Back Spin mb-4

by Harlan Coben

Myron nodded.

  "Fine, then. I'm going to order some Chinese. I hope that will be suitable with you."

  Win rose from his seat and strolled toward the kitchen.

  "You claim it didn't change you," Myron said. "But before that day, did you love her?"

  Win's face was a stone. "Who says I don't love her now?"

  Chapter 34

  The driver brought Tad Crispin in through the back entrance.

  Win and Myron had been watching television. A commercial came on for Scope. A married couple in bed woke up and turned their heads in disgust. Morning breath, the voice-over informed them. You need Scope.

  Scope cures morning breath.

  Myron said, "So would, say, brushing your teeth?"

  Win nodded.

  Myron opened the door and led Tad into the living room. Tad sat on a couch across from Myron and Win. He glanced about, his eyes searching for a spot to settle on but not having any luck. He smiled weakly.

  "Would you care for a beverage?" Win asked. "A

  croissant or a Pop Tart perhaps'?" The Host with the Most.

  "No, thank you." Another weak smile.

  Myron leaned forward. "Tad, tell us about Learner Shelton's call."

  The kid dove right in. "He said that he wanted to congratulate me on my victory. That the USGA had officially declared me the U. S. Open champion." For a moment, Tad stopped. His eyes hazed over, the words hitting him anew. Tad Crispin, U. S. Open champion. The stuff of dreams.

  "What else did he say?"

  Crispin's eyes slowly cleared. "He's holding a press conference tomorrow afternoon. At Merion. They'll give me the trophy and a check for $360,000."

  Myron did not waste time. "First of all, we tell the media that you do not consider yourself the U. S. Open champion. If they want to call you that, fine. If the USGA

  wants to call you that, fine. You, however, believe that the tournament ended in a tie. Death should not rob Jack Coldren of his magnificent accomplishment or his claim to the title. A tie it ended. A tie it is. From your vantage point, you two are co winners. Do you understand?"

  Tad was hesitant. "l think so."

  "Now, about that check." Myron strummed the end table with his fingers. "If they insist on giving you the full winner's purse, you'll have to donate Jack's portion to charity."

  "Victims' rights," Win said.

  Myron nodded. "That would be good. Something against violence "

  "Wait a second," Tad interrupted. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his thighs. "You want me to give away $l80,000?"

  "It'll be a tax write-off," Win said. "That knocks the value down to half that."

  "And it'll be chicken feed compared to the positive press you'll get," Myron added.

  "But I was charging back," Tad insisted. "I had the momentum. I would have won."

  Myron leaned in a little closer. "You're an athlete, Tad. You're competitive and confident. That's goodheck, that's great. But not in this situation. This murder story is huge. It transcends sports. For most of the world's population, this will be their first look at Tad Crispin. We want them to see someone likable. Someone decent and trustworthy and modest. If we brag now about what a great golfer you are if we dwell on your comeback rather than this tragedy- people are going to see you as cold, as another example of what's wrong with today's athletes. Do you see what I'm saying?"

  Tad nodded. "I guess so."

  "We have to present you in a certain light. We have to control the story as much as possible."

  "So we do interviews?" Tad asked.

  "Very few."

  "But if we want publicity "

  "We want carefully orchestrated publicity," Myron corrected. "This story is so big, the last thing we need to do is create more interest. I want you to be reclusive, Tad.

  Thoughtful. You see, we have to maintain the right balance.

  If we toot our horn, it looks like we're grandstanding.

  If we do a lot of interviews, it looks like we're taking advantage of a man's murder."

  "Disastrous," Win added.

  "Right. What we want to do is control the flow of information. Feed the press a few tiny morsels. No more."

  "Perhaps one interview," Win said. "One where you will be at your most contrite."

  "With Bob Costas maybe."

  "Or even Barbara Walters."

  "And we don't announce your big donation."

  "Correct, no press conference. You are far too magnanimous for such bravado."

  That confused Tad. "How are we supposed to get good press if we don't announce it?"

  "We leak it," Myron said. "We get someone at the charity to tell a nosy reporter, maybe. Something like that. The key is, Tad Crispin must remain far too modest a fellow to publicize his own good deeds. Do you see what we're aiming for here?"

  . Tad's nod was more enthusiastic now. He was warming up. Myron felt like a heel. Spin-doctoring- just another hat today's sports representative must wear. Being an agent was not always pretty. You had to get dirty sometimes. Myron did not necessarily like it, but he was willing.

  The media would portray events one way; he would present them another. Still he felt like a grinning political strategist after a debate, and you cannot get much lower than that.

  They discussed details for a few more minutes. Tad started to look off again. He was rubbing the famed palms against the pants again. When Wm left the room for a minute, Tad whispered, "I saw on the news that you're Linda Coldren's attomey."

  "I'm one of them."

  "Are you her agent?"

  "I might be," Myron said. "Why?"

  "Then you're a lawyer too, right? You went to law school and everything?"

  Myron was not sure he liked where this was going.

  "Yes." +

  "So I can hire you to be my lawyer too, right? Not just my agent?"

  Myron really didn't like where this was going. "Why would you need a lawyer, Tad?"

  "I'm not saying I do. But if I did "

  "Whatever you tell me is confidential," Myron said.

  Tad Crispin stood. He put his arms out straight and gripped an imaginary golf club. He took a swing. Air golf, Win played it all the time. All golfers do. Basketball players don't do that. It's not like Myron stops at every store window and checks the reflection of his shot in the mirror.

  Golfers.

  "I'm surprised you don't know about this already,"

  Tad said slowly.

  But the creeping feeling in the pit of Myron's stomach told him that maybe he did. "Don't know about what, 'Tad?"

  Tad took another swing. He stopped his movement to check his backswing. Then his expression changed to one of panic. He dropped the imaginary club to the floor. "It was only a couple of times," he said, his words pouring out like silver beads. "It was no big deal really. I mean, we met while we were filming those ads for Zoom." He looked at Myron, his eyes pleading. "You've seen her, Myron. I mean, I know she's twenty years older than me, but she's so good-looking and she said her marriage was dead .... "

  Myron did not hear the rest of his words; the ocean was crashing in his ears. Tad Crispin and Linda Coldren.

  He could not believe it, yet it made perfect sense. A

  young guy obviously charmed by a stunning older woman. The mature beauty trapped in a loveless marriage finding escape in young, handsome arms. Nothing really wrong with it.

  Yet Myron felt his cheeks go scarlet. Something inside of him began to fume.

  Tad was still droning on. Myron interrupted him.

  "Did Jack find out?"

  Tad stopped. "I don't know," he said. "But I think maybe he did."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "It was just the way he acted. We played two rounds together. I know we were competitors and that he was trying to intimidate me. But I kind of got the impression he knew."

  Myron lowered his head into his hands. He felt sick to his stomach.

  Tad asked, "Do you think it'll get out?"

&nbs
p; Myron held back a chuckle. This would be one of the biggest news stories of the year. The media would attack like old women at a Loehmann's clearance sale. "I don't know, Tad."

  "What do we do?"

  "We hope it doesn't get out."

  Tad was scared. "And if it does?"

  Myron faced him. Tad Crispin looked so darrm young check that, he was young. Most kids his age are happily pulling fraternity pranks. And when you thought about it, what had Tad really done that was so bad? Slept with an older woman who for some odd reason remained in a dead marriage. Hardly unnatural. Myron tried to picture himself at Tad's age. If a beautiful older woman like Linda Coldren had come on to him, would he have stood a chance?

  Like, duh. He probably did not stand a chance now.

  But what about Linda Coldren? Why did she stay in this dead marriage? Religion? Doubtful. For the sake of her son? The kid was sixteen years old. It might not be easy, but he'd survive.

  "Myron, what'll happen if the media find out?"

  But Myron was suddenly no longer thinking about the media. He was thinking about the police. He was thinking about Victoria Wilson and reasonable doubt. Linda Coldren had probably told her ace attorney about her affair with Tad Crispin. Victoria would have seen it too.

  Who is declared U. S. Open champion now that Jack Coldren is dead?

  Who doesn't have to worry about out-choking the choker in front of a massive audience?

  Who has all the same motives to kill Jack Coldren that Myron had earlier assigned to Esme Fong?

  Whose squeaky-clean image might get soiled by a Coldren divorce, especially one where Jack Coldren would name his wife's indiscretion?

  Who was having an affair with the deceased's wife?

  The answer to all the above was sitting in front of him.

  Chapter 35

  Tad Crispin left not long after that.

  Myron and Win settled into the couch. They put on Woody Allen's Broadway Danny Rose, one of Woody's most underrated masterpieces. What a flick. Rent it sometime.

  During the scene where Mia drags Woody to the fortune teller, Esperanza arrived.

  She coughed into her fist. "I, ahem, don't want to sound didactic or fictitious in any manner," she began, doing a great Woody impression. She had his timing, the speech delay tactics. She had the hand mannerisms. She had the New York accent. It was her best work. "But I may have some important information."

  Myron looked up. Win kept his eyes on the screen.

  ' 'I located the man Lloyd Rennart bought the bar from twenty years ago," Esperanza said, returning to her own voice. "Rennart paid him in cash. Seven grand. I also checked on the house in Spring Lake Heights. Bought at the same time for $21,000. No mortgage."

  "Lots of expenses," Myron said, "for a washed-up caddie."

  "Si, senior. And to make matters more interesting, I

  also found no indication that he worked or paid taxes from the time he was fired by Jack Coldren until he purchased the Rusty Nail bar."

  "Could be an inheritance."

  "I would doubt it," Esperanza said. "I managed to go back to 1971 and found no record of him paying any inheritance tax."

  Myron looked at Win. "What do you think?"

  Win's eyes were still on the screen. "I'm not listening."

  "Right, I forgot." He looked back at Esperanza.

  "Anything else?"

  "Esme Fong's alibi checks out. I spoke to Miguel.

  She never left the hotel."

  "Is he solid?"

  "Yeah, I think so."

  Strike one. "Anything else?"

  "Not yet. But I found the office for the local paper in Narberth. They have the back editions in a storage room.

  I'll go through them tomorrow, see what I can dig up on the car accident."

  Esperanza grabbed a take-out container and a pair of chopsticks from the kitchen and then she plopped down on the open couch. A mafioso hit man was calling Woody a cheesehead. Woody commented that he had no idea what that meant, but he was confident it wasn't a good thing. Ah, the Woodman.

  Ten minutes into Love and Death, not long after Woody wondered how old Nahampkin could be younger than young Nahampkin, exhaustion overtook Myron. He fell asleep on the couch. A deep sleep. No dreams. No stirring. Nothing but the long fall down the deep well.

  He woke up at eight-thirty. The television was off. A

  clock ticked and then chimed. Someone had laid a comforter over Myron while he'd been sleeping. Win probably.

  He checked the other bedrooms. Win and Esperanza were both gone.

  He showered and dressed and put on some coffee. The phone rang. Myron picked it up and said, "Hello."

  It was Victoria Wilson. She still sounded bored.

  "They arrested Linda."

  Myron found Victoria Wilson in an attomey waiting area.

  "How is she?"

  "Fine," Victoria replied. "I brought Chad home last night. That made her happy."

  "So where is Linda?"

  "In a holding cell awaiting arraignment. We'll see her in a few minutes."

  "What do they have?"

  "Quite a bit, actually," Victoria said. She sounded almost impressed. "First, they have the guard who saw her entering and leaving an otherwise abandoned golf course at the time of the murder. With the exception of Jack, nobody else was seen going in or out all night."

  "Doesn't mean nobody did. lt's an awfully big area."

  "Very true. But from their standpoint it gives Linda opportunity. Second, they found hairs and fibers on Jack's body and around the murder scene that preliminary tests link to Linda. Naturally, this one should be no problem to discredit. Jack is her husband; of course he'd have hair and fibers from her on his body. He could have spread them around the scene."

  "Plus she told us she went to the course to look for Jack," Myron added.

  "But we're not telling them that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because right now we are saying and admitting to nothing."

  Myron shrugged. Not important. "What else?"

  "Jack owned a twenty-two-caliber handgun. The police found it in a wooded area between the Coldren residence and Merion last night."

  "It was just sitting out?"

  "No. It was buried in fresh dirt. A metal detector picked it up."

  "They're sure it's Jack's gun?"

  She nodded. "The serial numbers match. The police ran an immediate ballistics test. It's the murder weapon."

  Myron's veins iced up.

  ' 'Fingerprints?' ' he asked.

  Victoria Wilson shook her head. "Wiped clean."

  "Are they running a powder test on her?" The police run a test on the hands, see if there are any powder burns.

  "It'll take a few days," Victoria said, "and it'll probably be negative."

  "You had her scrub her hands?"

  "And treat them, yes."

  "Then you think she did it."

  Her tone remained unruffled. "Please don't say that."

  She was right. But it was starting to look bad. "Is there more?" he asked.

  "The police found your tape machine still hooked up to the phone. They were obviously curious as to why the Coldrens found it necessary to tape all incoming calls."

  "Did they find any tapes of the conversations with the kidnapper?"

  ". Iust the one where the kidnapper refers to the Fong woman as a 'chink bitch' and demands one hundred grand. And to answer your next two questions, no, we did not elaborate on the kidnapping and yes, they are pissed off"

  Myron pondered that for a moment. Something was not right. "That was the only tape they found?"

  "That's it."

  He frowned. "But if the machine was still hooked up, it should have taped the last call the kidnapper made to Jack. The one that got him to storm out of the house and head to Merion."

  Victoria Wilson looked at him steadily. "The police found no other tapes. Not in the house. Not on Jack's body. Nowhere."

  Again the ice in the
veins. The implication was obvious:

  The most reasonable explanation for there being no tape was that there was no call. Linda Coldren had made it up. The lack of a tape would have been viewed as a major contradiction if she had said anything to the cops.

  Fortunately for Linda, Victoria Wilson had never let her tell her story in the first place.

  The woman was good.

  "Can you get me a copy of the tape the police found'?" he asked.

  Victoria Wilson nodded. "There is still more," she said.

  Myron was almost afraid to hear it.

  "Let's take the severed finger for a moment," she continued as though ordering it as an appetizer. "You found it in Linda's car in a manila envelope."

  Myron nodded.

  "The envelope is the type sold only at Staples their brand, the number ten size. The writing was done by a red Flair pen, medium-point. Three weeks ago, Linda Coldren visited Staples. According to the receipt found at her house yesterday, she purchased numerous office supplies, including a box of Staples' number ten manila envelopes and a red Flair medium-point pen."

  Myron could not believe what he was hearing.

  "On the positive side, their handwriting analyst could not tell if the writing on the envelope came from Linda."

  But something else was dawning on Myron. Linda had waited around for him at Merion. The two of them had gone to the car together. They had found the finger together.

  The district attomey would pounce upon that story. Why had she waited for Myron? The answer, the DA would claim, was obvious: she needed a witness. She had planted the finger in her own car she could certainly do that without drawing suspicion and she needed a hapless dupe to be with her when she found it.

  Enter Myron Bolitar, the dupe du jour.

  But of course, Victoria Wilson had neatly arranged it so that the DA would never hear that story. Myron was Linda's attorney. He could not tell. No one would ever know.

  Yep, the woman was good except for one thing.

  "The severed finger," Myron said. "That has to be the kicker, Victoria. Who is going to believe that a mother would cut off her own son's finger?"

  Victoria looked at her watch. "Let's go talk to Linda."

  "No, hold up here. That's the second time you blew this off. What aren't you telling me?"

  She slung her purse over her shoulder. "Come on."

  "Hey, I'm getting a little tired of getting jerked around here."