by Harlan Coben
She stopped as though out of breath. She hugged her knees to her chest and turned away. Myron looked at Win. Win kept still. The silence pressed against the windows and doors.
Win was the one who finally spoke. "Enough speculating. Let me call Arthur Bradford. He'll see us tomorrow."
Win left the room. With some people, you might be skeptical or at least wonder how they could be so sure a gubernatorial candidate would see them on such short notice. Not so when it came to Win.
Myron looked over at Brenda. She did not look back. A few minutes later Win returned.
"Tomorrow morning," Win said. "Ten o'clock."
"Where?"
"The estate at Bradford Farms. In Livingston."
Brenda stood. "If we're finished with this topic, I'll leave you two alone." She looked at Myron. "To discuss a business problem."
"There is one more thing," Win said.
"What?"
"The question of a safe house."
She stopped and waited.
Win leaned back. "I am inviting both you and Myron to stay here if you're comfortable. As you can see, I have plenty of room. You can use the bedroom at the end of the corridor. It has its own bathroom. Myron will be across the hallway. You'll have the security of the Dakota and easy, close proximity to the two of us."
Win glanced at Myron, who tried to hide his surprise. Myron frequently stayed overnight--he even kept clothes and a bunch of toiletries here--but Win had never made an offer like this before. He usually demanded total privacy.
Brenda nodded and said, "Thank you."
"The only potential problem," Win said, "is my private life."
Uh-oh.
"I may bring in a dizzying array of ladies for a variety of purposes," he went on. "Sometimes more than one. Sometimes I film them. Does that bother you?"
"No," she said. "As long as I can do the same with men."
Myron started coughing.
Win remained unfazed. "But of course. I keep the video camera in that cabinet."
She turned to the cabinet and nodded. "Got a tripod?"
Win opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head. "Too easy," he said.
"Smart man." Brenda smiled. "Good night, guys."
When she left, Win looked at Myron. "You can close your mouth now."
Win poured himself a cognac. "So what business problem did you want to discuss?"
"It's Esperanza," Myron said. "She wants a partnership."
"Yes, I know."
"She told you?"
Win swirled the liquid in the snifter. "She consulted me. On the hows mostly. The legal setup for such a change."
"And you never told me?"
Win did not reply. The answer was obvious. Win hated stating the obvious. "Care for a Yoo-Hoo?"
Myron shook his head. "The truth is, I don't know what to do about it."
"Yes, I know. You've been stalling."
"Did she tell you that?"
Win looked at him. "You know her better than that."
Myron nodded. He did know better. "Look, she's my friend--"
"Correction," Win interrupted. "She's your best friend. More so, perhaps, than even I. But you must forget that for now. She is just an employee--a great one perhaps--but your friendship must be meaningless in this decision. For your sake as well as hers."
Myron nodded. "Yeah, you're right, forget I said that. And I do understand where she's coming from. She's been with me since the beginning. She's worked hard. She's finished law school."
"But?"
"But a partnership? I'd love to promote her, give her her own office, give her more responsibility, even work out a profit-sharing program. But she won't accept that. She wants to be a partner."
"Has she told you why?"
"Yeah," Myron said.
"And?"
"She doesn't want to work for anyone. It's as simple as that. Not even me. Her father worked menial jobs for scumbags his whole life. Her mother cleaned other people's houses. She swore that one day she would work for herself."
"I see," Win said.
"And I sympathize. Who wouldn't? But her parents probably worked for abusive ogres. Forget our friendship. Forget the fact that I love Esperanza like a sister. I'm a good boss. I'm fair. Even she'd have to admit that."
Win took a deep sip. "But clearly that is not enough for her."
"So what am I supposed to do? Give in? Business partnerships between friends or family never work. Never. It's just that simple. Money screws up every relationship. You and I--we work hard to keep our businesses linked but separate. That's why we get away with it. We have similar goals, but that's it. There is no money connection. I know a lot of good relationships--and good businesses--that have been destroyed over something like this. My father and his brother still don't talk because of a business partnership. I don't want that to happen here."
"Have you told Esperanza this?"
He shook his head. "But she's given me a week to make a decision. Then she walks."
"Tough spot," Win said.
"Any suggestions?"
"Not a one." Then Win tilted his head and smiled.
"What?"
"Your argument," Win said. "I find it ironic."
"How so?"
"You believe in marriage and family and monogamy and all that nonsense, correct?"
"So?"
"You believe in raising children, the picket fences, the basketball pole in the driveway, peewee football, dance classes, the whole suburbia scene."
"And again I say, so?"
Win spread his arms. "So I would argue that marriages and the like never work. They inevitably lead to divorce or disillusionment or the deadening of dreams or at the very least, bitterness and resentment. I might--similar to you--point to my own family as an example."
"It's not the same thing, Win."
"Oh, I recognize that. But the truth is, we all take facts and compute them through our own experiences. You had a wonderful family life; thus you believe as you do. I am of course the opposite. Only a leap of faith could change our positions."
Myron made a face. "Is this supposed to be helping?"
"Heavens, no," Win said. "But I do so enjoy philosophical folly."
Win picked up the remote and switched on the television. Nick at Night. Mary Tyler Moore was on. They grabbed fresh drinks and settled back to watch.
Win took another sip, reddening his cheeks. "Maybe Lou Grant will have your answer."
He didn't. Myron imagined what would happen if he treated Esperanza the same way Lou treated Mary. If Esperanza were in a good mood, she'd probably tear out his hair until he looked like Murray.
Bedtime. On his way to his room, Myron checked on Brenda. She was sitting lotus style on the antique Queen Something-or-other bed. The large textbook was open in front of her. Her concentration was total, and for a moment he just watched her. Her face displayed the same serenity he'd seen on the court. She wore flannel pajamas, her skin still a little wet from a recent shower, a towel wrapped around her hair.
Brenda sensed him and looked up. When she smiled at him, he felt something tighten in his stomach.
"You need anything?" he asked.
"I'm fine," she said. "You solve your business problem?"
"No."
"I didn't mean to eavesdrop before."
"Don't worry about it."
"I meant what I said earlier. I'd like you to be my agent."
"I'm glad."
"You'll draw up the papers?"
Myron nodded.
"Good night, Myron."
"Good night, Brenda."
She looked down and turned a page. Myron watched her for another second. Then he went to bed.
They took Win's Jaguar to the Bradford estate because, as Win explained, people like the Bradfords "don't do Taurus." Neither did Win.
Win dropped Brenda off at practice and headed down Route 80 to Passaic Avenue, which had finally completed a widening program that began when Myron was in high s
chool. They finished up on Eisenhower Parkway, a beautiful four-lane highway that ran for maybe five miles. Ah, New Jersey.
A guard with enormous ears greeted them at the gate of, as the sign said, Bradford Farms. Right. Most farms are known for their electronic fences and security guards. Wouldn't want anyone getting into the carrots and corn. Win leaned out the window, gave the guy the snooty smile, and was quickly waved through. A strange pang struck Myron as they drove through. How many times had he gone past the gate as a kid, trying to peer through the thick shrubs for a glance at the proverbial greener grass, dreaming up scenarios for the lush, adventure-filled life that lay within these manicured grounds?
He knew better now, of course. Win's familial estate, Lockwood Manor, made this place look like a railroad shanty, so Myron had seen up close how the superrich lived. It was indeed pretty, but pretty doesn't mean happy. Wow. That was deep. Maybe next time Myron would conclude that money can't buy happiness. Stay tuned.
Scattered cows and sheep helped keep the farm illusion--for the purpose of nostalgia or a tax write-off, Myron could not say, though he had his suspicions. They pulled up to a white farmhouse that had undergone more renovations than an aging movie queen.
An old black man wearing gray butler's tails answered the door. He gave them a slight bow and asked them to follow him. In the corridor were two goons dressed like Secret Service men. Myron glanced at Win. Win nodded. Not Secret Service guys. Goons. The bigger of the two smiled at them like they were cocktail franks heading back to the kitchen. One big. One skinny. Myron remembered Mabel Edwards's descriptions of her attackers. Not much to go on if he couldn't check for a tattoo, but worth keeping in mind.
The butler or manservant or whatever led them into the library. Rounded walls of books climbed three stories high, topped by a glass cupola that let in the proper amount of fresh light. The room might have been a converted silo, or maybe it just looked that way. Hard to tell. The books were leather and in series and untouched. Cherry mahogany dominated the scene. Paintings of old sailing vessels were framed under portrait lamps. There was a huge antique globe in the center of the room, not unlike the one Win had in his own office. Rich people like old globes, Myron surmised. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they are both expensive and utterly useless.
The chairs and couches were leather with gold buttons. The lamps were Tiffany. A book lay strategically open on a coffee table next to a bust of Shakespeare. Rex Harrison was not sitting in the corner wearing a smoking jacket, but he should have been.
As though on cue, a door on the other side of the room--a bookshelf actually--swung open. Myron half expected Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson to storm into the room calling for Alfred, maybe tilt back the head of Shakespeare, and turn a hidden knob. Instead it was Arthur Bradford, followed by his brother, Chance. Arthur was very tall, probably six-six, thin, and stooped a bit the way tall people over the age of fifty are. He was bald, his fringe hair trimmed short. Chance was under six feet with wavy brown hair and the kind of boyish good looks that made it impossible to tell his age, though Myron knew from the press clippings that he was forty-nine, three years younger than Arthur.
Playing the part of the perfect politician, Arthur beelined toward them, a fake smile at the ready, hand extended in such a way as either to shake hands or to imply that the extended hand hoped to touch more than just flesh.
"Windsor!" Arthur Bradford exclaimed, grasping Win's hand as if he'd been searching for it all his life. "How wonderful to see you."
Chance headed toward Myron like it was a double date and he had gotten stuck with the ugly girl and was used to it.
Win flashed the vague smile. "Do you know Myron Bolitar?"
The brothers switched handshaking partners with the practiced proficiency of experienced square dancers. Shaking Arthur Bradford's hand was like shaking hands with an old, unoiled baseball glove. Up close, Myron could see that Arthur Bradford was big-boned and rough-hewn and large-featured and red-faced. Still the farm boy under the suit and manicure.
"We've never met," Arthur said through the big smile, "but everyone in Livingston--heck, all of New Jersey--knows Myron Bolitar."
Myron made his aw-shucks face but refrained from batting his eyes.
"I've been watching you play ball since you were in high school," Arthur continued with great earnestness. "I'm a big fan."
Myron nodded, knowing that no Bradford had ever stepped foot in Livingston High School's gymnasium. A politician who stretched the truth. What a shock.
"Please, gentlemen, sit down."
Everyone grabbed smooth leather. Arthur Bradford offered coffee. Everyone accepted. A Latina woman opened the door. Arthur Bradford said to her, "Cafe, por favor." Another linguist.
Win and Myron were on a couch. The brothers sat across from them in matching wingback chairs. Coffee was wheeled in on something that could have doubled as a coach for a palace ball. The coffee was poured and milked and sugared. Then Arthur Bradford, the candidate himself, took over and actually handed Myron and Win their beverages. Regular guy. Man of the people.
Everyone settled back. The servant faded away. Myron raised the cup to his lips. The problem with his new coffee addiction was that he drank only coffee-bar coffee, the potent "gourmet" stuff that could eat through driveway sealant. The at-home brews tasted to his suddenly picky palate like something sucked through a sewer grate on a hot afternoon--this coming from a man who could not tell the difference between a perfectly aged Merlot and a recently stomped Manischewitz. But when Myron took a sip from the Bradfords' fine china, well, the rich have their ways. The stuff was ambrosia.
Arthur Bradford put down his Wedgwood cup and saucer. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, his hands in a quiet clasp. "First, let me tell you how thrilled I am to have you both here. Your support means a great deal to me."
Bradford turned toward Win. Win's face was totally neutral, patient.
"I understand Lock-Horne Securities wants to expand its Florham Park office and open a new one in Bergen County," Bradford went on. "If I can be of any help at all, Windsor, please let me know."
Win gave a noncommittal nod.
"And if there are any state bonds Lock-Horne has any interest in underwriting, well, again I would be at your disposal."
Arthur Bradford sat up on his haunches now, as though waiting for a scratch behind the ears. Win rewarded him with another noncommittal nod. Good doggie. Hadn't taken Bradford long to start with the graft, had it? Bradford cleared his throat and turned his attention to Myron.
"I understand, Myron, that you own a sports representation company."
He tried to imitate the Win nod, but he went too far. Not subtle enough. Must be something in the genes.
"If there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate to ask."
"Can I sleep in the Lincoln bedroom?" Myron asked.
The brothers froze for a moment, looked at each other, then exploded into laughter. The laughs were about as genuine as a televangelist's hair. Win looked over at Myron. The look said, go ahead.
"Actually, Mr. Bradford--"
Through his laugh he stuck up a hand the size of a throw pillow and said, "Please, Myron, call me Arthur."
"Arthur, right. There is something you can do for us."
Arthur and Chance's laughter segued into chuckles before fading away like a song on the radio. Their faces grew harder now. Game time. They both leaned into the strike zone a bit, signaling to one and all that they were going to listen to Myron's problem with four of the most sympathetic ears in existence.
"Do you remember a woman named Anita Slaughter?" Myron asked.
They were good, both of them thoroughbred politicians, but their bodies still jolted as if they'd been zapped with a stun gun. They recovered fast enough, busying themselves with the pretense of scouring for a recollection, but there was no doubt. A nerve had been jangled big time.
"I can't place the name," Arthur said, his face twisted
as though he'd given this thought process an effort equal to childbirth. "Chance?"
"The name is not unfamiliar," Chance said, "but ..." He shook his head.
Not unfamiliar. You gotta love it when they speak politicianese.
"Anita Slaughter worked here," Myron said. "Twenty years ago. She was a maid or house servant of some kind."
Again the deep, probing thought. If Rodin were here, he'd break out the good bronze for these guys. Chance kept his eyes on his brother, waiting for his stage cue. Arthur Bradford held the pose for a few more seconds before he suddenly snapped his fingers.
"Of course," he said. "Anita. Chance, you remember Anita."
"Yes, of course," Chance chimed in. "I guess I never knew her last name."
They were both smiling now like morning anchors during a sweeps week.
"How long did she work for you?" Myron asked.
"Oh, I don't know," Arthur said. "A year or two, I guess. I really don't remember. Chance and I weren't responsible for household help, of course. That was more Mother's doing."
Already with the "plausible deniability." Interesting. "Do you remember why she left your family's employ?"
Arthur Bradford's smile stayed frozen, but something was happening to his eyes. His pupils were expanding, and for a moment it looked like he was having trouble focusing. He turned to Chance. They both looked uncertain now, not sure how to handle this sudden frontal assault, not wanting to answer but not wanting to lose the potentially massive Lock-Horne Securities support either.
Arthur took the lead. "No, I don't remember." When in doubt, evade. "Do you, Chance?"
Chance spread his hands and gave them the boyish smile. "So many people in and out." He looked to Win as if to say, You know how it is. But Win's eyes, as usual, offered no solace.
"Did she quit or was she fired?"
"Oh, I doubt she was fired," Arthur said quickly. "My mother was very good to the help. She rarely, if ever, fired anyone. Not in her nature."
The man was pure politician. The answer might be true or not--that was pretty much irrelevant to Arthur Bradford--but under any circumstances, a poor black woman fired as a servant by a wealthy family would not play well in the press. A politician innately sees this and calculates his response in a matter of seconds; reality and truth must always take a backseat to the gods of sound bite and perception.
Myron pressed on. "According to her family, Anita Slaughter worked here until the day she disappeared."
