The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (89 page)

“There were two different voices,” Coldren said. “On the phone.”

“It could be a voice changer.” Myron explained what that was.

More rumination. Coldren’s face scrunched up. “I really don’t know.”

“Is it something you can imagine Chad doing?”

“No,” Coldren replied. “But who can imagine anyone’s kid doing something like this? I’m trying to remain objective here, hard as that is. Do I think my boy could do something like this? Of course not. But then again, I wouldn’t be the first parent to be wrong about my kid; now, would I?”

Fair enough, Myron thought. “Has Chad ever run away?”

“No.”

“Any trouble in the family? Anything that might make him want to do something like this?”

“Something like fake his own kidnapping?”

“It doesn’t have to be that extreme,” Myron said. “Maybe something you or your wife did that got him upset.”

“No,” he said, his voice suddenly faraway. “I can’t think of anything.” He looked up. The sun was low and not very strong
anymore, but he still sort of squinted up at Myron, the side of his hand resting on his forehead in an eye-shading salute. The posture reminded Myron of the photograph of Chad he’d seen at the house.

Jack said, “You have a thought, Myron, don’t you?”

“Barely.”

“I’d still like to hear it,” Coldren said.

“How badly do you want to win this tournament, Jack?”

Coldren gave a half-smile. “You were an athlete, Myron. You know how badly.”

“Yes,” Myron said, “I do.”

“So what’s your point?”

“Your son is an athlete. He probably knows too.”

“Yes,” Coldren said. Then: “I’m still waiting for the point.”

“If someone wanted to hurt you,” Myron said, “what better way than to mess up your chance of winning the Open?”

Jack Coldren’s eyes had that sucker punched look again. He took a step back.

“I’m only theorizing,” Myron added quickly. “I’m not saying your son is doing that.…”

“But you need to explore every avenue,” Jack Coldren finished for him.

“Yes.”

Coldren recovered, but it took him a little time. “Even if what you’re saying is true, it doesn’t have to be Chad. Someone else could have done this to get at me.” Again he glanced over at his caddie. Still looking at her, he said, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“What do you mean?”

Jack Coldren didn’t answer right away. He turned away from both of them and squinted out toward where he’d been hitting balls. There was nothing to see. His back was to Myron. “You probably know I lost the Open a long time ago.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t elaborate.

“Did something happen back then?” Myron asked.

“Maybe,” Jack Coldren said slowly. “I don’t know anymore.
The point is, someone else might be out to get me. It doesn’t have to be my son.”

“Maybe,” Myron agreed. He didn’t go into the fact that he’d pretty much dismissed this possibility because Chad had vanished before Coldren had his lead. No reason to go into it now.

Coldren turned back to Myron. “Bucky mentioned something about an ATM card,” he said.

“Your son’s ATM card was accessed last night. At Porter Street.”

Something crossed his face. Not for long. Not for more than a second. A flash and then it was gone. “On Porter Street?” he repeated.

“Yep. A First Philadelphia Bank on Porter Street in South Philadelphia.” Silence.

“Are you familiar with that part of town?”

“No,” Coldren said. He looked over at his caddie. Diane Hoffman remained the statue. Arms still folded. Feet still shoulder-width apart. Ash finally gone.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am.”

“I visited there today” Myron said.

His face remained steady. “Did you learn anything?”

“No.”

Silence.

Jack Coldren gestured behind him. “You mind if I take a few more swings while we talk?”

“Not at all.”

He put on his glove. “Do you think I should play tomorrow?”

“That’s up to you,” Myron said. “The kidnapper said to act normal. Your not playing would certainly draw suspicion.”

Coldren bent down to put a ball on the tee. “Can I ask you something, Myron?”

“Sure.”

“When you played basketball, how important was winning to you?”

Odd question. “Very.”

Jack nodded like he’d been expecting that. “You won the NCAA championship one year, right?”

“Yes.”

Coldren shook his head. “Must have been something.”

Myron did not reply.

Jack Coldren picked up a club and flexed his fingers around the grip. He lined up next to the ball. Again the smooth coil-and-release movement. Myron watched the ball sail away. For a moment no one spoke. They just looked off into the distance and watched the final streaks of sun color the sky purple.

When Coldren finally spoke, his voice was thick. “You want to hear something awful?”

Myron moved closer to him. Coldren’s eyes were wet.

“I still care about winning this thing,” Coldren said. He looked at Myron. The pain on his face was so naked, Myron almost reached out and hugged him. He imagined that he could see the reflection of the man’s past in his eyes, the years of torment, of thinking of what might have been, of finally having the chance at redemption, of having that chance suddenly snatched away.

“What kind of man still thinks about winning at a time like this?” Coldren asked.

Myron didn’t say anything. He didn’t know the answer. Or maybe he feared that he did.

Merion’s clubhouse was an expanded white farmhouse with black shutters. The only splash of color came from the green awnings shading the famed back porch and even that was muted by the surrounding green of the golf course. You expected something more awe-inspiring or intimidating at one of the country’s most exclusive clubs, and yet the simplicity seemed to say, “We’re Merion. We don’t need more.”

Myron walked past the pro shop. Golf bags were lined up on a metal stand. The men’s locker room door was on his right. A bronze sign read that Merion had been designated a historic landmark. A bulletin board listed members’ handicaps. Myron skimmed the names for Win’s. Three handicap. Myron didn’t know much about golfing, but he knew that was pretty damn good.

The outside porch had a stone floor and about two dozen tables. The legendary dining area did more than overlook the first tee—it actually seemed perched right over it. From here, members watched golfers tee off with the practiced glares of Roman senators at the Colosseum. Powerful businessmen and community leaders often crumbled under such century-old scrutiny.
Even professionals were not immune—the porch’s dining facility was kept open during the Open. Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer and Ben Hogan and Bobby Jones and Sam Snead had all been subjected to the small restaurant noises, the grating tinkling of glass and silverware blending most disharmoniously with golf’s hushed crowds and distant cheers.

The porch was packed with members. Most were men—elderly and red-faced and well fed. They wore blue or green blazers with different crests on them. Their ties were loud and usually striped. Many had floppy white or yellow hats on their heads. Floppy hats. And Win had been worried about Myron’s “attire.”

Myron spotted Win at a corner table with six chairs. He sat alone. His expression was both glacial and serene, his body completely at ease. A mountain lion patiently waiting for prey. One would think that the blond hair and patrician good looks would be life assets for Win. In many ways, they were; in many more ways, they branded him. His entire appearance reeked of arrogance, old money, and elitism. Most people did not respond well to that. A specific, seething hostility frothed and boiled over when people looked at Win. To look at such a person was to hate him. Win was used to it. People who judged purely on looks did not concern him. People who judged purely on looks were oft surprised.

Myron greeted his old friend and sat down.

“Would you care for a drink?” Win said.

“Sure.”

“If you ask for a Yoo-Hoo,” Win said, “I’ll shoot you in the right eye.”

“Right eye,” Myron repeated with a nod. “Very specific.”

A waiter who must have been a hundred years old materialized. He wore a green jacket and pants—green, Myron surmised, so that even the help would blend into the famed milieu. Didn’t work, though. The old waiter looked like the Riddler’s grandfather. “Henry,” Win said, “I’ll have an iced tea.”

Myron was tempted to ask for a “Colt 45, like Billy Dee,” but decided against it. “I’ll have the same.”

“Very good, Mr. Lockwood.”
Henry left. Win looked over at Myron. “So tell me.”

“It’s a kidnapping,” Myron said.

Win arched an eyebrow.

“One of the players’ sons is missing. The parents have gotten two calls.” Myron quickly told him about them. Win listened in silence.

When Myron finished, Win said, “You left something out.”

“What?”

“The name of the player.”

Myron kept his voice steady. “Jack Coldren.”

Win’s face betrayed nothing, but Myron still felt a cold gust blow across his heart.

Win said, “And you’ve met Linda.”

“Yes.”

“And you know that she is related to me.”

“Yes.”

“Then you must have realized that I will not help.”

“No.”

Win sat back, steepled his fingers. “Then you realize it now.”

“A boy might be in real danger,” Myron said. “We have to help.”

“No,” Win said. “I do not.”

“You want me to drop it?”

“What you do is your affair,” Win said.

“Do you want me to drop it?” Myron repeated.

The iced teas came. Win took a gentle sip. He looked off and tapped his chin with his index finger. His signal to end the topic. Myron knew better than to push it.

“So who are the other seats for?” Myron asked.

“I am mining a major lead.”

“A new client?”

“For me, almost definitely. For you, a barely remote possibility.”

“Who?”

“Tad Crispin.”

Myron’s chin dropped. “We’re having dinner with Tad Crispin?”

“As well as our old friend Norman Zuckerman and his latest rather attractive ingenue.”

Norm Zuckerman was the owner of Zoom, one of the largest
sneaker and sporting apparel companies in the country. He was also one of Myron’s favorite people. “How did you get to Crispin? I heard he was agenting himself.”

“He is,” Win said, “but he still wants a financial adviser.” Barely in his mid-thirties, Win was already something of a Wall Street legend. Reaching out to Win made sense. “Crispin is quite a shrewd young man, actually,” he went on. “Unfortunately, he believes that all agents are thieves. That they have the morals of a prostitute practicing politics.”

“He said that? A prostitute practicing politics?”

“No, I came up with that one myself.” Win smiled. “Pretty good, no?”

Myron nodded. “No.”

“Anyway, the Zoom folks here are tailing him like a lapdog. They’re introducing a whole new line of men’s clubs and clothing on the back of young Mr. Crispin.”

Tad Crispin was in second place, a goodly distance behind Jack Coldren. Myron wondered how happy Zoom was about Coldren possibly stealing their thunder. Not very, he supposed.

“So what do you make of Jack Coldren’s good showing?” Myron asked. “You surprised?”

Win shrugged. “Winning was always very important to Jack.”

“Have you known him long?”

Flat eyes. “Yes.”

“Did you know him when he lost here as a rookie?”

“Yes.”

Myron calculated the years. Win would have been in elementary school. “Jack Coldren hinted that he thought someone tried to sabotage his chances back then.”

Win made a noise. “Guff,” he said.

“Guff?”

“You don’t recall what happened?”

“No.”

“Coldren claims his caddie gave him the wrong club on sixteen,” Win said. “He asked for a six iron and supposedly his caddie handed him an eight. His shot landed short. More specifically, in one of the rock quarry bunkers. He never recovered.”

“Did the caddie admit the error?”

“He never commented, as far as I know.”

“What did Jack do?”

“He fired him.”

Myron chewed on that tidbit. “Where is the caddie now?”

“I do not have the slightest idea,” Win said. “He wasn’t a young man at the time and this was more than twenty years ago.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“No. And this conversation is officially terminated.”

Before Myron could ask why, a pair of hands covered his eyes. “Guess who?” came a familiar sing-song. “I’ll give you a couple of hints: I’m smart, good-looking, and loaded with talent.”

“Gee,” Myron said, “before that hint, I would have thought you were Norm Zuckerman.”

“And with the hint?”

Myron shrugged. “If you add ‘adored by women of all ages,’ I’d think it was me.”

Norman Zuckerman laughed heartily. He bent down and gave Myron a big, loud smack on the cheek. “How are you, meshuggener?”

“Good, Norm. You?”

“I’m cooler than Superfly in a new Coupe de Ville.”

Zuckerman greeted Win with a loud hello and an enthusiastic handshake. Diners stared in distaste. The stares did not quiet Norman Zuckerman. An elephant gun could not quiet Norman Zuckerman. Myron liked the man. Sure, a lot of it was an act. But it was a genuine act. Norm’s zest for everything around him was contagious. He was pure energy; the kind of person who made you examine yourself and left you feeling just a little wanting.

Norm brought forward a young woman who’d been standing behind him. “Let me introduce you to Esme Fong,” he said. “She’s one of my marketing vee-pees. In charge of the new golf line. Brilliant. The woman is absolutely brilliant.”

The attractive ingenue. Early-to-mid twenties, Myron guessed. Esme Fong was Asian with perhaps a hint of Caucasian. She was petite with almond eyes. Her hair was long and silky, a black fan with an earthy auburn tinge. She wore a beige business suit and
white stockings. Esme nodded a hello and stepped closer. She wore the serious face of an attractive young woman who was afraid of not being taken seriously because she was an attractive young woman.