The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (105 page)

Jack looked very far away, like he was putting from New Jersey. Think about it. He was twenty-two feet away from a hole four-and-a-quarter inches in diameter. Break out a calculator. Do the math.

Myron, Win, Esme, and Norm waited. This was it. The coup de grâce. The part where the matador finally drives the long, thin blade home.

But as Jack studied the break in the green, some sort of transformation seemed to take place. The fleshy features hardened. The eyes became focused and steely and—though it was probably Myron’s imagination—a hint of yesterday’s “eye” seemed to flint up in them. Myron looked behind him. Linda Coldren had spotted the change too. For a brief moment she let her attention slip and her eyes sought out Myron’s, as if for confirmation. Before Myron could do more than meet her gaze, she looked away.

Jack Coldren took his time. He read the green from several angles. He squatted down, his club pointing in front of him the way golfers do. He talked to Diane Hoffman at some length. But once he addressed the ball, there was no hesitation. The club went back like a metronome and kissed the ball hard on the way down.

The tiny white sphere carrying all of Jack Coldren’s dreams circled toward the hole like an eagle seeking its prey. There was no question in Myron’s mind. The pull was almost magnetic. Several seemingly infinite seconds later, the tiny white sphere dropped to the bottom of the hole with an audible clink. For a moment there was silence and then another eruption, this one more from surprise than exhilaration. Myron found himself applauding wildly.

Jack had done it. He’d tied the score.

Over the crowd’s cacophony, Norm Zuckerman said, “This is beautiful, Esme. The whole world will be watching tomorrow. The exposure will be incredible.”

Esme looked stunned. “Only if Tad wins.”

“What do you mean?”

“What if Tad loses?”

“Hey, second place at the U.S. Open?” Norm said, palms up to the sky. “Not bad, Esme. Not bad at all. That’s where we were this morning. Before all this happened. Nothing lost, nothing gained.”

Esme Fong shook her head. “If Tad loses now, he doesn’t come in second place. He’s just a loser. He would have gone one-on-one with a famed choke-artist and lost. Outchoked the ultimate choker. It’ll be worse than the Buffalo Bills.”

Norm made a scoffing noise. “You worry too much, Esme,” he said, but his usual bluster had tapered off.

The crowd began to dissipate, but Jack Coldren just stood in the same position, still holding his putter. He did not celebrate. He did not move, even when Diane Hoffman began to pound his back. His features seemed to lose their tone again, his eyes suddenly more glazed than ever. It was as if the effort of that one stroke had drained every ounce of energy, karma, strength, life force right out of him.

Or maybe, Myron wondered, there was something else at work here. Something deeper. Maybe that last moment of magic had given Jack some new insight—some new life clarity—as to the relative, long-term importance of this tournament. Everyone else saw a man who had just sunk the most important putt of his life. But maybe Jack Coldren saw a man standing alone wondering what the big deal was and if his only son was still alive.

Linda Coldren appeared on the fringe of the green. She tried to look enthusiastic as she approached her husband and dutifully kissed him. A television crew followed her. Long-lensed cameras clicked and their flashes strobed. A sportscaster came up to them, microphone at the ready. Linda and Jack both managed to smile.

But behind the smiles, Linda looked almost wary. And Jack looked positively terrified.

Esperanza had come up with a plan. “Lloyd Rennart’s widow’s name is Francine. She’s an artist.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know. Painting, sculpture—what’s the difference?”

“Just curious. Go ahead.”

“I called her up and said that you were a reporter for the
Coastal Star
. It’s a local paper in the Spring Lake area. You are doing a lifestyle piece on several local artists.”

Myron nodded. It was a good plan. People rarely refuse the chance to be interviewed for self-promoting puff pieces.

Win had already gotten Myron’s car windows fixed. How, Myron had no idea. The rich. They’re different.

The ride took about two hours. It was eight o’clock Sunday night. Tomorrow Linda and Jack Coldren would drop off the ransom money. How would it be done? A meeting in a public place? A go-between? For the umpteenth time, he wondered how Linda and Jack and Chad were faring. He took out the photograph of Chad. He imagined what Chad’s young, carefree face must have looked like when his finger was being severed off. He wondered
if the kidnapper had used a sharp knife or a cleaver or an axe or a saw or what.

He wondered what it felt like.

Francine Rennart lived in Spring Lake Heights, not Spring Lake. There was a big difference. Spring Lake was on the Atlantic Ocean and about as beautiful a shore town as you could hope to find. There was plenty of sun, very little crime, and almost no ethnics. It was a problem, actually. The wealthy town was nicknamed the Irish Riviera. That meant no good restaurants. None. The town’s idea of
haute cuisine
was food served on a plate rather than in a basket. If you craved exotic, you drove to a Chinese take-out place whose eclectic menu included such rare delicacies as chicken chow mein, and for the especially adventurous, chicken
lo
mein. This was the problem with some of these towns. They needed some Jews or gays or something to spice things up, to add a bit of theater and a couple of interesting bistros.

One man’s opinion.

If Spring Lake was an old movie, then Spring Lake Heights would be the other side of the tracks. There weren’t slums or anything like that. The area where the Rennarts lived was a sort of tract-house suburbia—the middle ground between a trailer park and circa 1967 split-level colonials. Solid Americana.

Myron knocked on the door. A woman he guessed was Francine Rennart pushed open the screen. Her ready smile was shadowed by a daunting beak of a nose. Her burnt-auburn hair was wavy and undisciplined, like she’d just taken out her curlers but hadn’t had time to comb it out.

“Hi,” Myron said.

“You must be from the
Coastal Star
.”

“That’s right.” Myron stuck out his hand. “I’m Bernie Worley.” Scoop Bolitar uses a disguise.

“Your timing is perfect,” Francine said. “I’ve just started a new exhibit.”

The living room furniture didn’t have plastic on it, but it should have. The couch was off-green. The BarcaLounger—a real, live BarcaLounger—was maroon with duct tape mending rips. The
console television had rabbit ears on top. Collectors’ plates Myron had seen advertised in
Parade
were neatly hung on a wall.

“My studio’s in the back,” she said.

Francine Rennart led him to a big addition off the kitchen. It was a sparsely furnished room with white walls. A couch with a spring sticking out of it sat in the middle of the room. A kitchen chair leaned against it. So did a rolled-up carpet. There was something that looked like a blanket draped over the top in a triangular pattern. Four bathroom wastepaper baskets lined the back wall. Myron guessed that she must have a leak.

Myron waited for Francine Rennart to ask him to sit down. She didn’t. She stood with him in the entranceway and said, “Well?”

He smiled, his brain stuck in a cusp where he was not dumb enough to say, “Well what?” but not smart enough to know what the hell she was talking about. So Myron froze there with his anchorman-waiting-to-go-to-commercial grin.

“You like it?” Francine Rennart asked.

Still the grin. “Uh-huh.”

“I know it’s not for everybody.”

“Hmm.” Scoop Bolitar engages in sparkling repartee.

She watched his face for a moment. He kept up the idiot grin. “You don’t know anything about installation art, do you?”

He shrugged. “Got me.” Myron shifted gears on the fly. “Thing is, I don’t do features normally. I’m a sports writer. That’s my beat.” Beat. Note the authentic reporter lingo. “But Tanya—she’s my boss—she needed somebody to handle a lifestyle piece. And when Jennifer called in sick, well, the job fell to me. It’s a story on a variety of local artists—painters, sculptors …” He couldn’t think of any other kind of artist, so he stopped. “Anyway, maybe you could explain a little bit about what it is you do.”

“My art is about space and concepts. It’s about creating a mood.”

Myron nodded. “I see.”

“It’s not art, per se, in the classic sense. It goes beyond that. It’s the next step in the artistic evolutionary process.”

More nods. “I see.”

“Everything in this exhibit has a purpose. Where I place the couch. The texture of the carpeting. The color of the walls. The way the sunlight shines in through the windows. The blend creates a specific ambience.”

Oh, boy.

Myron motioned at the, uh, art. “So how do you sell something like this?”

She frowned. “You don’t sell it.”

“Pardon?”

“Art is not about money, Mr. Worley. True artists do not put a monetary value on their work. Only hacks do that.”

Yeah, like Michelangelo and Da Vinci, those hacks. “But what do you do with this?” he asked. “I mean, do you just keep the room like this?”

“No. I change it around. I bring in other pieces. I create something new.”

“And what happens to this?”

She shook her head. “Art is not about permanence. Life is temporary. Why shouldn’t art be the same?”

Oooookay.

“Is there a name for this art?”

“Installation art. But we do not like labels.”

“How long have you been an, uh, installation artist?”

“I’ve been working on my masters at the New York Art Institute for two years.”

He tried not to look shocked. “You go to school for this?”

“Yes. It’s a very competitive program.”

Yeah, Myron thought, like a TV/VCR repair course advertised by Sally Struthers.

They finally moved back into the living room. Myron sat on the couch. Gently. Might be art. He waited to be offered a cookie. Might be art too.

“You still don’t get it, do you?”

Myron shrugged. “Maybe if you threw in a poker table and some dogs.”

She laughed. Mr. Self-Deprecation strikes again. “Fair enough,” she said.

“Let me shift gears for a moment, if I may,” Myron said. “How about a little something on Francine Rennart, the person?” Scoop Bolitar mines the personal angle.

She looked a bit wary, but she said, “Okay, ask away.”

“Are you married?”

“No.” Her voice was like a slamming door.

“Divorced?”

“No.”

Scoop Bolitar loves a garrulous interviewee. “I see,” he said. “Then I guess you have no children.”

“I have a son.”

“How old is he?”

“Seventeen. His name is Larry.”

A year older than Chad Coldren. Interesting. “Larry Rennart?”

“Yes.”

“Where does he go to school?”

“Right here at Manasquan High. He’s going to be a senior.”

“How nice.” Myron risked it, nibbled on a cookie. “Maybe I could interview him too.”

“My son?”

“Sure. I’d love a quote from the prodigal son on how proud he is of his mom, of how he supports what she’s doing, that kinda thing.” Scoop Bolitar grows pathetic.

“He’s not home.”

“Oh?”

He waited for her to elaborate. Nothing.

“Where is Larry?” Myron tried. “Is he staying with his father?”

“His father is dead.”

Finally. Myron put on the big act. “Oh, sheesh, I’m sorry. I didn’t … I mean, you being so young and all. I just didn’t consider the possibility that …” Scoop Bolitar as Robert DeNiro.

“It’s okay,” Francine Rennart said.

“I feel awful.”

“No need to.”

“Have you been widowed long?”

She tilted her head. “Why do you ask?”

“Background,” he said.

“Background?”

“Yes. I think it’s crucial to understanding Francine Rennart the artist. I want to explore how being widowed affected you and your art.” Scoop Bolitar shovels it good.

“I’ve only been a widow a short time.”

Myron motioned toward the, uh, studio. “So when you created this work, did your husband’s death have any bearing on the outcome? On the color of the wastebaskets maybe. Or the way you rolled up that rug.”

“No, not really.”

“How did your husband die?”

“Why would you—”

“Again, I think it’s important for digesting the entire artistic statement. Was it an accident, for example? The kind of death that makes you ponder fickle fate. Was it a long illness? Seeing a loved one suffer—”

“He committed suicide.”

Myron feigned aghast. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

Her breathing was funny now, her chest giving off short hitches. As Myron watched her, an awful pang struck him deep in the chest. Slow down, he told himself. Stop focusing solely on Chad Coldren and remember that this woman, too, has suffered. She had been married to this man. She had loved him and lived with him and built a life with him and had a child with him.

And after all that, he had chosen to end his life rather than spend it with her.

Myron swallowed. Fiddling with her pathos like this was, at best, unfair. Belittling her artistic expression because he did not understand it was cruel. Myron did not like himself much right now. For a moment he debated just going away—the odds that any of this had anything to do with the case were so remote—but then again, he couldn’t simply forget a sixteen-year-old boy with a missing finger, either.

“Were you married long?”

“Almost twenty years,” she said softly.

“I don’t mean to intrude, but may I ask you his name?”

“Lloyd,” she said. “Lloyd Rennart.”

Myron narrowed his eyes as though scanning for a memory. “Why does that name ring a bell?”

Francine Rennart shrugged. “He co-owned a tavern in Neptune City. The Rusty Nail.”

“Of course,” Myron said. “Now I remember. He hung out there a lot, right?”

“Yes.”

“My God, I met the man. Lloyd Rennart. Now I remember. He used to teach golf, right? Was in the big time for a while.”