by Harlan Coben
Chapter 16
Thumper was gone.
"She came for you," TC said. "When it didn't happen she split. She got work tomorrow morning."
Myron checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. Long day. Time for a little shut-eye. He made his good nights and headed for his car. Audrey was leaning against the hood, her arms folded across her chest, her ankles crossed. Pure casual.
"You going back to Jessica's?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Mind giving me a lift?"
"Hop in."
Audrey gave him the same smile he had seen back at practice. He had thought at the time she had been impressed with his play; now it was clearer that the amusement was more akin to ridicule than appreciation. He unlocked the doors in silence. She took off her blue blazer and laid it on the backseat; he did likewise. She wore a forest green turtleneck underneath it. She adjusted the neck part, folding it back an extra time. She took off the pearls and jammed them in the front pocket of her jeans. Myron started the car.
"I'm starting to put this thing together," Audrey said.
Myron did not like the way she said it. Too much authority in her voice. Audrey hadn't needed a lift home, he was sure of that. She wanted to talk to him alone. That worried him. He gave her the good-natured smile and said, "This doesn't have anything to do with my ass, does it?"
"What?"
"Jessica told me you two were discussing my ass."
She laughed. "Well, I hate to admit this," she said, "but it did look pretty scrumptious."
Myron tried not to look too pleased. "So you doing a story on it?"
"On your ass?"
"Yes."
"Of course," she said. "I was thinking we could give it a big spread."
Myron groaned.
"You're trying to change the subject," she said.
"There was a subject?"
"I was telling you how I was putting this thing together."
"That's a subject?"
He glanced at her. She was sitting with her left knee on the seat and her left ankle tucked under her so her entire body could face him. Audrey had a wide face and a few freckles, though he bet she had a lot more when she was a kid. Remember that tomboy who was kinda cute in your sixth grade class? Here she was all grown up. No beauty certainly. Not in the classic sense. But there was an earthy appeal to Audrey that made you want to reach out and hug her and roll in leaves on a crisp autumn day.
"It shouldn't have taken me so long to figure out," she continued. "It's pretty obvious in hindsight."
"Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?"
"No," she replied. "You're supposed to continue to play dumb for a few more minutes."
"My specialty."
"Good, then just drive and listen." Her hands were in constant gesturing motion, peaking and valleying along with her voice. "See, I was waylaid by the whole poetic irony stuff. That's what I concentrated on. But your backgrounds as rivals is secondary in all this. It's not nearly as important as, say, your past relationship with Emily."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You didn't play AAU. You didn't play in any summer league. You play in pickup games at the Y maybe once a week. Your major workout revolves around Master Kwon's place with Win--and they don't have a basketball court."
"Is there a point?"
Her hands spread in disbelief. "You haven't been honing your skills. You haven't played anyplace where Clip or Calvin or Donny would have seen you play. So why would the Dragons sign you? It doesn't make sense. Was the move strictly P.R.? Unlikely. The positive bump will be minimum, and if you fail--which, let's face it, is very likely--that good publicity will probably be nullified. Ticket sales are good. The team is doing well. They don't need a publicity stunt right now. So there has to be another reason." She stopped and readjusted herself on the car seat. "Enter the timing."
"The timing?"
"Yes," she said. "Why now? Why sign you so late in the season? The answer is obvious really. There is only one thing about the timing that stands out."
"And that is?"
"Downing's sudden disappearance."
"He didn't disappear," Myron corrected. "He's injured. That's your precious timing. Greg got hurt. A spot opened up. I filled it."
Audrey smiled and shook her head. "Still want to play dumb, huh? Fine, go ahead. You're right. Downing is supposed to be injured and in seclusion. Now I'm good, Myron, and for the life of me I can't find this secluded spot of his. I've called in all my best contacts and I can't get anything. Don't you find that a bit odd?"
Myron shrugged.
"Maybe," she went on, "if Downing really craved seclusion to fix his injured ankle--an injury which doesn't show up on any game tape, by the way--he could find a way. But if all he's doing is working on an injury, why work so hard at it?"
"So pain in the asses like you don't bother him," Myron said.
Audrey almost laughed at that one. "Said with such conviction, Myron. It's almost like you believe it."
Myron said nothing.
"But let me just add a few more points and then you can stop playing dumb." Audrey counted them off on ringless, slightly callused fingers. "One, I know you used to work for the feds. That gives you some background in investigative work. Two, I know Downing has a habit of vanishing. He's done it before. Three, I know Clip's situation with the other owners. The big vote is coming up. Four, I know you visited Emily yesterday and I doubt you were there to restoke the flames."
"How did you know about that?" Myron asked.
She just smiled and put her hand down. "Add them up and there's only one conclusion: you are looking for Greg Downing. He's missing again. This time however the timing is much more critical; Clip's ownership vote and the playoffs are coming up. Your job is to find him."
"You got a hell of an imagination, Audrey."
"I do at that," she agreed, "but we both know I got this right so let's end playing dumb and cut to the heart of it: I want in."
"Want in." Myron shook his head. "You reporters and your lingo."
"I don't want to give you up," she continued. Her knee was still up on the seat. Her face was as bright and expectant as a school kid's waiting for the final bell in May. "I think we should team up. I can help. I got great sources. I can ask questions without worrying about blowing my cover. I know this team inside and out."
"And what exactly do you want for this help?"
"The full story. I'm the first reporter to know where he is, why he vanished, whatever. You promise to tell only me; I get the full exclusive."
They passed several sleazy motels and a potpourri of gas stations on Route 4. No-tell motels in New Jersey always gave themselves lofty names that belied their social station. Right now, for example, they were driving past the "Courtesy Inn." This fine establishment not only gave you courteous attention, but they gave it to you by the hour at a rate, according to the sign, of $19.82. Not twenty dollars, mind you, but $19.82--so priced, Myron guessed, because it was also the year they last changed sheets. The CHEAP BEER DEPOT, according to another sign, was the next building on Myron's right. Truth in advertising. Nice to see. The Courtesy Inn could learn a lesson from them.
"We both know I could report it now," she said. "It'd still be a pretty good scoop--reporting that Downing wasn't really injured and you're just here to find him. But I'd be willing to trade it in for a larger story."
Myron thought it over as he paid the toll. He glanced at her expectant face. She looked wild-eyed and wild-haired, kind of like the refugee women coming off the boat in Palestine in the movie Exodus. Ready to do battle to claim her homeland.
"You have to make me a promise," he said.
"What?"
"No matter what--no matter how incredible the story seems--you won't jump the gun. You won't report any of it until he's found."
Audrey nearly leapt from her seat. "What do you mean? How incredible?"
"Forget it, Audrey. Report whatever you want."
"All right, all right, you have a deal," she said quickly, hands raised in surrender. "You had to know saying something like that would pique my interest."
"You promise?"
"Yeah, yeah, I promise. So what's up?"
Myron shook his head. "You first," he said. "Why would Greg vanish?"
"Who knows?" she replied. "The man is a professional flake."
"What can you tell me about his divorce?"
"Just that it's been acrimonious as all hell."
"What have you heard?"
"They've been battling over the kids. They're both trying to prove the other is an unfit parent."
"Any details on how they're going about that?"
"No. It's been kept pretty hush-hush."
"Emily told me Greg had pulled some sleazy tricks," Myron said. "Do you know anything about that?"
Audrey chewed on her bottom lip for a few moments. "I heard a rumor--a very unsubstantiated rumor--that Greg hired a private eye to follow her."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"To film her maybe? Catch her with another man?"
She shrugged. "It's just a rumor. I don't know."
"You know the P.I.'s name, or who he works for?"
"Rumor, Myron. Rumor. A pro basketball player's divorce is hardly earth-shattering sports news. I didn't follow it that closely."
Myron made a mental note to check Greg's files for any payment to an investigation firm. "How was Greg's relationship with Marty Felder?"
"His agent? Good, I guess."
"Emily told me Felder had lost Greg millions."
She shrugged. "I've never heard anything about that."
The Washington bridge was fairly clear. They stayed to the right and took the Henry Hudson Parkway south. On their right, the Hudson River sparkled like a blanket of black sequins; on their left was a billboard with Tom Brokaw displaying his friendly yet firm smile. The caption under his picture read: "NBC News--Now More Than Ever." Very dramatic. What the hell did it mean?
"How about Greg's personal life?" Myron continued. "Girlfriends, that kind of thing?"
"You mean a steady?"
"Yes."
She ran her fingers through the thick, curling locks, then rubbed the back of her own neck. "There was this one girl. He kept it kind of secret, but I think they were living together for a while."
"What's her name?"
"He never told me. I saw them together at a restaurant once. A place called the Saddle River Inn. He didn't look happy to see me."
"What did she look like?"
"Nothing special from what I remember. She was a brunette. She was sitting so I couldn't tell you height or weight."
"Age?"
"I don't know. Thirty-ish, I guess."
"What makes you think they were living together?"
It seemed like an easy question, but she stopped and raised her eyes. "Leon let something slip once," she said.
"What did he say?"
"I don't remember anymore. Something about the girlfriend. Then he clammed up."
"How long ago was this?"
"Three, four months ago. Maybe more."
"Leon implied that he and Greg weren't really that close, that the media made a bigger deal out of it than it was."
Audrey nodded. "There is a tension there now, but I think it's just temporary."
"Why would there be a tension?"
"I don't know."
"How long have you noticed the tension?"
"Not long. Within the last two weeks maybe."
"Anything happen recently between Greg and Leon that you're aware of?"
"Nope. They've been friends for a long time. Friends have disagreements. I didn't take it too seriously."
Myron let loose a deep breath. Friends did indeed have disagreements, but the timing was curious. "Do you know Maggie Mason?"
"Thumper? Of course."
"Were she and Greg close?"
"If you mean did they screw--"
"No, I don't mean that."
"Well, they screwed. That I'm sure of. Despite what Thumper claims, not every guy on the team has gotten thumped. Some have turned her down. Not many, I admit. But some. She hit on you yet?"
"Just a few short hours ago."
She smiled. "I assume you joined the few, the proud, the Unthumped?"
"You assume correctly. But what about her relationship with Greg? Are they close?"
"They're pretty close, I'd say. But Thumper is closest to TC. Those two are very tight. It's not purely sexual either. Don't get me wrong. I'm sure TC and Maggie have had sex and probably still do on occasion. But they're like brother and sister too. It's weird."
"How do TC and Greg get along?" Myron asked.
"Not bad for team superstars. Not great either."
"Care to elaborate?"
She paused, gathered her thoughts. "For five years now, TC and Downing have shared the spotlight. I guess there is a mutual respect for each other on the court, but they don't talk off it. At least, not very much. I'm not saying they dislike each other, but playing basketball is a job like any other. You might be able to stand one another at work, but you don't want to see the person socially." She looked up. "Take the Seventy-ninth Street exit."
"You still live on Eighty-first?"
"Yes."
Myron took the exit and stopped at a traffic light on Riverside Drive.
"Now it's your turn, Myron. Why did they hire you?"
"It's like you said. They want me to find Greg."
"What have you learned so far?"
"Not much."
"So why were you so concerned I'd jump the gun and tell the story early?"
Myron hesitated.
"I promised not to say anything," she reminded him. "You have my word."
Fair is fair. He told her about the blood in Greg's basement. Her mouth dropped open. When he told her about finding Sally/Carla's body, he feared her heart might give out.
"My God," Audrey said when he finished. "You think Downing killed her."
"I didn't say that."
She fell back against the seat. Her head lolled against the headrest as though her neck could no longer support her. "Christ, what a story."
"And one you can't tell."
"Don't remind me." She sat back up again. "Do you think it'll leak soon?"
"It might."
"Why can't I be the recipient of that leak?"
Myron shook his head. "Not yet. We got a lid on this so far. You can't be the one to blow it off."
Her nod was grudging. "Do you think Downing killed her and ran?"
"There is no evidence of that." He pulled up to her building. "One last question," he said. "Was Greg involved in anything unsavory?"
"Like what?"
"Like is there any reason thugs would be after him?"
Again her excitement was palpable. The woman was like an electric current. "What do you mean? What thugs?"
"A couple of thugs were watching Greg's house."
Her face was positively glowing. "Thugs? You mean like professional gangsters?"
"Probably. I don't know for sure yet. Can you think of anything that would connect Greg to thugs or for that matter, the murder of this woman? Drugs maybe?"
Audrey shook her head immediately. "It can't be drugs."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Downing is a health nut, a real Granola head."
"So was River Phoenix."
She shook her head again. "Not drugs. I'm sure of it."
"Look into it," he said. "See what you can come up with."
"Sure," she said. "I'll look into everything we talked about."
"Try to be discreet."
"No problem," she said. She got out of the car. "Good night, Myron. Thanks for trusting me."
"Like I had a choice."
Audrey smiled and closed the car door. He watched her walk into the building. He put the car in drive and headed back to Seventy-ninth Street. He got back
on the parkway and continued south toward Jessica's. He was about to pick up his cellular phone and call her when the phone rang. The dashboard clock read 12:07 A.M. It had to be Jessica.
"Hello?"
It wasn't Jessica. "Right lane, three cars behind you. You're being followed."
It was Win.
Chapter 17
When did you get back?" Myron asked.
Win ignored the question. "The automobile following you is the same one we spotted at Greg's house. It is registered to a storage facility in Atlantic City. No known mob connections, but that would seem to me to be a safe bet."
"How long have you been following me?"
Again Win ignored him. "The two men who jumped you the other night. What did they look like?"
"Big," Myron said. "One was absolutely huge."
"Crew cut?"
"Yes."
"He's in the car following you. Passenger seat."
Myron didn't bother asking how Win knew about the thugs jumping him. He had a pretty good idea.
"They've been communicating on the telephone quite a bit," Win continued. "I believe they're coordinating with someone else. The phone activity picked up after your stop on Eighty-first Street. Hold on a second. I'll call you right back." He hung up. Myron checked his rearview mirror. The car was still there, right where Win said it was. A minute later the phone rang again.
"What?" Myron said.
"I just spoke to Jessica again."
"What do you mean, again?"
Win sighed impatiently. He hated explanations. "If they are planning to jump you tonight, it is logical to assume it will be by her loft."
"Right."
"Ergo, I called her ten minutes ago. I told her to keep an eye out for anything unusual."
"And?"
"An unmarked white van parked across the street," Win answered. "No one got out."
"So it appears they are going to strike," Myron said.
"Yes," Win said. "Should I preempt it?"
"How?"
"I could disable the car following you."
"No," Myron said. "Let them make their move and see where it leads."
"Pardon?"
"Just back me up. If they grab me, I may be able to get to the boss."
Win made a noise.
"What?" Myron asked.
"You complicate the simple," Win said. "Would it not be easier to simply take out the two in the car? We could then make them tell us about their boss."
"It's that 'make them' part I have trouble with."
"But of course," Win countered. "A thousand pardons for my lack of ethics. Clearly it is far wiser to risk your own life than to make a worthless goon feel momentary discomfort."