The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle

by Harlan Coben

  “Right. You meddling kids, stuff like that.”

  “You will never guess who does the voice for Shaggy,” Win said.

  “Who?”

  “Casey Kasem.”

  “Get out,” Myron said. “The top-forty radio guy?”

  “The very same.”

  “Live and learn.”

  On the floor Hans and Franz started to stir. Win showed FJ the gun he had semihidden in his one hand. “For the safety of all concerned,” Win said, “please ask your employees to refrain from moving.”

  FJ told them. He was not scared. His father was Frank Ache. That was protection enough. The muscles here were for show.

  “You’ve been following me for weeks now,” Myron said. “I want it to end.”

  “Then I suggest that you stop interfering with my company.”

  Myron sighed. “Fine, FJ, I’ll bite. How am I interfering with your company?”

  “Did you or did you not visit Sophie and Jared Mayor this morning?” FJ asked.

  “You know I did.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “It had nothing to do with you, FJ.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  “Wrong answer?”

  “You visited the owner of the New York Yankees even though you currently represent no one who plays for the team.”

  “So?”

  “So why were you there?”

  Myron looked at Win. Win shrugged. “Not that I need to explain myself to you, FJ, but just to assuage your paranoid delusions, I was there about Clu Haid.”

  “What about him?”

  “I was asking about his drug tests.”

  FJ’s eyes narrowed. “That’s interesting.”

  “Glad you think so, FJ.”

  “You see, I’m just a new guy trying to learn this confusing business.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m young and inexperienced.”

  Win said, “Ah, how often I’ve heard that line.”

  Myron just shook his head.

  FJ leaned forward, his scaly features coming closer. Myron feared his tongue would dart out and sniff him. “I want to learn, Myron. So please tell me: What possible significance could Clu’s drug test results have now?”

  Myron quickly debated answering and decided, What’s the harm? “If I can show the drug test was faulty, his contract would still be active.”

  FJ nodded, seeing the thought trail now. “You’d be able to get his contract paid out.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you have reason to believe that the test was faulty?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential, FJ. Agent-client privilege or whatever you want to call it. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do,” FJ said.

  “Good.”

  “But you, Myron, are not his agent.”

  “I am still responsible for his estate’s financial well-being. Clu’s death doesn’t alter my obligation.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  Myron looked at Win. “Again with the wrong answer?”

  “You are not responsible.” FJ reached to the floor and pulled a briefcase into view. He snapped it open with as much flair as possible. His finger danced through a stack of papers before withdrawing the one he sought. He handed it to Myron and smiled. Myron looked into FJ’s eyes, and again he was reminded of the eyes of that mounted deer.

  Myron skimmed it over. He read the first line, felt a thump, checked the signature. “What the hell is this?”

  FJ’s smile was like a dripping candle now. “Exactly what it looks like. Clu Haid changed representation. He fired MB SportsReps and hired TruPro.”

  He remembered what Sophie Mayor had said in her office, about his having no legal standing. “He never told us.”

  “Never told us, Myron, or never told you?”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You weren’t around. Perhaps he tried to tell you. Perhaps he told your associate.”

  “So he just happened by you, FJ?”

  “How I recruit is none of your business. If you kept your clients happy, the best recruitment efforts wouldn’t work.”

  Myron checked the date. “This is quite a coincidence, FJ.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He dies two days after he signs with you.”

  “Yes, Myron, I agree. I don’t think it was a coincidence. Fortunately for me, it means that I had no motive to kill him. Unfortunately for the sizzling Esperanza, the opposite is true.”

  Myron glanced over at Win. Win was staring down at Hans and Franz. They were both awake now, face to the floor, hands behind their heads. Customers occasionally came into the coffee bar. Some saw the two men on the floor and exited right away. Others were unfazed, walking past as though Hans and Franz were just two more Manhattan panhandlers.

  “Very convenient,” Myron said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Clu signing with you so close to his death. On the surface it eliminates you as a serious suspect.”

  “On the surface?”

  “It draws attention away from you, makes it look like his death hurts your interests.”

  “It does hurt my interests.”

  Myron shook his head. “He had failed a drug test. His contract was null and void. He’s thirty-five years old with several suspensions. As a monetary commodity Clu was fairly worthless.”

  “Clu had overcome adversity before,” FJ said.

  “Not like this. He was through.”

  “If he stayed with MB, yes, that’s probably true. But TruPro has influence. We would have found a way to relaunch his career.”

  Doubtful. But all this raised some interesting questions. The signature looked real, the contract legit. So maybe Clu had left him. Why? Well, lots of reasons. His life was being flushed down the toilet while Myron lollygagged in the sands of the Caribbean. Okay, but why TruPro? Clu knew their reputation. He knew what the Aches were all about. Why would he choose them?

  Unless he had to.

  Unless Clu was in debt to them. Myron remembered the missing two hundred thousand dollars. Could Clu have been in debt to FJ? Had he gotten in too deep—so deep he had to sign with TruPro? But if that was the case, why not take out more money? He still had more in the account.

  No, maybe this was far simpler. Maybe Clu got himself in big trouble. He looked to Myron for help. Myron wasn’t there. Clu felt abandoned. He had no one. In desperation he turned to his old friend Billy Lee Palms. But Billy Lee was too messed up to help anyone. He looked again for Myron. But Myron was still gone, possibly avoiding him. Clu was weak and alone, and FJ was there with promises and power.

  So maybe Clu didn’t have an affair with Esperanza after all. Maybe Clu told her he was leaving the agency and she got upset and then he got upset. Maybe Clu gave her a good-bye smack in that garage.

  Hmm.

  But there were problems with that scenario too. If there was no affair, how do you explain Esperanza’s hairs at the crime scene? How do you explain the blood in the car, the gun in the office, and Esperanza’s continued silence?

  FJ was still smiling.

  “Let’s cut to it,” Myron said. “How do I get you off my back?”

  “Stay away from my clients.”

  “The same way you stayed away from mine?”

  “Tell you what, Myron.” FJ sipped more shaving cream. “If I desert my clients for six weeks, I give you carte blanche to pursue them with as much gusto as you can muster.”

  Myron looked at Win. No solace. Scary as it might sound. FJ had a point.

  “Esperanza has been indicted for Clu’s murder,” Myron said. “I’m involved until she’s cleared. Outside of that, I’ll stay out of your business. And you stay out of mine.”

  “Suppose she’s not cleared,” FJ said.

  “What?”

  “Have you considered the possibility that Esperanza did indeed kill him?”

  “You know something I don’t, FJ?”

&n
bsp; FJ put his hand to his chest. “Me?” The most innocent lamb ever to lie next to a lion. “What would I know?” He finished his coffee whatever and stood. He looked down at his goons, then at Win. Win nodded. FJ told Hans and Franz to get up. They did. FJ ordered them out the door. They went out, heads high, chests out, eyes up, but still looking like a pair of whipped dogs.

  “If you find anything that might help me get Clu’s contract reinstated, you’ll let me know?”

  “Yeah,” Myron said. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Great. Then let’s stay in touch, Myron.”

  “Oh,” Myron said. “Let’s.”

  CHAPTER 22

  They took the subway to Yankee Stadium. The 4 train was fairly empty this time of the day. After they found seats, Myron asked, “Why did you beat up those two muscleheads?”

  “You know why,” Win said.

  “Because they challenged you?”

  “I hardly call what they mustered a challenge.”

  “So why did you beat them up?”

  “Because it was simple.”

  “What?”

  Win hated repeating himself.

  “You overreacted,” Myron said. “As usual.”

  “No, Myron, I reacted perfectly.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I have a reputation, do I not?”

  “As a violent psycho, yes.”

  “Exactly—a reputation that I’ve culled and created through what you call overreacting. You trade off that reputation sometimes, do you not?”

  “I guess I do.”

  “It helps us?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Guess nothing,” Win said. “Friends and foes believe I snap too easily—overreact, as you put it. That I’m unstable, out of control. But that’s nonsense, of course. I’m never out of control. Just the opposite. Every attack has been well thought out. The pros and cons have been weighed.”

  “And in this case, the pros won?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you knew you were going to beat up those two before we entered?”

  “I considered it. Once I realized that they were unarmed and that taking them out would be easy, I made the final decision.”

  “Just to enhance your reputation?”

  “In a word, yes. My reputation keeps us safe. Why do you think FJ was ordered by his father not to kill you?”

  “Because I’m a ray of sunshine? Because I make the world a better place for all?”

  Win smiled. “Then you understand.”

  “Does it bother you at all, Win?”

  “Does what?”

  “Attacking someone like that.”

  “They’re goons, Myron, not nuns.”

  “Still. You just walloped them without provocation.”

  “Oh, I see. You don’t like the fact that I sucker-punched them. You would have preferred a fairer fight?”

  “I guess not. But suppose you miscalculated?”

  “Highly unlikely.”

  “Suppose one of them was better than you thought and didn’t go down so easily. Suppose you had to maim or kill one.”

  “They’re goons, Myron, not nuns.”

  “So you would have done it?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “I guess I do.”

  “Who would have mourned their passing?” Win asked. “Two scums in the night who freely chose a profession that bullies and maims.”

  Myron did not answer. The train stopped. Passengers exited. Myron and Win stayed in their seats.

  “But you enjoy it,” Myron said.

  Win said nothing.

  “You have other reasons, sure, but you enjoy violence.”

  “And you don’t, Myron?”

  “Not like you.”

  “No, not like me. But you feel the rush.”

  “And I usually feel sick after it’s all over.”

  “Well, Myron, that’s probably because you’re such a fine humanitarian.”

  They exited the subway at 161st Street and walked in silence to Yankee Stadium. Four hours to game time, but there were already several hundred fans lining up to watch the warm-ups. A giant Louisville Slugger bat cast a long shadow. Cops aplenty stood near clusters of unfazed ticket scalpers. Classic détente. There were hot dog carts, some with—gasp!—Yoo-Hoo umbrellas. Yum. At the press entrance Myron flashed his business card, the guard made a call, they were let in.

  They traveled down the stairs on the right, reached the stadium tunnel, and emerged into bright sunshine and green grass. Myron and Win had just been discussing the nature of violence, and now Myron thought again about his dad’s phone call. Myron had seen his father, the most gentle man he had ever known, grow violent only once. And it was here at Yankee Stadium.

  When Myron was ten years old, his father had taken him and his younger brother, Brad, to a game. Brad was five at the time. Dad had secured four seats in the upper tier, but at the last minute a business associate had given him two more seats three rows behind the Red Sox bench. Brad was a huge fan of the Red Sox. So Dad suggested that Brad and Myron sit by the dugout for a few innings. Dad would stay in the upper tier. Myron held Brad’s hand, and they walked down to the box seats. The seats were, in a word, awesome.

  Brad started cheering his five-year-old lungs out. Cheering like mad. He spotted Carl Yastrzemski in the batter’s box and started calling out, “Yaz! Yaz!” The guy sitting in front of them turned around. He was maybe twenty-five and bearded and looked a bit like a church image of Jesus. “That’s enough,” the bearded guy snapped at Brad. “Quiet down.”

  Brad looked hurt.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Myron said. “You’re allowed to yell.”

  The bearded man’s hands moved fast. He grabbed the ten-year-old Myron by his shirt, bunching the Yankee emblem in his seemingly giant fist, and pulled Myron closer to him. There was beer on his breath. “He’s giving my girlfriend a headache. He shuts up now.”

  Fear engulfed Myron. Tears filled his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them escape. He remembered being shocked, scared, and mostly, for some unknown reason, ashamed. The bearded man glared at Myron another few seconds and then pushed him back. Myron grabbed Brad’s hand and rushed back to the upper tier. He tried to pretend everything was all right, but ten-year-olds are not great actors, and Dad could read his son as if he lived inside his skull.

  “What’s wrong?” Dad asked.

  Myron hesitated. Dad asked again. Myron finally told him what happened. And something happened to Myron’s father, something Myron had never seen before or since. There was an explosion in his eyes. His face turned red; his eyes went black.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  Myron watched the rest through binoculars. Dad moved down to the seat behind the Red Sox dugout. His father’s face was still red. Myron saw Dad cup his hands around his mouth, lean forward, and start screaming for all he was worth. The red in his face turned to crimson. Dad kept screaming. The bearded man tried to ignore him. Dad leaned into his ear à la Mike Tyson and screamed some more. When the bearded man finally turned around, Dad did something that shocked Myron to the core. He pushed the man. He pushed the man twice and then gestured toward the exit, the international sign inviting another man to step outside. The guy with the beard refused. Dad pushed him again.

  Two security guards raced down the steps and broke it up. No one was tossed. Dad came back to the upper tier. “Go back down,” Dad said. “He won’t bother you again.”

  But Myron and Brad shook their heads. They liked the seats up here better.

  Win said, “Time traveling again, are we?”

  Myron nodded.

  “You realize, of course, that you are far too young for so many reflective spells.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  A group of Yankee players were sitting on the outfield grass, legs sprawled, hands back, still kids under the collars waiting for their Little League game to start. A man in a too-nicely-fitted suit was talki
ng to them. The man gestured wildly, smiling and enthusiastic and as enraptured with life as the new born-again on the block. Myron recognized him. Sawyer Wells, the motivational speaker né con man of the moment. Two years ago Wells was an unknown charlatan, spouting the standard reworded dogma about finding yourself, unlocking your potential, doing something for yourself—as though people weren’t self-centered enough. His big break came when the Mayors hired him to do talks for their workforce. The speeches were, if not original, successful, and Sawyer Wells caught on. He got a book deal—cleverly monikered The Wells Guide to Wellness—along with an infomercial, audiotapes, video, a planner, the full self-help schematic. Fortune 500 companies started hiring him. When the Mayors took over the Yankees, they brought him on board as a consulting motivational psychologist or some such drivel.

  When Sawyer Wells spotted Win, he almost started panting.

  “He smells a new client,” Myron said.

  “Or perhaps he’s never seen anyone quite this handsome before.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Myron said. “That’s probably it.”

  Wells turned back to the players, shouted out a bit more enthusiasm, spasmed with gestures, clapped once, and then bade them good-bye. He looked back over at Win. He waved. He waved hard. Then he started bounding over like a puppy chasing a new squeaky toy or a politician chasing a potential contributor.

  Win frowned. “In a word, decaf.”

  Myron nodded.

  “You want me to befriend him?” Win asked.

  “He was supposedly present for the drug tests. And he’s also the team psychologist. He probably hears a lot of rumors.”

  “Fine,” Win said. “You take the roommate. I’ll take Sawyer.”

  Enos Cabral was a good-looking wiry Cuban with a flame-throwing fastball and breaking pitches that still needed work. He was twenty-four, but he had the kind of looks that probably got him carded at any liquor store. He stood watching batting practice, his body slack except for his mouth. Like most relief pitchers, he chewed gum or tobacco with the ferocity of a lion gnawing on a recently downed gazelle.

  Myron introduced himself.

  Enos shook his hand and said, “I know who you are.”

  “Oh?”

  “Clu talked about you a lot. He thought I should sign with you.”