by Harlan Coben
Win's warning about Clip came back to him. You like him too much. You're not being objective. "How much was Clip supposed to pay?"
"Thirty thousand dollars."
"The police only found ten thousand in her apartment," Myron said. "And those bills were from the bank robbery."
Cole shrugged. "Either the old man didn't pay her or else the killer took the money." Then, thinking it through a little more he added, "Or maybe Clip Arnstein killed her. But he seems kind of old, don't you think?"
Myron didn't answer. "How long was he inside?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes."
"Who came by next?"
"Greg Downing. I remember he had a satchel. I figured it had the money in it. He was in and out fast--couldn't have been more than a minute. And he still had the satchel on him when he came out. That's when I started to worry."
"Greg could have killed her," Myron said. "It doesn't take long to hit someone with a baseball bat."
"But he wasn't carrying a bat," Cole said. "The satchel wasn't big enough for one. And Liz had a bat in her apartment. She hated guns, so she kept it for protection."
Myron knew that no bat had been found at Gorman's apartment. That meant the killer must have used Liz's. Could Greg have gone upstairs, entered her apartment, found the bat, killed her with it, ran out--all in such a short time?
It seemed doubtful.
"What about Emily?" Myron asked.
"She came in last," Cole said.
"How long was she there?"
"Five minutes. Something like that."
Time enough to gather the evidence to plant. "Did you see anybody else go in and out of the building?"
"Sure," Cole said. "Lot of students live there."
"But we can assume that Liz was already dead by the time Greg Downing arrived, right?"
"Right."
"So the question is, who do you remember going in between the time she got back from the Swiss Chalet and the time Greg arrived? Besides Clip Arnstein."
Cole thought about it and shrugged. "Mostly students, I guess. There was a real tall guy--"
"How tall?"
"I don't know. Very."
"I'm six-four. Taller than me?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"Was he black?"
"I don't know. I was across the street and the light wasn't too good. I wasn't watching that closely. He might have been black. But I don't think he's our man."
"Why do you say that?"
"I watched the building until the next morning. He never came back out. He must have lived there or at least stayed with someone overnight. I doubt the killer would've hung around like that."
Tough to argue, Myron thought. He tried to process what he was hearing in a cold, computerlike way, but the circuits were starting to overload. "Who else did you remember seeing? Anybody stand out?"
Cole thought again, his eyes wandering aimlessly. "There was one woman who went in not long before Greg got there. Now that I think of it, she left before he got there too."
"What did she look like?"
"I don't remember."
"Blond, brunette?"
Cole shook his head. "I only remember her because she wore a long coat. The students all wear windbreakers or sweatshirts or something like that. I remember thinking she looked like an adult."
"Was she carrying anything? Did she--"
"Look, Myron, I'm sorry. I gotta get moving." He stood and looked down at Myron with a hollow, lost expression. "Good luck finding the son of a bitch," he said. "Liz was a good person. She never hurt anyone. None of us did."
Before he could turn away, Myron asked, "Why did you call me last night? What were you going to sell me?"
Cole smiled sadly and began to walk away. He stopped before he reached the door and turned back around. "I'm alone now," he said. "Gloria Katz was shot in the initial attack. She died three months later. Susan Milano died in a car crash in 1982. Liz and I kept their deaths a secret. We wanted the feds searching for four of us, not two. We thought it would help us stay hidden. So you see, there is only one of us left now."
He had the bone-weary look of a survivor who wasn't so sure the dead weren't the lucky ones. He rambled back over toward Myron and unlocked the handcuffs. "Go," he said.
Myron rose, rubbing his wrists. "Thank you," he said.
Cole merely nodded.
"I won't tell anyone where you are."
"Yeah," Cole said. "I know."
Chapter 35
Myron sprinted to his car and dialed Clip's number. Clip's secretary answered and told him that Mr. Arnstein was not in at the moment. He asked her to transfer the call to Calvin Johnson. She put him on hold. Ten seconds later, the call was put through.
"Hey, Myron," Calvin said, "what's up?"
"Where's Clip?"
"He should be here in a couple of hours. By game time anyway."
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know."
"Find him," Myron said. "When you do, call me back."
"What's going on?" Calvin asked.
"Just find him."
Myron disconnected the call. He opened the car window and took deep breaths. It was a few minutes after six. Most of the guys would already be at the arena warming up. He headed up Riverside Drive and crossed the George Washington Bridge. He dialed Leon White's number. A woman answered.
"Hello?"
Myron disguised his voice. "Is this Mrs. Fiona White?" he asked.
"Yes, it is."
"Would you like to subscribe to Popular Mechanics? We have a special going on for a limited time."
"No, thank you." She hung up.
Conclusion: Fiona White, the Sepbabe and promisor of night ecstasy, was home. Time to pay her a little visit.
He took Route 4 and got off at Kindermack Road. Five minutes later, he was there. The house was a semi-nouveau ranch with orange-tinged brick and diamond-shaped windows. This particular architectural look was all the rage for maybe a two-month span in 1977, and it had aged about as well as the leisure suit. Myron parked in the driveway. On either side of the cement walkway were low-rise iron fences with plastic ivy snaked through them. Classy.
He rang the bell. Fiona White opened the door. Her green, flower-print blouse hung open over a white leotard. Her bleached-blonde hair was tied in a bun that was falling apart, spare strands dangling down over her eyes and ears. She looked at Myron and frowned. "Yes?"
"Hi, Fiona. I'm Myron Bolitar. We met the other night at TC's house."
The frown was still there. "Leon isn't here."
"I wanted to talk to you."
Fiona sighed and crossed her arms under the ample bosom. "What about?"
"Can I come inside?"
"No. I'm busy right now."
"I think it would be better in private."
"This is private," she said, her face unyielding. "What do you want?"
Myron shrugged, conjured up his most charming smile, saw it would take him nowhere. "I want to know about you and Greg Downing."
Fiona White's arms dropped to her sides. She suddenly looked horror-stricken. "What?"
"I know about your e-mail to him. Sepbabe. You were supposed to meet last Saturday for the"--Myron made quote marks with his fingers--"'greatest night of ecstasy imaginable.' Do you recall that?"
Fiona White went to close the door. Myron stuck his foot in the way.
"I've got nothing to say to you," she said.
"I'm not trying to expose you."
She pushed the door against his foot. "Get out."
"I'm just trying to find Greg Downing."
"I don't know where he is."
"Were you having an affair with him?"
"No. Now leave."
"I saw the e-mail, Fiona."
"Think what you want. I'm not talking to you."
"Fine," Myron said, moving back and throwing up his hands. "I'll talk to Leon instead."
Her cheeks flushed. "Do whatever you want," she said. "I did not have an
affair with him. I did not see him last Saturday night. I don't know where he is."
She slammed the door.
Gee, that went well.
Myron headed back to his car. As he reached the door, a black BMW with tinted windows rocketed up the street and screeched to a halt in the driveway. The driver's door opened and Leon flew out like an escaped bird.
"What the fuck you doing here?" he snapped.
"Take it easy, Leon."
"Fuck take it easy," he shouted. Leon ran up and stuck his face within an inch of Myron's. "What the fuck you doing around here, huh?"
"I came by to see you."
"Bullshit." The spittle hit Myron's cheeks. "We're supposed to be at the arena in twenty minutes." He pushed Myron in the chest. Myron stumbled back. "Why you here, huh?" Leon pushed again. "What are you sniffing after?"
"Nothing."
"You think you'd find my wife alone?"
"It's nothing like that."
Leon lined himself up for another push. Myron was ready. When Leon's hand reached him, Myron's right forearm shot across his body, pinning Leon's hands helplessly against Myron's chest. Myron bent at the waist, bending Leon's wrists back the wrong way. The pressure forced Leon to drop to one knee. Myron's right hand slid until it met Leon's left. He grabbed it and quickly executed an elbow lock. Leon winced.
"You calm?" Myron asked.
"Motherfucker."
"That doesn't sound like calm, Leon." Myron applied a little pressure to the elbow. Joint locks were about controlled pain. They worked by bending joints in ways they were never intended to bend. The more the bend, the more the pain. But go too far and the joint dislocated or a bone broke. Myron was careful.
"Greg is missing again," Myron said. "That's why I'm on the team. I'm supposed to find him."
Leon was still on his knees, his arm locked and upright. "So what does that have to do with me?"
"You two have had a falling out," Myron said. "I want to know why."
Leon looked up at him. "Let go of me, Myron."
"If you attack me again--"
"I won't. Just let go already."
Myron waited another second or two, then did as Leon asked. Leon rubbed his arm and stood. Myron eyed him.
Leon said, "You're here because you think Greg and Fiona were getting it on."
"Were they?"
He shook his head. "Not from a lack of trying though."
"What do you mean?"
"He's supposed to be my best friend. But he's not. He's just another fucking superstar who takes what he wants."
"Including Fiona."
"He tried. Tried like hell. But she's not like that."
Myron said nothing. Not his place.
"Guys are always hitting on Fiona," he went on. "Because of the way she looks. And the whole racial thing. So when I saw you here when you figured I wouldn't be around..." He shrugged into silence.
"Did you ever confront Greg?" Myron asked.
"Yeah," he said. "A couple of weeks ago."
"What did you say to him?"
Leon's eyes narrowed, suddenly wary. "What does this have to do with finding him?" he asked, suspicious now. "You trying to pin this on me?"
"Pin what on you?"
"You said he's disappeared. You trying to pin that on me?"
"I'm just trying to find out where he is."
"I got nothing to do with it."
"I didn't say you did. I just want to know what happened when you confronted him."
"What do you think happened?" Leon countered. "The motherfucker denied it. He made this big point of swearing he'd never sleep with any married woman--especially his best friend's wife."
Myron sort of gulped at that one. "But you didn't believe him."
"He's a superstar, Myron."
"That doesn't make him a liar."
"No, but it makes him something different. Guys like Greg and Michael Jordan and Shaq and TC...they ain't like the rest of us. They got their own thing going. Everyone else is a fucking underling to them. The whole planet is set up to cater to their whims, you know what I'm saying?"
Myron nodded. In college he had been one of those who got to breathe the rarefied air of superstardom. He thought again about the bonds superstars shared. He and Greg had not exchanged more than five words before Greg visited him in the hospital, but there had been a bond. They both knew. Superstars share that rarefied air with very few. As TC had told him, it does indeed isolate in a very bizarre, often unhealthy way.
And with that thought came something of a revelation. Myron took a step back.
He'd always thought that if Greg was in trouble, he'd go to his closest friend for help. But that wasn't the case. If Greg had indeed stumbled across the dead body and panicked, if he had seen all his problems--the gambling debts, the threat of exposure, the divorce, the child custody case, the blackmail, the probability of being a suspect in a murder--closing in on him, who would he go to for help?
He'd go to the guy who understood him best.
He'd go to the guy who could best relate to the unique troubles of superstardom.
He'd go to the guy who shared that rarefied air with him.
Chapter 36
Myron wasn't sure what to do next.
In truth, he had nothing more than a suspicion. There was no proof. No real evidence. But it could potentially answer a lot of questions. Why, for example, had Thumper helped set up Emily on videotape? By all accounts, she was not particularly close to Greg.
But she was to TC.
Again the superstar bond. Greg had feared losing his kids in a custody battle. That's about as big a worry as a person can have. So whom did he turn to for help?
TC.
When Win had leaned on Thumper last night, letting her know that he was searching for Greg, whom had she warned?
TC.
No proof, of course. But it felt very right.
Myron could now put a lot of it together. Greg was under incredible strain--not the best situation for a man of his questionable mental fortitude to be ensnared. What had gone through his mind when he saw Liz Gorman dead on the floor? He'd have to have known that he would be the prime suspect in her murder. As Emily had pointed out, Greg had motive, opportunity, and was at the murder scene. Emily saw that. It was why she set him up. Greg must have seen it too.
So what did he do?
He ran.
Seeing Liz Gorman dead had been the final straw. But Greg had also known that he could not do it alone. People would be looking for him this time. He needed help. He needed time and space.
So whom did Greg reach out to?
The guy who understood him best. Who could relate to the unique troubles of superstardom. Who shared that rarefied air with him.
Myron stopped at a red light. He was close, so goddamn close. TC was helping Greg hide; he was sure of it. But of course, TC was only part of the solution. None of this answered the central question in all this:
Who killed Liz Gorman?
He put his mind on rewind and reviewed the night of the murder. He thought about Clip being the first of the three to arrive. In many ways, Clip was now his best suspect. But Myron still saw big problems with that scenario. What was Clip's motive, for example? Yes, Liz Gorman's information may have been detrimental to the team. The information may have even been potent enough for him to lose the vote. But would Clip pick up a baseball bat and murder a woman over that? People kill for money and power all the time. Would Clip?
But there was still a larger problem at work here, one that Myron could not get around no matter how hard he tried. Emily was the one who planted the blood and murder weapon at Greg's house. That was established and that made sense. Okay, fine. We know who planted the evidence...
...but who cleaned it up?
There were only three logical choices: 1) Greg Downing, 2) someone trying to protect Greg, or 3) the killer.
But it couldn't have been Greg. Even if you accept the semi-impossible premise that Greg
went back into his house after going into hiding, how did he find the blood? Did he just happen to go down into his playroom? No. It was too ridiculous. The only way Greg would have gone down there was if he'd known the blood had been planted.
Myron froze.
That was it. Whoever had cleaned up the blood had known what Emily had done. They didn't just stumble across it by accident. So how did they find out? From Emily? Uh uh, no way. Emily would be the last person to say anything. Could she have been spotted in the act? Again, the answer was a resounding no. If that had been the case, the bat would have been removed too. More to the point, the blood would have been cleaned up right away--before Myron and Win found it. The timing of the clean-up was crucial--it'd happened after Myron and Win had revealed their discovery. That meant Myron and Win were the leak.
So who had they told?
The finger pointed back to Clip.
He turned on Route 3 and entered the Meadowlands complex. The arena loomed before him like a large UFO on a white landing pad. Did Clip Arnstein murder Liz Gorman and clean up the blood? Myron wrestled with the possibility, but he didn't like it. How had Clip gotten inside Greg's house? There were no signs of forced entry. Had he picked the lock? Doubtful. Did he have a key? Doubtful. Did he hire a professional? Still doubtful. Clip hadn't even let a private investigator do a simple credit card check on Greg for fear word would get out. Whom would he trust to clean up the blood of a person he murdered?
And something else still jabbed at Myron with a sharpened, steel point: the woman's clothes in the bedroom. They had been packed away too. Why would Clip remove all traces of a secret girlfriend? Why would anybody?
The different scenarios swirled in Myron's head like rubber ducks in a whirlpool. He concentrated again on the mystery girlfriend. Could it have been Fiona White? She wasn't talking, but Myron firmly believed that she was not the one. How could Fiona have lived with Greg and kept it hidden from a husband as obsessively jealous as Leon? Perhaps there had been some entanglement between Greg and Fiona--a casual fling in a motel room or something--but Myron no longer believed even that. The more he thought about it, the "greatest night of sexual ecstasy" epistle was more of a come-on than the talk of two familiar lovers. It seemed more logical that Greg was telling Leon the truth when he said he would never sleep with another man's wife. The thought gave Myron's old shame new life.
A commercial came on the radio. A very hip man and a very hip woman were enjoying a Molson's Golden far too much. They spoke in low voices and laughed at each other's lame jokes. Myron switched it off.