Authors: Harlan Coben
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.
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 à 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.
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.”
“I bet that looks good on a résumé,” Myron said.
“Let me put this in very simple terms for you, Myron: You fuck with us, I’ll kill you.”
“Shiver. Tremble.” Myron was not quite as confident as his sarcasm, but he knew better than to show fear. Guys like Aaron are like dogs. They smell fear, they pounce.
Aaron laughed again. He was laughing a lot today. He was either very amused or had been sniffing gas. He turned his back and walked to the door. “This is your final warning,” he said. “Landreaux honors his contract with Mr. O’Connor, or both of you end up worm food.”
Worm food. First oatmeal. Now worm food.
“I like you, Myron. I’d really hate to see something bad happen. But you understand.”
“Business is business.”
“Exactly.”
Esperanza appeared at the door.
Aaron gave her a sharklike smile. “Well, well,” he said. Then he followed up with his best big-guy wink. Esperanza managed to keep her clothes on. Amazing restraint.
“Pick up line two,” she said.
“Listen to this call closely, Myron,” Aaron added with a final grin. “Appreciate the gravity of the situation. And remember. Worm food.”
“Worm food. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Aaron winked at Esperanza again, blew her a kiss, and left.
“Charming,” she said.
“Who’s on the phone?”
“Chaz Landreaux.”
Myron picked up the headset. “Hello.”
“Motherfuckers were at my mom’s!” Chaz shouted. “They told her they were going to cut off my nuts and
send them to her in a box! My mother, man! They said this to my mother!”
Myron felt his fingers tighten into fists. “I’ll take care of it,” he said slowly. “They won’t bother her again.”
Enough game playing. It was time to act.
It was time to tell Win about Roy O’Connor.
Win smiled like a kid on a snow day listening to the radio for a school closing. “Roy O’Connor,” he said.
“I don’t want him hurt. Promise me.”
Win’s eyes drifted dreamily. He might have nodded a yes, but Myron couldn’t say for sure.
Baumgart’s on Palisades Avenue. Their old stomping grounds.
Peter Chin greeted them at the door, his eyes widening in delight and surprise when he spotted Jessica. “Miss Culver! How wonderful to see you again.”
“Nice to see you, Peter.”
“You look as lovely as ever. You beautify my restaurant.”
Myron said, “Hi, Peter.”
“Yeah, whatever.” He dismissed Myron with a hand wave. His full attention was on Jessica; a crocodile gnawing on his foot wouldn’t have changed that. “You look a little too thin, Miss Culver.”
“The food’s not as good in Washington.”
“Funny,” Myron said. “I was thinking she looked a little chunky.”
Jessica eyed him. “Dead man.”
Baumgart’s was an institution in Englewood, New Jersey. For fifty years it was an old Jewish deli and soda fountain, noted for its superb ice cream and desserts. When Peter Chin bought it eight years ago, he kept all of the tradition but added the best nouvelle Chinese cuisine in the state. The combination was a smash. The normal order might consist of Peking duck, sesame noodles, chocolate milk shake, french fries and a death-by-chocolate sundae for dessert. When Myron and Jessica had lived together, they ate at Baumgart’s at least once a week.
Myron still came once a week. Usually with Win or Esperanza. Sometimes alone. He never brought a date here.
Peter walked them past the soda fountain and put them in a booth under a huge painting. Modern art. It was a portrait of either Cher or Barbara Bush. Maybe both. Very esoteric.
Myron and Jessica sat across the table from each other, silently. The moment seemed weighed down, overwhelming. Being here together again—they had expected it to generate some light nostalgia. But the effect was more like a body blow.
“I’ve missed this place,” she said.
“Yes.”
She reached her hand across the table and took his. “I’ve missed you.”
Her face was aglow, the way it used to be when she looked at him as though he were the only person in the entire world. Myron felt something squeeze his heart, making it nearly impossible to breathe. The rest of the
world broke apart, diffused. There were only the two of them.
“I’m not sure what to say.”
She smiled. “What? Myron Bolitar at a loss for words?”
“Ripley’s, huh?”
Peter came by. Without preamble, he said, “You’ll start with the crispy duck appetizer and squab package with pine nuts. For your main course you’ll have soft-shell crab in special sauce and the Baumgart lobster and shrimp.”
“Can we choose dessert?” Myron asked.
“No. Myron, you’ll have the pecan pie à la mode. And for Miss Culver.” He stopped, building suspense like a game-show host.
She smiled expectantly. “You don’t mean …”
Peter nodded. “Banana pudding cake with vanilla wafers. There’s only one piece left, but I put it away for you.”
“Bless you, Peter.”
“Each man does what he can. You didn’t bring wine?” Baumgart’s was BYO.
“We forgot,” Jessica said. She was dazzling Peter with her smile. Not fair. Jessica’s looks were like a
Star Trek
laser set on stun. Her smile, kill.
“I’ll send someone across the street to get a bottle. Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay?”
“You have a good memory,” she said.
“No. I just remember what is important.” Myron rolled his eyes. Peter bowed slightly and left.
She turned the smile back to Myron. He felt frightened and helpless and deliriously happy.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He shook his head. He was afraid to open his mouth.
“I never meant—” She was unsure how to continue.
“I made a lot of mistakes in my life,” she said. “I am dumb. I am self-destructive.”
“No,” Myron said. “You’re perfect.”
Her voice grew dramatic, her hand against her chest. “‘Take the blinders from your eyes and see me as I really am.’”
He thought a moment. “Dulcinea to Don Quixote in
Man of La Mancha.
And it’s ‘take the clouds,’ not blinders.”
“Very impressive.”
“Win was playing it in the car.” This was an old game of theirs. Guess the Quote.
She fiddled with her water glass, making little water circles and then inspecting them for clarity and definition. Eventually she created an aquatic Olympics logo. “I’m not sure what I’m trying to say to you,” she said at last. “I’m not sure what I want to happen here.” She looked up. “One last confession, okay?”
He nodded.
“I came to you because I thought you would help. That was true. But that wasn’t the only reason.”
“I know,” he said. “I try not to think about it too much. It terrifies me.”
“So what do we do now?”
His chance. He hoped there would be others. “Did you get your sister’s file?”
“Yes.”
“Have you gone through it yet?”
“No. I just picked it up.”
“Then why don’t we open it now?”
She nodded. The crispy duck and squab package with pine nuts appeared. Jessica took out a manila envelope and slit the seal. “Why don’t you look at it first?”
“Okay,” he said. “But save me some food.”
“Chance.”
He started sifting through the papers. The top page was Kathy’s high school transcript. After her junior year her ranking had been twelfth in a class of three hundred. Not bad. But by the end of senior year her ranking had slipped considerably—to fifty-eighth.
“Her grades dropped senior year of high school,” Myron said.
“Whose didn’t drop senior year?” Jess countered. “She was probably just goofing off.”
“Probably.” But usually that meant A students got B’s or C’s. Kathy had gotten one A, three D’s and an F in her final semester. Her clean record was also muddied with several detentions—all in her senior year. Strange. But probably meaningless.
“Do you want to fill me in on what happened today?” Jessica asked between bites.
She was even beautiful when pigging out. Amazing. He started by telling her about Win’s discovery in the six magazines.
“So what does it mean,” she asked, “her picture being only in that one rag?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But you have an idea?”
He did. But it was too early to say anything. “Not yet.”
“Did you hear from your friend at the phone company?”
He nodded. “Gary Grady placed two calls after we left. One was to Fred Nickler’s office at Hot Desire Press. The other was someplace in the city. There was no answer when we called it. We got the information kind of late in the day.”
“And the handwriting analyst?”
Best to dive right in. “The handwriting matches. It’s either Kathy’s or a very good forger.”
That slowed her chopsticks. “My God.”
“Yes.”
“Then she’s alive?”
“It’s still just a possibility. Nothing more. That envelope could have been written before she died. Or like I said, it could be a clever forgery.”
“You’re reaching.”
“I’m not so sure,” he said. “If she’s alive, where is she? Why is she doing all this?”
“Maybe she’s been kidnapped. Maybe she’s being forced to.”
“Forced to address envelopes? Now who’s reaching?”
“Do you have a better explanation?” she asked.
“Not yet. But I’m working on it.” He started looking through the file again. “You ever hear of a guy named Otto Burke?”
“The big record company magnate who owns the Titans?”
“Right. He also knew about the magazine.” Myron quickly summarized his visit to Titans Stadium.
“So you think Otto Burke might be behind it?” she asked.
“Otto has a motive: knocking down Christian’s asking price. He certainly has the resources: lots of money. And it would also explain why Christian got a copy in the mail.”
“He was sending Christian a message,” she added.
“Right.”
“But how would Burke forge my sister’s handwriting?”
“He could have hired an expert.”
“Where did he get a writing sample?”
“Who knows? It can’t be that difficult.”
Her eyes glazed over. “So this was all a hoax? This was all some plot to gain leverage in a negotiation?”
“It’s possible. But I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Something just doesn’t mesh. Why would Burke go through all that trouble? He could have blackmailed us with just the photo. He didn’t have to put it in a magazine. The photo was enough.”
“She grasped on to his hope as if it were a life preserver. “Good point,” she said.
“The question then becomes,” he continued, “how did Otto get a copy of the magazine?”
“Maybe someone in his organization picked up a copy at a newsstand.”
“Very unlikely.
Nips
”—the word felt grungy again, good—“has a very low circulation rate. The chances that someone in the Titans organization bought that particular magazine, had time to read it carefully, somehow spotted Kathy’s picture in the bottom row on a page of ads in the back—it’s fairly remote at best.”
Jessica snapped her fingers. “Someone mailed it to him too.”
He nodded. “Why should Christian have been the only one? For all we know, dozens of people were sent that magazine.”
“How do we find out?”
“I’m working on it.”
He managed to salvage a sliver of crispy duck before it was sucked into the black hole. It was delicious. He turned his attention back to Kathy’s files. Her bad grades continued during her first semester at Reston. By second semester, her grades had picked up considerably. He asked Jessica about this.
“She settled into college life, I guess,” she said. “She joined the drama group, became a cheerleader,
started dating Christian. She went through culture shock in her first semester. It’s not uncommon.”
“No. I guess not.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
He shrugged. Myron Bolitar, Señor Skepticalo.
Kathy’s recommendation letters were next. Three of them. Her high school guidance counselor called her “unusually gifted.” Her tenth-grade history teacher said, “Her enthusiasm for life is contagious.” Her twelfth-grade English teacher said, “Kathy Culver is bright, witty, and fun-spirited. She will be a welcome addition to any institution of learning.” Nice comments. He scanned down to the bottom of the page.
“Uh-oh,” he said.
“What is it?”
He handed her the glowing recommendation letter from Kathy’s twelfth-grade English teacher at Ridgewood High School. A Mr. Grady.
A Mr. Gary, aka “Jerry” Grady.