The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  Silence.

  “You can’t print it, Al.”

  “No problem. Hey, I gotta go.”

  Myron smiled. “Later, Al.”

  He hung up.

  Esperanza looked at him. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

  “Al Toney is the master of the loophole,” Myron explained. “He promised he wouldn’t print it. He won’t. But he works by trading favors. He’s the best barterer in the business.”

  “So?”

  “So now he’ll call a friend at the Seattle Times and barter. The injury rumor will spread. If it gets public before the trade is announced, well, it’s doomed.”

  Esperanza smiled. “Highly unethical.”

  Myron shrugged. “Let’s just say it’s fuzzy.”

  “I still like it.”

  “Always remember the MB SportsReps credo: The client comes first.”

  She nodded and added, “Even in sexual liaisons.”

  “Hey, we’re a full-service agency.” Myron looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, “Can I ask you something?”

  She tilted her head. “I don’t know. Can you?”

  “Why do you hate Jessica?”

  Esperanza’s face clouded over. She shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She crossed her legs, uncrossed them. “Let me just stick to taking cheap potshots, okay?”

  “You’re my best friend,” he said. “I want to know why you don’t like her.”

  Esperanza sighed, crossed the legs again, tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “Jessica is bright, smart, funny, a great writer, and I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating crackers.”

  Bisexuals.

  “But she hurt you.”

  “So? She’s not the first woman to commit an indiscretion.”

  “True enough,” Esperanza agreed. She slapped her knees and stood. “Guess I’m wrong. Can I go now?”

  “So why do you still hold a grudge?”

  “I like grudges,” Esperanza said. “They’re easier than forgiveness.”

  Myron shook his head, signaled her to sit.

  “What do you want me to say, Myron?”

  “I want you to tell me why you don’t like her.”

  “I’m just being a pain in the ass. Don’t take it seriously.”

  Myron shook his head again.

  Esperanza put her hand to her face. She looked away for a moment. “You’re not tough enough, okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For that kind of hurt. Most people can take it. I can. Jessica can. Win certainly can. But you can’t. You’re not tough enough. You’re just not built that way.”

  “Then maybe that’s my fault.”

  “It is your fault,” Esperanza said. “At least in part. You idealize relationships too much, for one thing. And you’re too sensitive. You used to expose yourself too much. You used to leave yourself too open.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  She hesitated. “No. In fact, it’s a good thing, I guess. A bit naive, but it’s a lot better than those assholes who hold everything back. Can we stop talking about this now?”

  “I still don’t think you’ve answered my question.”

  Esperanza raised her palms. “That’s as good as I can do.”

  Myron flashed back to Little League again, to being hit by Joey Davito’s pitch, to never planting his feet in the batter’s box the same again. He nodded. Used to expose, Esperanza had said. “Used to.” A curious use of words.

  Esperanza took advantage of the silence and changed subjects. “I checked into Elizabeth Bradford for you.”

  “And?”

  “There’s nothing there that would suggest her death was anything other than an accident. You can take a run at her brother, if you want. He lives in Westport. He’s also closely aligned to his old brother-in-law, so I doubt you’ll get anywhere.”

  Waste of time. “Any other family?”

  “A sister who also lives in Westport. But she’s spending the summer on the Côte d’Azur.”

  Strike two.

  “Anything else?”

  “One thing bothered me a little,” Esperanza said. “Elizabeth Bradford was clearly a social animal, a society dame of the first order. Barely a week went by when her name wasn’t in the paper for some function or other. But about six months before she fell off the balcony, mentions of her stopped.”

  “When you say ‘stopped’—”

  “I mean, completely. Her name was nowhere, not even in the town paper.”

  Myron thought about this. “Maybe she was on the Côte d’Azur.”

  “Maybe. But her husband wasn’t there with her. Arthur was still getting plenty of coverage.”

  Myron leaned back and spun his chair around. He checked out the Broadway posters behind his desk again. Yep, they definitely had to go. “You said there were a lot of stories on Elizabeth Bradford before that?”

  “Not stories,” Esperanza corrected. “Mentions. Her name was almost always preceded by ‘Hosting the event was’ or ‘Attendees included’ or ‘Pictured from right to left are.’ ”

  Myron nodded. “Were these in some kind of column or general articles or what?”

  “The Jersey Ledger used to have a social column. It was called ‘Social Soirees.’ ”

  “Catchy.” But Myron remembered the column vaguely from his childhood. His mother used to skim it, checking out the boldface names for a familiar one. Mom had even been listed once, referred to as “prominent local attorney Ellen Bolitar.” That was how she wanted to be addressed for the next week. Myron would yell down, “Hey, Mom!” and she would reply, “That’s Prominent Local Attorney Ellen Bolitar to you, Mr. Smarty Pants.”

  “Who wrote the column?” Myron asked.

  Esperanza handed him a sheet of paper. There was a head shot of a pretty woman with an overstylized helmet of hair, à la Lady Bird Johnson. Her name was Deborah Whittaker.

  “Think we can get an address on her?”

  Esperanza nodded. “Shouldn’t take long.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Esperanza’s deadline hung over them like a reaper’s scythe.

  Myron said, “I can’t imagine you not in my life.”

  “Won’t happen,” Esperanza replied. “No matter what you decide, you’ll still be my best friend.”

  “Partnerships ruin friendships.”

  “So you tell me.”

  “So I know.” He had avoided this conversation long enough. To use basketball vernacular, he had gone into four corners, but the twenty-four-second clock had run down. He could no longer delay the inevitable in the hope that the inevitable would somehow turn to smoke and vanish in the air. “My father and my uncle tried it. They ended up not talking to each other for four years.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “Even now their relationship is not what it was. It never will be. I know literally dozens of families and friends—good people, Esperanza—who tried partnerships like this. I don’t know one case where it worked in the long run. Not one. Brother against brother. Daughter against father. Best friend against best friend. Money does funny things to people.”

  Esperanza nodded again.

  “Our friendship could survive anything,” Myron said, “but I’m not sure it can survive a partnership.”

  Esperanza stood again. “I’ll get you an address on Deborah Whittaker,” she said. “It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I’ll give you three weeks for the transition. Will that be long enough?”

  Myron nodded, his throat dry. He wanted to say something more, but whatever came to mind was even more inane than what preceded it.

  The intercom buzzed. Esperanza left the room. Myron hit the button.

  “Yes?”

  Big Cyndi said, “The Seattle Times on line one.”

  The Inglemoore Convalescent Home was painted bright yellow and cheerfully maint
ained and colorfully landscaped and still looked like a place you went to die.

  The inner lobby had a rainbow on one wall. The furniture was happy and functional. Nothing too plush. Didn’t want the patrons having trouble getting out of chairs. A table in the room’s center had a huge arrangement of freshly cut roses. The roses were bright red and strikingly beautiful and would die in a day or two.

  Myron took a deep breath. Settle, boy, settle.

  The place had a heavy cherry smell like one of those dangling tree-shaped car fresheners. A woman dressed in slacks and a blouse—what you’d call “nice casual”—greeted him. She was in her early thirties and smiled with the genuine warmth of a Stepford Wife.

  “I’m here to see Deborah Whittaker.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I think Deborah is in the rec room. I’m Gayle. I’ll take you.”

  Deborah. Gayle. Everyone was a first name. There was probably a Dr. Bob on the premises. They headed down a corridor lined with festive murals. The floors sparkled, but Myron could still make out fresh wheelchair streaks. Everyone on staff had the same fake smile. Part of the training, Myron supposed. All of them—orderlies, nurses, whatever—were dressed in civilian clothes. No one wore a stethoscope or beeper or name tag or anything that implied anything medical. All buddies here at Inglemoore.

  Gayle and Myron entered the rec room. Unused Ping-Pong tables. Unused pool tables. Unused card tables. Oft-used television.

  “Please sit down,” Gayle said. “Becky and Deborah will be with you momentarily.”

  “Becky?” Myron asked.

  Again the smile. “Becky is Deborah’s friend.”

  “I see.”

  Myron was left alone with six old people, five of whom were women. No sexism in longevity. They were neatly attired, the sole man in a tie even, and all were in wheelchairs. Two of them had the shakes. Two were mumbling to themselves. They all had skin a color closer to washed-out gray than any flesh tone. One woman waved at Myron with a bony, blue-lined hand. Myron smiled and waved back.

  Several signs on the wall had the Inglemoore slogan:

  INGLEMOORE—NO DAY LIKE TODAY.

  Nice, Myron guessed, but he couldn’t help but think up a more appropriate one:

  INGLEMOORE—BETTER THAN THE ALTERNATIVE.

  Hmm. He’d drop it in the suggestion box on the way out.

  “Mr. Bolitar?”

  Deborah Whittaker shuffled into the room. She still had Le Helmet de Hair from the newspaper portrait—black as shoe polish and shellacked on until it resembled fiberglass—but the overall effect was still like something out of Dorian Gray, as though she had aged a zillion years in one fell swoop. Her eyes had that soldier’s thousand-yard stare. She had a bit of a shake in her face that reminded him of Katharine Hepburn. Parkinson’s maybe, but he was no expert.

  Her “friend” Becky had been the one who called his name. Becky was maybe thirty years old. She too was dressed in civilian clothes rather than whites, and while nothing about her appearance suggested nursing, Myron still thought of Louise Fletcher in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  He stood.

  “I’m Becky,” the nurse said.

  “Myron Bolitar.”

  Becky shook his hand and offered him a patronizing smile. Probably couldn’t help it. Probably couldn’t smile genuinely until she was out of here for at least an hour. “Do you mind if I join you two?”

  Deborah Whittaker spoke for the first time. “Go away,” she rasped. Her voice sounded like a worn tire on a gravel road.

  “Now, Deborah—”

  “Don’t ‘now Deborah’ me. I got myself a handsome gentleman caller, and I’m not sharing him. So buzz off.”

  Becky’s patronizing smile turned a bit uncertain. “Deborah,” she said in a tone that aimed for amiable but landed smack on, well, patronizing, “do you know where we are?”

  “Of course,” Deborah snapped. “The Allies just bombed Munich. The Axis has surrendered. I’m a USO girl standing by the south pier in Manhattan. The ocean breeze hits my face. I wait for the sailors to arrive so I can lay a big, wet kiss on the first guy off the boat.”

  Deborah Whittaker winked at Myron.

  Becky said, “Deborah, it’s not 1945. It’s—”

  “I know, dammit. For crying out loud, Becky, don’t be so damn gullible.” She sat down and leaned toward Myron. “Truth is, I go in and out. Sometimes I’m here. Sometimes I time travel. When my grandpa had it, they called it hardening of the arteries. When my mother had it, they called it senility. With me, it’s Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s.” She looked at her nurse, her facial muscles still doing the quivers. “Please, Becky, while I’m still lucid, get the hell out of my face.”

  Becky waited a second, holding the uncertain smile as best she could. Myron nodded at her, and she moved away.

  Deborah Whittaker leaned a little closer. “I love getting ornery with her,” she whispered. “It’s the only fringe benefit of old age.” She put her hands on her lap and managed a shaky smile. “Now I know you just told me, but I forgot your name.”

  “Myron.”

  She looked puzzled. “No, that’s not it. Andre maybe? You look like Andre. He used to do my hair.”

  Becky kept a watchful eye on the corner. At the ready.

  Myron decided to dive right in. “Mrs. Whittaker, I wanted to ask you about Elizabeth Bradford.”

  “Lizzy?” The eyes flared up and settled into a glisten. “Is she here?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I thought she died.”

  “She did.”

  “Poor thing. She threw such wonderful parties. At Bradford Farm. They’d string lights across the porch. They’d have hundreds of people. Lizzy always had the best band, the best caterer. I had such fun at her parties. I used to dress up and …” A flicker hit Deborah Whittaker’s eyes, a realization perhaps that the parties and invitations would never come again, and she stopped speaking.

  “In your column,” Myron said, “you used to write about Elizabeth Bradford.”

  “Oh, of course.” She waved a hand. “Lizzy made good copy. She was a social force. But—” She stopped again and looked off.

  “But what?”

  “Well, I haven’t written about Lizzy in months. Strange really. Last week Constance Lawrence had a charity ball for the St. Sebastian’s Children’s Care, and Lizzy wasn’t there again. And that used to be Lizzy’s favorite event. She ran it the past four years, you know.”

  Myron nodded, trying to keep up with the changing eras. “But Lizzy doesn’t go to parties anymore, does she?”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Deborah Whittaker sort of half startled. She eyed him suspiciously. “What’s your name again?”

  “Myron.”

  “I know that. You just told me. I mean, your last name.”

  “Bolitar.”

  Another spark. “Ellen’s boy?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Ellen Bolitar,” she said with a spreading smile. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s doing well.”

  “Such a shrewd woman. Tell me, Myron. Is she still ripping apart opposing witnesses?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So shrewd.”

  “She loved your column,” Myron said.

  Her face beamed. “Ellen Bolitar, the attorney, reads my column?”

  “Every week. It was the first thing she read.”

  Deborah Whittaker settled back, shaking her head. “How do you like that? Ellen Bolitar reads my column.” She smiled at Myron. Myron was getting confused by the verb tenses. Bouncing in time. He’d just have to try to stay with her. “We’re having such a nice visit, aren’t we, Myron?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we are.”

  Her smile quivered and faded. “Nobody in here remembers my column,” she said. “They’re all very nice and sweet. They treat me well. But I’m just another old lady to them. You reach an age, and sudde
nly you become invisible. They only see this rotting shell. They don’t realize that this mind inside used to be sharp, that this body used to go to the fanciest parties and dance with the handsomest men. They don’t see that. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, but I remember those parties. Do you think that’s strange?”

  Myron shook his head. “No, ma’am, I don’t.”

  “I remember Lizzy’s final soiree like it was last night. She wore a black, strapless Halston with white pearls. She was tan and lovely. I wore a bright pink summer dress. A Lilly Pulitzer, as a matter of fact, and let me tell you, I was still turning heads.”

  “What happened to Lizzy, Mrs. Whittaker? Why did she stop going to parties?”

  Deborah Whittaker stiffened suddenly. “I’m a social columnist,” she said, “not a gossip.”

  “I understand that. I’m not asking to be nosy. It may be important.”

  “Lizzy is my friend.”

  “Did you see her after that party?”

  Her eyes had the faraway look again. “I thought she drank too much. I even wondered if maybe she had a problem.”

  “A drinking problem?”

  “I don’t like to gossip. It’s not my way. I write a social column. I don’t believe in hurting people.”

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. Whittaker.”

  “But I was wrong anyway.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Lizzy doesn’t have a drinking problem. Oh, sure, she might have a social drink, but she’s too proper a hostess to go beyond her limit.”

  Again with the verb tenses. “Did you see her after that party?”

  “No,” she said softly. “Never.”

  “Did you talk to her on the phone maybe?”

  “I called her twice. After she missed the Woodmeres’ party and then Constance’s affair, well, I knew something had to be very wrong. But I never spoke to her. She was either out or couldn’t come to the phone.” She looked up at Myron. “Do you know where she is? Do you think she’ll be all right?”

  Myron was not sure how to respond. Or in what tense. “Are you worried about her?”

  “Of course I am. It’s as though Lizzy just vanished. I’ve asked all her close friends from the club, but none of them has seen her either.” She frowned. “Not friends really. Friends don’t gossip like that.”