by Harlan Coben
Myron said, “So what else was there?”
She took another deep drag. “He was very distracted. You’d talk to him, he’d nod, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Anything else?”
Sally crushed out the cigarette, though it still had plenty to go. She lit another. “A new way to quit smoking,” she said. “I smoke the same amount of cigarettes, but I take less puffs each day. Gradual slowdown until I quit entirely. At this rate it should take no more than twelve years.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“So what else was there?”
Another puff. “Adam was ordering a lot of weird tests on the last girl they found in the woods.”
“What do you mean, weird tests?”
“Superfluous tests. In my opinion, anyway.”
Myron said, “You never got a positive ID on her, right?”
“Right.”
“So maybe he was running the tests to see if he could get a handle on her whereabouts.”
“Maybe. But he sent them out one at a time. He’d wait for one test to come back before he’d ask for the next one. Anthropological measurements, shape and size of cranium, pelvic bones, ossification of the bones, fusing of sutures on the skull—all one at a time.”
“So what do you make of that?”
She shrugged again. “I don’t make anything out of that. It’s just an example of what I meant by acting strangely. Distracted. The case was a weird one to start off. The girl’s skull had been crushed by the perp, but that wasn’t what killed her. In other words, she had been buried alive in those woods. She died trying to claw her way out.”
Silence.
“This girl,” Myron said, “what was she wearing?”
Sally stiffened a little. Then she leaned forward. “Okay, Myron, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You know why.”
Myron stopped. “The girl’s clothes are missing.”
“Yes.”
He felt his heart crash into the pit of his stomach, like a skydiver with a ripped parachute. “Oh, shit.”
“What is it?”
“Sally, I need you to run a test for me.”
Chapter 44
The address of Brian Sanford, private investigator, was a go-go bar conveniently located one block from Merv Griffin’s Resorts. Atlantic City was like that. The big hotels were like beautiful flowers untouched and unbothered by the unseemly weeds of poverty and sleaze that surrounded them. The big flowers had not beautified the neighborhood as promised by the casino owners. The contrast, if anything, had made the weeds more glaringly hideous.
The go-go bar was called Eager Beaver, and it was exactly what one would expect. Blinking sign with missing letters on the outside. Lots of lowlights around the bar, lots of bright spotlights on the stage. Bored women danced in shifts, most of them unattractive. Lots of flab. Lots of implants. Lots of herpes.
Myron made the key mistake of entering what might loosely be designated a bathroom. The urinals were stuffed with ice cubes—an adequate substitute, Myron supposed, for an actual flushing mechanism. No doors were on the stalls, which did not deter the defecators at all. One man smiled and waved to Myron from a squat.
Myron decided he could wait.
He called over a bartender. “Could you tell me how to get to Brian Sanford’s office?”
“Michelob, Bud, Bud Light, Coors.”
“I just want to know—”
“Michelob, Bud, Bud Light, Coors.”
Myron took out five dollars. The bartender pocketed it.
“Door in the back. Take the stairs up a level.”
He didn’t wait for Myron to thank him. Capitalism.
A dancer on break approached him. She smiled. Each tooth was angled in a different direction, as if her mouth were the masterwork of a mad orthodontist.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“You’re really cute.”
“I don’t have any money.”
She spun and walked away. Ah, romance.
The stairs did not creak. They cracked. Myron kept waiting for them to collapse. On the landing there was only one door. It was open. Myron knocked on the wall and peeked in.
Myron called out, “Hello.”
A man he assumed was Brian Sanford came to the door. All smiles. Dressed in a beige suit that had last been pressed during the Bay of Pigs. “You the guy who left the message?”
“Yes.”
The office was a minicasino. No desk but a roulette table. A one-armed bandit in the corner. Decks of cards everywhere. Souvenir dice, the kind that have a hole drilled in them, littered the floor. So did racing forms. Keno cards too.
The man put out his hand. “Brian Sanford. But everyone calls me Blackjack. You know who gave me that nickname?”
Myron shook his head.
“Frankie. That’s what I call Frank Sinatra. Frankie. Not Frank. Frankie, I call him.” He paused, waited.
Myron said, “Good nickname.”
“See, Frankie and me were playing at the Sands one night, right, and I was on one of my streaks, you know. And Frankie turns to me and says, ‘Yo, check out Blackjack. He can’t lose.’ Just like that. Frankie says, ‘Hey, Blackjack.’ Out of nowhere. The name stuck. Now everyone calls me Blackjack. All ’cause of Frankie.”
“Great story,” Myron said.
“Yeah, well, you know how it is. So what can I do for you, Mr.…?”
“Olson. Merlin Olson.”
Blackjack smiled knowingly. “Okay, I can play it that way. Have a seat, Mr. Olson.”
Myron sat.
“But before we start, Mr. Olson, I have to tell you one thing right up front.”
He was holding dice in his hand, moving them around in his hands the way some people do with those Chinese balls that are supposed to help circulation.
“What’s that?”
“I’m a very busy man. Lots of big stuff going on right now. You know how I started in this business?”
Myron shook his head.
“I used to be chief of security for Caesars Palace in Vegas. Head chief. You know how it is. I was in Vegas, right? But Donny—that’s what I call Donald Trump, Donny—Donny asked me to head up security for his first hotel on the strip. Then he started nagging me to set up the Taj Mahal’s security. I told him, I said, ‘Donny, I got too much on my plate, you know?’ ”
Myron looked up. A small crop plane flew overhead, leaving mucho cow manure in its wake.
“So my problem is this, you see. I got a meeting tomorrow morning with Stevie—Steve Wynn. First thing, seven A.M. sharp. Great guy, Stevie. Morning guy. Up at five every day. You know he’s practically blind? Got cataracts or something. He keeps it hidden. Only tells his closest friends. So anyway Stevie wants me to do something for him. Normally I’d tell him no, but it’s a personal favor and Stevie’s a good friend. Not like Donny. I’m not crazy about Donny. Thinks he’s some hot stud now that he’s got Marla.”
“Mr. Blackjack—”
“Please,” he said throwing up his hands, “just call me Blackjack.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions, uh, Blackjack. I need your particular expertise on an important matter.”
He nodded. Very understanding. He didn’t hitch up his pants importantly, but he should have. “What’s this all about?”
“You performed some work for a friend of mine recently,” Myron said. “Mr. Otto Burke.”
A big smile now. “Sure. Otto. Swell kid. Smart as a whip. He calls me whenever he comes down.”
Probably calls him Ottie, Myron thought.
“You gave him a magazine a few days ago. An issue of Nips.”
Blackjack looked wary now. He rolled the dice on the table. A three. “What about it?”
“We need to know how you located it.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“I work with Mr. Burke.” Even saying it made Myron feel nauseous.
&
nbsp; “So why didn’t Ken call? He’s the usual contact.”
Myron leaned forward. Conspiratorial. “This is bigger than Ken, Blackjack. We don’t feel anyone can be trusted with this but you.”
He nodded. Again very understanding.
“Frankly, Blackjack—and this has to remain hush-hush.”
“Of course.”
“You’re our first choice to replace Ken. But we know how busy you are.”
His eyes gleamed a bit. “I appreciate that, Mr. Olson, but for someone like Otto Burke, I could try to open—”
“Let’s talk about this case first, okay? How did you come across the magazine?”
The wary look again. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but how do I know you work with Otto? How do I know you’re not some schmo off the street?”
Myron smiled. “I knew it.”
“What?”
“I told Otto you were the right guy for the job. You’re not sloppy. You’re careful. We like that. We need that.”
Blackjack shrugged. He picked up the dice, gave another roll. Snake eyes. “I’m a professional,” he said.
“Clearly,” Myron agreed. “So why don’t you call Otto yourself on the private line? He’ll confirm everything. I’m sure you know the number.”
That slowed him down a bit. He swallowed, trying to disguise it, looked around like a cornered rabbit. Myron could see the wheels churning. “Uh, no reason to bother Otto with this,” Blackjack said. “You know how he hates that. I can tell you’re an honest Joe. Besides, how would you know about the magazine if Otto hadn’t told you?”
Myron shook his head. “You’re an amazing man, Blackjack.”
He waved a hand of modesty.
“How did you find the magazine?” Myron asked.
“Shouldn’t we talk about my fee? On the phone you said something about ten grand.”
“Otto said you were a trustworthy guy. He said to bill him through Ken. Whatever you think is fair.”
Another nod. He picked up the dice. Rolled again. Another three. Practice, practice. “I didn’t find the magazine,” Blackjack said. “It found me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was hired to do a job. Part of it was to send out copies of that mag to some people.”
“Was Christian Steele one of those people?”
“Yup. That’s how I got suspicious. I mean, the envelopes were given to me already addressed and sealed. I didn’t recognize any of the names except Christian’s. Otto had already put out word he wanted anything, anything, on Steele. So I opened it up and took a peek. That’s when I saw the picture.”
“Who hired you to mail out the magazines?”
Blackjack placed one chip on red, one chip on odd. He spun the roulette wheel. “You wanna put down a couple of chips?”
“No. Who hired you?”
“Well, that’s the weird part. I don’t know. I got this big package in the mail with very specific instructions. Plus cash. But no name.”
“Any return address?”
“Nope. Just a postmark.”
“From where?”
“Right here in Atlantic City. I got it about ten, twelve days ago.”
The roulette wheel stopped. Twenty-two. Black.
Blackjack said, “Damn.”
“Do you still have the instructions?”
“Yeah, sure.” He opened a drawer and handed him a piece of paper. “Here.”
The letter had been typed:
Dear Mr. Sanford,
For the sum of $5,000 (plus expenses) I would like you to perform the following services:
1. Enclosed find seven envelopes. Two of them should be mailed from the campus mail box at Reston University on Friday. The other three should be mailed from a post office box in their respective towns.
2. Please mail out the following New Jersey Bell literature to each person on the list at the same time.
3. Please arrange a phone number in the 201 area code, one that will work on Return Call. This number should be immediately disconnected should anyone call it back or answer it. I would like you to hook up an answering machine with the enclosed tape to that phone. I would then like you to make calls to each of the numbers listed below from that number. On the first two nights—Saturday and Sunday—you will simply call repeatedly, hold the line when they answer, and say nothing until they hang up. On Monday, you will call and say the following: “Enjoy the magazine. Come and get me. I survived.” Please make your voice sound female and vague. (As you know, there are phones that can disguise voices and make them sound female.)
4. Enclosed is a money order for $3,000. Upon completion of this exercise I will contact you personally on or around the ninth of the month and pay off the remaining $2,000 plus expenses.
My name must remain anonymous. Thank you for understanding.
Myron looked up. “I assume the New Jersey Bell literature explained Return Call.”
Nod.
“Who were the seven people?”
Blackjack shrugged. The dice were rolled yet again. Another snake eyes. The guy had the touch. “I don’t remember. Christian was one. Some dean was another. I mailed another from a town called Glen Rock.”
“To a Gary Grady.”
“Yeah, that’s the name. I also mailed three from New York.”
“One of those to Junior Horton?”
“Uh, yeah, I think so. Junior. That rings a bell.”
“And the last one?”
“Some other place in New Jersey. Near Glen Rock.”
Myron stopped. “Ridgewood?”
“Yeah. Something-wood anyway. A woman’s name. I remember because all the rest were men.”
Myron said, “Carol Culver?”
He thought a moment. “Yeah. That’s it. A name with two C’s.”
Myron’s shoulders slumped.
“Hey, buddy, you all right?”
“Fine,” he said softly. “What about the phone calls?”
“The numbers were on another page. I threw them away when I finished. I called Steele and hung up a few times. By the time I called him back to give him the message calls, the line was disconnected. Guess he’d moved.”
Myron nodded. Christian had moved from the campus to the condo.
“The guy in New York—Junior—he was never home so I never reached him either. The others all got hang-ups and then the message calls.”
“How many of them used Return Call?”
“Just two. Christian and the guy from Glen Rock. It wouldn’t have worked for the guys in New York anyhoo. Return Call only works for that area code.”
“Have you heard from your client yet?”
“Nope. And yesterday was the ninth. I tell you, he better not stiff Blackjack Sanford.” Another mental pants-hitch. “If he knows what’s good for him.”
“Uh-huh. Anything else you can tell me?”
“About this case? Nope. Hey, you wanna go over to Merv’s? They know me over there. I can get us on a good table. Play a little blackjack maybe. Watch the legend in action.”
Tempting, Myron thought. Like having electrolysis performed on his testicles. “Maybe some other time.”
“Yeah, okay. Say, how much you think I should bill Otto for? Like you said, I want to be fair.”
“Oh, I’d bill him for the full amount.”
“The whole ten G’s?”
“Yes. You’ve been very helpful, Blackjack. Thank you.”
“Yeah, take care. Come by anytime.”
“Oh, one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
Myron said, “Mind if I use your bathroom?”
Chapter 45
It was ten-thirty when Myron arrived at Paul Duncan’s house. Lights were still on. Myron had not called to make an appointment. He wanted the element of surprise.
The house was a simple Cape Cod. Nice. Needed a new coat of paint maybe. The front yard had lots of budding flower beds. Myron remembered that Paul liked gardening in his do
wn time. Lot of cops did.
Paul Duncan answered the door holding a newspaper. A pair of reading glasses were low on his nose. His gray hair was neatly combed. He wore navy-blue Hagar slacks and a twist-a-flex Speidel watch. The casual man from Sears. A television played in the background. An audience applauded wildly. Paul was alone, except for a sleeping golden retriever curled in front of the television as if it were a fire on a snowy night.
“We need to talk, Paul.”
“Can’t this wait until the morning?” His voice was strained. “After Adam’s memorial service?”
Myron shook his head and stepped into the den. The television audience applauded again. Myron glanced at the screen. Ed McMahon’s Star Search. The spokes-models weren’t on, so Myron turned away.
Paul closed the door. “What’s this all about, Myron?”
A coffee table had National Geographic and TV Guide. Also two books—the latest Robert Ludlum and the King James Bible. Everything was very neat. A portrait of the golden retriever in its younger days hung on the wall. Lots of little porcelain figurines adorned the room. A couple of Rockwell plates too. Hardly a swinging bachelor pad or den of lust.
“I know about your affair with Carol Culver,” Myron said.
Paul Duncan played stiff-lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then let me try to clarify myself. The affair’s been going on for six years. Kathy caught you and Mommy a couple years back. Adam also caught you two on the night he was murdered. Any of this ring a bell?”
His face went ashen. “How …?”
“Carol told me.” Myron sat. He picked up the Bible and flipped through it. “Guess you skipped the part about not coveting your neighbor’s wife, huh, Paul?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What’s not what I think?”
“I love Carol. She loves me.”
“That sounds swell, Paul.”
“Adam treated her awfully. He gambled. He whored. He was cold to his family.”
“So why didn’t Carol divorce him?”
“She couldn’t. We’re both devout Catholics. The Church wouldn’t allow it.”