by Harlan Coben
“That’s far enough.”
Myron turned around. Two cops in full uniform stood in front of them. One was tall and lanky. The other was short with long, dark, curly hair and a bushy mustache. The shorter one looked like he’d just stepped out of a VH1 special on the eighties.
The tall one said, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“This is public property. I’m walking on it.”
“Are you smarting off to me?”
“You think that’s smarting off?”
“I’ll ask you again, wise guy. Where do you think you’re going?”
“To class,” Myron said. “There’s a bitch of an algebra final coming up.”
The tall one looked at the short one. Randy Wolf and Harry Davis stared without saying a word. Some of the students began to point and gather. The bell rang. The taller officer said, “Okay, nothing to see here. Break it up, get to class now.”
Myron pointed at Wolf and Davis. “I need to talk to them.”
The taller officer ignored him. “Get to class.” Then looking at Randy, he added: “All of you.”
The crowd thinned and then vanished. Randy Wolf and Harry Davis were gone too. Myron was alone with the two officers.
The tall one came up close to Myron. They were about the same height, but Myron had at least twenty or thirty pounds on him. “You stay away from this school,” he said slowly. “You don’t talk to them. You don’t ask questions.”
Myron thought about that. Don’t ask questions? That was not the kind of thing you say to a suspect. “Don’t ask who questions?”
“Don’t ask anybody anything.”
“That’s pretty vague.”
“You think I should be more specific?”
“That would help, yes.”
“Are you being a smart guy again?”
“Just looking for clarification.”
“Hey, asswipe.” It was the shorter cop with the VH1-eighties look. He took out his nightstick and held it up. “This clarification enough for you?”
Both cops smiled at Myron.
“What’s the matter?” The shorter cop with the bushy mustache was slapping the nightstick against his palm. “Cat got your tongue?”
Myron looked first at the tall cop, then back at the short one with the mustache. Then he said: “Darryl Hall called. He wants to know if the reunion tour is still on.”
That made the smiles vanish.
The taller officer said, “Put your hands behind your back.”
“What, are you going to tell me he doesn’t look like John Oates?”
“Hands behind your back now!”
“Hall and Oates? ‘Sarah Smile’? ‘She’s Gone’?”
“Now!”
“It’s not an insult. Many chicks dug John Oates, I’m sure.”
“Turn around now!”
“Why?”
“I’m cuffing you. We’re taking you in.”
“On what charge?”
“Assault and battery.”
“On whom?”
“Jake Wolf. He told us you trespassed on his residence and attacked him.”
Bingo.
His cop-needling had worked. Now he knew why these guys were on him. It wasn’t about him being a suspect in Aimee’s disappearance. It was the pressure brought upon them by one Big Jake Wolf.
Of course, the plan hadn’t gone perfectly. They were arresting him now.
The John Oates cop snapped on the cuffs, making the obvious move of having them pinch his skin. Myron checked out the taller one. He looked a little nervous now, his eyes darting about. Myron figured that was a good thing.
The shorter one dragged him by the cuffs back to the same gray Chevy that had been tailing him since he’d left his house. He pushed Myron into the backseat, trying to hit his head on the doorframe, but Myron was ready and ducked it. In the front seat, Myron spotted a camera with a telephoto lens, just as Win had said.
Hmm. Two cops taking pictures, following him from his house, stopping him from talking to Randy, cuffing him — Big Jake had some juice.
The taller one stayed outside and paced. This was all going a little too fast for him. Myron decided that he could play that. The short one with the bushy mustache and dark curly hair slid into the seat next to Myron and grinned.
“I really liked ‘Rich Girl,’ ” Myron said to him. “But ‘Private Eyes’—I mean, what was up with that song? ‘Private eyes, they’re watching you.’ I mean, don’t all eyes watch you? Public, private, whatever?”
The short guy’s fuse blew faster than anticipated. He took a swing at Myron’s gut. Myron was still ready. One of the lessons Myron had learned over the years was how to take a punch. It was crucial if you were going to get into any physical confrontation. In a real fight, you almost always get hit, no matter how good you are. How you reacted psychologically often decided the outcome. If you don’t know what to expect, you shrivel up and cower. You get too defensive. You let the fear conquer you.
If the blow is a headshot, you need to play the angles. Don’t let the punch land square, especially on the nose. Even slight head tilts can help. Instead of four knuckles landing, maybe it will only be two or one. That makes a huge difference. You also have to relax your body, let it go. You should turn away from the strike, literally roll with the punch. When a blow is aimed at your abdomen, especially when your hands are cuffed behind your back, you need to clench the stomach muscles, shift, and bend at the waist so it doesn’t wallop the breadbasket. That was what Myron did.
The blow didn’t hurt much. But Myron, noting the taller guy’s nervousness, put on a performance that would have made De Niro take notes.
“Aarrrggggghhh!”
“Damn, Joe,” the tall one said, “what the hell are you doing?”
“He was making fun of me!”
Myron stayed bent over and faked loss of breath. He wheezed, he retched, he started coughing uncontrollably.
“You hurt him, Joe!”
“I just knocked the wind out of him. He’ll be fine.”
Myron coughed more. He faked like he couldn’t breathe. Then he added convulsions. He rolled back his eyes and started bucking like a fish on the dock.
“Calm down, dammit!”
Myron stuck his tongue out, gagged some more. Somewhere, a casting agent was speed-dialing Scorsese.
“He’s choking!”
“Medicine!” Myron managed.
“What?”
“Can’t breathe!”
“Dammit, get the cuffs off him!”
“Can’t breathe!” Myron gasped and made his body wrack. “Heart medicine! In my car!”
The taller one opened the door. He grabbed the keys from his partner and unlocked the cuffs. Myron kept up with the convulsions and eye rolls.
“Air!”
The tall one was wide-eyed. Myron could see what he was thinking: out of hand. This was getting too out of hand.
“Air!”
The tall one stepped aside. Myron rolled out of the car. He got up and pointed to his car. “Medicine!”
“Go,” the taller one said.
Myron ran to his car. The two officers, dumbfounded, just watched. Myron had expected that. They were just here to scare him off. They had not expected any back talk. They were town cops. The citizens of this happy suburb obeyed them without question. But this guy hadn’t bowed to them. They’d lost their cool and assaulted a man. This could mean huge trouble. They both just wanted it to end. So did Myron. He had learned what he needed to — Big Jake Wolf was scared and trying to hide something.
So when Myron reached his car, he slid into the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, started it up, and simply drove off. He glanced in his rearview mirror. He figured that the odds were on his side, that the two cops would not chase him.
They didn’t. They just stood there.
In fact, they looked relieved to just let him go.
He had to smile. Yep, there was no question about it now
.
Myron Bolitar was baaack.
CHAPTER 30
Myron was trying to figure out what to do next when his cell phone rang. The caller ID read OUT OF AREA. He picked it up. Esperanza said, “Where the hell are you?”
“Hey, how’s the honeymoon going?”
“Like crap. Do you want to know why?”
“Is Tom not putting out?”
“Yeah, you men are so tough to seduce. No, my problem is that my business partner is not answering calls from our clients. My business partner is also not in the office to cover my absence.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, well, that covers it.”
“I’ll have Big Cyndi transfer all the calls directly to my cell. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
“What’s wrong?” Esperanza asked.
Myron didn’t want to disrupt her honeymoon any more than he already had, so he said, “Nothing.”
“You so lie.”
“I’m telling you. It’s nothing.”
“Fine, I’ll ask Win.”
“Wait, okay.”
He briefly filled her in.
“So,” Esperanza said, “you feel obligated because you did a good deed?”
“I was the last to see her. I dropped her off and let her go.”
“Let her go? What kind of crap is that? She’s eighteen, Myron. That makes her an adult. She asked you for a ride. You gallantly — and stupidly, I might add — gave her one. That’s it.”
“That’s not it.”
“Look, if you gave, say, Win a ride home, would you make sure he got all the way into the house safely?”
“Good analogy.”
Esperanza snickered. “Yeah, well. I’m coming home.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m not. But you can’t handle both on your own. So I’ll tell Big Cyndi to transfer the calls down here. I’ll take them. You go play superhero.”
“But you’re on your honeymoon. What about Tom?”
“He’s a man, Myron.”
“Meaning?”
“As long as a man gets some, he’s happy.”
“That’s such a cruel stereotype.”
“Yeah, I know I’m awful. I could be talking on the phone at the same time or, hell, breast-feeding Hector, Tom wouldn’t blink. Plus this will give him more time to play golf. Golf and sex, Myron. It’ll pretty much be Tom’s dream honeymoon.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Esperanza?”
“I know it’s been a while since you’ve done something like this,” she said. “And I know I made you promise you wouldn’t again. But maybe… maybe it’s a good thing.”
“How do you figure?”
“Damned if I know. Christ, I got more important things to worry about. Like stretch marks when I wear a bikini. I can’t believe I have stretch marks now. The kid’s fault, you know.”
They hung up a minute later. Myron drove around, feeling conspicuous in his car. If the police decided to keep an eye on him or if Rochester decided another tail might be in order, this car would be inconvenient. He thought about it and called Claire. She answered on the first ring.
“Did you learn something?”
“Not really, but do you mind if I switch cars with you?”
“Of course not. I was about to call you anyway. The Rochesters just left.”
“And?”
“We talked for a while. Trying to find a connection between Aimee and Katie. But something else came up. Something I need to run by you.”
“I’m two minutes from your house.”
“I’ll meet you in the front yard.”
As soon as Myron stepped out of the car, Claire tossed him her car keys. “I think Katie Rochester ran away.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Have you met that father?”
“Yes.”
“Says it all, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
“But more than that, have you met the mother?”
“No.”
“Her name is Joan. She has this wince — like she’s waiting for him to smack her.”
“Did you find a connection between the girls?”
“They both liked to hang out at the mall.”
“That’s it?”
Claire shrugged. She looked like hell. The skin was pulled even tighter now. She looked like she’d lost ten pounds in the last day. Her body teetered as she walked, as though a strong gust would knock her all the way to the ground. “They ate lunch at the same time. They had one class together in the past four years — PE with Mr. Valentine. That’s it.”
Myron shook his head. “You said something else came up?”
“The mother. Joan Rochester.”
“What about her?”
“You might miss it because like I said, she cowers and looks scared all the time.”
“Miss what?”
“She’s scared of him. Her husband.”
“So? I met him. I’m scared of him.”
“Right, okay, but here’s the thing. She’s scared of him, sure, but she’s not scared about her daughter. I have no proof, but that’s the vibe I’m getting. Look, you remember when my mom got cancer?”
Sophomore year of high school. The poor woman died six months later. “Of course.”
“I met with other girls going through the same thing. A support group for cancer families. We had this picnic once, where you could bring other friends too. But it was weird — you knew exactly who was really going through the torment and who was just a friend. You’d meet a fellow sufferer and you’d just know. There was a vibe.”
“And Joan Rochester didn’t have a vibe?”
“She had a vibe, but not the ‘my daughter is missing’ vibe. I tried to get her alone. I asked her to help me make some coffee. But I didn’t get anywhere. I’m telling you, she knows something. The woman is scared, but not like I am.”
Myron thought about that. There were a million explanations, especially the most obvious — people react differently to stress — but he wanted to trust Claire’s intuition on this. The question was, what did it mean? And what could he do about it?
“Let me think this through,” he said at last.
“Did you talk to Mr. Davis?”
“Not yet.”
“How about Randy?”
“I’m on it. That’s why I need your car. The police ran me off the high school campus this morning.”
“Why?”
He didn’t want to get into Randy’s father so he said, “I’m not sure yet. Look, let me get going, okay?”
Claire nodded, closed her eyes.
“She’ll be okay,” Myron said, stepping toward her.
“Please.” Claire held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t waste time handing me platitudes, okay?”
He nodded, slipped into her SUV. He wondered about his next destination. Maybe he’d head back to school. Talk to the principal. Maybe the principal could call Randy or Harry Davis into his office. But then what?
The cell phone sounded. Again the caller ID gave him no information. Caller ID technology was fairly useless. The people you wanted to avoid just blocked the service anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hey, handsome, I just got your message.”
It was Gail Berruti, his contact from the phone company. He had forgotten all about the crank calls referring to him as a “bastard.” It seemed unimportant now, just some sort of childish prank, except that maybe, just maybe, there was a connection. Claire had noted that Myron brought destruction. Maybe someone from his past was out to get him. Maybe somehow Aimee had gotten tangled up in that.
It was the longest of long shots.
“I haven’t heard from you in forever,” Berruti said.
“Yeah, I’ve been busy.”
“Or not busy, I guess. How are you?”
“I’m pretty good. Were you able to trace the
number?”
“It’s not a trace, Myron. You said that in your phone message. ‘Trace the number.’ It’s not a trace. I just had to look it up.”
“Whatever.”
“Not whatever. You know better. It’s like on TV. You ever watch a phone trace on TV? They always say to keep the guy on the line so they can trace the call. That’s nonsense, you know. You trace it right away. It’s immediate. It doesn’t take time. Why do they do that?”
“It’s more suspenseful,” Myron said.
“It’s dumb. They do everything ass-backward on TV. I’m watching some cop show the other night, and it takes five minutes to do a DNA test. My husband works in the crime lab at John Jay. They’re lucky if they get a DNA confirmation in a month. Meanwhile the phone stuff — all of which can be done in minutes with the touch of a computer — that takes them forever. And the bad guy always hangs up just before they get the location. Have you ever seen the trace work? Never. Pisses me off, you know?”
Myron tried to get Berruti back on track. “So you looked up the number?”
“I got it here. Curious though: Why do you need it?”
“Since when do you care?”
“Good point. Okay, let’s get to it then. First off, whoever it was wanted to be anonymous. The call was from a pay phone.”
“Where?”
“The location is near one-ten Livingston Avenue in Livingston, New Jersey.”
The center of town, Myron thought. Near his local Starbucks and his dry cleaner. Myron thought about that. A dead end? Maybe. But he had a thought.
“I need you to do me two more favors, Gail,” Myron said.
“Favor implies nonpayment.”
“Semantics,” Myron said. “You know I’ll take care of you.”
“Yeah, I know. So what do you need?”
Harry Davis taught a lesson on A Separate Peace by John Knowles. He tried to concentrate, but the words were coming out as if he were reading off a prompter in a language he didn’t quite understand. The students took notes. He wondered if they noticed that he wasn’t really there, that he was going through the motions. The sad part was, he suspected that they didn’t.
Why did Myron Bolitar want to talk to him?
He did not know Myron Bolitar personally, but you don’t walk around the corridors of this school for more than two decades without knowing who he was. The guy was a legend here. He held every basketball record the school ever had.