by Harlan Coben
“I don’t want to be rude or anything,” Corbett said, “but do you mind if I ask the questions?”
Myron glanced at the still body. He felt light-headed. Jack dead. Why? How did it happen? And why had the police decided to question him? “Where is Mrs. Coldren?” Myron asked.
Corbett glanced at the two officers, then at Myron. “Why would you want to know that?”
“I want to make sure she’s safe.”
“Well then,” Corbett began, folding his arms under his chest, “if that’s the case, you should have asked, ‘How is Mrs. Coldren?’ or ‘Is Mrs. Coldren all right?’—not ‘Where is Mrs. Coldren?’ I mean, if you’re really interested in how she is.”
Myron looked at Corbett for several seconds. “God. You. Are. Good.”
“No reason for sarcasm, Mr. Bolitar. You just seem very concerned about her.”
“I am.”
“You a friend?”
“Yes.”
“A close friend?”
“Pardon me?”
“Again, I don’t want to appear rude or anything,” Corbett said, spreading his hands, “but have you been—you know—porking her?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Is that a yes?”
Calm down, Myron. Corbett was trying to keep him off balance. Myron knew the game. Dumb to let it get to him. “The answer is no. We’ve had no sexual contact whatsoever.”
“Really? That’s odd.”
He wanted Myron to bite with a “What’s odd?” Myron did not oblige him.
“You see, a couple of witnesses saw you two together several times over the past few days. At a tent in Corporate Row, mostly. You sat alone for several hours. Very snuggly. Are you sure you weren’t playing a little kissy-face?”
Myron said, “No.”
“No, you weren’t playing a little kissy-face, or no—”
“No, we weren’t playing kissy-face or anything like that.”
“Uh-huh, I see.” Corbett feigned chewing over this little tidbit. “Where were you last night, Mr. Bolitar?”
“Am I a suspect, Detective?”
“We’re just chatting amicably, Mr. Bolitar. That’s all.”
“Do you have an estimated time of death?” Myron asked.
Corbett offered up another cop-polite smile. “Once again, far be it from me to be obtuse or rude, but I would rather concentrate on you right now.” His voice gathered a little more muster. “Where were you last night?”
Myron remembered Linda’s call on the cell phone. Undeniably the police had already questioned her. Had she told them about the kidnapping? Probably not. Either way, it was not his place to mention it. He didn’t know where things stood. Speaking out of turn could jeopardize Chad’s safety. Best to get out of here pronto.
“I’d like to see Mrs. Coldren.”
“Why?”
“To make sure she’s okay.”
“That’s sweet, Mr. Bolitar. And very noble. But I’d like you to answer my question.”
“I’d like to see Mrs. Coldren first.”
Corbett gave him the narrow cop-eyes. “Are you refusing to answer my questions?”
“No. But right now my priority is my potential client’s welfare.”
“Client?”
“Mrs. Coldren and I have been discussing the possibility of her signing on with MB SportsReps.”
“I see,” Corbett said, rubbing his chin. “So that explains your sitting together in the tent.”
“I’ll answer your questions later, Detective. Right now I’d like to check up on Mrs. Coldren.”
“She’s fine, Mr. Bolitar.”
“I’d like to see for myself.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not that. But if I am going to be her agent, then I must be at her disposal first and foremost.”
Corbett shook his head and raised his eyebrows. “That’s some crock of shit you’re peddling, Bolitar.”
“May I go now?”
Corbett gave the big hand spread again. “You’re not under arrest. In fact”—he turned to the two officers—“please escort Mr. Bolitar to the Coldren residence. Make sure nobody bothers him on the way.”
Myron smiled. “Thank you, Detective.”
“Think nothing of it.” As Myron began to walk away, Corbett called out, “Oh, one more thing.” The man had definitely watched too much Columbo. “That call you got in the squad car just now. Was that from Mrs. Coldren?”
Myron said nothing.
“No matter. We can check the phone records.” He gave the Columbo wave. “Have a special day.”
26
There were four more cop cars outside the Coldren house. Myron walked to the door on his own and knocked. A black woman Myron did not recognize opened it.
Her eyes flicked at the top of his head. “Nice hat,” she said without inflection. “Come on in.”
The woman was about fifty years old and wore a nicely tailored suit. Her coffee skin looked leathery and worn. Her face was kind of sleepy, her eyes half-closed, her expression perpetually bored. “I’m Victoria Wilson,” she said.
“Myron Bolitar.”
“Yes, I know.” Bored voice too.
“Is anybody else here?”
“Just Linda.”
“Can I see her?”
Victoria Wilson nodded slowly; Myron half expected her to stifle a yawn. “Maybe we should talk first.”
“Are you with the police?” Myron asked.
“The opposite,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Coldren’s attorney.”
“That was fast.”
“Let me put this plainly,” she ho-hummed, sounding like a diner waitress reading off the specials in the last hour of a double shift. “The police believe that Mrs. Coldren killed her husband. They also think that you’re involved in some way.”
Myron looked at her. “You’re kidding, right?”
The same sleepy expression. “Do I look like a prankster, Mr. Bolitar?”
Rhetorical question.
“Linda does not have a solid alibi for late last night,” she went on, still with the flat tone. “Do you?”
“Not really.”
“Well, let me tell you what the police already know.” The woman took blasé and raised it to an art form. “First”—raising a finger in the air seemed to take great effort—“they have a witness, a groundskeeper, who saw Jack Coldren enter Merion at approximately one in the morning. The same witness also saw Linda Coldren do likewise thirty minutes later. He also saw Linda Coldren leave the grounds not long after that. He never saw Jack Coldren leave.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“Second”—another finger in the air, making a peace sign—“the police received a report last night at approximately two in the morning that your car, Mr. Bolitar, was parked on Golf House Road. The police will want to know what you were doing parking in such a strange spot at such a strange time.”
“How do you know all this?” Myron asked.
“I have good connections with the police,” she said. Again bored. “May I continue?”
“Please.”
“Third”—yep, another finger—“Jack Coldren had been seeing a divorce attorney. He had, in fact, begun the process of filing papers.”
“Did Linda know this?”
“No. But one of the allegations Mr. Coldren made concerned his wife’s recent infidelity.”
Myron put both hands to his chest. “Don’t look at me.”
“Mr. Bolitar?”
“What?”
“I am just stating facts. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt. Fourth”—final finger—“on Saturday at the U.S. Open golf tournament, several witnesses described you and Mrs. Coldren as being a bit more than chummy.”
Myron waited. Victoria Wilson lowered the hand, never showing the thumb.
“Is that it?” Myron asked.
“No. But that’s all we’ll discuss for now.”
“I met Lind
a for the first time on Friday.”
“And you can prove that?”
“Bucky can testify to it. He introduced us.”
Another big sigh. “Linda Coldren’s father. What a perfect, unbiased witness.”
“I live in New York.”
“Which is less than two hours by Amtrak from Philadelphia. Go on.”
“I have a girlfriend. Jessica Culver. I live with her.”
“And no man has ever cheated on his girlfriend before. Stunning testimony.”
Myron shook his head. “So you’re suggesting—”
“Nothing,” Victoria Wilson interrupted him with the monotone. “I am suggesting absolutely nothing. I am telling you what the police believe—that Linda killed Jack. The reason why there are so many police officers surrounding this house is because they want to make sure that we do not remove anything before a search warrant is issued. They have made it crystal clear that they want no Kardashians on this one.”
Kardashian. As in O.J. The man had changed law lexicon forever. “But …” Myron stopped. “This is ridiculous. Where is Linda?”
“Upstairs. I’ve informed the police that she is too grief-stricken to speak to them at this time.”
“You don’t understand. Linda shouldn’t even be a suspect. Once she tells you the whole story, you’ll see what I mean.”
Another near yawn. “She has told me the whole story.”
“Even about …?”
“The kidnapping,” Victoria Wilson finished for him. “Yes.”
“Well, don’t you think that kind of exonerates her?”
“No.”
Myron was confused. “Do the police know about the kidnapping?”
“Of course not. We are saying nothing at this time.” Myron made a face. “But once they hear about the kidnapping, they’ll focus on that. They’ll know Linda couldn’t be involved.” Victoria Wilson turned away. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“You don’t agree?”
She didn’t respond. They began to climb the staircase. Victoria said, “You are an attorney.”
It didn’t sound like a question, but Myron still said, “I don’t practice.”
“But you passed the bar.”
“In New York.”
“Good enough. I want you to be co-counsel in this case. I can get you an immediate dispensation.”
“I don’t do criminal law,” Myron said.
“You don’t have to. I just want you to be an attorney of record for Mrs. Coldren.”
Myron nodded. “So I can’t testify,” he said. “So everything I hear falls under privilege.”
Still bored. “You are a smart one.” She stopped next to a bedroom door and leaned against a wall. “Go in. I’m going to wait out here.”
Myron knocked. Linda Coldren told him to come in. He opened the door. Linda stood by the far window looking out onto her backyard.
“Linda?”
Her back still faced him. “I’m having a bad week, Myron.” She laughed. It was not a happy sound.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Me? Never better. Thanks for asking.”
He stepped toward her, unsure what to say. “Did the kidnappers call about the ransom?”
“Last night,” Linda said. “Jack spoke to them.”
“What did they say?”
“I don’t know. He stormed out after the call. He never told me.”
Myron tried to picture this scene. A call comes in. Jack answers it. He runs out without saying anything. It didn’t exactly mesh.
“Have you heard from them again?” he tried.
“No, not yet.”
Myron nodded, even though she wasn’t facing him. “So what did you do?”
“Do?”
“Last night. After Jack stormed out.”
Linda Coldren folded her arms across her chest. “I waited a few minutes for him to calm down,” she said. “When he didn’t come back, I went out looking for him.”
“You went to Merion,” Myron said.
“Yes. Jack likes to stroll the grounds. To think and be alone.”
“Did you see him there?”
“No. I looked around for a while. Then I came back here. That’s when I ran into you.”
“And Jack never came back,” Myron said.
With her back still to him, Linda Coldren shook her head. “What tipped you off, Myron? The dead body in the stone quarry?”
“Just trying to help.”
She turned to him. Her eyes were red. Her face was drawn. She was still incredibly beautiful. “I just need someone to take it out on.” She shrugged, tried a smile. “You’re here.”
Myron wanted to step closer. He refrained. “You’ve been up all night?”
She nodded. “I’ve been standing right here, waiting for Jack to come home. When the police knocked on the door, I thought it was about Chad. This is going to sound awful, but when they told me about Jack, I was almost relieved.”
The phone rang.
Linda spun around with enough speed to start up a wind tunnel. She looked at Myron. He looked at her.
“It’s probably the media,” he said.
Linda shook her head. “Not on that line.” She reached for the phone, pressed the lit-up button, picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” she said.
A voice replied. Linda gasped and bit down in mid-scream. Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears pushed their way out of her eyes. The door flew open. Victoria Wilson stepped into the room, looking like a bear stirred from a power nap.
Linda looked up at them both. “It’s Chad,” she said. “He’s free.”
27
Victoria Wilson took control. “Well go pick him up,” she said. “You stay on the line with him.”
Linda started shaking her head. “But I want—”
“Trust me on this, honey. If you go, every cop and news reporter will follow. Myron and I can lose them if we have to. I don’t want the police talking to your son until I have. You just stay here. You say nothing. If the police come in with a warrant, you let them in. You don’t say a word. No matter what. Do you understand?”
Linda nodded.
“So where is he?”
“On Porter Street.”
“Okay, tell him Aunt Victoria is on the way. We’ll take care of him.”
Linda grabbed her arm, her face pleading. “Will you bring him back here?”
“Not right away, hon.” The voice was still matter-of-fact. “The police will see. I can’t have that. It’ll raise too many questions. You’ll see him soon enough.”
Victoria Wilson turned away. There was no debate with this woman.
In the car, Myron asked, “How do you know Linda?”
“My mother and father were servants for the Buckwells and Lockwoods,” she replied. “I grew up on their estates.”
“But somewhere along the line you went to law school?”
She frowned. “You writing my biography?”
“I’m just asking.”
“Why? You surprised that a middle-aged black woman is the attorney for rich WASPs?”
“Frankly,” Myron said, “yes.”
“Don’t blame you. But we don’t have time for that now. You got any important questions?”
“Yes,” Myron said. He was doing the driving. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing that you need to know.”
“I’m an attorney of record on the case. I need to know everything.”
“Later. Let’s concentrate on the boy first.”
Again the no-argument monotone.
“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” Myron continued. “Not telling the police about the kidnapping?”
“We can always tell them later,” Victoria Wilson replied. “That’s the mistake most defendants make. They think they have to talk their way out of it right away. But that’s dangerous. There is always time to talk later.”
“I’m not sure I agree.”
�
��Tell you what, Myron. If we need some expertise on negotiating a sneaker deal, I’ll put you in charge. But while this thing is still a criminal case, let me take the lead, okay?”
“The police want to question me.”
“You say nothing. That is your right. You don’t have to say a word to the police.”
“Unless they subpoena me.”
“Even then. You are Linda Coldren’s attorney. You don’t say anything.”
Myron shook his head. “That only works for what was said after you asked me to be co-counsel. They can ask me about anything that happened before.”
“Wrong.” Victoria Wilson gave a distracted sigh. “When Linda Coldren first asked you to help, she knew you were a bar-appointed attorney. Therefore everything she told you fell under attorney-client.”
Myron had to smile. “That’s reaching.”
“But that’s the way it is.” He could feel her eyes on him now. “No matter what you might want to do, morally and legally you are not allowed to talk to anyone.”
She was good.
Myron drove a bit faster. No one was tailing them; the police and the reporters had stuck to the house. The story was all over the radio. The anchorman kept repeating a one-line statement issued by Linda Coldren: “We are all saddened by this tragedy. Please allow us to grieve in peace.”
“You issue that statement?” Myron asked.
“No. Linda did it before I got there.”
“Why?”
“She thought it would keep the media off her back. She knows better now.”
They pulled up on Porter Street. Myron scanned the sidewalks.
“Up there,” Victoria Wilson said.
Myron saw him. Chad Coldren was huddled on the ground. The telephone receiver was still gripped in one hand, but he wasn’t talking. The other hand was heavily bandaged. Myron felt a little queasy. He hit the gas pedal. The car jerked forward. They pulled up to the boy. Chad stared straight ahead.
Victoria Wilson’s indifferent expression finally melted a bit. “Let me handle this,” she said.
She got out of the car and walked over to the boy. She bent down and cradled him. She took the receiver away from him, talked into it, hung up. She helped Chad to his feet, stroking his hair, whispering comforts. They both got into the backseat. Chad leaned his head against her. She made soothing shushing noises. She nodded at Myron. Myron put the car in drive.