The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (185 page)

“He is your money.”

People approached the stage, stretching their hands toward the heavens in the vain hope that Sawyer Wells might reach out and touch them. Myron and Win watched. The table with the Wells paraphernalia was swarmed now like rotting fruit with buzzing flies.

“The citified version of a tent revival,” Win noted.

Myron nodded.

Eventually Sawyer Wells waved and ran offstage. The crowd continued to cheer and purchase. Myron half expected a voice-over to announce that Elvis had left the building. Win and Myron swam through the crowd.

“Come,” Win said. “I have backstage passes.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

He wasn’t. They actually said “Backstage Pass” on them. A plainclothes security guard scowled at them and scrutinized the passes as if they were the Zapruder film. Satisfied, he let them past the velvet rope. Yep, velvet rope. Sawyer Wells spotted Win and bounced toward them.

“So glad you could come, Win!” He turned to Myron and stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Sawyer Wells.”

Myron shook it. “Myron Bolitar.”

Sawyer’s smile flickered but stayed on. “Nice to meet you, Myron.”

Myron decided to try a frontal assault. “Why did you fix Clu Haid’s drug test so it would appear he was taking heroin?”

The smile was still there, but it wasn’t sitting right. “Pardon?”

“Clu Haid. The name ring a bell?”

“Of course. As I told Win yesterday, I worked very hard with him.”

“Worked how?”

“To keep him off drugs. I have an extensive background as a drug counselor. That’s how I was trained. To help addicts.”

“Not so different from what you’re doing now,” Myron said.

“Pardon?”

“People with addictive personalities need an addiction. If it’s not booze or drugs, maybe it’s religion or self-help
mumbo jumbo. They’re simply swapping addictions; we hope to one less damaging.”

Sawyer Wells overnodded. “That’s a really interesting viewpoint, Myron.”

“Gee, thanks, Sawyer.”

“I learned much about human frailty, about our lack of self-esteem, from addicts like Clu Haid. As I said, I worked very hard with him. His failure hurt me greatly.”

Win said, “Because it was your failure.”

“Pardon?”

“You are everything, and everything is you,” Win said. “You are Clu Haid. He failed, ergo you failed.”

Sawyer Wells maintained the smile. But it was different when he looked at Win. His gestures were tighter too, more controlled. He was one of those guys who tried to imitate the person with whom he was conversing. Myron hated that. “I see you came in at the end of my seminar, Win.”

“Did I misunderstand your message?”

“No, it’s not that. But a man creates his own world. That’s my point. You are what you create, what you perceive. Take responsibility. That’s the most important component of the Wells Guide to Wellness. You take responsibility for your own actions. And you admit fault. You know what the two most beautiful sentences in the world are?”

Win opened his mouth, stopped, looked at Myron, shook his head. “Too easy,” he said.

“‘I am responsible,’ ” Sawyer continued. “‘It’s my fault.’ ” He turned toward Myron. “Say it, Myron.”

“What?”

“Come on. It’s exhilarating. Say, ‘I am responsible. It’s my fault.’ Stop passing the buck in your life. Say it. Come on, I’ll say it with you. Win, you too.”

Myron and Sawyer said, “I am responsible. It’s my fault.” Win remained silent.

“Feel better?” Sawyer said.

“It was almost like sex,” Myron said.

“It can be powerful, yes.”

“Yeah, uh-huh. Look, Sawyer, I’m not here to critique your seminar. I want to know about Clu’s drug test. It was fixed. We have evidence that proves that fact. You helped administer that test. I want to know why you made it look like Clu was on drugs.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The autopsy shows conclusively that Clu hadn’t taken drugs for at least two months before his death. Yet you tested him positive two weeks ago.”

“Maybe the test was faulty,” Sawyer said.

Win tsk-tsked. “Say, ‘I am responsible. It’s my fault.’ ”

“Stop passing the buck in your life,” Myron added.

“Come on, Sawyer. It’s exhilarating.”

“That’s not funny,” Sawyer said.

“Wait,” Win said. “You are everything, thus you are the drug test.”

“And you are a positive guy,” Myron added.

“Ergo the test result was positive.”

Sawyer said, “I think I’ve had just about enough.”

“You’re finished, Wells,” Myron said. “I’ll blab to the papers.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything about a fixed test.”

“Want to hear my theory?” Myron said.

“No.”

“You’re leaving the Yankees and going to work for Vincent Riverton, right?”

“I’m not working exclusively for anyone. His conglomerate publishes my book.”

“He’s also Sophie Mayor’s archenemy.”

“You don’t know that,” Sawyer said.

“He lived for owning the team. When she took over, he was pissed. She ends up being everything New York wants in an owner because she minds her own business. She makes only one move, acquiring Clu Haid, and it’s a beauty. Clu pitches better than anyone dared hope. The Yankees start heading for greatness. Then you step in. Clu fails a drug test. Sophie Mayor looks incompetent. The Yankees tumble.”

Sawyer seemed to recoup a bit. Something in what Myron had just said had given him a new lease. Odd. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

“What part?”

“All of it,” Sawyer said, chest back out. “Sophie Mayor has been good to me. I was working as a drug counselor at the Sloan State and Rockwell rehab centers when she gave me my chance to move up. Why would I want to hurt her?”

“You tell me.”

“I have no idea. I firmly believed that Clu was on drugs. If he wasn’t, then the test was faulty.”

“You know the results are double-tested. There was no mistake. Someone had to fix it.”

“It wasn’t me. Maybe you should speak to Dr. Stilwell.”

“But you were there? You admit that?”

“Yes, I was there. And I will no longer dignify your questions with answers.” With that Sawyer Wells abruptly spun and stormed off.

“I don’t think he liked us,” Myron said.

“But if it’s all about you, then we are he.”

“So he doesn’t like himself?”

“Sad, isn’t it?”

“Not to mention confusing,” Myron said.

They headed for the exit.

“So where to, O Motivated One?” Win asked.

“Starbucks.”

“Latte time?”

Myron shook his head. “Confront FJ time.”

FJ was not there. Myron called his office again. The same secretary told him that FJ was still unavailable. Myron repeated that it was imperative that he speak to Francis Ache Junior as soon as humanly possible. The secretary remained unimpressed.

Myron returned to his office.

Big Cyndi wore a bright green spandex bodysuit with a slogan across the chest—this on a woman who could barely squeeze into a caftan. The fabric screamed in pain, the letters in the slogan so elongated that Myron couldn’t read them, kinda like what happens to Silly Putty after you press it against a newspaper headline and stretch it out.

“Lots of clients have been calling, Mr. Bolitar,” Big Cyndi said. “They are not pleased by your absence.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

She gave him the messages. “Oh, and Jared Mayor called,” she said. “He seemed very anxious to talk to you.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He called Jared Mayor first. He was in his mother’s
office at Yankee Stadium. Sophie switched on the speakerphone.

“You called?” Myron said.

“I was hoping you could give us an update,” Jared said.

“I think someone is setting up your mother.”

Sophie said, “Setting me up how?”

“Clu’s drug test was a fix. He was clean.”

“I know you want to believe that—”

“I have proof,” Myron said.

Silence.

“What kind of proof?” Jared asked.

“There’s no time for that now. But trust me on this. Clu was clean.”

“Who would have fixed the test?” Sophie asked.

“That’s what I want to know. The logical suspects are Dr. Stilwell and Sawyer Wells.”

“But why would they want to hurt Clu?”

“Not Clu, Sophie. You. It fits in with everything else we have. Raising the specter of your missing daughter, taking your big baseball trade and turning it against you—I think someone’s out to hurt you.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Sophie said.

“Could be.”

“Who would want to hurt me?”

“I’m sure you’ve made your share of enemies. How about Vincent Riverton, for one?”

“Riverton? No. Our whole takeover was far more amicable than the press portrayed it.”

“Still, I wouldn’t rule him out.”

“Listen, Myron, I don’t really care about any of this. I just want you to find my daughter.”

“They’re probably connected.”

“How?”

Myron changed ears. “You want me to be blunt, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I have to remind you what the odds are that your daughter is still alive.”

“Slim,” she said.

“Very slim.”

“No, I’ll stay with slim. In fact, I think it’s better than slim.”

“Do you really believe Lucy is alive someplace?”

“Yes.”

“She’s out there somewhere, waiting to be found?”

“Yes.”

“Then the big question,” Myron said, “is why.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why isn’t she home?” he asked. “Do you think someone’s been holding her hostage all these years?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what other choices are there? If Lucy is still alive, why hasn’t she come home? Or phoned home? What is she hiding from?”

Silence.

Sophie broke it. “You think someone has resurrected my daughter’s memory as part of some vendetta against me?”

Myron was not sure how to answer. “I think it’s a possibility we have to consider.”

“I appreciate your bluntness, Myron. I want you to remain honest with me. Don’t hold back. But I’ll also keep my hope. When your child disappears into thin air, it creates a huge void. I need something to fill that void, Myron. So until I find out otherwise, I’ll fill it with hope.”

Myron said, “I understand.”

“Then you’ll keep looking.”

There was a knock on the door. Myron put his hand over the phone and said to come in. Big Cyndi opened the door. Myron gestured to a chair. She took it. In the bright green she looked a bit like a planet.

“I’m not sure what I can do, Sophie.”

“Jared will investigate Clu’s drug test,” she said. “If there was anything amiss, he’ll find out about it. You keep your eyes open for my daughter. You may be right about Lucy’s fate. Then again you may be wrong. Don’t give up.”

Before he could reply, the line was disconnected. Myron put the phone back in the cradle.

“Well?” Big Cyndi asked.

“She still has hope.”

Big Cyndi scrunched up her face. “There’s a fine line between hope and delusion, Mr. Bolitar,” she said. “I think Ms. Mayor may have crossed it.”

Myron nodded. He shifted in his chair. “Something I can do for you?” he asked.

She shook her head. Her head was a nearly perfect cube and reminded Myron of the old game of Rock’Em Sock’Em Robots. Not sure what else to do, Myron folded his hands and put them on his desk. He wondered how many times he had been alone with Big Cyndi like this. Less than a handful for sure. Wrong to say, but she made him uncomfortable.

After some time had passed, Big Cyndi said, “My mother was a big, ugly woman.”

Myron had no comeback for that one.

“And like most big, ugly women, she was a shrinking violet. That’s how it is with big, ugly women, Mr. Bolitar. They get used to standing alone in the corner. They hide. They become angry and defensive. They keep their heads
down, and they let themselves be treated with disdain and disgust and—”

She stopped suddenly, waved a meaty paw. Myron sat still.

“I hated my mother,” she said. “I swore that I would never be like that.”

Myron risked a small nod.

“That’s why you have to save Esperanza.”

“I’m not sure I see the connection.”

“She’s the only one who sees past this.”

“Past what?”

She thought about that one for a moment. “What’s the first thing you think when you see me, Mr. Bolitar?”

“I don’t know.”

“People like to stare,” she said.

“Hard to blame them, don’t you think?” Myron said. “I mean, the way you dress and stuff.”

She smiled. “I’d rather see shock on their faces than pity,” she said. “And I’d rather they see brazen or outrageous than shrinking or scared or sad. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“I’m not standing alone in the corner anymore. I’ve done enough of that.”

Myron, unsure what to say, settled for a nod.

“When I was nineteen, I started wrestling professionally. And of course I was cast as a villain. I sneered. I made faces. I cheated. I hit opponents when they weren’t looking. It was all an act, of course. But that was my job.”

Myron sat back and listened.

“One night I was scheduled to fight Esperanza—Little Pocahontas, I should say. It was the first time we’d met. She was already the most beloved wrestler on the circuit. Cute and pretty and small and all the things … all the
things that I’m not. Anyway, we were performing in some high school gym outside Scranton. The script was the usual. A back-and-forth match. Esperanza winning with her skill. Me cheating. Twice I was supposed to nearly have her pinned when the crowd would go wild and she’d start stamping her foot, like the cheers were giving her strength, and then everyone would start clapping in unison with her stomps. You know how it works, right?”

Myron nodded.

“She was supposed to pin me with a backflip at the fifteen-minute mark. We executed it perfectly. Then as she was raising her hands in victory, I was supposed to sneak up on her and whack her in the back with a metal chair. Again it went perfectly. She collapsed to the canvas. The crowd gasped. I, the Human Volcano—that’s what I was called then—raised my hands in victory. They started booing and throwing things. I sneered. The announcers acted all concerned for poor Little Pocahontas. They brought out the stretcher. Again you’ve seen the same act a million times on cable.”