Authors: Harlan Coben
“What did you find out?” Myron asked.
Win whipped the wheel to the right. The Jag XJR responded with nary a squeal. They had been driving without speaking for the past ten minutes, Win’s CD player the only sound. Win favored show tunes.
Man of La Mancha
was on now. Don Quixote serenaded his beloved Dulcinea.
“
Nips
magazine is published by HDP,” Win answered.
“HDP?”
“Hot Desire Press.” Another Bat-turn. The Jag accelerated past eighty.
“Speed limits,” Myron said. “Heard of them?”
Win ignored him. “Their editorial office is located in Fort Lee, New Jersey.”
“Editorial office?”
“Whatever. We have an appointment with Mr. Fred Nickler, managing editor.”
“His mother must be proud.”
“Moralizing,” Win mused. “Nice.”
“What did you tell Mr. Nickler?” Myron asked.
“Nothing. I called and asked if we could see him. He said yes. Seemed like a very pleasant fellow.”
“I’m sure he’s a prince.” Myron looked out the window. Buildings blurred. They fell back into silence. “You’re probably wondering what Jessica was doing in my office.”
Win gave a halfhearted shrug. It was not his way to pry.
“It’s her father’s murder. The police say it was a robbery. She thinks otherwise.”
“How does she see it?”
“She thinks there’s a connection between his murder and Kathy.”
“So the plot thickens. Are we going to help her?”
“Yes.”
“Goodie. So do we think there is a connection?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” Win agreed.
They pulled into the driveway of a building that could have been either a nice warehouse or low-rent office space. No elevator, but then again, only three levels. HDP, Inc., was on the second floor. When they entered the outer office, Myron was a bit surprised. He was not sure what he’d expected, but he had thought the dwellings
of a sleaze merchant would not be so … nondescript. The walls were white with inexpensive but tastefully framed art posters—McKnight, Fanch, Behrens. Mostly scenery shots of beaches and sunset. Nothing with naked breasts. Surprise number one. Surprise number two was the unremarkable receptionist. She was strictly standard issue, not an overaged, bleach-blond, flabby ex-bunny/sexpot/porno starlet with a breathy giggle and seductive wink.
Myron was almost disappointed.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked.
Win said, “We’re here to see Mr. Nickler.”
“Your names, please?”
“Windsor Lockwood and Myron Bolitar.”
She picked up the phone, buzzed in, and a moment later said, “Right through that door.”
Nickler greeted them with a firm handshake. He was dressed in a blue suit, red tie, white shirt—conservative as a Republican senatorial candidate. Surprise number three. Myron had expected gold chains or a Joey Buttafuoco earring or at the very least a pinkie ring. But Fred Nickler wore no jewelry, except for a plain wedding band. His hair was gray, his complexion a bit washed out.
Win whispered, “He looks like your uncle Sid.”
It was true. The publisher of
Nips
magazine looked like Sidney Griffin, popular suburban orthodontist.
“Please have a seat,” Nickler said, moving back behind his desk. He smiled at Myron. “I was at the Final Fours when you guys beat Kansas. Twenty-seven points including the game winner. Hell of a performance Incredible.”
“Thank you,” Myron said.
“Never seen anything like it. The way that final shot kissed the backboard.”
“Thank you.”
“Just incredible.” Nickler renewed his smile, shaking his head in awe at the memory. Then he sat back. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen?”
Myron said, “We have a couple of questions about an ad in one of your, uh, publications.”
“Which one?”
“
Nips.
” Saying the word felt grungy. Myron tried not to make a face.
“Interesting,” Nickler replied.
“What makes you say that?”
“
Nips
is a relatively new publication, and it’s doing poorly—far and away the worst of HDP’s monthlies. I’m going to give it another month or two, and then it’ll probably fold.”
“How many magazines do you publish?”
“Six.”
“Are they all like
Nips
?”
Nickler chuckled lightly. “They are all pornographic magazines, yes. And they are all completely legal.”
Myron handed him the magazine Christian had given him. “When was this printed?”
Fred Nickler barely glanced at it. “Four days ago.”
“That’s all?”
“It’s our most recent issue—they’ve barely hit the stands. I’m surprised you found one.”
Myron opened to the proper page. “We’d like to know who paid for this advertisement.”
Nickler put on a pair of half-moon glasses. “Which one?”
“Bottom row. The Lust Line.”
“Oh,” he said. “A sex phone.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No. But this ad wasn’t paid for.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the nature of the business,” Nickler explained. “Someone calls me up to place an ad for a dial-a-porn line. I tell him it costs X amount. He says, wow, I’m just starting out, I can’t afford it. So if it looks like a good idea, I go in fifty-fifty with him. In other words, I take care of the marketing, if you will, while my partner takes care of the technical side—phones, cables, girls to work the phones, whatever else. Then we split it down the middle. It limits both of our risks.”
“Do you do this a lot?”
He nodded. “Ninety percent of my advertising comes for fantasy lines. I’d say I have a piece of the action in three-quarters of them.”
“Can you give us the name of your partner on this particular venture?”
Nickler studied the picture in the magazine. “You’re not with the police, are you?”
“No.”
“Private investigators?”
“No.”
He took off his glasses. “I’m fairly small-time,” he said. “I have my own little niche. It’s the way I like it. No one bothers me, and I don’t bother anybody else. I have no interest in a lot of publicity.”
Myron shot a glance at Win. Nickler had a family, probably a nice house in Tenafly, told the neighbors he was in publishing. Pressure could be applied. “I’ll be frank with you,” Myron said. “If you don’t help us out, it may blow up into something major. Newspapers, TV, the works.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Absolutely not.” Myron reached into his wallet and took out a fifty-dollar bill. He placed it on the desk. “We just want to know who put this ad in.”
Nickler pushed the bill back toward Myron, his expression
suddenly irritated. “What is this, a movie? I don’t need a payoff. If the guy has done something wrong, I want no part of him. This business has enough problems as it is. I run a straight operation. No underage girls, nothing illegal in any way, shape, or form.”
Myron looked at Win. “Told you he was a prince.”
“Think what you want,” Nickler said in a voice that said he’d been down this road many times before. “This is a business like any other. I’m just an honest guy trying to make an honest buck.”
“Real American of you.”
He shrugged. “Look, I don’t defend everything about this business. But there are plenty of worse. IBM, Exxon, Union Carbide—these are the real monsters, the real exploiters. I don’t steal. I don’t lie. I satisfy a societal need.”
Myron had a quick comeback, but Win stopped him with a shake of his head. He was right. What was the point in antagonizing the guy?
“Could we have the name and address, please?” Myron asked.
Nickler opened a drawer behind him and pulled out a file. “Is he in some sort of trouble?”
“We just need to talk to him.”
“Can you tell me why?”
Win spoke to Nickler for the first time. “You don’t want to know.”
Fred Nickler hesitated, saw Win’s steady gaze, then nodded. “The company is called ABC. They have a p.o. box in Hoboken, number 785. The guy’s name is Jerry. I don’t know anything else about him.”
“Thanks,” Myron said, standing. “One more question if you don’t mind: Have you ever seen the girl in the ad?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“If you do or if you think of anything else, will you give me a call?” Myron handed him a card.
Nickler looked as if he wanted to ask a question, his gaze continually drifting back to Kathy’s photograph, but he settled for saying “Sure.”
Once outside, Win asked, “What do you think?”
“He’s lying,” Myron said.
Back in the car Myron asked, “Can I use the phone?”
Win nodded, his foot not slackening on the pedal. The speedometer was hovering at seventy-five. Myron watched it as if it were a taxi meter on a long ride, keeping his gaze averted from the blur of a street.
Myron dialed the office. Esperanza answered the phone after one ring.
“MB SportReps.”
MB SportReps. The M stood for Myron, the B for Bolitar. Myron had thought of the name himself, though he rarely bragged about it. “Did Otto Burke or Larry Hanson call?”
“No. But you have lots of messages.”
“Nothing from Burke or Hanson?”
“You deaf?”
“I’ll be back in a little while.”
Myron hung up. Otto and Larry should have called by now. They were avoiding him. The question was, why?
“Trouble?” Win asked.
“Maybe.”
“I believe we need a rejuvenation.”
Myron looked up. He recognized the street immediately. “Not now, Win.”
“Now.”
“I have to get back to the office.”
“It’ll keep. You need inner energy. You need focus. You need balance.”
“I hate it when you talk like that.”
Win smiled, pulling into the parking lot. “Come along now. I’d hate to kick your ass right here in the car.”
The sign read
MASTER KWAN’S TAE KWON DO SCHOOL
. Kwan was nearing seventy now and rarely conducted classes any longer, choosing instead to hire well-tutored underlings to handle that work. Master Kwan stayed in his high-tech office, surrounded by four television screens so he could monitor the classes. Occasionally he leaned forward and barked something into a microphone, scaring some poor student into attention. Like something out of
The Wizard of Oz
.
If Master Kwan’s English improved a bit, it might reach the level of pidgin. Win had brought him over from Korea fourteen years ago, when Win was only seventeen. It seemed to Myron that Master Kwan had spoken better English back then.
Win and Myron changed into their white uniforms called
dobok
. Both men wrapped black belts around their stomachs. Win was a sixth-degree black belt, about as high a ranking as anybody in the United States. He had been studying tae kwon do since the age of seven. Myron had picked it up in college, giving him a dozen years of studying and a third-degree black belt.
They approached Master Kwan’s door, paused in the doorway until he acknowledged their presence, then bowed at the waist. “Good afternoon, Master Kwan,” they said in unison.
Kwan smiled toothlessly. “You here early.”
“Yes, sir,” Win replied.
“Need help?”
“No, sir.”
Kwan dismissed them by spinning back to his television screens. Myron and Win bowed once more and moved into the private
dojang
for the upper-ranked black belts. They began with meditation, something Myron had never quite gotten the full grasp of. Win loved it. He did it for at least an hour a day. Win folded himself into a lotus position. Myron settled for sitting Indian style. Both men closed their eyes, placed their thumbs on the palm directly below the pinkie, and tilted their palms toward the ceiling. They rested their hands on their knees. Instructions echoed through Myron’s mind like a mantra. Back straight. Bottom of tongue curled up against the back of the upper teeth. He breathed in through his nose for six seconds, concentrating on pushing the air down into the pit of his gut, making sure that his chest did not move, that only his abdomen expanded. Then he held the air down deep, counting to himself to prevent his mind from wandering. After seven seconds he slowly released the air through the mouth for a ten count, making sure to empty completely his contracting gut. Then he waited four seconds before breathing in again.
Win did this painlessly. He did not count. His mind went blank. Myron always counted, needing it to keep his mind from wandering back to the problems of the day—especially on a day like today. But in spite of himself he began to relax, to feel the tension leave his body with every long exhalation. It almost tingled.
They meditated for ten minutes before Win opened his eyes and said,
“Barro.”
Korean for stop.
They performed deep stretching exercises for the next twenty minutes. Win had the flexibility of a ballet dancer, performing full splits effortlessly. Myron had gained a lot of flexibility since taking up tae kwon do.
He believed it had helped him gain six inches on his vertical leap in college. He could almost do a full split, but he couldn’t hold it long.
In short Myron was flexible; Win was Gumby.
They went through their forms or
poomse
next, a complicated set of moves not unlike a violent dance step. What many exercised-crazed junkies never realized is that the martial arts are the ultimate aerobic workout. You are in constant motion—jumping, turning, spinning—propelling both arms and both legs nonstop for a half hour at a time. Low block and front kick, high block and punch, middle block and roundhouse kick. Inside blocks, outside blocks, knife-hand, fists, palm strikes, knees and elbows. It was an exhausting and exhilarating workout.
Win moved through his routine flawlessly—ever the contradiction and deception. See Win on the street, and people said arrogant Waspy wimp who couldn’t bruise a peach with his best punch. See him in a
dojang
, and he struck fear and awe. Tae kwon do is considered a martial art. Art. The word was not used by accident. Win was an artist, the best Myron had ever seen.
Myron remembered the first time he’d seen Win demonstrate his talent. They were freshmen in college. A group of large football players decided to shave Win’s blond locks because they didn’t like the way he looked. Five of them sneaked into Win’s room late at night—four to hold down his arms and legs and one to carry the razor and shaving cream.