The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (5 page)

The phone rang.

He snatched the receiver as if it were a loose ball on the turf. The phone was ringing back the number—just like the pregnant lady’s on the television. After the fourth ring the phone was picked up.

An answering machine.

A voice said, “Hi. We’re not in right now. Please leave a message at the beep, and we’ll be sure to call you back. Thanks.”

The phone slipped from Christian’s grip. A chilly hand caressed the back of his neck. A sound—some kind of choking noise—escaped his lips. Christian tried to form words but he couldn’t.

The answering machine. The voice.

It was Kathy.

Myron staggered into his office, punch-drunk from lack of sleep. He had not even bothered climbing into bed the night before. He tried to read, but the words swam in front of his eyes in meaningless waves. He put on the television. Nick at Nite, the cultural equivalent of aerosol cheese. Back-to-back episodes of
F Troop
for three hours. Larry Storch’s portrayal of Agarn was, in a phrase, pure thespian genius. Who knew that hitting someone repeatedly with a big hat could be so funny?

But not even such highbrow entertainment could stop his mind from going back to one thought: Jess was back. And like Win had said, it was no coincidence.

At midnight his mother had come down in her robe.

“Hon, you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“You seemed distracted all night.”

“It’s nothing. Just have a lot of work.”

She looked at him with her a-mother-is-psychic-and-knows look of disbelief. “Whatever you say.”

At the age of thirty-one Myron still lived at home. True, he had his own space, his own bedroom and bathroom in the basement. But there was no denying it. Myron still lived with Mommy and Daddy.

Five minutes after his mother had gone back to bed, Christian Steele called Myron on his private line, the one that rang softly in the basement so as not to wake up his parents, both of whom slept so lightly, Myron was sure
they’d been some kind of ghetto lookouts in a previous life. He filled Myron in on the weird phone calls.

Myron was familiar with the star-six-nine, known as Return Call. The phone company charged on a “pay-per-use” basis—around seventy-five cents per use. The problem was, Return Call did not trace the number. It automatically redialed the number of the last incoming call received, not letting you know the number. Star-five-seven—Call Trace—would have done the job, though the number is merely reported to the local phone company, which gives it only to the proper authorities.

Still, Myron would call some of his old sources at the phone company, see what he could find out. He knew that star-six-nine worked only for certain local areas. That meant the call was not long distance. A start. Better than nothing. He would also put Caller ID or a trace on Christian’s phone. Taps were no longer like you saw on television, the hero anxiously trying to get the caller to stay on the line until it was completed. They were automatic. Caller ID actually showed you the incoming number before you picked up the phone.

But of course, none of that answered the larger questions:

Was it really Kathy’s voice Christian had heard? And if so, what did that mean?

Lots of
preguntas.
Not too many answers.

He approached Esperanza’s desk. “How’s it going?”

She pierced him with a glare, shook her head in disgust, and looked back down at her desk.

“Back on decaf?” he asked.

Another glare. Myron shrugged. “Any messages?”

A head shake. Esperanza muttered something. Myron thought he picked up the Spanish equivalent of “asswipe.”

“You want to tell me why you’re so upset?”

“Right,” she said bitingly. “Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t.”

The glare was back. Women had a talent for glares. Esperanza had a divine gift.

“Forget it,” he said. “Just get me Otto Burke on the phone.”

“Now?” Esperanza said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Won’t you be busy?”

“Just do it, please, okay? You’re starting to piss me off.”

“Oooo. I’m quaking.”

Myron shook his head. He had no time for her moods right now. He crossed the room and opened his office door. He stopped short.

“Hi.”

He cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. “Hello, Jessica.”

    For most athletes, Jessica thought, the spotlight fades slowly. But for a tragic few, it vanishes as though from a sudden power failure, bathing the athlete in dazzling darkness.

Such was the case with Myron.

For most athletes the expectation game helps dim the light gradually. A high school star becomes a college bench warmer. The light dims. A college starter realizes he will not be the team’s high scorer. The light dims. The college superstar realizes he will never make it to the pros. The light dims. And then there are those very few, those who are one in a million, those with almost Wolfean “right stuff,” who become professional athletes.

For those, the light is blinding, forever damaging the vision of the ones who stare directly into it. That was what made the dimming so important. An athlete could
get used to losing the light slowly. His career would peak before tapering off just slightly. He would brighten from the inexperienced rookie to the player in his prime, and then the light would begin to fade as he moved past seasoned vet.

For Myron that had not happened.

He had been one of those select few who basked in the most potent wattage imaginable, as if the spotlight shone on him and from inside of him. His basketball talent had first became apparent in the sixth grade. He had gone on to break every scoring and rebounding record in Essex County, New Jersey, a perennial basketball stronghold. Myron was short for a forward, a program six-six (really only six-four), but he was a physical brute, a bull, and a hell of a leaper for a white man. He was highly recruited, chose Duke, and won two NCAA titles in four years.

The Boston Celtics had drafted him in the first round, the eighth pick overall. Myron’s spotlight grew impossibly bright.

And then the fuse blew.

A freak injury, they called it. It was a preseason game against the Washington Bullets. Two players weighing a combined six hundred pounds sandwiched the rookie Myron Bolitar. The doctors threw all kind of terms at the man-child who had never been injured before, not even a twisted ankle. Multiple fractures, they said. Shattered kneecap. Casts. Wheelchair. Crutches. Cane.

Years.

Sixteen months later Myron could walk, though the limp lasted another two years. He never came back. His career was over. The only life he had ever known had been stripped from him. The press had done a story or two, but Myron was quickly forgotten.

Complete blackout.

Jessica frowned. Spotlight. Bad metaphor. Too cliché and inaccurate. She shook her head and looked up at him.

“That explains it,” Myron said.

“Explains what?”

“Esperanza’s mood.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him. “I told her we had an appointment. She didn’t seem pleased to see me.”

“No kidding.”

“She’d still kill me for a nickel, huh?”

“Or half that much,” he replied. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure.”

He picked up his phone. “Can you get me a black coffee? Thanks.” He put the receiver back in its cradle and looked up at her.

“How’s Win?” she asked.

“Good.”

“His family owns the building?”

“Yes.”

“I understand Win’s become quite a financial whiz—despite himself.”

Myron nodded, waited.

“So you’re still hanging around with Win,” she continued. “You still have Esperanza. Not a lot changes.”

“Plenty changes,” he said.

Esperanza appeared at the door, the scowl still on her face. “Otto Burke was in a meeting.”

“Try Larry Hanson.”

She handed the coffee to Jessica, smiled eerily, and left. Jessica studied the cup. “Think she spat in it?”

“Probably,” Myron replied.

She put it down. “I need to cut back anyway.”

Myron moved around his desk and sat down. The wall
behind him was covered with theater posters. All musicals. His fingers drummed the desk.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said. “I wanted to surprise you, catch you off guard. Not the other way around.”

“Still seeking the upper hand?”

“I guess so, yeah. Old habit.”

He shrugged but said nothing.

“I need your help,” she said.

He waited.

She took a breath and plunged. “The police say my father was killed in a robbery attempt. I don’t believe it.”

“What do you believe?” he asked.

“I think his murder has something to do with Kathy.”

Myron was not surprised. He leaned forward, his eyes never staying on hers for very long. “What makes you say that?”

“The police dismiss it as a coincidence,” she said simply. “I’m not big on coincidences.”

“What about your dad’s friend on the force, what’s-his-name?”

“Paul Duncan.”

“Right, him. Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

She began tapping her foot, an old, subconscious, annoying habit. She made herself stop. “Paul says it was a robbery too. He spews out all the facts about the crime scene, the missing wallet, the missing jewelry, that kind of thing. He is perfectly logical and objective, which is not his way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Paul Duncan is a passionate man. A hothead. Here
his best friend has been murdered, and he seems almost blasé about it. It’s not like him.” She stopped, shifted in her chair. “Something isn’t right here, I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Myron rubbed his chin but kept quiet.

“Look, you know I was never very close to my father,” she continued. “He wasn’t an easy man to love. He was far better with his corpses than with breathing entities. He liked the idea of family, the concept—it was the actual execution he found wearisome. But I still have to find out the truth. For Kathy.”

“How did your father and Kathy get along?” Myron asked.

She thought about it a moment. “Better lately. When we were kids, they weren’t very close. Kathy was a mama’s girl, always hanging around my mom, wanting to be like her, the whole bit. But when she vanished, I’d venture to guess she was closer to my dad than my mom. He was crushed when she disappeared. He became obsessed. No, ‘obsessed’ isn’t strong enough. All of us were obsessed, of course. But not like my father. It consumed him entirely. Everything about him changed. He had always been the quiet county medical examiner, the man who made no waves. Now he was using his position to keep the pressure on twenty-four hours a day. He became paranoid, convinced the police weren’t doing all they could do to find her. He even started his own investigation.”

“Did he find anything?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

Myron looked away. At the far wall. A movie still of the Marx Brothers.
A Night at the Opera
. Groucho looked back but offered no answers.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing. Go on.”

“There isn’t much else. I can only tell you that my father was acting very strangely the past few weeks. He started calling me all the time when previously we’d only talked maybe three times a year, sounding a little teary. It was like he was play-acting the part of perfect Daddy with renewed vigor. I couldn’t tell if it was a serious change or just a phase.”

Myron nodded, looking off again. He said nothing. Jessica almost thought he’d completely drifted off when he finally spoke, his voice almost inaudibly soft. “What do you think happened to Kathy?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think she’s dead?”

“I—” She stopped. “I miss her. It’s … I don’t want to think she’s dead.”

He nodded again. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Look into it. Find out what’s going on.”

“Assuming something is going on.”

“Right.”

“Why me?”

She thought about it a moment. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I thought you’d believe me. I thought you’d help.”

“I’ll help,” he said. “But understand one thing: I have an important business interest in settling this whole thing.”

“Christian?”

“I’m his agent,” he continued. “I’m responsible for his well-being.”

“He still misses my sister,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Is he okay?”

Myron’s face remained set. “He’s fine.”

“He’s a good kid. I like him.”

Myron nodded.

Jessica rose and stepped toward the window. Myron averted his eyes. He did not like to look at her for too long at one time. She understood. It hurt her too. She looked down at Park Avenue, twelve stories below. A taxi driver with a turban was shaking his fist at an old woman with a cane. The old woman whacked him and ran. The driver fell. The turban did not even shift.

“Hiding your feelings from me has never been your forte,” she said, still staring out the window. “What don’t you want to tell me?”

He did not reply.

“Myron …”

Esperanza saved him, bursting through the door without knocking. “Larry Hanson is out of the office,” she said.

Win came in behind her. “I got something for us on that magazine.…” His voice died out when he saw Jessica.

“Hi, Win,” she said.

“Hello, Jessica Culver.” They embraced. “My goodness, you look utterly fantastic. I read an article on you the other day, calling you the Literary Sex Symbol.”

“You shouldn’t read such trash.”

“It was in my dentist’s waiting room. Honest.”

An uncomfortable pause followed. Esperanza broke it by pointing at Jessica, making a gagging motion by sticking her finger in her mouth, and then storming out.

“Ever the enchantress,” Jessica muttered.

Myron stood. “Where are you staying?”

“At my mom’s.”

“Same number?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you later. Right now I’ve got to go with Win.”

Jessica looked toward Win. He grinned at her. His
face, as always, gave away nothing. “I have a meeting with my editor this afternoon,” she said. “But I’ll be home all night.”

“Fine. I’ll call you then.”

An awkward impasse. No one knew exactly how to say good-bye. A wave? A handshake? A kiss?

“We’ve got to go,” Myron said. He sprinted past her, never getting too close. Win shrugged at her in a what-can-you-do fashion and followed. She watched them disappear around the corner. Batman and Robin heading to the Bat-poles.

She left then. She had seen Myron twice now, and they had not yet touched—not even brushed up against one another.

It was an odd thing to wonder about.