through the kitchen window, cupping her hands around her face to cut off the reflection. A sliver of light from the front room slashed across the room. On the table sat a purse. And a set of keys.
Someone was home.
A sound behind her made her jump. Jessica spun, but it was too dark to make out what it was. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Crickets singsonged unceasingly. She pounded on the door with both fists.
"Nancy! Nancy!"
She heard the panic in her voice and scolded herself for it. Get a grip. You're spooking yourself.
She stopped, took a few deep breaths, felt herself relax. She took another look through the window, pressing her face right up against the glass. She was watching the sliver of light when it happened.
Someone walked by.
Jessica jumped back. She hadn't seen the person, hadn't seen anything, except the sliver of light disappear for the briefest of seconds. She looked again Nothing. But someone had gone past and blocked off the light. She put her hand on the kitchen doorknob.
This time the door was not locked. The knob turned easily.
Don't just go in, dodo! Call the cops!
And say what? I knocked on a door and no one answered? That I then started peeking through windows and saw someone moving around?
That doesn't sound so bad.
Sounds bad enough to me Besides, I'd have to find a phone. By the time I do that, whatever is going on may be over. I may have lost my one opportunity. ...
Opportunity for what?
She pushed the voice away. Then she opened the door. She waited for the door to squeak madly, but it slid open with remarkable silence. She stepped into the kitchen and left the door open. Better for the quick getaway.
"Nancy?
"Kathy?"
She clasped her hand over her mouth. She hadn't meant that. Kathy wasn't here Jessica wished like hell she were, but that would be too easy. Kathy wasn't here. And if she were, she certainly would not be afraid to open the door for her sister. Her baby sister. The sister with the bright smile. The sister whom she loved. ...
The sister you let slip away. The sister you impatiently rushed off the line the night she vanished.
For several minutes Jessica just stayed in the kitchen. There were no
sounds, except those maddening crickets. No running water. No shower. No scurrying. No footsteps. She opened the purse and extracted the wallet. Driver's license and assorted credit cards--all in the name of Nancy Serat. She flipped to the back and stopped suddenly at a wallet-size photograph.
The picture. The sorority sisters picture. The last picture of Kathy.
She dropped the wallet as though it were something scaly and alive. Enough, Jessica said to herself. She moved toward the light. One foot slid out, the other followed. In a matter of seconds Jessica was at the door. It was open a crack, allowing the light to cast its sliver now unimpeded. She pushed through, crouching like a cop with a gun, preparing for the worst.
And the worst was what she got.
Jessica stumbled back. "Jesus Christ--"
Nancy lay flat on her back, her hands at her sides. Her eyes stuck out like two golf balls, staring at Jessica. Her face was a deep purplish-blue, like a giant bruise. Her mouth was wide and twisted in pure agony. The tongue lolled out like a dead fish. Nancy Serat's entire expression was still frozen in a look that begged and screamed with its every cell for oxygen. A thin line of still-wet saliva clung to her chin.
A cord of some kind--no, a wire--was wrapped around Nancy's neck, barely visible. Most of it had sliced clean through the skin and was embedded deep in the flesh. A circling lash of blood marked the spot where the wire had entered.
Jessica stared, lost. The world vanished for several moments, leaving behind only the horror. She forgot about the scurrying when she first rang the bell. She forgot the shadow that had cut off the sliver of light.
Jessica did not hear the approaching footsteps. Still staring at Nancy's face, unable to tear her eyes away, she felt a sudden, sharp pain in her head. She saw white flashes. Her body folded at the waist and pitched forward. A tingling numbness followed.
Then nothing.
Chapter 25
Fedora Hat knew what he was doing.
"Stay a few steps behind me," he barked at his new partner.
In the garage Fedora and Musclehead (who, Myron was happy to see, seemed to be out of commission) had underestimated Myron. Fedora would not make the same mistake twice. Not only had he always kept eyes and gun on Myron but he was making sure that his new partner (the Mustache) kept both himself and Esperanza a safe distance away.
Smart.
Myron had been tempted to make a move, but even his best move was useless in this circumstance. If he managed to get the gun away from Fedora, there was no way he'd be able to turn it on the Mustache before he'd shoot either him or Esperanza.
He would have to wait and watch. He knew what Fedora and Mustache intended to do. They hadn't been hired to buy him ice cream or teach line dancing or even beat him up. Not this time.
"Let her go," Myron said. "She has nothing to do with this."
"Keep moving," Fedora replied.
"You don't need her."
"Move."
Mustache spoke for the first time. "I might want a little company later," he sneered. Then he stopped and pressed the gun against Esperanza's right cheek while he licked--actually licked--her left cheek with a wet cow-like tongue. Esperanza stiffened. Mustache looked at Myron. "You got a problem with that, pal?"
Myron knew words would be either superfluous or harmful at this stage. He kept his mouth shut.
They turned a corner. The stench of garbage was overwhelming. It was piled at least six feet high on both sides of the narrow alley. Fedora quickly scanned the area. It appeared to be abandoned.
"Go," he said, giving Myron another poke with the gun. "End of the alley."
Myron felt as if he were walking a plank. He tried to take it as slowly as possible.
"What are we going to do with the piece of ass?" Mustache asked.
Fedora's eyes never left Myron. "She's seen us," he said. "She's a witness."
"But we weren't hired to ace her," Mustache whined.
"So?"
"So let's not just waste a piece like this"--he smiled--"especially when we can fuck it first."
Mustache laughed at his suggestion. Fedora did not. He stepped back, aiming the gun at Myron's back. Myron turned to face him. They were separated by about six feet. Myron was against the back wall. There was no avenue of escape. The nearest window was at least twelve feet off the ground. No room to move at all.
Fedora raised the gun so that it stared Myron right in the face. Myron did not blink. He looked into Fedora's eyes.
And then they were gone. Fedora's eyes were gone. Along with half his head.
The bullet had ripped off the skull at the midway point, splitting Fedora's head open like a coconut. He slid to the ground, the fedora floating down after him.
A dum-dum bullet.
Mustache cried out and dropped the gun. He held his hands up. "I surrender!"
Myron ran forward. "Don't! He's surren--"
But the gun exploded again. Mustache's face disappeared in a spray of red mist. Myron stopped, closed his eyes. Mustache joined Fedora on the filthy cement. Esperanza came over and wrapped her arms around Myron. They both turned toward the alley's entrance.
Win stepped into view, studying his handiwork as though it were a statue he wasn't sure he liked. He was dressed in a gray suit, his red tie still in a perfect Windsor knot. His blond hair was neat, conservative, parted as always on the left. The .44 was in his right hand. His cheeks were rosy, and there was just a hint of a smile on his face.
"Good evening," Win said.
"How long have you been here?" Myron asked. He hadn't spotted. Win when they exited the photography studio. But he had known he was there. With Win you just knew. One of life's constants.
"I arrived as you entered the dwelling of ill repute," Win answered. He smiled. "But I wanted my appearance to have that flair of drama."
Myron let go of Esperanza.
"We better get moving," Win said. "Before the authorities arrive."
They walked away from the corpses in silence. Esperanza was shaking. Myron did not feel so hot either. Only Win seemed completely unaffected by what had transpired. As they approached the car, the same fat young prostitute clad in sausage casing approached Win.
"Hey, yo, want a blow job? Fifty bucks."
Win looked at her. "I would rather have my semen sucked out with a catheter."
"Okay," the girl said. "Forty bucks."
Win laughed and walked away.
Chapter 26
"All units. One-eighteen Acre Street. All units One-eighteen Acre Street."
Paul Duncan heard the call on his police scanner. He was only a few blocks from the scene, but this was not his district Far from it. He could certainly not answer the call. That would only draw attention and questions. Questions like what was he doing here.
Pieces were starting to come together. Fred Nickler, the publisher of those sleazy rags, had called him earlier in the day. What he had told Paul explained a lot. Not everything. Not by a long shot. But he now understood Jessica's behavior the other night. She had learned about Kathy's picture. Myron Bolitar must have told her.
But how had Myron gotten a copy of it?
Not important. Not really. What was important was that Myron Bolitar was involved. He could not be underestimated Jessica was a big enough pain in the ass on her own. But now she had Myron on her side and probably that Win Lockwood, Myron's psychotic Tonto. Paul knew something about their past work for the feds. Not a lot. Myron and Win had answered only to top government officials. Their work was almost always classified But Paul knew their reputations. That was enough.
A police car sped past Paul, sirens screaming. They were probably on their way to 118 Acre Street. Paul turned up his scanner. He wanted to hear every word that was said.
He debated calling Carol, but what could he tell her? She hadn't been specific on the phone, just telling him about the phone message from Nancy to Jessica So what did Jessica know? How had she found out?
And what would Carol ultimately b
e pressured into saying?
Two ambulances flew by him. They too had their sirens on full blast. Paul swallowed. He wanted to pull over, but he wanted more to drive as far away as possible.
Once again Paul Duncan thought of his friend Adam Culver. Dead. Murdered With everything that had happened, there had been no time for Paul to mourn.
Yes, mourn.
That might sound strange--Paul Duncan mourning Adam Culver Especially if anyone knew how Adam had spent the last precious hours of his life.
Win and Myron dropped Esperanza off at the apartment she shared with her sister and cousin in the east part of Greenwich Village Myron escorted her to the door.
"You okay?"
She nodded. Her face was deathly pale. She had not spoken a word since the shooting. "Win--" She stopped, shook her head. It took her a full minute to pull herself together "He saved us. I guess that's what counts."
"Yes."
"I'll see you in the morning."
Myron returned to the car. He called Jessica. She wasn't home yet, but Myron did manage to wake her mother. They drove to a twenty-four-hour diner on Sixth Avenue--one of those Greek diners with a menu the approximate length of a Tolstoy novel. Win was a vegetarian. He ordered a salad and french fries. Myron ordered a Diet Coke. He couldn't eat.
After they were settled in, Myron asked, "What happened with Chaz?"
Win was picking at a basket of stale bread. His face registered displeasure, but he settled on a small packet of Saltines. "Mr Landreaux hurried straight from our esteemed offices to a building at 466 Fifth Avenue," he began. "He took the elevator to the eighth floor, which is rented by Roy O'Connor and TruPro Enterprises. When Landreaux entered the elevator, he had your contract tightly clutched in his paw. When he exited, the contract was no longer visible. He had no pockets that could hold such a document. Conclusion: Mr Landreaux gave the contract to someone at TruPro Enterprises."
"Your powers of deduction," Myron said. "In a word: uncanny."
Win smiled. "I assume you are feeling better."
Myron shrugged.
"We are not the same, you and I," Win added. "You call it execution, what I did to that vermin. I call it extermination."
"You didn't have to kill him."
"I wanted to kill him," Win said with flat inflection. "And I doubt any of us will mourn his death for very long."
True enough, but the argument did not ease Myron's mind. He wanted to drop the subject. "Where did Chaz go after he left TruPro?"
