by Harlan Coben
“Goodness me,” she said. “Myron Bolitar. Come in.”
Myron followed her inside. The house had the stale smell of a grandparent. When you’re a kid, the smell gives you the creeps; when you’re an adult, you want to bottle it and let it out with a cup of cocoa on a bad day. “I put coffee on, Myron. Would you like some?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
“Sit down over there. I’ll be right back.”
Myron grabbed a seat on a stiff sofa with a flowered print.
For some reason he put his hands in his lap. As if he were waiting for a schoolteacher. Myron glanced about. There were African sculptures made of wood on the coffee table. The fireplace mantel was lined with family photographs. Almost all of them featured a young man who looked vaguely familiar. Mabel Edwards’s son, he guessed. It was the standard parental shrine—that is, you could follow the offspring’s life from infancy through adulthood with the images in these frames. There was a baby photo, those school portraits with the rainbow background, a big Afro playing basketball, a tuxedo-and-date prom, a couple of graduations, blah, blah, blah. Corny, yes, but these photo montages always touched Myron, exploiting his overtuned sensitivity like a sappy Hallmark commercial.
Mabel Edwards came back into the living room with a tray. “We met once before,” she said.
Myron nodded, trying to remember. Something played along the edges, but it wouldn’t come into focus.
“You were in high school.” She handed him a cup on a saucer. Then she pushed the tray with cream and sugar toward him. “Horace took me to one of your games. You were playing Shabazz.”
It came back to Myron. Junior year, the Essex County tournament. Shabazz was short for Malcolm X Shabazz High School of Newark. The school had no whites. Its starting five featured guys named Rhahim and Khalid. Even back then Shabazz High had been surrounded by a barbwire fence with a sign that read GUARD DOGS ON DUTY.
Guard dogs at a high school. Think about it.
“I remember,” Myron said.
Mabel burst into a short laugh. When she did, every part of her jiggled. “Funniest thing I ever saw,” she said. “All these pale boys walking in scared out of their wits, eyes as big as saucers. You were the only one at home, Myron.”
“That’s because of your brother.”
She shook her head. “Horace said you were the best he ever worked with. He said nothing would have stopped you from being great.” She leaned forward. “You two had something special, didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Horace loved you, Myron. Talked about you all the time. When you got drafted, I tell you, it was the happiest I’d seen him in years. You called him, right?”
“As soon as I heard.”
“I remember. He came over and told me all about it.” Her voice was wistful. She paused and adjusted herself in the seat. “And when you got hurt, well, Horace cried. Big, tough man came to this house and sat right where you are now, Myron, and he cried like a little baby.”
Myron said nothing.
“You want to know something else?” Mabel continued. She took a sip of her coffee. Myron held his cup, but he could not move. He managed a nod.
“When you tried that comeback last year, Horace was so worried. He wanted to call you, talk you out of it.”
Myron’s voice was thick. “So why didn’t he?”
Mabel Edwards gave him a gentle smile. “When was the last time you spoke to Horace?”
“That phone call,” Myron said. “Right after the draft.”
She nodded as though that explained everything. “I think Horace knew you were hurting,” she said. “I think he figured you’d call when you were ready.”
Myron felt something well up in his eyes. Regrets and could-have-beens tried to sneak in, but he shoved them away. No time for this now. He blinked a few times and put the coffee to his lips. After he had taken a sip, he asked, “Have you seen Horace lately?”
She put her cup down slowly and studied his face. “Why do you want to know?”
“He hasn’t shown up for work. Brenda hasn’t seen him.”
“I understand that,” Mabel continued, her voice set on caution now, “but what’s your interest in this?”
“I want to help.”
“Help what?”
“Find him.”
Mabel Edwards waited a beat. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Myron,” she said, “but how does this concern you?”
“I’m trying to help Brenda.”
She stiffened slightly. “Brenda?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you know she got a court order to keep her father away from her?”
“Yes.”
Mabel Edwards slipped on the half-moon glasses and picked up her knitting. The needles began to dance. “I think maybe you should stay out of this, Myron.”
“Then you know where he is?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t say that.”
“Brenda is in danger, Mrs. Edwards. Horace might be connected.”
The knitting needles stopped short. “You think Horace would hurt his own daughter?” Her voice was a little sharp now.
“No, but there might be a connection. Somebody broke into Horace’s apartment. He packed a bag and cleared out his bank account. I think he may be in trouble.”
The needles started again. “If he is in trouble,” she said, “maybe it’s best that he stay hid.”
“Tell me where he is, Mrs. Edwards. I’d like to help.”
She stayed silent for a long time. She pulled at the yarn and kept knitting. Myron looked around the room. His eyes found the photographs again. He stood and studied them.
“Is this your son?” he asked.
She looked up over her glasses. “That’s Terence. I got married when I was seventeen, and Roland and I were blessed with him a year later.” The needles picked up speed. “Roland died when Terence was a baby. Shot on the front stoop of our home.”
“I’m sorry,” Myron said.
She shrugged, managed a sad smile. “Terence is the first college graduate in our family. That’s his wife on the right. And my two grandsons.”
Myron lifted the photograph. “Beautiful family.”
“Terence worked his way through Yale Law School,” she continued. “He became a town councilman when he was just twenty-five.” That was probably why he looked familiar, Myron thought. Local TV news or papers. “If he wins in November, he’ll be in the state senate before he’s thirty.”
“You must be proud,” Myron said.
“I am.”
Myron turned and looked at her. She looked back.
“It’s been a long time, Myron. Horace always trusted you, but this is different. We don’t know you anymore. These people who are looking for Horace”—she stopped and pointed to the puffy eye—“you see this?”
Myron nodded.
“Two men came by here last week. They wanted to know where Horace was. I told them I didn’t know.”
Myron felt his face flush. “They hit you?”
She nodded, her eyes on his.
“What did they look like?”
“White. One was a big man.”
“How big?”
“Maybe your size.”
Myron was six-four, two-twenty. “How about the other guy?”
“Skinny. And a lot older. He had a tattoo of a snake on his arm.” She pointed to her own immense biceps, indicating the spot.
“Please tell me what happened, Mrs. Edwards.”
“It’s just like I said. They came into my house and wanted to know where Horace was. When I told them I didn’t know, the big one punched me in the eye. The little one, he pulled the big one away.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No. But not because I was afraid. Cowards like that don’t scare me. But Horace told me not to.”
“Mrs. Edwards,” Myron said, “where is Horace?”
“I’ve already said too much, Myron
. I just want you to understand. These people are dangerous. For all I know, you’re working for them. For all I know, your coming here is just a trick to find Horace.”
Myron was not sure what to say. To protest his innocence would do little to assuage her fears. He decided to switch tracks and head in a completely different direction. “What can you tell me about Brenda’s mother?”
Mabel Edwards stiffened. She dropped the knitting into her lap, the half-moon glasses falling back to her bosom. “Why on earth would you ask about that?”
“A few minutes ago I told you that somebody broke into your brother’s apartment.”
“I remember.”
“Brenda’s letters from her mother were missing. And Brenda has been receiving threatening phone calls. One of them told her to call her mother.”
Mabel Edwards’s face went slack. Her eyes began to glisten.
After some time had passed, Myron tried again. “Do you remember when she ran away?”
Her eyes regained focus. “You don’t forget the day your brother dies.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She shook her head. “I can’t see how any of this matters. Anita’s been gone for twenty years.”
“Please, Mrs. Edwards, tell me what you remember.”
“Not much to tell,” Mabel said. “She left my brother a note and ran away.”
“Do you remember what the note said?”
“Something about how she didn’t love him anymore, how she wanted a new life.” Mabel Edwards stopped, waved her hand as though making space for herself. She took a handkerchief out of her bag and just held it in a tight ball.
“Could you tell me what she was like?”
“Anita?” She smiled now, but the handkerchief remained at the ready. “I introduced them, you know. Anita and I worked together.”
“Where?”
“The Bradford estate. We were maids. We were young girls then, barely in our twenties. I only worked there for six months. But Anita, she stayed on for six years, slaving for those people.”
“When you say the Bradford estate—”
“I mean, the Bradfords. Anita was a servant really. For the old lady mostly. That woman must be eighty by now. But they all lived there. Children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters. Like on Dallas. I don’t think that’s healthy, do you?”
Myron had no comment on that.
“Anyway, when I met Anita, I thought she was a fine young woman except”—she looked in the air as though searching for the right words, then shook her head because they weren’t there—“well, she was just too beautiful. I don’t know how else to say it. Beauty like that warps a man’s brain, Myron. Now Brenda, she’s attractive, I guess. Exotic, I think they call it. But Anita … hold on. I’ll find you a picture.”
She stood fluidly and semiglided out of the room. Despite her size, Mabel moved with the unlabored grace of a natural athlete. Horace too moved like that, blending bulk with finesse in an almost poetic way. She was gone for less than a minute, and when she returned, she handed him a photograph. Myron looked down.
A knockout. A pure, undiluted, knee-knocking, breath-stealing knockout. Myron understood the power a woman like that had over a man. Jessica had that kind of beauty. It was intoxicating and more than a little scary.
He studied the photograph. A young Brenda—no more than four or five years old—held her mother’s hand and smiled brightly. Myron tried to imagine Brenda smiling like that now, but the image would not form. There was a resemblance between mother and daughter, but as Mabel had pointed out, Anita Slaughter was certainly more beautiful—at least in the conventional sense—her features sharper and more defined where Brenda’s seemed large and almost mismatched.
“Anita put a dagger through Horace when she ran off,” Mabel Edwards continued. “He never recovered. Brenda neither. She was only a little girl when her mama left. She cried every night for three years. Even when she was in high school, Horace said she’d call out for her mama in her sleep.”
Myron finally looked up from the picture. “Maybe she didn’t run away,” he said.
Mabel’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe she met up with foul play.”
A sad smile crossed Mabel Edwards’s face. “I understand,” she said gently. “You look at that picture and you can’t accept it. You can’t believe a mother would abandon that sweet little child. I know. It’s hard. But she did it.”
“The note could have been a forgery,” Myron tried. “To throw Horace off the track.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You can’t be sure—”
“Anita calls me.”
Myron froze. “What?”
“Not often. Maybe once every two years. She’d ask about Brenda. I’d beg her to come back. She’d hang up.”
“Do you have any idea where she was calling from?”
Mabel shook her head. “In the beginning it sounded like long distance. There’d be static. I always figured she was overseas.”
“When was the last time she called you?”
There was no hesitation. “Three years ago. I told her about Brenda getting accepted to medical school.”
“Nothing since?”
“Not a word.”
“And you’re sure it was her?” Myron realized that he was reaching.
“Yes,” she said. “It was Anita.”
“Did Horace know about the calls?”
“At first I told him. But it was like ripping at a wound that wasn’t closing anyhow. So I stopped. But I think maybe she called him too.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He said something about it once when he had too much to drink. When I asked him about it later, he denied it, and I didn’t push him. You have to understand, Myron. We never talked about Anita. But she was always right there. In the room with us. You know what I’m saying?”
The silence moved in like a cloud covering. Myron waited for it to disperse, but it hung there, thick and heavy.
“I’m very tired, Myron. Can we talk more about this another time?”
“Of course.” He rose. “If your brother calls again—”
“He won’t. He thinks maybe they bugged the phone. I haven’t heard from him in almost a week.”
“Do you know where he is, Mrs. Edwards?”
“No. Horace said it’d be safer that way.”
Myron took a business card and a pen. He jotted down the number of his cellular phone. “I can be reached at this number twenty-four hours a day.”
She nodded, drained, the simple act of reaching for the card suddenly a chore.
“I wasn’t totally honest with you yesterday.”
Norm Zuckerman and Myron sat alone in the top row of the stands. Below them the New York Dolphins scrimmaged five-on-five. Myron was impressed. The women moved with finesse and strength. Being something of the semisexist Brenda had described, he had expected their movements to be more awkward, more the old stereotype of “throwing like a girl.”
“You want to hear something funny?” Norm asked. “I hate sports. Me, owner of Zoom, the sports apparel king, detests anything to do with a ball or a bat or a hoop or any of that. Know why?”
Myron shook his head.
“I was always bad at them. A major spaz, as the kids say today. My older brother, Herschel, now he was an athlete.” He looked off. When he started speaking again, his voice was throaty. “So gifted, sweet Heshy. You remind me of him, Myron. I’m not just saying that. I still miss him. Dead at fifteen.”
Myron did not need to ask how. Norm’s entire family had been slaughtered in Auschwitz. They all went in; only Norm came out. Today was warm, and Norm was wearing short sleeves. Myron could see his concentration camp tattoo and no matter how many times he saw one, he always fell into a respectful hush.
“This league”—Norm motioned toward the court—“it’s a long shot. I understood that from the start. It’s why I link so much of the league promotion with the clothing. If the WPB
A goes down the tubes, well, at least Zoom athletic wear would have gotten a ton of exposure out of it. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“And let’s face it: without Brenda Slaughter, the investment is shot. The league, the endorsements, the tie-in with the clothing, the whole thing goes kaput. If you wanted to destroy this enterprise, you would go through her.”
“And you think someone wants to do that?”
“Are you kidding? Everybody wants to do that. Nike, Converse, Reebok, whoever. It’s the nature of the beast. If the sneaker were on the other foot, so to speak, I would want the same thing. It’s called capitalism. It’s Economics one-oh-one. But this is different, Myron. Have you heard of the PWBL?”
“No.”
“You aren’t supposed to. Yet. It stands for the Professional Women’s Basketball League.”
Myron sat up a bit. “A second women’s basketball league?”
Norm nodded. “They want to start up next year.”
On the court Brenda got the ball and drove hard baseline. A player jumped up to block the shot. Brenda pump-faked, glided under the basket, and made a reverse layup. Improvised ballet.
“Let me guess,” Myron said. “This other league. It’s being set up by TruPro.”
“How did you know that?”
Myron shrugged. Things were beginning to click.
“Look, Myron, it’s like I said before: Women’s basketball is a tough sell. I’m promoting it a ton of different ways—to sports nuts, women eighteen to thirty-five, families who want something more genteel, fans who want more access to athletes—but at the end of the day there is one problem that this league will never overcome.”
“What’s that?”
Again Norm motioned to the court below them. “They’re not as good as the men. I’m not being a chauvinist here. It’s a fact. The men are better. The best player on this team could never compete against the worst player in the NBA. And when people watch professional sports, they want to watch the best. I’m not saying that the problem destroys us. I think we can build a nice fan base. But we have to be realistic.”