by Harlan Coben
"What?"
"You joined the team late. Have you worked out what share of the playoff money you'll be getting?"
"Don't worry. It's taken care of."
Win nodded. His eyes remained on the road. The speedometer hovered around eighty, a swiftness Route 3 was not built to bear. Win swerved lanes constantly. Myron had gotten somewhat used to Win's driving over the years, but he still kept his eyes averted from the front windshield.
"Are you staying for the game?" Myron asked.
"That depends."
"On?"
"On if this Thumper will be there," Win replied. "You said she was seeking employment. Perhaps I can interrogate her at the same time."
"What will you say?"
"That," Win said, "is a dilemma we both face. If you ask her about Downing's call, you blow your cover. If I ask her, she'll want to know the whys and wherefores. Either way, unless this Thumper is brain dead, she will be suspicious. Moreover, if she knows anything significant, she will most probably lie."
"So what do you suggest?"
Win tilted his head as though in deep thought. "Perhaps I'll bed her," he concluded. "Then I can make her talk while lost in the throes of passion."
"She only sleeps with men on the Giants or the Dragons," Myron said. Then he frowned and added, "'Bed her'?"
Win shrugged. "Just suggesting an alternative to whipping her with a rubber hose," he said. "Unless, of course, she's into that kind of thing."
"Any other suggestions?"
"I'm working on it." They took the exit to the Meadowlands in silence. On the CD player, Abigail Adams was telling John Adams that women in Massachusetts needed pins. Win hummed along with the music for a moment. Then he spoke. "As far as Jessica goes"--he took one hand off the wheel and sort of waved it--"I'm not one to ask about such things."
"I know."
"You were miserable the first time she left," he added. "I don't know why you would risk going through that again."
Myron looked at him. "You really don't, do you?"
Win said nothing.
"That's sad, Win."
"Yes," he replied. "So very tragic."
"I'm serious," Myron said.
Win put a dramatic forearm to his brow. "Oh, what woe that I may never experience the depths of misery you plunged to when Jessica left. Pity this child."
"You know there's more to it than that."
Win put down the arm, shook his head. "No, my friend, there is not. What was real was your pain. The rest of what you felt is the stuff of cruel delusion."
"You really feel that way?"
"Yes."
"About all relationships?"
Win shook his head. "I never said that."
"How about our friendship? Is that a cruel delusion too?"
"This isn't about us," Win said.
"I'm just trying to understand--"
"There is nothing to understand," Win interrupted. "Do what you believe is best. As I said, I am not the one with which to have this discussion."
Silence. The arena loomed in front of them. For years, it had been called the Brendan Byrne Arena, named for the unpopular governor who had been in office when the complex had been built. Recently, however, the sports authority needed to raise funds, so the name had been changed to the Continental Airlines Arena--not exactly musical, but then again the old name didn't exactly make you want to break out in song either. Brendan Byrne and his past lackeys cried foul over this affront. What a disgrace, they shouted with grave indignation. This was Governor Byrne's legacy. How could they sell him out like this? But Myron didn't have a problem with the name change. Which would you rather do--tax the people to collect twenty-seven million dollars or bruise a politician's ego? No contest when you thought about it.
Myron glanced over at Win. Win's eyes were on the road, his fingers tightly wrapped around the wheel. Myron's mind flashed back to the morning after Jessica left five years ago. He'd been moping around his house alone when Win knocked on the door. Myron opened it.
Without preamble, Win said, "Come on. I'll hire you a girl. You need to get laid."
Myron shook his head.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes," Myron said.
"Do me a favor then."
"What?"
"Don't go out and get drunk," Win said. "That would be such a cliche."
"And what, getting laid isn't?"
Win pursed his lips together. "But at least it's a good cliche."
Then Win turned around and left. That had been it. They had never broached the subject of his relationship with Jessica again. It'd been a mistake to have brought it up now. Myron should have known better.
There were reasons Win was the way he was. Myron looked now at his friend and truly did pity him. From Win's vantage point, his life had been one long lesson in how to take care of himself. The results weren't always pretty, but they were usually effective. Win had not severed off his feelings or anything that dramatic, nor was he as robotic as he sometimes wanted people to think. But Win had learned not to trust or depend on others very much. There were not many people he cared about, but those he did were cherished with an intensity few ever experienced. The rest of the world meant very little to him.
"I'll get you a seat near Thumper's," Myron said softly.
Win nodded, pulled into a parking spot. Myron gave his name to Clip's secretary and they were shown into his office. Calvin Johnson was already there, standing to Clip's right. Clip was behind his desk. He looked older today. His cheeks were grayer; and the skin around his jowls seemed looser. When he stood, it seemed to take more effort.
Clip eyed Win for a moment. "This must be Mr. Lockwood."
He even knew about Win--again well prepared. "Yes," Myron said.
"He's helping us with our problem?"
"Yes."
Introductions were made. Hands were shaken. Rear ends were seated. As was his custom in such situations, Win remained silent. His eyes slid from one side of the room to the other, taking in everything. He liked to study people for a while before speaking to them, especially in their home environment.
"So," Clip began, forcing up a tired smile, "what have we got?"
"When you first approached me," Myron began, "you were afraid I'd uncover something unsavory. I'd like to know what that something was."
Clip tried to look amused. "Nothing personal, Myron," he began with a light chuckle, "but if I knew that, I wouldn't have needed to hire you."
Myron shook his head. "Not good enough."
"What?"
"Greg has disappeared before."
"So?"
"So you never suspected anything unsavory then," Myron said. "Why now?"
"I told you. I have the owners' vote coming up."
"That's your only concern?"
"Of course not," Clip said. "I'm worried about Greg too."
"But you never hired anyone to find him before. What are you afraid of?"
Clip shrugged. "Probably nothing. I'm just covering all my bases. Why? What have you found out?"
Myron shook his head. "You never cover all your bases, Clip. You're a risk-taker. Always were. I've seen you trade popular, proven veterans for untested draft picks. I've seen you risk going for the steal rather than hoping your defense holds. You've never been afraid to lean over that edge, to risk it all."
Clip smiled thinly. "The problem with that strategy," he said, "is that you lose too. Sometimes you lose a lot."
"What did you lose this time?" Myron asked.
"Nothing yet," he said. "But if Greg doesn't come back, it might cost my team a championship ring."
"That's not what I meant. There's something more going on."
"I'm sorry," Clip said, spreading his hands. "I really don't know what you're talking about. I hired you because it was the logical thing to do. Greg vanished. Now true, he's vanished before, but never this late in the season and never when we were so close to a championship. This simply isn't like him."
> Myron glanced over at Win. Win appeared to be bored.
"Do you know a woman named Liz Gorman?" Myron tried.
In the corner of his eye, Myron saw Calvin sit up a bit.
"No," Clip said. "Should I?"
"How about a woman named Carla or Sally?"
"What? You mean have I ever known a woman named--"
"Recently. Or any woman involved in some way with Greg Downing."
Clip shook his head. "Calvin?" Calvin also shook his head, but the shake was a little too lingering. "Why do you ask?" Clip demanded.
"Because that's whom Greg was with the night he vanished," Myron said.
Clip sat up, his words coming scatter-gun. "Have you located her? Where is she now? Maybe they're together."
Myron looked at Win again. This time, Win nodded ever so slightly. He'd caught it too. "She's dead," Myron said.
Any traces of color on Clip's face drained away. Calvin remained silent, but he crossed his legs. A big move for ol' Frosty. "Dead?"
"Murdered, to be more specific."
"Oh my God..." Clip's eyes leapt from one face to another, as though seeking some sort of answer or solace there. He found none.
"Are you sure you don't know the names Liz Gorman, Carla, or Sally?" Myron asked.
Clip opened his mouth, closed it. No sound came out. He tried again. "Murdered?"
"Yes."
"And she was with Greg?"
"He's the last known person to see her alive. His fingerprints are at the murder scene."
"The murder scene?" His voice trembled, his eyes dazed. "My God, the blood you found in the basement," he said. "The body was at Greg's house?"
"No. She was killed in her apartment in New York."
Clip looked puzzled. "But I thought you found blood in Greg's basement. In the playroom."
"Yes. But that blood is gone now."
"Gone?" Clip sounded both confused and annoyed. "What do you mean, gone?"
"I mean somebody cleaned it up." He looked straight at Clip. "I mean somebody entered Greg's house in the past two days and tried to snuff out an unsavory scandal."
Clip startled up at that one. Life came back into the eyes. "You think it was me?"
"You were the only one I told about the blood. You wanted to keep the discovery secret."
"I left that up to you," Clip countered. "I said I thought it was the wrong move, but I'd respect your decision. Of course, I would want to avoid a scandal. Who wouldn't? But I would never do something like that. You know me better than that, Myron."
"Clip," Myron said, "I have the dead woman's phone records. She called you four days before the murder."
"What do you mean she called me?"
"Your office number is in the phone records."
He started to say something, stopped, started again. "Well, maybe she called here, but that doesn't mean she spoke to me." His tone was far from convincing. "Maybe she spoke to my secretary."
Win cleared his throat. Then he spoke for the first time since entering the office. "Mr. Arnstein?" he said.
"Yes."
"With all due respect, sir," Win continued, "your lies are growing tiresome."
Clip's mouth dropped. He was used to underlings kissing his rear, not to being called a liar. "What?"
"Myron has a great deal of respect for you," Win said. "That's admirable. People do not earn Myron's respect easily. But you know the dead woman. You talked to her on the phone. We have proof."
Clip's eyes narrowed. "What kind of proof?"
"The phone records, for one--"
"--but I just told you--"
"And your own words, for another," Win finished.
He slowed down, his expression wary. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Win steepled his fingers. "Earlier in this conversation, Myron asked you if you knew Liz Gorman or a woman named Carla or Sally. Do you recall that?"
"Yes. I told him no."
"Correct. And then he told you--and I quote his exact words because they are relevant--'that's whom Greg was with the night he vanished.' Awkward phrasing, I admit, but with a purpose. Do you recall your next two queries, Mr. Arnstein?"
Clip looked lost. "No."
"They were--and again I quote exact words--'Have you located her yet? Where is she now?'" Win stopped.
"Yeah, so?"
"You said, her. Then you said, she. Yet Myron asked you if you knew Liz Gorman or Carla or Sally. From his wording, wouldn't it be natural to assume he was referring to three different women? A they rather than a she or her? But you, Mr. Arnstein, immediately concluded that these three names belonged to one woman. Don't you find that odd?"
"What?" But Clip's anger was all bluster now. "You call that evidence?"
Win leaned forward. "Myron is being well compensated for his efforts here. For that reason, I would normally recommend that he continue working for you. I would advise him to mind his own business and take your money. If you wish to muck up your own investigation, who are we to interfere? Not that Myron would listen. He is a nosy man. Worse, he has this warped sense of doing right, even when it is not required."
Win stopped, took a breath, leaned back again. Instead of steepling his fingers, he gently bounced the tips against one another. All eyes were on him. "The problem is," he continued, "a woman has been murdered. On top of that, someone has tampered with a crime scene. Someone has also vanished and may very well be a murderer or another victim. In other words, it is now far too dangerous to remain in such a situation with blinders on. The potential costs outweigh the possible benefits. As a businessman, Mr. Arnstein, you should understand that."
Clip remained silent.
"So let us get to it, shall we?" Win spread his hands, then resteepled. "We know the murder victim spoke to you. Either tell us what she said, or we shake hands and part company."
"She spoke to me first." It was Calvin. He shifted in his seat. He avoided Clip's eyes, but there was no need. Clip did not seem upset by the outburst. He sank farther down in his chair, a balloon continuing to deflate. "She used the name Carla," Calvin continued.
With a small nod, Win settled back into his chair. He had done his part. The reins were back in Myron's hands.
"What did she say?" Myron asked.
"She said she had some kind of dirt on Greg. She said she could destroy the franchise."
"What was the dirt?"
Clip came back into the fold. "We never found out," he chimed in. Clip hesitated a moment--to buy time or gather himself, Myron wasn't sure which. "I didn't mean to lie to you, Myron. I'm sorry. I was just trying to protect Greg."
"You spoke to her too?" Myron asked.
Clip nodded. "Calvin came to me after she called. The next time she called we both spoke to her. She said she wanted money in exchange for silence."
"How much?"
"Twenty thousand dollars. We were supposed to meet on Monday night."
"Where?"
"I don't know," Clip said. "She was going to tell us the locale on Monday morning, but she never called."
Probably because she was dead, Myron thought. Dead people rarely made phone calls. "And she never told you her big secret?"
Clip and Calvin looked a question at each other. Calvin nodded. Then Clip turned back to Myron. "She didn't have to," Clip said with resignation. "We already knew."
"Knew what?"
"Greg gambled. He owed a lot of money to some very bad people."
"You already knew about his gambling?"
"Yes," Clip said.
"How?"
"Greg told me."
"When?"
"About a month ago," Clip said. "He wanted help. I...I've always been something of a father figure to him. I care about him. I care about him very much." He looked up at Myron, his eyes raw with pain. "I care about you too, Myron. That's what makes this so hard."
"Makes what so hard?"
But he shook it off. "I wanted to help him. I convinced him to start seeing somebody. A professi
onal."
"Did he listen?"
"Greg started with the doctor just last week. A psychiatrist who specializes in gambling addictions. We also talked about him signing an endorsement deal," he added. "To pay off the gambling debt."
"Did Marty Felder know about the gambling?" Myron asked.
"I can't say for certain," Clip said. "The doctor told me about the amazing lengths gamblers go to keep their addiction a secret. But Marty Felder handled most of Greg's money. If he didn't know, I'd be surprised."
Behind Clip's head was a poster of this year's team. Myron looked at it a moment. The co-captains, TC and Greg, were kneeling in front. Greg smiled widely. TC sneered in typical fashion. "So even when you first hired me," Myron said, "you suspected Greg's disappearance had something to do with his gambling."
"No." Then thinking further, Clip added, "At least not in the way you think. I never thought Greg's bookie would harm him. I figured the Forte deal bought him time."
"Then in what way?"
"I worried about his sanity." Clip motioned to Greg's image on the poster behind him. "Greg is not the most balanced person to begin with, but I wondered how much the pressure from the gambling debt weighed on his already questionable sanity. He loved his image, you know, strange as that might sound. He loved being a fan favorite more than the money. But if his fans learned the truth, who knows how they'd react? So I wondered if all of this pressure was too much for him. If maybe he had snapped."
"And now that a woman is dead," Myron asked, "what do you think?"
Clip shook his head vehemently. "I know Greg better than anyone. When he feels trapped, he runs away. He wouldn't kill anyone. I believe that with all my heart. He is not a violent man. Greg learned the dangers of violence a long time ago."
No one spoke for several moments. Myron and Win both waited for Clip to elaborate. When he didn't, Win said, "Mr. Arnstein, do you have anything else to tell us?"
"No. That's all."
Win rose without another word or gesture and walked out of the office. Myron sort of shrugged and started after him.
"Myron?"
He turned back to Clip. The old man was standing now. His eyes looked moist.
"Have a good game tonight," he said softly. "It's only a game, after all. Remember that."
Myron nodded, discomfited yet again by Clip's demeanor. He jogged ahead and caught up with Win.
"Do you have my ticket?" Win asked.
Myron handed it to him.
"Describe this Thumper person please."
Myron did. When they reached the elevator, Win said, "Your Mr. Arnstein is still not telling us the truth."
"Anything concrete or just a hunch?"