by Harlan Coben
Myron headed up a carpeted incline and toward the left corner suite. Win was usually alone in his office. Not today. Myron stuck his head in the door, and a bunch of suitheads swiveled toward him. Lots of suits. Myron couldn’t say how many. Might have been six, maybe eight. They were a lumpy blur of gray and blue with streaks of tie-and-hankie red, like the aftermath of a Civil War reenactment. The older ones, distinguished white-haired guys with manicures and cuff links, sat in the burgundy leather chairs closest to Win’s desk and nodded a lot. The younger ones were squeezed onto the couches against the wall, heads down, scratching notes on legal pads as though Win were divulging the secret of eternal life. Every once in a while the younger men would peer up at the older men, glimpsing their glorious future, which would basically consist of a more comfortable chair and less note taking.
The legal pads gave it away. These were attorneys. The older men probably over four hundred bucks an hour, the younger ones two-fifty. Myron didn’t bother with the math, mostly because it would take too much effort to count how many suits were in the room. Didn’t matter. Lock-Horne Securities could afford it. Redistributing wealth—that is, the act of moving money around without creation or production or making anything new—was incredibly profitable.
Myron Bolitar, Marxist Sports Agent.
Win clapped his hands and the men were dismissed. They rose as slowly as possible—attorneys billed by the minute, sort of like 900 sex lines minus the guaranteed, er, payoff—and filed out the office door. The older men departed first, the younger men trailing not unlike Japanese brides.
Myron stepped inside. “What’s going on?”
Win signaled for Myron to sit. Then he leaned back and did the steeple thing with his hands. “This situation,” he said, “has me troubled.”
“You mean Clu’s cash withdrawal?”
“In part, yes,” Win said. He bounced the fingertips before resting the indexes on his lower lip. “I become very unhappy when I hear the words subpoena and Lock-Horne in the same sentence.”
“So? You have nothing to hide.”
Win smiled thinly. “Your point being?”
“Let them look at your records. You’re a lot of things, Win. Honest being chief among them.”
Win shook his head. “You are so naive.”
“What?”
“My family runs a financial securities firm.”
“So?”
“So even the whiff of innuendo can destroy said firm.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” Myron said.
Win arched an eyebrow, put a hand to his ear. “Pardon moi?”
“Come on, Win. There’s always some Wall Street scandal or other going on. People barely notice anymore.”
“Those are insider trading scandals mostly.”
“So?”
Win paused, looked at him. “Are you being purposely obtuse?”
“No.”
“Insider trading is a completely different animal.”
“How so?”
“Do you really need me to explain this to you?”
“Guess so.”
“Fine then. Stripping it bare, insider trading is cheating or stealing. My clients do not care if I cheat or steal—as long it is done for their benefit. In fact, if a certain illegal act were to increase their portfolios, most clients would probably encourage it. But if their financial adviser is playing games with their personal accounts—or equally awful, if his banking institution is merely involved in something that will give the government the right to subpoena records—clients become understandably nervous.”
Myron nodded. “I can see where there might be a problem.”
Win strummed the top of his desk with his fingers. For him, this was major agitation. Hard to believe, but for the first time Win actually appeared a touch unnerved. “I have three law firms and two publicity firms working on the matter,” he continued.
“Working on it how?”
“The usual,” Win said. “Calling in political favors, preparing a lawsuit against the Bergen County DA’s office for libel and slander, planting positive spins in the media, seeing what judges will be running for reelection.”
“In other words,” Myron said, “who can you pay off.”
Win shrugged. “You say tomato, I say tomahto.”
“The files haven’t been subpoenaed yet?”
“No. I plan on quashing the possibility before any judge even thinks of issuing them.”
“So maybe we should take the offensive.”
Win resteepled. His big mahogany desk was polished to the point where his reflection was near-mirror clear, like something out of an old dish detergent commercial where a housewife gets waaaaay too excited about seeing herself in a dinner plate. “I’m listening.”
He recounted his conversation with Bonnie Haid. The red phone on Win’s credenza—his Batphone, so enamored with the old Adam West vehicle that he actually kept it under what looked like a glass cake cover—interrupted him several times. Win had to take the calls. They were mostly from attorneys. Myron could hear the lawyerly panic travel through the earpiece and all the way across the desk. Understandable. Windsor Horne Lockwood III was not the kind of guy you wanted to disappoint.
Win remained calm. His end of the conversation could basically be broken down into two words: How. And much.
When Myron finished, Win said, “Let’s make a list.” He didn’t reach for a pen. Neither did Myron. “One, we need Clu’s phone records.”
“He was staying at an apartment in Fort Lee,” Myron said.
“The murder scene.”
“Right. Clu and Bonnie rented the apartment when he first got traded in May.” To the Yankees. A huge deal that gave Clu, an aging veteran, one last chance to squander. “They moved into the house in Tenafly in July, but the apartment’s lease ran for another six months. So when Bonnie threw him out, that’s where he ended up.”
“You have the address?” Win asked.
“Yep.”
“Fine then.”
“Send the records down to Big Cyndi. I’ll have her check through it.”
Getting a phone record was frighteningly easy. Don’t believe it? Open your local yellow pages. Choose a private investigator at random. Offer to pay him or her two grand for anyone’s monthly phone bill. Some will simply say yes, but most will try to up you to three thousand, half the fee going to whatever phone company minion they bribe.
Myron said, “We also need to check out Clu’s credit cards, his checkbook, ATM, whatever, see what he’s been up to lately.”
Win nodded. In Clu’s case, this would be doubly easy. His entire financial portfolio was held by Lock-Horne Securities. Win had set up a separate management account for Clu so that he could manage his finances easier. It included a Visa debit card, electronic payments of monthly bills, and a checkbook.
“We also need to find this mystery girlfriend,” Myron said.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Win said.
“No.”
“And as you suggested earlier, our old fraternity brother Billy Lee Palms might know something.”
“We can track him down,” Myron said.
Win raised a finger. “One thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“You will have to do the majority of the legwork on your own.”
“Why’s that?”
“I have a business to run.”
“So do I,” Myron said.
“You lose your business, you hurt two people.”
“Three,” Myron corrected. “You forgot Big Cyndi.”
“No. I am speaking of Big Cyndi and Esperanza. I left you out for all the obvious reasons. Again if you require the prerequisite cliché, please choose one of the following: You made your bed, now lie in it—”
“I get the point,” Myron interrupted. “But I still have a business to protect. For their sakes, if not my own.”
“No question.” Win motioned toward the trenches. “But at the risk
of sounding melodramatic, I am responsible for those people out there. For their jobs and financial security. They have families and mortgages and tuition payments.” He pierced Myron with the ice blues. “That’s not something I take lightly.”
“I know.”
Win leaned back. “I’ll stay involved, of course. And again if my particular talents are needed—”
“Let’s hope they aren’t,” Myron interrupted.
Win shrugged again. Then he said, “Funny, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“We haven’t even mentioned Esperanza in all this. Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps,” Win said, “we have some doubt about her innocence.”
“No.”
Win arched the eyebrow but said nothing.
“I’m not just being emotional,” Myron said. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“And?”
“And it makes no sense. First off, why would Esperanza kill Clu? What’s her motive?”
“The DA seems to think she killed him for the money.”
“Right. And I think it’s fair to say we both know better.”
Win paused, nodded. “Esperanza would not kill for money, no.”
“So we have no motive.”
Win frowned. “I’d say that conclusion is at best premature.”
“Okay, but now let’s look at the evidence. The gun, for example.”
“Go on,” Win said.
“Think this through for a second. Esperanza has a major altercation with Clu in front of witnesses, right?”
“Yes.”
Myron held up a finger. “One, would Esperanza be dumb enough to kill Clu so soon after a public fight?”
“Fair point,” Win conceded. “But perhaps the battle in the garage just raised the stakes. Perhaps after that Esperanza realized that Clu was out of control.”
“Fine, let’s say that Esperanza was still dumb enough to kill him after the fight. She’d have to know she’d be a suspect, right? I mean, there were witnesses.”
Win nodded slowly. “I’ll go with that.”
“So why was the murder weapon in the office? Esperanza isn’t that stupid. She’s worked with us before. She knows the ins and out. Hell, anybody with a television set would have known you’re supposed to dump the gun.”
Win hesitated. “I see what you’re saying.”
“So the gun had to be planted. And if the gun was planted, then it follows that the blood and the fibers were planted too.”
“Logical.” Win doing his best Mr. Spock. The Bat-phone rang again. Win picked up the receiver and dispatched the matter in seconds. They went back to thinking.
“On the other hand,” Win said, “I have never encountered a perfectly logical murder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Reality is messy and full of contradictions. Take the O.J. case.”
“The what?”
“The O.J. case,” Win repeated. “If all that blood was spilled and the Juice was drenched in it, why was so little found?”
“He changed clothes.”
“So? Even if he did, you’d expect to find more than a few dashboard splatters, wouldn’t you? If the Juice drove home and showered, why was no blood found on the tiles or in the pipes or what have you?”
“So you think O.J. was innocent?”
Win frowned again. “You are missing my point.”
“Which is?”
“Murder investigations never make complete sense. There are always rips in the fabric of logic. Unexplainable flaws. Perhaps Esperanza made a mistake. Perhaps she did not believe the police would suspect her. Perhaps she thought the weapon would be safer in the office than, say, her house.”
“She didn’t kill him, Win.”
Win spread his hands. “Who amongst us is incapable—given the right circumstances—of murder?”
Heavy silence.
Myron swallowed hard. “For the sake of argument, let’s assume the weapon was planted.”
Win nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on Myron’s.
“The question is, who set her up?”
“And why,” Win added.
“So we need to make a list of her enemies,” Myron said.
“And ours.”
“What?”
“This murder charge is seriously wounding both of us,” Win said. “We thus have to look at several possibilities.”
“For example?”
“First,” Win said, “we may be reading too much into the frame-up.”
“How so?”
“This may not be a personal vendetta at all. Perhaps the murderer heard about the garage altercation and concluded that Esperanza would make a convenient patsy.”
“So then this is all just a way of deflecting attention from the real killer? Nothing personal?”
“It’s a possibility,” Win said. “No more or less.”
“Okay,” Myron agreed, “what else?”
“The murderer wants to do Esperanza great harm.”
“The obvious choice.”
“For whatever that’s worth, yes,” Win said. “And possibility number three: The murderer wants to do one of us great harm.”
“Or,” Myron said, “our businesses.”
“Yes.”
Something like a giant cartoon anvil landed on Myron’s head. “Someone like FJ.”
Win merely smiled.
“And,” Myron went on, “if Clu was doing something illicit, something that needed large amounts of cash—”
“Then FJ and his family would be a prime possible recipient,” Win finished for him. “And of course, if we forget the money for a moment, FJ would relish any opportunity to crush you. What better way than decimating your business and incarcerating your best friend?”
“Two birds, one stone.”
“Precisely.”
Myron sat back, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t relish the idea of tangling with the Aches.”
“Neither do I,” Win said.
“You? Before, you wanted to kill FJ.”
“That’s just my point. I can’t anymore. If young FJ is behind this, we have to keep him alive in order to prove it. Trapping vermin is chancy. Simple extermination is the preferred course of action.”
“So we’ve now eliminated your favorite option.”
Win nodded. “Sad, no?”
“Tragic.”
“But it gets worse, old friend.”
“How’s that?”
“Innocent or guilty,” Win said, “Esperanza is concealing something from us.”
Silence.
“We have no choice,” Win said. “We need to investigate her too. Delve into her personal life a bit.”
“I don’t relish the idea of tangling with the Aches,” Myron said, “but I really don’t relish the idea of invading Esperanza’s privacy.”
“Be afraid,” Win agreed. “Be very afraid.”
CHAPTER
11
The first potential clue did two things to Myron: It scared the hell out of him, and it reminded him of The Sound of Music.
Myron liked the old Julie Andrews musical well enough—who didn’t?—but he always found one song particularly dumb. One of the classics actually. “My Favorite Things.” The song made no sense. Ask a zillion people to list their absolute favorite things, and how many of them are going to list doorbells, for crying out loud? You know what, Millie? I love doorbells! To hell with strolling on a quiet beach or reading a great book or making love or seeing a Broadway musical. Doorbells, Millie. Doorbells punch my ticket. Sometimes I just run up to people’s houses and press their doorbells and well, I think I’m man enough to admit I shudder.
Another puzzling “favorite” was brown paper packages tied up with string, mostly because it sounded like something sent by a mail-order pornographer (er, not that Myron would know that from personal experience). But that was what Myron found in the large stack of mail. Plain brown packagin
g. Typed address label with the word Personal across the bottom. No return address. Postmarked New York City.
Myron slit open the brown paper package, shook it, and watched a floppy disk drop to his desktop.
Hello.
Myron picked it up, turned it over, turned it back. No label on it. No writing. Just a plain black square with the metal across the top. Myron studied it for a moment, shrugged, popped it into his computer, hit some keys. He was about to hit Windows Explorer and see what kind of file it was when something started to happen. Myron sat back and frowned. He hoped that the diskette didn’t contain a computer virus of some sort. He should, after all, know better than to just stick a strange diskette into his computer. He didn’t know where it had been, what sleazy computer drive it had been inserted into before, if it wore a condom or had a blood test. Nothing. His poor computer. Just “Wham, bam, thank you, RAM.”
Groan.
The screen went black.
Myron tugged his ear. His finger stretched forward to strike the escape button—the escape button being the last refuge of a desperate computerphobe—when an image appeared on the screen. Myron froze.
It was a girl.
She had long, semistringy hair with two flips in front and an awkward smile. He guessed her age at around sixteen, braces fresh off, the eyes looking to the side, the backdrop a fading swirl of school-portrait rainbow. Yep, the picture belonged in a frame on Mommy and Daddy’s mantel or a suburban high school yearbook circa 1985, the kind of thing with a life-summing write-up underneath it, a life-defining quote from James Taylor or Bruce Springsteen followed by So-So enjoyed being secretary/treasurer of the Key Club, her fondest memories including hanging out with Jenny and Sharon T at the Big W, popcorn in Mrs. Kennilworth’s class, band practice behind the parking lot, that kind of apple-pie stuff. Typical. Kind of an obituary to adolescence.
Myron knew the girl.
Or at least he’d seen her before. He couldn’t put his finger on where or when or if he’d seen her in person or in a photograph or what. But there was no doubt. He stared hard, hoping to conjure up a name or even a fleeting memory. Nothing. He kept staring. And that was when it happened.