by Harlan Coben
FJ leaned forward again. His smile was so creepy that his teeth seemed to wiggle. "How far are you willing to go to save Esperanza?" he whispered.
"You know how far."
"The ends of the earth?"
"What are you getting at, FJ?"
"You're right, of course. I did learn about Esperanza and Bonnie. And I saw an opening. So I called Clu at the apartment in Fort Lee. But he wasn't there. I left a rather intriguing message on his machine. Something to the effect of 'I know who your wife is sleeping with.' He called me back on my private line within the hour."
"When was this?"
"What ... three days before his death?"
"What did he say?"
"His reaction was the obvious. But the what is not nearly as important as the where."
"The where?"
"I have caller ID on my private line." FJ sat back. "Clu was out of town when he returned my call."
"Where?"
FJ took his time. He picked up the coffee, took a long sip, made an aaah noise as if he were filming a 7-Up commercial, put the cup back down. He looked at Myron. Then he shook his head. "Not so fast."
Myron waited.
"My specialty, as you've now seen, is gathering information. Information is power. It's currency. It's cash. I just don't give away cash."
"How much, FJ?"
"Not money, Myron. I don't want your money. I could buy you ten times over; we both know that."
"So what do you want?"
He took another long sip. Myron wanted so very much to reach across the table and throttle him. "Sure you don't want anything to drink?"
"Cut the crap, FJ."
"Temper, temper."
Myron made two fists and hid them under the table. He willed himself to stay calm. "What do you want, FJ?"
"You are familiar, are you not, with Dean Pashaian and Larry Vitale."
"They're two of my clients."
"Correction. They are seriously considering leaving MB SportsReps and joining TruPro. They are on the fence as we speak. So here is my deal. You stop pursuing them. You don't call them and hand them crap about TruPro being run by gangsters. You promise to do that"--he showed Myron the piece of paper he'd been writing on in the corner--"I give you the number Clu called from."
"Your agency will destroy their careers. It always does."
FJ smiled again. "I can guarantee you, Myron, that no one on my staff will have a lesbian affair with their wives."
"No deal."
"Good-bye then." FJ stood.
"Wait."
"Your promise or I walk."
"Let's talk about this," Myron said. "We can come up with something."
"Good-bye."
FJ started for the door.
"Okay," Myron said.
FJ put a hand to his ear. "I missed that."
Selling out two clients. What would he stoop to next, running political campaigns? "You have a deal. I won't talk to them."
FJ spread his hands. "You really are a master negotiator, Myron. I'm in awe of your skills."
"Where did he call from, FJ?"
"Here's the phone number." He handed Myron the piece of paper. Myron read it and sprinted back to the car.
CHAPTER
32
Myron was on the cell phone before he reached Win. He pressed in the number and heard three rings.
"Hamlet Motel," a man said.
"Where are you located?"
"In Wilston. On Route Nine off Ninety-one."
Myron thanked the man and hung up. Win looked at him. Myron dialed Bonnie's number. Bonnie's mother answered. Myron identified himself and asked to speak with Bonnie.
"She was very upset after you left yesterday," Bonnie's mother said.
"I'm sorry about that."
"Why do you want to talk to her?"
"Please. It's very important."
"She's in mourning. You realize that. Their marriage may have been in trouble--"
"I understand that, Mrs. Cohen. Please let me speak to her."
A deep sigh, but two minutes later Bonnie came on. "What is it, Myron?"
"What does the Hamlet Motel in Wilston, Massachusetts, mean to you?"
Myron thought he heard a short intake of air. "Nothing."
"You and Clu lived there, didn't you?"
"Not at the motel."
"I mean, in Wilston. When Clu was playing for the Bisons in the minor leagues."
"You know we did."
"And Billy Lee Palms. He lived there too. At the same time."
"Not Wilston. I think he was in Deerfield. It's the neighboring town."
"So what was Clu doing staying at the Hamlet Motel three days before he died?"
Silence.
"Bonnie?"
"I don't have the slightest idea."
"Think. Why would Clu need to go up there?"
"I don't know. Maybe he was visiting an old friend."
"What old friend?"
"Myron, you're not listening. I don't know. I haven't been up there in almost ten years. But we lived there for eight months. Maybe he made a friend. Maybe he went up there to fish or take a vacation or get away from it all. I don't know."
Myron gripped the phone. "You're lying to me, Bonnie."
Silence.
"Please," he said. "I'm just trying to help Esperanza."
"Let me ask you something, Myron."
"What?"
"You keep digging and digging, right? I asked you not to. Esperanza asked you not to. Hester Crimstein asked you not to. But you keep digging."
"Is there a question in there?"
"It's coming now: Has all your digging helped? Has all your digging made Esperanza look more guilty or less?"
Myron hesitated. But it didn't matter. Bonnie hung up before he had the chance to answer. Myron put the phone back in his lap. He looked at Win.
"I'll take Awful Songs for two hundred, Alex," Win said.
"What?"
"Answer: Barry Manilow and Eastern Standard."
Myron almost smiled. "What is 'Time in New England,' Alex?"
"Correct answer." Win shook his head. "Sometimes when our minds are that in tune--"
"Yeah," Myron said. "It's scary."
"Shall we?"
Myron thought about it. "I don't think we have a choice."
"Call Terese first."
Myron nodded, started dialing. "You know how to get there?"
"Yes."
"It'll probably take three hours."
Win hit the accelerator. No easy trick in midtown Manhattan. "Try two."
CHAPTER
33
Wilston is in western Massachusetts, about an hour shy of the New Hampshire and Vermont borders. You could still see remnants of the old days, the oft artistically rendered New England town with V-shaped brick walks, colonial clapboard homes, the historical society bronze signs welded onto the front of every other building, the white-steepled chapel in the center of the town--the whole scene screaming for the lush leaves of autumn or a major snowstorm. But like everywhere else in the US of A, the superstore boom was playing havoc with the historical. The roads between these postcard villages had widened over the years, as though guilty of gluttony, feeding off the warehouse-size stores that now lined them. The stores sucked out the character and the quaintness and left in their wake a universal blandness that plagued the byroads and highways of America. Maine to Minnesota, North Carolina to Nevada--there was little texture and individuality left. It was about Home Depot and Office Max and the price clubs.
On the other hand, whining about the changes progress imposes upon us and longing for the good ol' days make for easy pickings. Harder to answer the question of why, if these changes are so bad, do every place and everybody so quickly and warmly welcome them.
Wilston had the classic New England Christmas card--conservative facade, but it was a college town, the college in question being Wilston College, and was thus liberal--liberal in the way only a college town ca
n be, liberal in the way only the young can be, liberal in the way only the isolated and protected and rose-tinted can be. But that was okay. In fact, that was how it should be.
But even Wilston was changing. Yes, the old signs of liberalism were there: the tofu sweet shop, the migrant-friendly coffeehouse, the lesbian bookstore, the shop with the black lightbulbs and the pot paraphernalia, the clothing store that sold only ponchos. But the franchises were sneaking in quietly, slowly eating away at the gray stone corners: Dunkin' Donuts, Angelo's Sub Shop, Baskin-Robbins, Seattle Coffee.
Myron started softly singing "Time in New England."
Win looked at him. "You realize, of course, that I'm well armed."
"Hey, you're the one who got the song stuck in my head."
They sped through town--with Win driving, you only sped--and arrived at the Hamlet Motel, a quasi-dump on Route 9 hovering on the town's edge. A sign advertised FREE HBO! and the ice machine was so large you could see it from your average space station. Myron checked his watch. Less than two hours to get here. Win parked the Jag.
"I don't get it," Myron said. "Why would Clu stay here?"
"Free HBO?"
"More likely because he could pay in cash. That's why we didn't see anything about this on his credit cards. But why wouldn't he want anyone to know he was here?"
"Such good questions," Win said. "Perhaps you should go inside and see if you can find some of the answers."
They both stepped out of the car. Win noticed a restaurant next door. "I'll try there," he said. "You take the desk clerk."
Myron nodded. The desk clerk, definitely a college kid on break, sat behind the counter and stared straight ahead at nothing. He could have looked more bored, but only if a qualified physician induced a coma. Myron took a glance around and spotted the computer terminal. This was a good thing.
"Hello?"
The kid's eyes slid toward Myron. "Yeah?"
"This computer. It keeps track of outgoing calls, right? Even local ones."
The kid's eyes narrowed. "Who wants to know?"
"I need to see records for all outgoing guest calls from the tenth and eleventh of this month."
That got the kid to his feet. "You a cop? Let me see your badge."
"I'm not a cop."
"Then--"
"I'll pay you five hundred dollars for the information." No sense in playing around here, Myron thought. "No one will ever know."
The kid hesitated but not for long. "Hell, even if I get canned, that's more money than I clear in a month. What dates did you need?"
Myron told him. The kid punched a few buttons. The printer started cranking. It all fitted on one sheet. Myron handed the kid the money. The kid handed him the sheet. Myron quickly scanned the list.
Instant bingo.
He spotted the long-distance call to FJ's office. It had come from room 117. Myron looked for other calls made from the same room. Clu had called his answering machine at home twice. Okay, good, fine. Now how about something more local? No reason to come up here just to make long-distance calls.
Bingo again.
Room 117. The first call on the list. A local number. Myron's heart started pumping, his breath growing shallow. He was close now. So close. He walked outside. The driveway was gravel. He kicked it around a bit. He took out his phone and was about to dial the number. No. That might be a mistake. He should learn all he could first. If he called, he might tip someone off. Of course, he didn't know whom he'd tip off or how they'd be tipped off or what they'd be tipped off about. But he didn't want to screw up now. He had the phone number. Big Cyndi at the office would have a reverse directory. These were easy to come by now. Any software store sold CD-ROMs that had the entire country's phone books on them or you could visit www.infospace.com on the Web. You plug in a number, it tells you who the number belongs to and where they live. More progress.
He called Big Cyndi.
"I was just about to call you, Mr. Bolitar."
"Oh?"
"I have Hester Crimstein on the line. She says that she urgently needs to talk to you."
"Okay, put her through in a sec. Big Cyndi?"
"Yes."
"About what you said yesterday. About people staring. I'm sorry if--"
"No pity, Mr. Bolitar. Remember?"
"Yes."
"Please don't change a thing, okay?"
"Okay."
"I mean it."
"Put Hester Crimstein through," he said. "And while I'm on the line, do you know where Esperanza keeps the reverse phone directory CDs?"
"Yes."
"I want you to look up a number for me." He read it off to her. She repeated it. Then she put Hester Crimstein through.
"Where are you?" the attorney barked at him.
"Why do you care?"
Hester was not pleased. "God damn it, Myron, stop acting like a child. Where are you?"
"None of your business."
"You're not helping."
"What do you want, Hester?"
"You're on a cell phone, right?"
"Right."
"Then we don't know if the line is safe," she said. "We have to meet right away. I'll be in my office."
"No can do."
"Look, do you want to help Esperanza or not?"
"You know the answer to that."
"Then get your ass in here, pronto," Hester said. "We got a problem, and I think you can help."
"What kind of problem?"
"Not on the phone. I'll be waiting for you."
"It'll take me some time," Myron said.
Silence.
"Why will it take some time, Myron?"
"It just will."
"It's almost noon," she said. "When can I expect you?"
"Not until at least six."
"That's too late."
"Sorry."
She sighed. "Myron, get here now. Esperanza wants to see you."
Myron's heart did a little flip. "I thought she was in jail."
"I just got her released. It's hush-hush. Get your ass over here, Myron. Get over here now."
Myron and Win stood in the Hamlet Motel parking lot.
"What do you make of it?" Win asked.
"I don't like it," Myron said.
"How so?"
"Why is Hester Crimstein so desperate to see me all of a sudden? She's been trying to get rid of me from the moment I returned. Now I'm the answer to a problem?"
"It is bizarre," Win agreed.
"And not only that, I don't like this whole hush-hush release for Esperanza."
"It happens."
"Sure, it happens. But if it did, why hasn't Esperanza called me? Why is Hester making the call for her?"
"Why indeed?"
Myron thought about it. "Do you think she's involved in all this?"
"I cannot imagine how," Win said. Then: "Except that she may have spoken to Bonnie Haid."
"So?"
"So then she may have deduced that we are in Wilston."
"And now she urgently wants us to return," Myron said.
"Yes."
"So she's trying to get us out of Wilston."
"It is a possibility," Win said.
"So what is she afraid we'll find?"
Win shrugged. "She's Esperanza's advocate."
"So something detrimental to Esperanza."
"Logical," Win said.
A couple in their eighties stumbled out of one of the motel rooms. The old man had his arm around the woman's shoulder. They both looked postsex. At noon. Nice to see. Myron and Win watched them in silence.
"I pushed too hard last time," Myron said.
Win did not reply.
"You warned me. You told me I didn't keep my eye on the prize. But I didn't listen."
Win still said nothing.
"Am I doing the same now?"
"You are not good at letting things go," Win said.
"That's not an answer."
Win frowned. "I'm not some holy wise man on the mount," he
said. "I don't have all the answers."
"I want to know what you think."
Win squinted, though the sun was pretty much gone by now. "Last time, you lost sight of your goal," he said. "Do you know what your goal is this time?"
Myron thought about it. "Freeing Esperanza," he said. "And finding the truth."
Win smiled. "And if those two are mutually contradictory?"
"Then I bury the truth."
Win nodded. "You seem to have a good handle on the goal."
"Should I let it go anyway?" Myron asked.
Win looked at him. "There's one other complication."
"What's that?"
"Lucy Mayor."
"I'm not actively looking for her. I'd love to find her, but I don't expect to."
"Still," Win said, "she is your personal connection into all this."
Myron shook his head.
"The diskette came to you, Myron. You can't run away from that. You're not built that way. Somehow you and this missing girl are linked."
Silence.
Myron checked the address and name Big Cyndi had given him. The phone was listed to a Barbara Cromwell at 12 Claremont Road. The name meant nothing to him. "There's a rental car place down the street," Myron said. "You go back. Talk to Hester Crimstein. See what you can learn."
"And you?"
"I'm going to check out Barbara Cromwell of Twelve Claremont Road."
"Sounds like a plan," Win said.
"A good one?"
"I didn't say that."
CHAPTER
34
Massachusetts, like Myron's home state of New Jersey, can quickly turn from big city to full-fledged town to hicksville. That was the case here. Twelve Claremont Road--why the numbers reached twelve when the whole road had only three buildings on it Myron could not say--was an old farmhouse. At least it looked old. The color, probably once a deep red, had faded to a barely visible, watery pastel. The top of the structure curled forward as though suffering from osteoporosis. The front roof overhang had split down the middle, the right lip dipping forward like the mouth of a stroke victim. There were loose boards and major cracks and the grass was tall enough to go on the adult rides at a Six Flags.
He stopped in front of Barbara Cromwell's house and debated his approach. He hit the redial button and Big Cyndi answered.
"Got anything yet?"
"Not very much, Mr. Bolitar. Barbara Cromwell is thirty-one years old. She was divorced four years ago from a Lawrence Cromwell."
"Children?"
"That's all I have right now, Mr. Bolitar. I'm terribly sorry."
He thanked her and said to keep trying. He looked back at the house. There was a dull, steady thudding in his chest. Thirty-one years old. He reached into his pocket and took out the computer rendering of the aged Lucy Mayor. He stared at it. How old would Lucy be if she were still alive? Twenty-nine, maybe thirty. Close in age, but who cares? He shook the thought away, but it didn't go easy.