One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel
Read One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel Online
Authors: Harlan Coben
PRAISE FOR HARLAN COBEN AND
ONE FALSE MOVE
“The fast-paced plot spins the reader in a completely different direction than she expects to go. Myron is gallant, likable, and delightfully original. … His reflections on suburban life and racial divides are poignant and insightful.”
—
Los Angeles Times
“The suspense is high in this twisty tale that continues to surprise as it entertains.…Snappy dialogue and Myron’s witty one-liners and wry take on life—and sports—can outshine most stand-up comics.”
—
Sun-Sentinel
(Fort Lauderdale, Fla.)
“THIS IS ONE OF THE FUNNIEST YET MOST COMPLEX AND CONTEMPLATIVE SERIES TO APPEAR IN AGES … the action is steady, the dialogue so good you wouldn’t miss the action, and the plot a carefully constructed beauty.”
—
The Christian Science Monitor
“A WINNER!…Coben displays all the right moves —snappy dialogue, fast pacing, neat plotting.”
—
The Orlando Sentinel
“ONE FALSE MOVE
HAS IT ALL: wonderful characters, a dandy plot, nail-biting suspense, and Harlan Coben’s wicked humor. I had a great time!”
—Susan Isaacs
“A SATISFYING TANGLE OF SKULDUGGERY … Could Myron, who pushes his wisecracking charm hard, be any more tough and adorable? It’ll be a pleasure waiting for the next installment to find out.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
“MYRON BOLITAR IS ONE OF THE MOST ENGAGING HEROES IN MYSTERY FICTION.
One
False Move
is a blast from start to finish.”
—Dennis Lehane
“One False Move
marks the maturing of an extraordinary talent in crime fiction. In this rich, poignant novel, Myron Bolitar becomes a complex and memorable character, and Harlan Coben reaches a new level of excellence.”
—Sharyn McCrumb
“ONE FALSE MOVE
RATES FOUR STARS. Harlan Coben is the freshest new voice in the crowded mystery-thriller field. Myron and Win are the best duo since Spenser and Hawk, Coben’s plots are gripping and the books have a terrific mix of comedy, suspense and drama.”
—Phillip M. Margolin
“Harlan Coben won three of the major mystery awards last year—the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony. It was a triple play appropriate to the creator of sports agent Myron Bolitar. In
One False Move
…Myron and his dashing pal, Win Lockwood, smoothly outmatch a gang of goons. And the plot takes several surprising twists.”
—
Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Magazine
“Easily in the running for best-of-the-year honors, a story deftly combining dark suspense with wry humor and pathos.”
—
Lansing State Journal
“ENTERTAINING.”
—
Detroit Free Press
“THE SUMMER’S MOST INTRIGUING BEACH READ.”
—
Women’s Sports & Fitness
“If you’ve been entertaining doubts about the future of the mystery—fuhgeddaboutit! It’s in good hands with Harlan Coben.”
—Lawrence Block
“THE WORLD NEEDS TO DISCOVER HARLAN COBEN. He’s smart, he’s funny and he has something to say.”
—Michael Connelly
“Authentic conversation, colorful characters, and exciting New York and New Jersey surrounds … Strongly recommended.”
—
Library Journal
“ONE FALSE MOVE
GLEAMS WITH ORIGINALITY, Harlan Coben is a terrific writer, and this a delightful book.”
—Peter Straub
“A cast of extraordinary characters, an emotional roller coaster, a masterpiece of a plot, and a wonderfully wicked humor assures there is not
One False Move
in Coben’s latest.”
—
The Snooper
“HARLAN COBEN DOES EVERYTHING RIGHT in
One False Move
. The book is very tightly plotted and the subplots dovetail nicely into the basic story line. No minor character is wasted…Coben is writing one of the best humorous hard-boiled series around.”
—
Mystery News
Books by Harlan Coben
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In memory of my parents
,
Corky and Carl Coben
and in celebration of their grandchildren
,
Charlotte, Aleksander, Benjamin, and Gabrielle
I wrote this book alone. Nobody helped me. But if mistakes were made, I wish to keep in the long-standing American tradition of passing the buck. So with that in mind, the author would like to thank the following wonderful people: Aaron Priest, Lisa Erbach Vance, and everyone at the Aaron Priest Literary Agency; Carole Baron, Leslie Schnur, Jacob Hoye, Heather Mongelli, and everyone at Dell Publishing; Maureen Coyle of the New York Liberty; Karen Ross, ME of the Dallas County Institute of Forensic Science; Peter Roisman of Advantage International; Sergeant Jay Vanderbeck of the Livingston Police Department; Detective Lieutenant Keith Killion of the Ridgewood Police Department; Maggie Griffin, James Bradbeer, Chip Hinshaw, and of course, Dave Bolt. Again I repeat: any errors—factual or otherwise—are totally the fault of these people. The author is not to blame.
SEPTEMBER 15The cemetery overlooked a schoolyard.
Myron pushed at the loose dirt with the toe of his Rockport. There was no stone here yet, just a metal marker holding a plain index card with a name typed in capital letters. He shook his head. Why was he standing here like some cliché from a bad TV show? In his mind’s eye Myron could see how the whole scene should be played out. Torrential rain should be pounding on his back, but he would be too bereaved to notice. His head should be lowered, tears glistening in his eyes, maybe one running down his cheek, blending in with the rain. Cue the stirring music. The camera should move off his face and pull back slowly, very slowly, showing his slumped shoulders, the rain driving harder, more graves, no one else present. Still pulling back, the camera eventually shows Win, Myron’s loyal partner, standing in the distance, silently understanding,
giving his buddy time alone to grieve. The TV image should suddenly freeze and the executive producer’s name should flash across the screen in yellow caps. Slight hesitation before the viewers are urged to stay tuned for scenes from next week’s episode. Cut to commercial.
But that would not happen here. The sun shone like it was the first day and the skies had the hue of the freshly painted. Win was at the office. And Myron would not cry.
So why was he here?
Because a murderer would be coming soon. He was sure of it.
Myron searched for some kind of meaning in the landscape but only came up with more clichés. It had been two weeks since the funeral. Weeds and dandelions had already begun to break through the dirt and stretch toward the heavens. Myron waited for his inner voice-over to spout the standard drivel about weeds and dandelions representing cycles and renewal and life going on, but the voice was mercifully mute. He sought irony in the radiant innocence of the schoolyard—the faded chalk on black asphalt, the multicolor three-wheelers, the slightly rusted chains for the swings—cloaked in the shadows of tombstones that watched over the children like silent sentinels, patient and almost beckoning. But the irony would not hold. Schoolyards were not about innocence. There were bullies down there too and sociopaths-in-waiting and burgeoning psychoses and young minds filled prenatally with undiluted hate.
Okay
, Myron thought,
enough abstract babbling for one day
.
On some level, he recognized that this inner dialogue was merely a distraction, a philosophical sleight of hand to keep his brittle mind from snapping like a dry twig. He wanted so very much to cave in, to let his legs give way, to fall to the ground and claw at the dirt with his bare hands and beg forgiveness and plead for a higher power to give him one more chance.
But that too would not happen.
Myron heard footsteps coming up from behind him. He closed his eyes. It was as he expected. The footsteps came closer. When they stopped, Myron did not turn around.
“You killed her,” Myron said.
“Yes.”
A block of ice melted in Myron’s stomach. “Do you feel better now?”
The killer’s tone caressed the back of Myron’s neck with a cold, bloodless hand. “The question is, Myron, do you?”
