by Harlan Coben
“I’m very flattered—”
“Don’t be,” Felder interrupted. “It’s a sound business decision for me. I know good stock when I see it.” He leaned forward with a sincere smile. “Let someone else be the client’s errand boy, Myron. I want to free you up to do what you do best—recruit new clients and negotiate deals.”
Myron had no interest in giving up his company, but the man knew how to make it sound attractive. “May I think about it?” he asked.
“Of course,” Felder said, raising his hands in surrendered agreement. “I don’t want to pressure you, Myron. Take your time. I certainly don’t expect an answer today.”
“I appreciate that,” Myron said, “but I actually wanted to talk to you about another matter.”
“Please.” He leaned back, folded his hands in his lap, smiled. “Go right ahead.”
“It’s about Greg Downing.”
The smile didn’t budge, but the light behind it flickered a bit. “Greg Downing?”
“Yes. I have a few questions.”
Still smiling. “You realize, of course, that I cannot reveal anything that may fall under what I consider privileged.”
“Of course,” Myron agreed. “I was wondering if you could tell me where he is.”
Marty Felder waited a beat. This was no longer a sales pitch meeting. It was now a negotiation. A good negotiator is frighteningly patient. Like a good interrogator, he must above all else be a listener. He must make his opponent do the talking. After several seconds, Felder asked, “Why do you want to know that?”
“I need to speak with him,” Myron said.
“May I ask what this is about?”
“I’m afraid it’s confidential.”
They looked at each other, both faces open and friendly, but now they were two card sharks who didn’t want to show their hands. “Myron,” Felder began, “you have to understand my position here. I don’t feel comfortable divulging this type of information without having at least some hint as to why you want to see him.”
Time to jar something loose. “I didn’t join the Dragons to make a comeback,” Myron said. “Clip Arnstein hired me to find Greg.”
Felder’s eyebrows dropped to half mast. “Find him? But I thought he went into seclusion to heal an ankle injury.”
Myron shook his head. “That was the story Clip told the press.”
“I see.” Felder put a hand to his chin and nodded slowly. “And you’re trying to locate him?”
“Yes.”
“Clip hired you? He chose you himself? It was his idea?”
Myron answered in the affirmative. There was a faint smile on Felder’s face now, like he was enjoying an inside joke. “I’m sure Clip already told you that Greg had done this kind of thing before.”
“Yes,” Myron said.
“So I don’t see why you should be all that concerned,” Felder said. “Your help is appreciated, Myron, but it is really not necessary.”
“You know where he is?”
Felder hesitated. “Again, Myron, I ask you to put yourself in my position. If one of your clients wanted to stay hidden, would you go against his wishes or respect his rights?”
Myron smelled a bluff. “That would depend,” he said. “If the client was in big trouble, I’d probably do whatever I could to help him.”
“What sort of big trouble?” Felder asked.
“Gambling, for one. Greg owes a lot of money to some awfully unpleasant fellows.” Still no reaction from Felder. In this case, Myron read it as a good thing. If most people had just heard that a client owed money to mobsters, they would show some sort of surprise. “You know about his gambling, don’t you, Marty?”
Felder’s words were slow, as if he were weighing each one separately with a hand scale. “You are still new in this business, Myron. With that comes a certain enthusiasm that is not always well placed. I am Greg Downing’s sports representative. That gives me certain responsibilities. It is not a carte blanche to run his life. What he or any other client does on his own time is not, should not, and cannot be my concern. For all our sakes. We care about every client, but we are not parental substitutes or life managers. It’s important to learn this early on.”
The Cliff Notes summary: he knew about the gambling.
Myron asked, “Why did Greg withdraw fifty thousand dollars ten days ago?”
Again Felder showed no reaction. He was either beyond being surprised by what Myron knew or he had the ability to shut off any connection between his brain and facial muscles. “You know I can’t discuss that with you—or even confirm that such a withdrawal took place.” He slapped his palms against his thighs again and mounted a smile. “Do us both a favor, Myron. Think about my offer and drop this other matter. Greg will pop up soon. He always does.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Myron said. “He’s in real trouble this time.”
“If you are talking about his alleged gambling debts—”
Myron shook his head. “I’m not.”
“Then what?”
So far, the man had given Myron nothing. Letting on that he knew about the gambling problem was a lay-up. He had realized Myron knew about it. To deny it would make him look either incompetent for not knowing or dishonest for making a strong denial. Marty Felder was shrewd. He would not misstep. Myron tried shifting direction. “Why did you videotape Greg’s wife?”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“ProTec. That’s the name of the agency you hired. They set up a videotape surveillance at the Glenpointe Hotel. I’d like to know why.”
Felder looked almost amused. “Help me understand this, Myron. First you say that my client is in deep trouble. You claim you want to help him. Then you start making allegations about a videotape. I’m having trouble following you.”
“I’m just trying to help your client.”
“The best thing you can do for Greg is to tell me all you know. I am his advocate, Myron. I am truly interested in doing what’s best for him—not what might be best for the Dragons or Clip or anybody else. You said he was in trouble. Tell me how.”
Myron shook his head. “First you tell me about the videotape.”
“No.”
There you have it. Top-notch negotiating getting down to basics. Soon they’d be sticking tongues out at each other, but for now both faces remained pleasant. They were playing the waiting game. Who would be the first to crack? Myron ran down the situation in his mind. The cardinal rule of negotiating: Don’t lose sight of what you want and what your opponent wants. Okay. So what did Felder have that Myron wanted? Information on the fifty thousand dollars, the videotape, and maybe some other stuff. What did Myron have that Felder wanted? Not much. Myron had made him curious when he mentioned big trouble. Felder might already know what trouble Greg was in, but he would still want to know what Myron knew. End analysis: Myron needed the information more. He would have to move. Time to up the ante. And no more delicacy.
“I don’t have to be the one asking you these questions,” Myron said.
“What do you mean?”
“I could have a homicide detective ask them.”
Felder barely moved, but his pupils expanded in a funny way. “What?”
“A certain homicide detective is this close”—Myron held up his thumb and index finger close together—“to putting out an APB on Greg.”
“A homicide detective?”
“Yes.”
“But who was killed?”
Myron shook his head. “First the videotape.”
Felder was not a man to jump. He refolded his hands on his lap, looked up, tapped his foot. He took his time, considering the pros and cons, the costs and benefits, all that. Myron half-expected him to start charting graphs.
“You never practiced as an attorney, did you, Myron?”
Myron shook his head. “I passed the bar. That’s about it.”
“You’re lucky,” he said. He sighed and made a tired gesture with his hands. “You know why peo
ple make all the jokes about lawyers being scum? It’s because they are. It’s not their fault. Not really. It’s the system. The system encourages cheating and lying and basic scummy behavior. Suppose you were at a Little League game. Suppose you told the kids that there were no umpires today—that they were to umpire themselves. Wouldn’t that lead to some pretty unethical behavior? Probably. But then tell the little tykes that they must win, no matter what. Tell them that their only obligation is to winning and that they should forget about things like fair play and sportsmanship. That’s what our judicial system is like, Myron. We allow for deceit in the name of an abstract greater good.”
“Bad analogy,” Myron said.
“Why’s that?”
“The part about no umpires. Lawyers have to face judges.”
“Not many of them. Most cases are settled before a judge sees it. You know that. But no matter, my point is made. The system encourages attorneys to lie and distort under the guise of the client’s best interest. That best-interest crap has become an all-purpose excuse for anything goes. It’s ruining our judicial system.”
“Fascinating, really,” Myron said. “And all this relates to the videotape …?”
“Very directly,” Felder said. “Emily Downing’s lawyer lied and distorted the truth. She did it to an unethical and unnecessary extreme.”
“Are you talking about the child custody case?” Myron asked.
“Yes.”
“What did she do?”
He smiled. “I’ll give you a hint. This particular claim is made now in one out of every three child custody cases in the United States. It has become almost standard practice, tossed about like rice was at the actual wedding, though it destroys lives.”
“Child abuse?”
Felder did not bother with an answer. “We felt that we needed to quell these malicious and dangerous untruths. To balance the scales, so to speak. I’m not proud of that. None of us are. But I’m not ashamed either. You can’t fight fair if your opponent insists on using brass knuckles. You must do what you can to survive.”
“What did you do?”
“We videotaped Emily Downing in a rather delicate situation.”
“When you say delicate, what exactly do you mean?”
Felder stood up and took a key from his pocket. He unlocked a cabinet and pulled out a videotape. Then he opened another cabinet. A TV and VCR faced them. He placed the tape in the machine and picked up the remote. “Your turn now,” he said. “You said Greg was in big trouble.”
It was time for Myron to give a little. Another cardinal rule of negotiation: don’t be a pig and just take. It’ll backfire in the long run. “We believe a woman may have been blackmailing Greg,” he said. “She has several aliases. Usually Carla but she may have used the names Sally or Liz. She was murdered last Saturday night.”
That one stunned him. Or at least he acted stunned. “Surely the police don’t suspect Greg—”
“Yes,” Myron said.
“But why?”
Myron kept it vague. “Greg was the last person seen with her the night of the murder. His fingerprints were at the murder scene. And the police found the murder weapon at his house.”
“They searched his house?”
“Yes.”
“But they can’t do that.”
Already playing the ready-to-distort lawyer. “They got a warrant,” Myron said. “Do you know this woman? This Carla or Sally?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea where Greg is?”
“None.”
Myron watched him, but he couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. Except in very rare instances, you can never tell if a person is lying by watching their eyes or their body language or any of that stuff. Nervous, fidgety people tell the truth too, and a good liar could look as sincere as Alan Alda at a telethon. So-called “students of body language” were usually just fooled with more certainty. “Why did Greg take out fifty thousand dollars in cash?” Myron asked.
“I didn’t ask,” Felder said. “As I just explained to you, such matters were not my concern.”
“You thought it was for gambling.”
Again Felder didn’t bother responding. He lifted his eyes from the floor. “You said this woman was blackmailing him.”
“Yes,” Myron said.
He looked at Myron steadily. “Do you know what she had on him?”
“Not for sure. The gambling, I think.”
Felder nodded. With his eyes looking straight ahead, he pointed the remote control at the television behind him and pressed some buttons. The screen brightened into gray static. Then a black and white image appeared. A hotel room. The camera seemed to be shooting from the ground up. No one was in the room. A digital counter showed the time. The setup reminded Myron of those tapes of Marion Barry smoking a crack pipe.
Uh oh.
Could that be it? Having sex would hardly be grounds to show unfitness as a parent, but what about drugs? What better way to balance the scales, as Felder had put it, than to show the mother smoking or snorting or shooting up in a hotel room? How would that work on a judge?
But as Myron was about to see, he was wrong.
The hotel room door opened. Emily entered alone. She looked around tentatively. She sat on the bed, but then got back up. She paced. She sat down again. She paced again. She checked the bathroom, came right back out, paced. Her fingers picked up whatever object they could find—hotel brochures, room services menus, a television guide.
“Is there any sound?” Myron asked.
Marty Felder shook his head no. He was still not looking at the screen.
Myron watched transfixed as Emily continued to go through her nervous ritual. Suddenly she froze in place and turned to the door. Must have heard a knock. She approached tentatively. Looking for Mr. Goodbar? Probably, Myron surmised. But when Emily turned the knob and let the door swing open, Myron realized he was wrong again. It was not Mr. Goodbar who entered the hotel room.
It was Ms. Goodbar.
The two women talked for a bit. They had a drink from the room’s minibar. Then they began to undress. Myron’s stomach coiled. By the time they moved to the bed, he had seen more than enough.
“Turn it off.”
Felder did so, still not looking at the screen. “I meant what I said before. I’m not proud of that.”
“What a guy,” Myron said.
So now he understood Emily’s ferocious hostility. She had indeed been taped in flagrante delicto—not with another man, but with a woman. Certainly no law against it. But most judges would be influenced. It was the way of the world. And speaking of the way of the world, Myron knew Ms. Goodbar by another nickname:
Thumper.
Chapter 29
Myron walked back to his office, wondering what it all meant. For one thing, it meant that Thumper was more than a harmless diversion in all this. But what exactly was she? Had she set up Emily or had she, too, been taped unaware? Were they steady lovers or participants in a one-night stand? Felder claimed he didn’t know. On the tape, the two women hadn’t appeared to be all that familiar with each other—at least, not in the small portion he had watched—but he was hardly an expert on the subject.
Myron cut east on 50th Street. An albino wearing a Mets cap and yellow boxer shorts on the outside of ripped jeans played an Indian sitar. He was singing the seventies classic “The Night Chicago Died” in a voice that reminded Myron of elderly Chinese women in the back of a laundromat. The albino also had a tin cup and a stack of cassettes. A sign read “The Original Benny and His Magical Sitar, only $10.” The original. Oh. Wouldn’t want that imitation albino, sitar, AM seventies music, no sir.
Benny smiled at him. When he reached the part of the song where the son learns a hundred cops are dead—maybe even the boy’s father—Benny began to weep. Moving. Myron stuffed a dollar into the cup. He crossed the street, his thoughts reverting back to the videotape of Emily and Thumper. He wondered now about the relevance.
He’d felt like a dirty voyeur for watching the tape in the first place, and now he felt that way for rehashing it in his mind. It was, after all, probably no more than a bizarre aside. What possible connection could there be in all this to the murder of Liz Gorman? None that he could see; then again he still had trouble seeing how Liz Gorman fit in with Greg’s gambling or how she fit in at all.
Still, the video undoubtedly raised a few fairly major issues. For one thing, there were the abuse allegations made against Greg. Was there anything to them, or as Marty Felder had indicated, was Emily’s attorney just playing hardball? And hadn’t Emily told Myron she would do anything to keep her kids? Even kill. How did Emily react when she learned about the videotape? Spurred on by this awful violation, how far would Emily go?
Myron entered his office building on Park Avenue. He exchanged a brief elevator smile with a young woman in a business suit. The elevator reeked of drugstore cologne, the kind where some guy decides that taking a shower is too time-consuming so he opts for sprinkling himself with enough cologne to glaze a wedding cake. The young woman sniffed and looked at Myron.
“I don’t wear cologne,” he said.
She didn’t seem convinced. Or perhaps she was condemning the gender in general for this affront. Understandable under these circumstances.
“Try holding your breath,” he said.
She looked at him, her face a seaweed green.
When he entered his office, Esperanza smiled and said, “Good morning.”
“Oh no,” Myron said.
“What?”
“You’ve never said good morning to me before. Ever.”
“I have too.”
Myron shook his head. “Et tu, Esperanza?”