Back Spin

by Harlan Coben

  But it was also a hell of a coincidence. Father and son end up at the same hot sheets at the same time? Stranger things have happened, but what were the odds?

  Myron gestured to Jacks photograph. "Was he alone?"

  Kiana smiled. "The Court Manor doesn't rent out a lot of single rooms."

  "Did you see who was with him?"

  "Very briefly. The guy in the photograph checked them in. His partner stayed in the car."

  "But you saw her? Briefly anyway."

  Kiana glanced at Carl, then back at Myron. "It wasn't a her."

  "Excuse me?"

  "The guy in the photograph," she said. "He wasn't there with a woman."

  A large boulder fell from the sky and landed on Myron's head. It was his turn now to glance at Carl. Carl nodded. Another click. A big click. The loveless marriage. He had known why Linda Coldren stayed in it--she was afraid of losing custody of her son. But what about Jack? Why hadn't he left? The answer was suddenly transparent: Being married to a beautiful, constantly traveling woman was the perfect cover. He remembered Diane Hoffman's reaction when he asked her if she'd been sleeping with Jack--the way she laughed and said, "Not likely with ol' Jack."

  Because ol' Jack was gay.

  Myron turned his focus back to Kiana. "Could you describe the man he was with?"

  "Older--maybe fifty or sixty. White. He had this long dark hair and a bushy beard. That's about all I can tell you."

  But Myron did not need more.

  It was starting to come together now. It wasn't there. Not yet anyway. But he was suddenly a quantum leap closer.

  38

  As Carl drove out, Esperanza drove in.

  "Find anything?" Myron asked her.

  Esperanza handed him a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping. "Read this."

  The headline read: CRASH FATALITY

  Economy of words. He read on:

  Mr. Lloyd Rennart of 27 Darby Place crashed his automobile into a parked car on South Dean Street near the intersection of Coddington Terrace. Mr. Rennart was taken into police custody under suspicion of driving while intoxicated. The injured were rushed to St. Elizabeth's Medical Center, where Lucille Rennart, Mr. Lloyd Rennart's wife, was pronounced dead. Funeral services are to be arranged.

  Myron reread the paragraph twice. " 'The injured were rushed,' " he read out loud. "As in more than one."

  Esperanza nodded.

  "So who else was hurt?"

  "I don't know. There was no follow-up article."

  "Nothing on the arrest or the arraignment or the court case?"

  "Nothing. At least, nothing I could find. There was no further mention of any Rennarts. I also tried to get something from St. Elizabeth's, but they wouldn't help. Hospital-patient confidentiality, they claimed. I doubt their computers go back to the seventies anyway."

  Myron shook his head. "This is too weird," he said.

  "I saw Carl heading out," Esperanza said. "What did he want?"

  "He came by with a maid from the Court Manor. Guess who Jack Coldren was linking up with for a little afternoon delight?"

  "Tonya Harding?"

  "Close. Norm Zuckerman."

  Esperanza tilted her head back and forth, as though sizing up an abstract work at the Met. "I'm not surprised. About Norm anyway. Think about it. Never married. No family. In public, he always surrounds himself with young, beautiful women."

  "For show," Myron said.

  "Right. They're beards. Camouflage. Norm is the front man for a major sports fashion business. Being a known gay could destroy him."

  "So," Myron said, "if it got out that he was gay ..."

  "It would hurt a lot," Esperanza said.

  "Is that a motive for murder?"

  "Sure," she said. "It's millions of dollars and a man's reputation. People kill for a lot less."

  Myron thought about it. "But how did it happen? Let's say Chad and Jack meet up at the Court Manor by accident. Suppose Chad figures out what Daddy and Norm are up to. Maybe he mentions it to Esme, who works for Norm. Maybe she and Norm ..."

  "They what?" Esperanza finished. "They kidnap the kid, cut off his finger, and then let him go?"

  "Yeah, it doesn't mesh," Myron agreed. "Not yet anyway. But we're getting close."

  "Oh sure, we're really narrowing down the field. Let's see. It could be Esme Fong. It could be Norm Zuckerman. It could be Tad Crispin. It could be a still-alive Lloyd Rennart. It could be his wife or his kid. It could be Matthew Squires or his father or both. Or it could be a combination plan of any of the above--the Rennart family perhaps, or Norm and Esme. And it could be Linda Coldren. How does she explain the gun from her house being the murder weapon? Or the envelopes and the pen she bought?"

  "I don't know," Myron said slowly. Then: "But you may be on to something here."

  "What?"

  "Access. Whoever killed Jack and cut off Chad's finger had access to the Coldren house. Barring a break-in, who could have gotten hold of the gun and the stationery supplies?"

  Esperanza barely hesitated. "Linda Coldren, Jack Coldren, maybe the Squires kid, since he liked to crawl in through the window." She paused. "I guess that's it."

  "Okay, good. Now let's move on a little. Who knew that Chad Coldren was at the Court Manor Inn? I mean, whoever kidnapped him had to know where he was, right?"

  "Right. Okay, Jack again, Esme Fong, Norm Zuckerman, Matthew Squires again. Boy, Myron, this is really helpful."

  "So what names show up on both lists?"

  "Jack and Matthew Squires. And I think we can leave Jack's name off--his being the victim and all."

  But Myron stopped for a moment. He thought about his conversation with Win. About the naked desire to win. How far would Jack go to guarantee victory? Win had said that he would stop at nothing. Was he right?

  Esperanza snapped her fingers in his face. "Yo, Myron?"

  "What?"

  "I said, we can eliminate Jack Coldren. Dead people rarely bury murder weapons in nearby woods."

  That made sense. "So that leaves Matthew Squires," Myron said, "and I don't think he's our boy."

  "Neither do I," Esperanza said. "But we're forgetting someone--someone who knew where Chad Coldren was and had complete access to the gun and stationery supplies."

  "Who?"

  "Chad Coldren."

  "You think he cut off his own finger?"

  Esperanza shrugged. "What about your old theory? The one where the kidnapping was a hoax that went out of control. Think about it. Maybe he and Tito had a falling-out. Maybe it was Chad who killed Tito."

  Myron considered the possibility. He thought about Jack. He thought about Esme. He thought about Lloyd Rennart. Then he shook his head. "This is getting us nowhere. Sherlock Holmes warned that you should never theorize without all the facts because then you twist facts to suit theories rather than theories to suit facts."

  "That never stopped us before," Esperanza said.

  "Good point." Myron checked his watch. "I gotta go see Francine Rennart."

  "The caddie's wife."

  "Yup."

  Esperanza went sniff, sniff.

  "What?" Myron asked.

  One more big sniff. "I smell a complete waste of time," she said.

  She smelled wrong.

  39

  Victoria Wilson called on the car phone. What, Myron wondered, did people do before the car phone, before the cell phone, before the beeper?

  Probably had a lot more fun.

  "The police found the body of your neo-Nazi friend," she said. "His last name is Marshall."

  "Tito Marshall?" Myron frowned. "Please tell me you're joking."

  "I don't joke, Myron."

  Of that he had little doubt. "Do the police have any idea he's tied into this?" Myron asked.

  "None whatsoever."

  "And I assume he died of a gunshot wound."

  "That's the preliminary finding, yes. Mr. Marshall was shot twice in the head at close range with a thirty-eight."

 
; "A thirty-eight? But Jack was killed with a twenty-two."

  "Yes, Myron, I know."

  "So different guns killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall."

  Victoria did the bored thing again. "Hard to believe you're not a professional ballistics expert."

  Everyone's a smart-ass. But this new development threw a whole bunch of scenarios out of whack. If two different guns had killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall, did that mean there were two different killers? Or was the killer smart enough to use different weapons? Or had the killer disposed of the thirty-eight after killing Tito and was thus forced to use the twenty-two on Jack? And what kind of warped mind names a kid Tito Marshall? Bad enough to go through life with a moniker like Myron. But Tito Marshall? No wonder the kid had turned out as a neo-Nazi. Probably started out as a virulent anti-Communist.

  Victoria interrupted his thoughts. "I called for another reason, Myron."

  "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 i
n 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?"