The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (207 page)

“I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“This might sound a little nutty,” Myron said. “But I left a voice mail message for Davis Taylor né Dennis Lex. When he called back, he made little sense. But he kept telling me to ‘sow the seeds.’ ”

A small quake ran through Stan Gibbs. It passed quickly. “What else did he say?”

“That was pretty much it. I should sow the seeds. I should say good-bye to the child. Stuff like that.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Gibbs said. “He probably just read my article and decided to have a little fun at your expense.”

“Probably,” Myron said. “Except that wouldn’t really explain your reaction to Dennis Lex’s name.”

Stan shrugged, but there wasn’t much behind it. “The family is famous.”

“If I said Ivana Trump, would you have reacted the same?”

Gibbs stood. “I need some time to think about this.”

“Think out loud,” Myron said.

Stan just shook his head.

“Did you make up the story, Stan?”

“Another time.”

“Not good enough,” Myron said. “You owe me something here. Did you plagiarize the story?”

“How do you expect me to answer that?”

“Stan?”

“What?”

“I don’t care about your situation. I’m not here to judge you or tell on you. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you made up the story or not. All I care about is finding the bone marrow donor. Period. End of story.
El Fin
.”

Stan’s eyes started to well up. He took another puff of the cigarette. “No,” he said. “I never plagiarized. I never saw that book in my life.”

It was like the room had been holding its breath and finally let go.

“How do you explain the similarities between your article and that novel?”

He opened his mouth, stopped, shook his head.

“Your silence makes you look guilty.”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

“Yeah, you do. I’m trying to save a kid’s life here. You’re not that wrapped up in your problems, are you, Stan?”

Stan moved back into the kitchen. Myron stood and followed him. “Talk to me,” Myron said. “Maybe I can help.”

“No,” he said. “You can’t.”

“How do you explain the similarities, Stan? Just tell me that, okay? You must have thought about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it.”

“Meaning?”

He opened the refrigerator and grabbed another can of Sprite. “Do you think all psychotics are original?”

“I’m not following you.”

“You received a call from a guy who told you about sowing the seeds.”

“Right.”

“There are two possibilities that explain why he did that,” Stan said. “One, he is the same killer I wrote about. Or two?” Stan looked at Myron.

“He just repeated what he’d read in the article,” Myron said.

Stan snapped and pointed at Myron.

“So you’re saying that the kidnapper you interviewed read this novel and it, what, influenced him somehow? That he copied it?”

Stan took a swig from the can. “That’s a theory,” he said.

And a damn good one, Myron thought. “So why didn’t you say that to the press? Why didn’t you defend yourself?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Some people say it’s because you were afraid they’d look closer at your work. That they’d find other fabrications.”

“And some people are morons,” he finished.

“So why didn’t you fight?”

“I spent my whole life being a journalist,” Stan said. “Do you know what it means for a journalist to be called a plagiarist? It’s like a daycare worker being called a child molester. I’m done. No words can change
that. I’ve lost everything to this scandal. My wife, my kids, my job, my reputation—”

“Your mistress?”

He shut his eyes suddenly, tightly, like a child trying to make the bogeyman go away.

“The police think you killed Melina,” Myron said.

“I’m well aware of that.”

“Tell me what’s going on here, Stan.”

He opened his eyes and shook his head. “I have to make some calls, check out some leads.”

“You can’t just cut me loose.”

“I have to,” he said.

“Let me help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“But I need yours.”

“Not right now,” Stan said. “You’ll have to trust me on this.”

“I’m not big on trust,” Myron said.

Stan smiled. “Neither am I,” he said. “Neither am I.”

Myron pulled out. So, too, he noticed, did two men in a black Oldsmobile Ciera. Hmm.

The cell phone rang.

“Have you learned anything?” It was Emily.

“Not really,” Myron said.

“Where are you?”

“Englewood.”

“Do you have any plans for dinner?” Emily asked.

Myron hesitated. “No.”

“I’m a good cook, you know. We dated in college, so I didn’t have much chance to demonstrate my culinary skills.”

“I remember you cooking for me once,” Myron said.

“I did?”

“In my wok.”

Emily chuckled. “That’s right, you had an electric wok in your dorm, right?”

“Yep.”

“I almost forgot about that,” Emily said. “Why did you have one, anyway?”

“To impress chicks.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I thought I’d invite a girl up to my room, slice up some vegetables, add a little soy sauce—”

“To the vegetables?” she asked.

“For starters.”

“So how come you never pulled that one on me?”

“Didn’t have to.”

“You calling me easy, Myron?”

“How exactly does one answer that,” Myron asked, “and maintain possession of both testicles?”

“Come on over,” Emily said. “I’ll make us some dinner. No soy sauce.”

Another hesitation.

“Please don’t make me ask again,” Emily said.

He wanted very much to say no. “Okay.”

“Just take Route 4—”

“I know the way, Emily.”

He hung up then and checked the rearview mirror. The black Oldsmobile Ciera was still following. Better safe than sorry. Myron hit the preprogrammed number on his cell phone. After one ring, Win answered.

“Articulate,” Win said.

“Got a tail, methinks.”

“License plate?”

Myron read it off to him.

“Where should we coordinate?”

“Garden State Plaza mall,” Myron said.

“On my way, fair maiden.”

Myron stayed on Route 4 until he saw a sign for the Garden State Plaza. He took a rather complicated cloverleaf overpass and veered into the mall’s lot. The black Olds followed, dropping back a bit. Stall time. Myron circled a few times before finding a parking space. The Olds kept its distance. He turned off the car and headed for the “Northeast Entrance.”

The Garden State Plaza had all the artificial elements endemic in malls—the mall ear-pop when you enter, the stale mall air, the mall hollow acoustics, as though all sound were traveling through a high-volume distorter—the audial equivalent of a shower door, voices somehow rendered both loud and incomprehensible. Too much with the high ceilings and faux marble, nothing soft to cushion the sound.

He strolled through the nouveau riche section of the Garden State Plaza, past several barren shoe stores, the kind that display maybe three pairs of shoes on the ends of what look like deer antlers. He reached a store called Aveda, which sold wildly overpriced cosmetics and lotions. The Aveda saleswoman, a starving young thang in tourniquet-tight black, informed Myron that they were having a sale on face moisturizers. Myron refrained from crying out “Yippee!” and went on his way. Victoria’s Secret was next, and Myron did that male surreptitious glance at the lingerie window displays. Most of your more sophisticated heterosexual males are well versed in this art, awarding the racily clad supermodels the most casual of once-overs, feigning a lack of interest in the blown-up, blown-clear images of Stephanie and Frederique in Miracle Bras. Myron, of course, did the same thing—and then he thought, why pretend? He stopped short, squared his shoulders, ogled in earnest. Honesty. Shouldn’t a woman respect that in a man too?

He checked his watch. Not yet. More stall. The plan, as it were, was fairly simple. Win drives to the Garden State Plaza. When he arrives, he calls Myron on the cell phone. Myron then goes back to his car. Win looks for the black Olds and follows the followee. Super clever, no?

Myron hit Sharper Image, one of the few places in the world where people use the words
shiatsu
and
ionic
and nobody laughs. He tried out a massage chair (setting: Knead) and debated purchasing a $5,500 life-size statue of a
Star Wars
star-trooper that had been reduced
to a mere $3,499. Talk about redefining nouveau riche. Here’s a little tip for you: If you’ve purchased a Sharper Image life-size
Star Wars
star-trooper, take out your platinum-est charge card, hand it to the nearest cashier, and buy a life.

The cell phone rang. Myron picked it up.

“They’re feds,” Win said.

“Yikes.”

“Yes.”

“No reason to follow them, then.”

“No.”

Myron spotted two men in suits and sunglasses behind him. They were studying the fruit-flavored shampoos in the Garden Botanica store window a little too closely. Two men in suits and sunglasses. Oh, like that happens. “I think they’re following me in here too.”

“If they arrest you with lingerie,” Win said, “tell them it’s for your wife.”

“That what you do?”

“Keep the phone on,” Win said.

Myron did as he asked. An old trick of theirs. Myron kept his cell phone on, thereby freeing Win to listen in. Okay, fine, now what? He kept strolling. Two more men in business suits were window-shopping up ahead. They turned as Myron approached, both staring him down. Some tail. Myron glanced behind him. The first two feds were right there.

The two feds in front of him stepped directly into his path. The other two came up behind him, boxing him in.

Myron stopped, looked at all four feds. “Did you guys check out the facial moisturizer sale at Aveda?”

“Mr. Bolitar?”

“Yes.”

One of them, a short guy with a severe haircut, flashed a badge. “I’m Special Agent Fleischer with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’d like a word with you, sir.”

“What about?”

“Would you mind coming with us?”

They had the standard-issue stone expressions; Myron would get nothing out of them. Probably didn’t even know anything themselves. Probably just delivery boys. Myron shrugged and followed them out. Two got into a white Olds Ciera. The other two stayed with Myron. One opened the back door of the black Ciera and head-gestured for Myron to get in. He did so. The interior was very clean. Nice, smooth seats. Myron ran his hand over it.

“Corinthian leather?” he asked.

Special Agent Fleischer turned around. “No, sir, that would be the Ford Granada.”

Touché.

No one spoke. No radio played. Myron settled back. He debated calling Emily and postponing their soy-sauce-less encounter, but he didn’t want the feds to hear him. He sat tight and kept his mouth shut. He didn’t do that often. It felt odd and somehow right.

Thirty minutes later, he was in the basement of a modest high-rise in Newark. He sat at a table with his hands on a semi-sticky table. The room had one barred window and cement walls the color and texture of dried oatmeal. The feds excused themselves and left Myron alone. Myron sighed and sat back. He’d figured that this was the old soften-him-up-by-making-him-wait bit, when the door flew open.

The woman was first. She wore a pumpkin-orange blazer, blue jeans, sneakers, and ball-and-chain earrings. The word that came to mind was
husky.
Not big really. Husky. Everything was husky—even her hair, a sort of canned-corn yellow. The guy riding in on her fumes was geeky thin with a pointy head and a small, greased shock of black hair. He looked like an upside-down pencil. He spoke first.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bolitar,” Pencil said.

“Good afternoon.”

“I’m Special Agent Rick Peck,” he said. “This is Special Agent Kimberly Green.”

The orange-blazered Green did a caged-lion pace. Myron nodded at her. She nodded back but grudgingly, like her teacher had just told her to apologize for something she didn’t do.

Pencil Peck continued. “Mr. Bolitar, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“What about?”

Peck kept his eyes on his notes and spoke like he was reading. “Today you visited one Stan Gibbs at 24 Acre Drive. Is that correct?”

“How do you know I didn’t visit two Stan Gibbs?”

Peck and Green exchanged a glance. Then Peck said, “Please, Mr. Bolitar, we’d appreciate your cooperation. Did you visit Mr. Gibbs?”

“You know I did,” Myron said.

“Fine, thank you.” Peck wrote something down slowly. Then he looked up. “We’d very much like to know the nature of your visit.”

“Why?”

“You are the first visitor Mr. Gibbs has had since moving to his current residence.”

“No, I mean, why do you want to know?”

Green crossed her arms. She and Peck looked at each other again. Peck said, “Mr. Gibbs is part of an ongoing investigation.”

Myron waited. No one said anything. “Well, that pretty much clears it up.”

“That’s all I can say for the moment.”

“Same here.”

“Pardon?”

“If you can’t say any more, I can’t say any more.”

Kimberly Green put her hands on the table, gave a toothy grimace—husky teeth?—and leaned down like she might take a bite out of him. The canned-corn hair smelled like Pert Plus. She eyeballed him—must have
read a memo on intimidating glares—and then spoke for the first time. “Here’s how we’re going to play it, asshole. We’re going to ask you questions. You’re going to listen to them and then you’re going to answer them. You got it?”

Myron nodded. “I want to make sure I got this straight,” he said to her. “You’re playing bad cop, right?”

Peck picked up the ball. “Mr. Bolitar, no one is interested in making trouble here. But we’d very much like your cooperation in this matter.”

“Am I under arrest?” Myron asked.

“No.”

“Bye then.”

He started to stand. Kimberly Green gave him a shove mid-rise and he fell back into the chair. “Sit down, asshole.” She looked over at Peck. “Maybe he’s part of it.”