The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (110 page)

A loss would be disastrous.

A loss would cost them millions. Maybe destroy her entire campaign.

Man, did it fit.

When Myron thought about it, hadn’t he heard Esme voice that very viewpoint with Norm Zuckerman? Her Buffalo Bill analogy—hadn’t he been standing right there when she said it? Now that she was trapped, was it so hard to believe that she’d go the extra mile? That she would call Jack on the phone last night? That she would set up a rendezvous at the course? That she would insist he come alone—right now—if he wanted to see his son alive?

Ka-bang.

And once Jack was dead, there was no reason to hold on to the kid anymore. She let him go.

The elevator slid open. Myron stepped out. Okay, there were holes. But maybe after confronting Esme, he would be able to plug a few of them up. Myron pushed open the glass door. He headed into the parking lot. There were taxis waiting near the street. He was midway through the lot when a voice reached out and pulled him to a stop.

“Myron?”

An icy nerve-jangle punctured a hole through his heart. He had heard the voice only once before. Ten years ago. At Merion.

Myron froze.

“I see you’ve met Victoria,” Cissy Lockwood said.

He tried a nod, but it wouldn’t happen.

“I called her as soon as Bucky told me about the murder. I knew she’d be able to help. Victoria is the best lawyer I know. Ask Win about her.”

He tried the nod again. Got a little motion going this time.

Win’s mother stepped closer. “I’d like a word with you in private, Myron.”

He found his voice. “It’s not a good time, Ms. Lockwood.”

“No, I imagine not. Still, this won’t take long.”

“Really, I should go.”

She was a beautiful woman. Her ash-blond hair was streaked with gray, and she had the same regal bearing as her blood niece Linda. The porcelain face, however, she had given almost verbatim to Win. The resemblance was uncanny.

She took one more step forward, her eyes never off him. Her clothes were a bit odd. She wore a man’s oversize shirt, untucked, and stretch pants. Annie Hall goes maternity shopping. It
was not what he’d have expected, but then again, he had bigger worries than fashion right now.

“It’s about Win,” she said.

Myron shook his head. “Then it’s none of my business.”

“True enough. But that does not make you immune to responsibility, does it? Win is your friend. I count myself lucky that my son has a friend who cares like you do.”

Myron said nothing.

“I know quite a bit about you, Myron. I’ve had private investigators keep tabs on Win for years now. It was my way of staying close. Of course, Win knew about it. He never said anything, but you can’t keep something like that from Win, now can you?”

“No,” Myron said. “You can’t.”

“You’re staying at the Lockwood estate,” she said. “In the guest cottage.”

He nodded.

“You’ve been there before.”

Another nod.

“Have you ever seen the horse stables?”

“Only from a distance,” Myron said.

She smiled Win’s smile. “You’ve never been inside?”

“No.”

“I’m not surprised. Win doesn’t ride anymore. He used to love horses. More than golf even.”

“Ms. Lockwood—”

“Please call me Cissy.”

“I really don’t feel comfortable hearing this.”

Her eyes hardened a bit. “And I do not feel comfortable telling you this. But it must be done.”

“Win wouldn’t want me to hear it,” Myron said.

“That’s too bad, but Win cannot always have what he wants. I should have learned that long ago. He did not want to see me as a child. I never forced it. I listened to the experts, who told me that my son would come around, that compelling him to see me would be counterproductive. But they did not know Win. By the time I stopped listening to them it was too late. Not that it mattered. I don’t think ignoring them would have changed anything.”

Silence.

She stood proud and tall, her slender neck high. But something was going on. Her fingers kept flexing, as if she were fighting off the desire to make fists. Myron’s stomach knotted up. He knew what was coming next. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

“The story is simple,” she began, her voice almost wistful. She was no longer looking at Myron. Her gaze rose above his shoulder, but he had no idea what she was actually seeing. “Win was eight years old. I was twenty-seven at the time. I married young. I never went to college. It was not as though I had a choice. My father told me what to do. I had only one friend—one person I could confide in. That was Victoria. She is still my dearest friend, not unlike what you are to Win.”

Cissy Lockwood winced. Her eyes closed.

“Ms. Lockwood?”

She shook her head. The eyes slowly opened. “I am getting off track,” she said, catching her breath. “I apologize. I’m not here to tell you my life story. Just one incident in it. So let me just state it plainly.”

A deep breath. Then another.

“Jack Coldren told me that he was taking Win out for a golf lesson. But it never happened. Or perhaps they had finished far earlier than expected. Either way, Jack was not with Win. His father was. Somehow Win and his father ended up going into the stables. I was there when they entered. I was not alone. More specifically, I was with Win’s riding instructor.”

She stopped. Myron waited.

“Do I need to spell this out for you?”

Myron shook his head.

“No child should see what Win saw that day,” she said. “And worse, no child should ever see his father’s face under those circumstances.”

Myron felt tears sting his eyes.

“There is more to it, of course. I won’t go into it now. But Win has never spoken to me since that moment. He also never forgave his father. Yes, his father. You think he hates only me and
loves Windsor the Second. But it is not so. He blames his father, too. He thinks that his father is weak. That he allowed it to happen. Utter nonsense, but that is the way it is.”

Myron shook his head. He didn’t want to hear any more. He wanted to run and find Win. He wanted to hug his friend and shake him and somehow make him forget. He thought of the lost expression on Win’s face as he watched the horse stables yesterday morning.

My God. Win.

When Myron spoke, his voice was sharper than he’d expected. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I am dying,” she replied.

Myron slumped against a car. His heart ripped anew.

“Again, let me put this simply,” she said in too calm a voice. “It has reached the liver. It is eleven centimeters long. My abdomen is swelling from liver and kidney failure.” That explained the wardrobe—the untucked, oversize shirt and the stretch pants. “We are not talking months. We are talking perhaps weeks. Probably less.”

“There are treatments,” Myron tried lamely. “Procedures.”

She simply dismissed this with a shake of her head. “I am not a foolish woman. I do not have delusions of engaging in a moving reunion with my son. I know Win. That will not happen. But there is still unfinished business here. Once I am dead, there will be no chance for him to disentangle himself again. It will be over. I do not know what he will do with this opportunity. Probably nothing. But I want him to know. So that he can decide. It is his last chance, Myron. I do not believe he will take it. But he should.”

With that, she turned away and left. Myron watched her walk away. When she was out of sight, Myron hailed a taxi. He got in the back.

“Where to, bud?”

He gave the man the address where Esme Fong was staying. Then he settled back in the seat. His eyes stared blankly out the window. The city passed by in a misty, silent blur.

When he thought that his voice would not betray him, Myron called Win on the cell phone.

After a quick hello, Win said, “Bummer about Jack.”

“From what I hear, he used to be your friend.”

Win cleared his throat. “Myron?”

“What?”

“You know nothing. Remember that.”

True enough. “Can we have dinner tonight?”

Win hesitated. “Of course.”

“At the cottage. Six-thirty.”

“Fine.”

Win hung up. Myron tried to put it out of his mind. He had other things to worry about.

Esme Fong paced the sidewalk outside the entrance to the Omni Hotel on the corner of Chestnut Street and Fourth. She wore a white suit and white stockings. Killer legs. She kept wringing her hands.

Myron got out of the taxi. “Why are you waiting out here?” he asked.

“You insisted on talking privately,” Esme answered. “Norm is upstairs.”

“You two live in the same room?”

“No, we have adjoining suites.”

Myron nodded. The no-tell motel was making more sense now. “Not much privacy, huh?”

“No, not really.” She gave him a tentative smile. “But it’s okay. I like Norm.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“What’s this about, Myron?”

“You heard about Jack Coldren?”

“Of course. Norm and I were shocked. Absolutely shocked.”

Myron nodded. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s walk.”

They headed up Fourth Street. Myron was tempted to stay on Chestnut Street, but that would have meant strolling past Independence Hall and that would have been a tad too cliché for his liking. Still, Fourth Street was in the colonial section. Lots of brick. Brick sidewalk, brick walls and fence, brick buildings of tremendous historical significance that all looked the same. White ash trees lined the walk. They turned right into a park that held the Second Bank of the United States. There was a plaque with a portrait of the bank’s first president. One of Win’s ancestors. Myron looked for a resemblance but could not find one.

“I’ve tried to reach Linda,” Esme said. “But the phone is busy.”

“Did you try Chad’s line?”

Something hit her face, then fled. “Chad’s line?”

“He has his own phone in the house,” he said. “You must have known that.”

“Why would I know that?”

Myron shrugged. “I thought you knew Chad.”

“I do,” she said, but her voice was slow, careful. “I mean, I’ve been over to the house a number of times.”

“Uh-huh. And when was the last time you saw Chad?”

She put her hand to her chin. “I don’t think he was there when I went over Friday night,” she said, the voice still slow. “I don’t really know. I guess a few weeks ago.”

Myron made a buzzing noise. “Incorrect answer.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t get it, Esme.”

“What?”

Myron continued walking, Esme stayed in step. “You’re what,” he said, “twenty-four years old?”

“Twenty-five.”

“You’re smart. You’re successful. You’re attractive. But a teenage boy—what’s up with that?”

She stopped. “What are you talking about?”

“You really don’t know?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea.”

His eyes bore into hers. “You. Chad Coldren. The Court Manor Inn. That help?”

“No.”

Myron gave her skeptical. “Please.”

“Did Chad tell you that?”

“Esme …”

“He’s lying, Myron. My God, you know how teenage boys are. How could you believe something like that?”

“Pictures, Esme.”

Her face went slack. “What?”

“You two stopped at an ATM machine next door to the motel, remember? They have cameras. Your face was clear as day.” It was a bluff. But it was a damn good one. She caved a little piece at a time. She looked around and then collapsed on a bench. She turned and faced a colonial building with a lot of scaffolding. Scaffolding, Myron thought, ruined the effect—like armpit hair on a beautiful woman. It shouldn’t really matter, but it did.

“Please don’t tell Norm,” she said in a faraway voice. “Please don’t.”

Myron said nothing.

“It was dumb. I know that. But it shouldn’t cost me my job.”

Myron sat next to her. “Tell me what happened.”

She looked back at him. “Why? What business is this of yours?”

“There are reasons.”

“What reasons?” Her voice was a little sharper now. “Look, I’m not proud of myself. But who appointed you my conscience?”

“Fine. I’ll go ask Norm then. Maybe he can help me.”

Her mouth dropped. “Help you with what? I don’t understand. Why are you doing this to me?”

“I need some answers. I don’t have time to explain.”

“What do you want me to say? That I was dumb? I was. I could tell you that I was lonely being in a nice place. That he seemed like a sweet, handsome kid and that at his age, I figured there’d be no fear of disease or attachments. But at the end of the day, that does not change much. I was wrong. I’m sorry, okay?”

“When was the last time you saw Chad?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?” Esme insisted.

“Just answer my questions or I’ll go to Norm, I swear it.”

She studied his face. He put on his most impermeable face, the one he’d learned from really tough cops and toll collectors on the New Jersey Turnpike. After a few seconds she said, “At that motel.”

“The Court Manor Inn?”

“Whatever it was called. I don’t remember the name.”

“What day was that?” Myron asked.

She thought a moment. “Friday morning. Chad was still sleeping.”

“You haven’t seen or spoken to him since?”

“No.”

“You didn’t have any plans to rendezvous for another tryst?”

She made an unhappy face. “No, not really. I thought he was just out for some fun, but once we were there, I could see he was developing a crush. I didn’t count on that. Frankly I was worried.”

“Of what exactly?”

“That he’d tell his mother. Chad swore he wouldn’t, but who knew what he’d do if I hurt him? When I didn’t hear from him again, I was relieved.”

Myron searched her face and her story for lies. He couldn’t find one. Didn’t mean they weren’t there.

Esme shifted on the bench, crossing her legs. “I still don’t understand why you’re asking me all this.” She thought about it a moment and then something seemed to spark in her eyes. She squared her shoulders toward Myron. “Does this have something to do with Jack’s murder?”