by Harlan Coben
“Oh?”
“Did you pass on the message to Win?”
“You set that up, didn’t you? You told her I’d be there.”
“Please answer the question.”
“Yes, I delivered the message.”
“What did Win say?”
“I delivered the message,” Myron said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m giving out reports on my friend’s reaction.”
“She’s getting worse, Myron.”
“I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“Where are you right now?” she asked.
“I just hit the New Jersey Turnpike. I’m on my way to Lloyd Rennart’s house.”
“I thought I told you to leave that path alone.”
“So you did.”
More silence.
“Good-bye, Myron.”
She hung up. Myron sighed. He suddenly longed for the days before the car phone, the cell phone, the beeper. Reaching out and touching someone was getting to be a real pain in the ass.
An hour later, Myron parked again in front of the Rennarts’ modest home. He knocked on the door. Mrs. Rennart opened it immediately. She studied his face for a few long seconds. Neither of them spoke. Not even a greeting or salutation.
“You look tired,” she said at last.
“I am.”
“Did Lloyd really send that postcard?”
“Yes.”
The answer had been automatic. But now he wondered—had Lloyd Rennart sent a postcard? For all he knew, Linda was simply sizing him for the title role in Big Sap: The Musical. Take the missing taped phone call, for example. If indeed the kidnapper had called Jack before his death, where was the tape of the call? Maybe the call had never occurred. Maybe Linda had lied about it. Maybe she was lying about the postcard too. Maybe she was lying about everything. Maybe Myron was simply being semi-seduced, like the hormone-driven male in one of those cheesy, unrated, direct-to-video, Body Heat rip-offs co-starring women with names like Shannon or Tawny.
Not a pleasant thought.
Francine Rennart silently led him into a dark basement. When they hit bottom, she reached up and switched on one of those swinging lightbulbs like something out of Psycho. The room was pure cement. There was a water heater, a gas heater, a washer and dryer, and storage containers of various sizes, shapes, and material. Four boxes lay on the floor in front of him.
“That’s his old stuff,” Francine Rennart said without looking down.
“Thank you.”
She tried, but she could not make herself look at the boxes. “I’ll be upstairs,” she said. Myron watched her feet disappear from view. Then he turned to the boxes and squatted down. The boxes were taped shut. He took out his key-chain penknife and slit the packing tape.
The first box had golf memorabilia. There were certificates and trophies and old tees. A golf ball was mounted to a wooden base with a rusty plaque that read:
HOLE IN ONE—15TH HOLE AT HICKORY PARK
JANUARY 17, 1972
Myron wondered what life had been like for Lloyd on that clear, crisp golf afternoon. He wondered how often Lloyd had replayed the shot in his mind, how many times he’d sat alone in that BarcaLounger and tried to recapture that pure, cold rush. Had he remembered the feel of the club’s grip, the tightness in his shoulders as he began the backswing, the clean, solid stroke of the ball, the floating follow-through.
In the second box, Myron found Lloyd’s high school diploma. He found a yearbook from Penn State. There was a picture of the golf team. Lloyd Rennart had been captain. Myron’s finger touched upon a large, felt P. Lloyd’s varsity letter. There was a recommendation letter from his golf coach at Penn State. The words bright future jumped out at Myron. Bright future. The coach may have been a great motivator, but he made a lousy soothsayer.
The third box started off with a photograph of Lloyd in Korea. It was a casual group photo, a dozen or so boys/men in unbuttoned fatigues, arms dangling loosely around neighboring necks. Lots of smiles, seemingly happy smiles. Lloyd was thinner there, but he saw nothing gaunt or drawn in the eyes.
Myron put the picture down. In the background, Betty Buckley was not singing “Memory,” but maybe she should have been. These boxes were a life—a life that in spite of these experiences and dreams and wants and hopes had chosen to terminate itself.
From the bottom of the box Myron pulled out a wedding album. The faded gold leaf read: Lloyd and Lucille, November 17, 1968, Now and Forever. More irony. The fake-leather cover was crusted with what looked like drink ringlets. Lloyd’s first marriage, neatly wrapped and packed away in the bottom of a box.
Myron was about to put the album to the side when his curiosity got the better of him. He sat all the way down, his legs splayed like a kid with a new pack of baseball cards. He placed the photo album on the cement floor and began to open it. The binding made a cracking noise from the years of disuse.
The first photograph almost made Myron scream out loud.
40
Myron’s accelerator foot never eased.
Chestnut Street near Fourth is a no-parking zone, but that did not even make Myron pause. He was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop, ignoring the chorus of honking horns. He hurried through the Omni’s lobby and into an open elevator. When he got off on the top floor, he found the right room number and knocked hard.
Norm Zuckerman opened the door. “Bubbe,” he said with a big smile. “What a nice surprise.”
“Can I come in?”
“You? Of course, sweetheart, anytime.”
But Myron had already pushed by him. The suite’s outer room was—to use hotel brochure lingo—spacious and elegantly appointed. Esme Fong sat on a couch. She looked up at him with the cornered-rabbit face. Posters and blueprints and advertisements and similar paraphernalia carpeted the floor and cascaded off the coffee table. Myron spotted blown-up images of Tad Crispin and Linda Coldren. Zoom logos were everywhere, inescapable, like vengeful ghosts or telemarketers.
“We were just doing a little strategizing,” Norm said. “But hey, we can always take a break, right, Esme?”
Esme nodded.
Norm made his way behind a wet bar. “You want something, Myron? I don’t think they have any Yoo-Hoo in here, but I’m sure—”
“Nothing,” Myron interrupted.
Norm did the mock surrender thing with his hands. “Sheesh, Myron, relax,” he said. “What’s twisting your nipple?”
“I wanted to warn you, Norm.”
“Warn me about what?”
“I don’t want to do this. As far as I’m concerned, your love life should be personal. But it’s not that easy. Not anymore. It’s going to get out, Norm. I’m sorry.”
Norm Zuckerman did not move. He opened his mouth as though readying to protest. Then he stopped. “How did you find out?”
“You were with Jack. At the Court Manor Inn. A maid saw you.”
Norm looked at Esme, who kept her head high. He turned back to Myron. “Do you know what will happen if word gets out that I’m a faygeleh?”
“I can’t help that, Norm.”
“I am the company, Myron. Zoom is about fashion and image and sports—which just so happens to be the most blatantly homophobic entity on this planet. Perception is everything in this business. If they find out I’m an old queen, you know what happens? Zoom goes plop down the septic tank.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” Myron said, “but either way, it can’t be helped.”
“Do the police know?” Norm asked.
“No, not yet.”
Norm threw up his hands. “So why does it have to come out? It was just a fling, for crying out loud. Okay, so I met Jack. So we were attracted to each other. So we both had a ton to lose if either of us opened our traps. No big whup. It’s got nothing to do with his murder.”
Myron stole a glance at Esme. She looked back at him with eyes that urged him to keep silent. “Unfortunately” Myron said, “I think it does.”
>
“You think? You’re going to destroy me on an ‘I think’?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I can’t talk you out of it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Norm moved away from the bar and half-collapsed into a chair. He put his face in the palms of his hands, his fingers sliding toward the back, meeting up in the hair, interweaving. “I’ve spent my entire life with lies, Myron,” he began. “I spent my childhood in Poland pretending I wasn’t a Jew. Can you believe that? Me, Norm Zuckerman, pretending I was some slack-jawed goy. But I survived. I came here. And then I spent my adult life pretending I was a real man, a Casanova, a guy who always had a beautiful girl on his arm. You get used to lying, Myron. It gets easier, you know what I mean? The lies become a sort of second reality.”
“I’m sorry, Norm.”
He breathed deeply and forced up a tired smile. “Maybe it’s for the best,” Norm said. “Look at Dennis Rodman. He cross-dresses, for crying out loud. Hasn’t hurt him any, has it?”
“No. It hasn’t.”
Norm Zuckerman lifted his eyes toward Myron. “Hey, once I got to this country, I became the most in-your-face Jew you ever saw. Didn’t I? Tell me the truth. Am I not the most in-your-face Jew you’ve ever met, or what?”
“In my face,” Myron said.
“Bet your skinny melinka of a butt I am. And when I first started out, everyone told me to tone it down. Stop being so Jewish, they said. So ethnic. You’ll never be accepted.” His face had true hope now. “Maybe I can do the same for us closet faygelehs, Myron. Be in the world’s face again, you know what I’m saying?”
“Yes, I do,” Myron said softly. Then he asked, “Who else knew about you and Jack?”
“Knew?”
“Did you tell anybody?”
“No, of course not.”
Myron gestured toward Esme. “How about one of those beautiful girlfriends on your arm? How about someone who practically lived with you? Wouldn’t it have been easy for her to find out?”
Norm shrugged. “I suppose so. You get this close to someone, you trust them. You drop your guard. So maybe she knew. So what?”
Myron looked at Esme. “You want to tell him?”
Esme’s voice was cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tell me what?”
Myron kept his eyes on hers. “I wondered why you’d seduce a sixteen-year-old boy. Don’t get me wrong. You gave a bravo performance—all that talk about being lonely and Chad being sweet and disease-free. You waxed quite eloquent. But it still rang hollow.”
Norm said, “What the hell are you talking about, Myron?”
Myron ignored him. “And then there was the matter of the bizarre coincidence—you and Chad showing up at the same motel at the same time as Jack and Norm. Too weird. I just couldn’t buy it. But of course, we both know that it wasn’t a coincidence. You planned it that way, Esme.”
“What plan?” Norm interjected. “Myron, will you tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Norm, you mentioned that Esme used to work on Nike’s basketball campaign. That she quit that job to come to you.”
“So?”
“Did she take a cut in salary?”
“A little.” Norm shrugged. “Not much.”
“When exactly did she hook up with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Within the past eight months?”
Norm thought a moment. “Yeah, so?”
“Esme seduced Chad Coldren. She set up a liaison with him at the Court Manor Inn. But she wasn’t bringing him there for sex or because she was lonely. She brought him there as part of a setup.”
“What kind of setup?”
“She wanted Chad to see his father with another man.”
“Huh?”
“She wanted to destroy Jack. It was no coincidence. Esme knew your routine. She learned about your affair with Jack. So she tried to set it up so Chad would see what his father was really about.”
Esme remained silent.
“Tell me something, Norm. Were you and Jack supposed to meet Thursday night?”
“Yeah,” Norm said.
“What happened?”
“Jack called it off. He pulled into the lot and got spooked. He said he saw a familiar car.”
“Not just familiar,” Myron said. “His son’s. That’s where Esme screwed up. Jack spotted the car. He left before Chad had a chance to see him.”
Myron stood and walked toward Esme. She remained still. “I almost had it right from the beginning,” he told her. “Jack took the lead at the Open. His son was there, right in front of you. So you kidnapped Chad to throw Jack’s game off. It was just like I thought. Except I missed your real motive. Why would you kidnap Chad? Why would you crave such vengeance against Jack Coldren? Yes, money was part of the motive. Yes, you wanted Zoom’s new campaign to succeed. Yes, you knew that if Tad Crispin won the Open, you’d be heralded as the marketing genius of the world. All that played into it. But, of course, that never explained why you brought Chad to the Court Manor Inn in the first place—before Jack had the lead.”
Norm sighed. “So tell us, Myron. What possible reason could she have for wanting to hurt Jack?”
Myron reached into his pocket and pulled out a grainy photograph. The first page of the wedding album. Lloyd and Lucille Rennart. Smiling. Happy. Standing side by side. Lloyd in a tux. Lucille holding a bouquet of flowers. Lucille looking stunning in a long white gown. But that wasn’t what had shocked Myron to the core. What shocked him had nothing to do with what Lucille wore or held; rather, it was what she was.
Lucille Rennart was Asian.
“Lloyd Rennart was your father,” Myron said. “You were in the car that day when he crashed into a tree. Your mother died. You were rushed to the hospital too.”
Esme’s back was rod-straight, but her breathing was coming out in hitches.
“I’m not sure what happened next,” he continued. “My guess would be that your father had hit rock bottom. He was a drunk. He had just killed his own wife. He felt washed-up, useless. So maybe he realized that he couldn’t raise you. Or he didn’t deserve to raise you. Or maybe an arrangement was reached with your mother’s family. In return for not pressing charges, Lloyd would give Lucille’s family custody of you. I don’t know what happened. But you ended up being raised by your mother’s family. By the time Lloyd straightened himself out, he probably felt it would be wrong to tear you out by the roots. Or maybe he was afraid that his daughter wouldn’t take back the father who’d been responsible for killing her mother. Whatever, Lloyd kept quiet. He never even told his second wife about you.”
Tears were streaming down Esme’s cheeks now. Myron felt like crying too.
“How close am I, Esme?”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“There’ll be records,” Myron said. “Birth certificates, for certain. Probably adoption papers. It won’t take the police long to trace.” He held up the photograph, his voice soft.
“The resemblance between you and your mother is almost enough.”
Tears continued to flow, but she was not crying. No sobs. No hitching. No quivering facial muscles. Just tears. “Maybe Lloyd Rennart was my father,” Esme said. “But you still have nothing. The rest is pure conjecture.”
“No, Esme. Once the police confirm your parentage, the rest will be easy. Chad will tell them that it was you who suggested you go to the Court Manor Inn. They’ll look closely into Tito’s death. There’ll be a connection there. Fibers. Hairs. It’ll all come together. But I have one question for you.”
She remained still.
“Why did you cut off Chad’s finger?”
Without warning, Esme broke into a run. Myron was caught off guard. He jumped over the couch to block her path. But he had misjudged her. She had not been heading for an exit; she was going into a bedroom. Her bedroom. Myron hurdled back over the couch. He reached her room, but he
was a little late.
Esme Fong had a gun. She pointed it at Myron’s chest. He could see in her eyes that there’d be no confession, no explanations, no talk. She was ready to shoot.
“Don’t bother,” Myron said.
“What?”
He pulled out his cell phone and handed it to her. “This is for you.”
Esme did not move for a moment. Then, with her hand still on the gun, she reached out and took the phone. She pressed it against her ear, but Myron could hear just fine.
A voice said, “This is Detective Alan Corbett from the Philadelphia Police Department. We are standing outside your door listening to every word that has been said. Put down the gun.”
Esme looked back at Myron. She still had the gun aimed at his chest. Myron felt a bead of sweat run down his back. Looking into the barrel of a gun was like staring into the cavern of death. Your eyes saw the barrel, only the barrel, as though it were growing impossibly larger, preparing to swallow you whole.
“It would be dumb,” he said.
She nodded then and lowered the gun. “And pointless.”
The weapon dropped to the floor. Doors burst open. Police swarmed in.
Myron looked down at the gun. “A thirty-eight,” he said to Esme. “That the gun you killed Tito with?”
Her expression gave him the answer. The ballistics tests would be conclusive. She would be prosecutorial toast.
“Tito was a lunatic,” Esme said. “He chopped off the boy’s finger. He started making money demands. You have to believe that.”
Myron gave a noncommittal nod. She was testing out her defense, but it sort of sounded like the truth to Myron.
Corbett snapped handcuffs onto her wrists.
Her words were spilling out fast now. “Jack Coldren destroyed my entire family. He ruined my father and killed my mother. And for what? My father did nothing wrong.”
“Yes,” Myron said, “he did.”
“He pulled the wrong club out of a golf bag, if you believe Jack Coldren. He made a mistake. An accident. Should it have cost him so much?”
Myron said nothing. It was no mistake, no accident. And Myron had no idea what it should have cost.