Back Spin

NOW CHAD PAYS THE PRICE

CROSS US AGAIN AND IT WILL GET MUCH WORSE.

Dread wrapped Myron's chest in tight steel bands. He slowly reached out and tentatively touched the puffy part with just a knuckle. It felt claylike. Carefully, Myron slit the seal open. He tumed the envelope upside down and let the contents fall to the car seat.

The severed finger bounced once and then settled onto the leather.

Chapter 18

Myron stared, unable to speak.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod . . .

Raw terror engulfed him. He started shivering, and his body went numb. He looked down at the note in his hand.

A voice inside his head said, Your fault, Myron. Your fault.

He tumed to Linda Coldren. Her hand fluttered near her mouth, her eyes wide.

Myron tried to step toward her, but he staggered like a boxer who didn't take advantage of a standing eight count. "We have to call someone," he managed, his voice sounding distant even to him. "The FBI. I have friends- " `

"No." Her tone was strong. ~

"Linda, listen to me .... "

"Read the note," she said.

"But "

"Read the note," she repeated. She lowered her head grimly. "You're out of this now, Myron."

"You don't know what you're dealing with."

"Oh no?" Her head snapped up. Her hands tightened into fists. "I'm dealing with a sick monster," she said.

"The kind of monster who maims at the slightest provocation." She stepped closer to the car. "He cut off my son's finger just because I talked to you. What do you think he'd do if I went directly against his orders?"

Myron's head swirled. "Linda, paying off the ransom doesn't guarantee "

"I know that," she interrupted.

"But . . ." His mind hailed about helplessly and then said something exceedingly dumb. "You don't even know if it's his finger."

She looked down now. With one hand, she held back a sob. With the other, she caressed the linger lovingly, without a trace of repulsion on her face. "Yes," Linda said softly. "I do."

"He may already be dead."

"Then it makes no diiference what I do, does it?"

Myron stopped himself from saying any more. He had sounded asinine enough. He just needed a moment or two to gather himself, to figure out what the next step should be.

Your fault, Myron. Your fault.

He shook it off He had, alter all, been in worse scrapes. He had seen dead bodies, taken on some very bad people, caught and brought killers to justice. He just needed

All with Win's help, Myron. Never on your own.

Linda Coldren lifted the finger into view. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her face remained a placid pool.

"Good-bye, Myron."

"Linda . . ."

"I'm not going to disobey him again."

"We have to think this through +"

She shook her head. "We should never have contacted you."

Cupping her son's severed finger like a baby chick, Linda Coldren slid into the car. She put the finger down carefully and started the car. Then she shifted it into gear and drove away.

Myron made his way to his car. For several minutes he sat and took deep breaths, willing himself to calm down. He had studied martial arts since Win had first introduced him to tae kwon do when they were college freshmen.

Meditation was a big part of what they'd leamed, yet Myron never quite grasped the critical nuances. His mind had a habit of drifting. Now he tried to practice the simple rules. He closed his eyes. He breathed in through the nose slowly, forcing it down low, letting only his stomach, not his chest, expand. He released it through the mouth, even slower, draining his lungs fully.

Okay, he thought, what is your next step?

The first answer to float to the surface was the most basic: Give up. Cut your losses. Realize that you are very much out of your element. You never really worked for the feds. You only accompanied Win. You were way out of your league on this and it cost a sixteen-year-old boy his finger and maybe more. As Esperanza had said, "Without Win, you're hopeless." Learn your lesson and walk away.

And then what? Let the Coldrens face this crisis alone?

If he had, maybe Chad Coldren would still have ten fingers.

The thought made something inside of him crumble.

He opened his eyes. His heart started trip-hammering again. He couldn't call the Coldrens. He couldn't call the feds. If he pursued this on his own, he would be risking l Chad Coldren's life.

He started up the car, still trying to regain his balance.

lt was time to be analytical. It was time to be cold. He had to look at this latest development as a clue for a moment.

Forget the horror. Forget the fact that he might have screwed up. The finger was just a clue.

One: The placement of the envelope was curious

inside Linda Coldren's locked (yes, it had been lockedLinda had used the remote control to open it) car. How had it gotten there? Had the kidnapper simply broken into the vehicle? Good possibility, but would he have had time in Merion's parking lot? Wouldn't someone have reported it? Probably. Did Chad Coldren have a key that the kidnapper could have used? Hmm. Very good possibility, but one he couldn't confirm unless he spoke to Linda, which was out of the question.

Dead end. For now.

Two: More than one person was involved in this kidnapping.

This hardly took brilliant detective work. First off, you have the Crusty Nazi. The phone call at the mall proved that he had something to do with this not to mention his subsequent behavior. But there was no way a guy like Crusty could sneak into Merion and plant the envelopein Linda Coldren's car. Not without drawing suspicion. Not during the U. S. Open. And the note had warned the Coldrens not to "cross" them again. Cross.

Did that sound like a Crusty word?

Okay, good. What else?

Three: The kidnappers were both vicious and dumb.

Vicious was again obvious the dumb part maybe less so.

But look at the facts. For example, making a large ransom demand over a weekend when you know that the banks won't be open until Monday+ was that bright? Not knowing how much to ask for the first two times they calleddidn't that say ding a-ling? And lastly, was it really prudent to cut off a kid's finger just because his parents happened to talk to a sports agent? Did that even make sense?

No.

Unless, of course, the kidnappers knew that Myron was more than a sports agent.

But how?

Myron pulled into Win's long driveway. Unfamiliar people were taking horses out of the stable. As he approached the guest house, Win appeared in the doorway.

Myron pulled into a spot and got out.

"How did your meeting with Tad Crispin go?" Win asked.

Myron hurried over to him. "They chopped off his finger," he managed, breathy to the point of almost hyperventilating. "The kidnappers. They cut off Chad's finger.

Left it in Linda's car."

Win's expression did not change. "Did you discover this before or after your meeting with Tad Crispin?"

Myron was puzzled by the question. "After."

Win nodded slowly. "Then my original question remains:

How did your meeting go with Tad Crispin'?"

Myron stepped back as though slapped. "Jesus Christ," he said in an almost reverent tone. "You can't be serious."

"What happens to that family does not concern me.

What happens to your business dealings with Tad Crispin does."

Myron shook his head, stunned. "Not even you could be that cold."

"Oh please."

"Please what?"

"There are far greater tragedies in this world than a sixteen-year-old boy losing his finger. People die, Myron.

Floods wipe out entire villages. Men do horrible things to children every day." He paused. "Did you, for example, read this aftemoon's paper?"

"What are you rambling about?" .

"I'm just trying to make you understand," Win continued in too slow, too measured a voice. "The Coldrens mean nothing to me no more than any other stranger and perhaps less. The newspaper is filled with tragedies that hit me on a more personal level. For example . . ."

Win stopped and looked at Myron very steadily.

"For example what?" Myron asked.

"There was a new development in the Kevin Morris case," Win replied. "Are you familiar with that one?"

Myron shook his head.

"Two seven-year-old boys Billy Waters and Tyrone Duffy have been missing for nearly three weeks. They disappeared while riding their bikes home from school.

The police questioned one Kevin Morris, a man with a long record of perversion, including molestation, who had been hanging around the school. But Mr. Morris had a very sharp attorney. There was no physical evidence and despite a fairly convincing circumstantial case they found the boys' bikes in a Dumpster not far from his home Mr. Morris was set free."

Myron felt something cold press against his heart.

"So what was the new development, Win?"

"The police received a tip late last night."

"How late?" .

Again Win looked at him steadily. "Very late."

Silence.

"It seems," Win went on, "that someone had witnessed Kevin Morris burying the bodies off a road in the woods near Lancaster. The police dug them up last night.

Do you know what they found?"

Myron shook his head again, afraid to even open his mouth.

"Billy Waters and Tyrone Duffy were both dead.

They'd been sexually molested and mutilated in ways that even the media couldn't report. The police also found enough evidence at the burial site to arrest Kevin Morris.

Fingerprints on a medical scalpel. Plastic bags that matched ones in his kitchen. Semen samples that offer a preliminary match in both boys."

Myron flinched.

' 'Everyone seems quite confident that Mr. Morris will be convicted," Win finished.

"What aboutthe person who called in the tip`? Will he be a witness'?"

"Funny thing," Win said. "The man called from a pay phone and never gave his name. No one, it seems, knows who he was."

"But the police captured Kevin Morris?"

"Yes."

The two men stared at each other.

"I'm surprised you didn't kill him," Myron said.

"Then you really don't know me."

A horse whinnied. Win turned and looked at the magnificent animal. Something strange came across his face, a look of loss.

"What did she do to you, Win?" _

Win kept staring. They both knew whom Myron was talking about.

"What did she do to make you hate so much?"

"Don't engage in too much hyperbole, Myron. I am not that simple. My mother is not solely responsible for shaping me. A man is not made up of one incident, and I

am a far cry trom crazy, as you suggested earlier. Like any other human being, I choose my battles. I battle quite a bit-more than most-and usually on the right side. I

battled for Billy Waters and Tyrone Duffy But I do not wish to battle for the Coldrens. That is my choice. You, as my closest friend, should respect that. You should not try , to prod or guilt me into a battle I do not wish to fight."

Myron was not sure what to say. It was scary when he could understand Win's cold logic. "Win?"

Win wrested his gaze from the horse. He looked at Myron.

"I'm in trouble," Myron said, hearing the desperation in his tone. "I need your help."

Win's voice was suddenly soft, his face almost pained.

"If that were true, I'd be there. You know that. But you are not in any trouble from which you cannot easily disentangle.

Just back away, Myron. You have the option of ending your involvement. To draw me into this against my will using our friendship in that way is wrong. Walk away this time." , "You know I can't do that."

Win nodded and headed toward his car. "Like I said, we all choose our battles."

When he entered the guest house, Esperanza was screaming, "Bankrupt! Lose a turn! Bankrupt!"

Myron came up behind her. She was watching Wheel of Fortune. _

"This woman is so greedy," Esperanza said, gesturing at the screen. "She's got over six thousand dollars and she keeps spinning. I hate that."

The wheel stopped, landing on the glittery $1,000.

The woman asked for a B. There were two of them. Esperanza groaned,. "You're back early," she said. "I

thought you were going out to dinner with Linda Coldren."

"It didn't work out."

Esperanza finally turned around and looked at his face. "What happened?"

He told her. Her dark complexion lost a bit of coloralong the way. When he finished, Esperanza said, "You need Win."

"He won't help."

' 'Time to swallow your macho pride and ask him. Beg him if you have to."

"Been there, done that. He's out." On the television, the greedy woman bought a vowel. This always baffled Myron. Why do contestants who clearly know the puzzle's solution still buy vowels? To waste money? To make sure their opponents know the answer too?

"But," he said, "you're here."

Esperanza looked at him. "So?"

It was, he knew, the real reason she had come down in the first place. On the phone she had told him that he didn't work well alone. The words spoke volumes about her true motivation for fleeing the Big Apple.

"Do you want to help?" he asked.

The greedy woman leaned forward, spun the wheel, and then started clapping and shouting, "Come on, a thousand!" Her opponents clapped too. Like they wanted her to do well. Right. +

"What do you want me to do?" Esperanza asked.

"I'll explain on the way. If you want to come."

They both watched the wheel decelerate. The camera moved in for a close-up. The arrow slowed and slowed before settling on the word BANKRUPT. The audience groaned. The greedy woman kept the smile, but now she looked like someone had just punched her hard in the stomach.

"That's an omen," Esperanza said.

"Good or bad'?" Myron asked.

Yes." .

Chapter 19

The girls were still at the mall. Still at the food court.

Still at the same table. It was amazing, when you thought about it. The long summer days beckoned with sunny skies and chirping birds. School was out, and yet so many teenagers spent all their time inside a glorified school cafeteria, probably lamenting the day they would have to return to school.

Myron shook his head. He was complaining about teenagers. A sure sign of lost youth. Soon he'd be screaming at someone for turning up the thermostat.

As soon as he entered the food court, the girls all turned in his direction. It was like they had people+weknow detectors at every entrance. Myron did not hesitate.

Making his expression as stem as possible, he rushed toward them. He studied each face as he approached.

These were, after all, just teenagers. The guilty one, Myron was sure, would show it.

And she did. Almost instantly.

She was the one that had been teased yesterday, the one they taunted for being the recipient of a Crusty smile.

Missy or Messy or something. It all made sense now.

Crusty hadn't spotted Myron's tail. He'd been tipped off ln fact, the whole thing had been arranged. That was how Crusty had known that Myron had been asking questions about him. That explained the seemingly fortuitous timing that is, Crusty hanging around the food court just long enough for Myron to arrive.

It had all been a big setup.

The one with Elsa Lancaster hair screwed up her face and said, "Like, what's the matter?"

"That guy tried to kill me," Myron said.

Lots of gasps. Faces lit up with excitement. To most of them, this was like a television show come to life. Only Missy or Messy or some name with an M remained rockstill.

"Not to worry though," Myron continued. "We've just about got him. In an hour or two, he'll be under arrest. The police are on their way to find him right now. I

just wanted to thank you all for your cooperation."

The M girl spoke: "I thought you weren't a cop."

A sentence without the word like. Hmm. "I'm undercover," Myron said.

"Oh. My. God."

"Get out!"

"Whoa!"

"You mean like on New York Undercover'?" _

Myron, no stranger to TV, had no idea what she was talking about. "Exactly," he said.

"This is so cool."

"Are we, like, going to be on TV'?"

"'The six o'clock news?"

"That guy on Channel Four is so cute, you know?"

"My hair totally sucks."

"No way, Amber. But mine is like a total rat nest."

Myron cleared his throat. "We have this pretty much all wrapped up. Except for one thing. The accomplice."

Myron waited for one of them to say, "Accomplice?"

No one did. Myron elaborated. "Someone in this very mall helped that creep set me up."

"In, like, here?

"In our mall?"

"Not our mall. No way."

They said the word mall like some people said the word synagogue.

"Someone helped that skank?" .

"Our mall?"

"Eeeuw."

"I can't, like, believe it."

"Believe it," Myron said. "In fact, he or she is probably here right now. Watching us." "

Heads swirled about. Even M managed to get into the act, though it was an uninspired display.

Myron had shown the stick. Now the carrot. "Look, I

want you ladies to keep your eyes and ears open. We'll catch the accomplice. No question about it. Guys like that always talk. But if the accomplice was just a hapless dupe . . ."

Blank faces.

"If she, like, didn't really know the score" not exactly hip-hop lingo, but they nodded now "and she came to me right away, before the cops nail her, well, then I'd probably be able to help her out. Otherwise, she could be charged with attempted murder."

Nothing. Myron had expected that. M would never admit this in front of here friends. Jail was a great fearinducer, but it was little more than a wet match next to the bonfire that was teenage peer pressure.

"Good-bye, ladies."

Myron moved to the other side of the food court. He leaned against a pillar, putting himself in the path between the girls' table and the bathroom. He waited, hoping she'd make an excuse and come over. After about five minutes, M stood up and began walking toward Myron.

Just as he planned. Myron almost smiled. Maybe he should have been a high school guidance counselor. Mold young minds, change lives for the better.

The M girl veered away from him and toward the exit.

Damn.

Myron quickly trotted over, the smile on full blast.

"Mindy'?" He had suddenly remembered her name.

She turned to him but said nothing.

He put on the soft voice and the understanding eyes. A

male Oprah. A kinder, gentler Regis. "Whatever you say to me is coniidential," he said. "If you're involved in this "

"Just stay away from me, okay? I'm not, like, involved in anything."

She pushed past him and hurried past Foot Locker and the Athlete's Foot two stores Myron had always assumed were the same, alter egos if you will, like you never saw Batman and Bruce Wayne in the same room.

Myron watched her go. She hadn't cracked, which was .

a bit of a surprise. He nodded and his backup plan went into action. Mindy kept hurrying away, glancing behind her every few steps to make sure Myron wasn't following her. He wasn't.

Mindy, however, did not notice the attractive, jeanclad Hispanic woman just a few feet to her left.

Mindy found a pay phone by the record store that looked exactly like every other mall record store. She glanced about, put a quarter into the slot, and dialed a number.

Her finger had just pressed the seventh digit when a small hand reached over her shoulder and hung up the phone.

She spun toward Esperanza. "Hey!"

Esperanza said, "Put down the phone."

"Hey!"

"Right, hey. Now put down the phone."

"Like, who the fuck are you?"

"Put down the phone," Esperanza repeated, "or I'll shove it up a nostril."

Wide-eyed with confusion, Mindy obeyed. Several seconds later, Myron appeared. He looked at Esperanza.

"Up a nostril?"

She shrugged.

Mindy shouted, "You can't, like, do that."

"Do what?" Myron said.

"Like" Mindy stopped, struggled with the thought "like, make me hang up a phone?"

"No law against that," Myron said. He turned to Esperanzai "You know any law against that?"

"Against hanging up a phone'?" Esperanza emphatically shook her head. "No, senor."

"See, no law against it. On the other hand, there is a law against aiding and abetting a criminal. It's called a felony. It means jail time."

"I didn't aid nothing. And I don't bet."

Myron tumed to Esperanza. "You get the number'?"

She nodded and gave it to him.

"Let's trace it."

Again, the cyber-age made this task frightening easy.

Anybody can buy a computer program at their local software store or hop on certain Web sites like Biz, type in the number, and voila, you have a name and address.

Esperanza used a cellular phone to dial the home nunber of MB SportsReps' new receptionist. Her name was, fittingly, Big Cyndi. Six-five and over three hundred pounds, Big Cyndi had wrestled professionally under the moniker Big Chief Mama, tag-team partner of Esperanza "Little Pocahontas" Diaz. In the ring, Big Cyndi wore makeup like Tammy Faye on steroids; spiked hair that would have been the envy of Sid and Nancy; ripped muscledisplaying T-shirts; and an awful, sneering glare complete with a ready growl. In real life, well, she was exactly the same.

Speaking Spanish, Esperanza gave Cyndi the number.

Mindy said, "Hey, I'm, like, outta here."

Myron grabbed her arm. " 'Fraid not."

"Heyl You can't, like, hold me here."

Myron maintained his grip.

"I'll scream rape."

Myron rolled his eyes. ' 'At a mall pay phone. In broad iluorescent light. When I'm standing here with my girlfriend."`

Mindy looked at Esperanza. "She's your girlfriend?"

"Yes."

Esperanza began whistling "Dream Weaver."

"But you can't, like, make me stay with you."

"l don't get it, Mindy. You look like a nice girl."

Actually, she was wearing black leggings, too-high pumps, a red halter top, and what looked like a dog choker around her neck. "Are you trying to tell me that this guy is worth going to jail over? He deals drugs, Mindy. He tried to kill me."

Esperanza hung up. "It's a bar called the Parker Inn.' '

"You know where it is'?" he asked Mindy.

"Yeah.'_'

'Come on."

Mindy pulled away. "Let go," she said, stretching out the last word.

"Mindy, this isn't fun and games here. You helped someone try to kill me."

"So you say."

"What'?"

Mindy put her hands on her hips, chewed gum. "So, like, how do I know that you're not the bad one, huh'?"

"Excuse me?"

"You, like, come up to us yesterday, right, all mysterious and stuff, right? You don't, like, have a badge or nothing. How do I know that you aren't, like, after Tito?

How do I know that you aren't another drug dealer trying to take over his turf?"

" 'Tito?' " Myron repeated, looking at Esperanza.

"A neo Nazi named Tito?"

Esperanza shrugged.

"None of his friends, like, call him Tito," Mindy went on. "lt's way too long, you know? So they call him Tit."

Myron and Esperanza exchanged a glance, shook their heads. Too easy.

"Mindy," Myron said slowly, "I wasn't kidding back there. Tito is not a nice fellow. He may, in fact, be involved in kidnapping and maiming a boy about your age.

Somebody cut off the boy's finger and sent it to his mother."

Her face pinched up. "Oh, that's, like, so gross."

"Help me, Mindy."

"You a cop'?"

"No," Myron said. "I'm just trying to save a boy."

She waved her hands dismissively. "Then, like, go.

You don't need me."

"I'd like you to come with us."

"Why?"

"So you don't try to warn Tito."

"I won't."

Myron shook his head. "You also know how to get to Parker Inn. lt'll save us time."

"Uh-uh, no way. I'm not going with you."

"If you don't," Myron said, "l'll tell Amber and Trish and the gang all about your new boyfriend."

That snared her attention. "He's not my boyfriend,"

she insisted. "We just, like, hung out a couple of times."

Myron smiled. "So I'll lie," he said. "I'll tell them you slept with him."

"I did not!" she screamed. "That's, like, so unfair."

Myron shrugged helplessly.

She crossed her arms and chewed her gum. Her version of defiance. It didn't last long. "Okay, okay, I'll go.' ' She pointed a finger at Myron. ' 'But I don't want Tit to see me, okay? I stay in the car."

"Deal," Myron said. He shook his head. Now they were after a man named Tit. What next?

The Parker Inn was a total redneck, biker, skeezer bar.

The parking lot was packed with pickup trucks and motorcycles.

Country music blared from the constantly opening door. Several men in John Deere baseball caps were using the side of the building as a urinal. Every once in a while one would tum and piss on another. Curses and laughter spewed forward. Fun city.

From his car parked across the street, Myron looked at Mindy and said, "You used to hang out here?"

She shrugged. "I, like, came here a couple of times,"

she said. "For excitement, you know?"

Myron nodded. "Why didn't you just douse yourself with gasoline and light matches?"

"Fuck you, all right? You my father now?"

He held his hands up. She was right. None of his business. "Do you see Tito's truck?" Myron just couldn't call him Tit. Maybe if he got to know him better.

Mindy scanned the lot. "No."

Neither did Myron. "Do you know where he lives?"

"No."

Myron shook his head. "He deals drugs. He wears a swastika tattoo. And he has no ass. But don't tell me . . .

underneath all that, Tito is really sweet."

Mindy shouted, "Fuck you, all right? Just fuck you."

"Myron," Esperanza said by way of warning.

Again Myron put his hands up. They all sat back and watched. Nothing happened.

Mindy sighed as audibly as possible. "So, like, can I

go home now?"

Esperanza said, "I have a thought."

"What?" Myron asked.

Esperanza pulled the tail of her blouse out of her jeans. She tied it up, making a knot under her rib cage and revealing plenty of flat, dark stomach. Then she unbuttoned her top to a daring low. A black bra was now visible, Myron noticed, trained detective that he was. She pulled down the visor mirror and began to apply makeup.

Lots of makeup. Far too much makeup. She mussed up her hair a bit and rolled up her jeans cuffs. When she finished she smiled at Myron.

"How do I look?" she asked.

Even Myron felt a little weak at the knees. "You're going to walk in there looking like that'?"

"That's how everyone in there dresses."

"But everyone doesn't look like you," he said.

"Oh, my, my," Esperanza said. "A compliment."

"I meant, like a chorus dancer in West Side Story."

" 'A boy like that,' " Esperanza sang, " 'he keel your brother, forget that boy, go find another ' "

"If I do make you a partner," Myron said, "don't dress like this at board meetings."

"Deal," Esperanza said. "Can I go now?"

"First call me on the cellular now. I want to make sure I can hear everything that goes on."

She nodded, dialed the phone. He picked it up. They tested the connection.

"Don't go playing hero," he said. "Just find out if he's there. Something gets out of hand, you get out of there pronto."

"Okay."

"And we should have a code word. Something you say if you need me."

Esperanza nodded, feigning seriousness. "If I say the words premature ejaculation, it means I want you to come."

"So to speak."

Esperanza and even Mindy groaned.

Myron reached into his glove compartment. He snapped it open and pulled out a gun. He was not going to be caught unprepared again. "Go," he said.

Esperanza hopped out of the car and crossed the street. A black Corvette with flame decals on the hood and an extra-vrooming engine pulled up. A gold-chainenmeshed primate raced the engine and leaned his head out the window. He smiled greasily at Esperanza. He hit the gas again, giving off a few more deep vrooms. Esper-anza looked at the car, then at the driver. "Sorry to hear about your penis," she deadpanned.

The car drove off. Esperanza shrugged and waved at Myron. It wasn't an original line, but it never failed her.

"God, I love that woman," Myron said.

"She's, like, totally hot," Mindy agreed. "I wish I

looked like her."

"You should wish to be like her," he corrected.

"What's the difference? She must, like, really work out, right?"

Esperanza entered the Parker Inn. The first thing that hit her was the smell a pungent combination of dried vomit and body odor, only less olfactorily pleasing. She wrinkled her nose and continued inside. The floor was hardwood with lots of sawdust. The light was dingy, coming off the pool table ceiling fixtures that were supposed to look like imitation Tiffany lamps. The crowd was probably two-to-one men over women. Everyone was dressed in a word -cheesy.

Esperanza looked around the room. Then she spoke out loud so that Myron would hear her through the phone.

"About a hundred guys in here fit your description," she said. "It's like asking me to find an implant in a strip club."

Myron's phone was on mute, but she'd bet he was laughing. An implant at a strip club. Not bad, she thought. Not bad at all.

So now what?

People were staring at her, but she was used to that.

Three seconds passed before a man approached her. He had a long, kinky beard; bits of coagulated food were lodged in it. He smiled toothlessly, looked her up and down unapologetically.

"I've got a great tongue," he said to her.

"Now all you need is some teeth."

She pushed past him and made her way to the bar. Two seconds later, a guy jumped toward her. He wore a cowboy hat. Cowboy hat. Philadelphia. What's wrong with this picture? '

"Hey, sweetheart, don't I know you?"

Esperanza nodded. "Another line that smooth," she said, "and I may start to undress."

The cowboy whooped it up like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. "No, little darling, I'm not handing you a line. I'm serious here .... " His voice sort of drifted off "Holy Shit, the man cried. "It's Little Pocahontas!

The Indian Princess! You're Little Pocahontas, right? Don't deny it now, darling. It's you! I can't believe it!

Myron was probably laughing his ass off right now.

"Nice to see you," Esperanza said. "Thank you very much for remembering."

"Shit, Bobby, take a lookie here. It's Little Pocahontas!

Remember? That hot little vixen on FLOW?"

FLOW, of course, stood for the "Fabulous Ladies Of Wrestling." The organization's original name had been the "Beautiful Ladies Of Wrestling," but once they became popular enough for television, the networks insisted on a new acronym.

"Where?" Another man approached, eyes wide and drunk and happy. "Holy shit, you're right! It's her! It's really her!"

"Hey, thanks for the memories, fellas, but "

"I remember this one time, you were fighting Tatiana the Siberian Husky? Remember that one? Shit, my hardon nearly poked a hole clean through my bedroom window."

Esperanza hoped to file that little tidbit under Too Much Information.

An enormous bartender came over. He looked like the pullout centerfold for Leather Biker Monthbw. Extra big and extra scary. He had long hair, a long scar, and tattoos of snakes slithering up both arms. He shot the two men a glare and poof they were gone. Like the glare had evaporated them. Then he turned his eyes toward Esperanza.

She met the glare and gave him one back. Neither backed down.

"Lady, what the fuck are you?" he asked.

"Is that a new way of asking what -I'm drinking?"

"No." The mutual glaring continued. He leaned two massive snake-arms on the bar. "You're too good-looking to be a cop," he said. "And you're too good-looking to be hanging out in this toilet."

"Thanks, I guess," Esperanza said. "And you are?"

"Hal," he said. "I own this toilet."

"Hi, Hal."

"Hi back. Now what the fuck do you want?"

"l'm trying to score some blow," she said.

"Nah," Hal said with a shake of his head. "You'd go to Spic City for that. Buy it from one of your own kind, no offense." He leaned even closer now. Esperanza couldn't help but wonder if Hal would be a good match for Big Cyndi. She liked big biker guys. "Let's cut the crap, sweetheart. What do you want?"

Esperanza decided to try the direct approach. "I'm looking for a sliver of scum named Tito. People call him Tit. Skinny, shaved head "

"Yeah, yeah, I might know him. How much'?"

"Fiity bucks."

Hal made a scofling sound. "You want me to sell out a customer for iifty bucks?"

"A hundred."

"Hundred and iifty. The deadbeat sack of shit owes me money."

"Deal," she said.

"Show me the money."

Esperanza took the bills out of her wallet. Hal reached it for it, but she pulled back. "You first," she said.

"I don't know where he lives," Hal said. "He and his goose-stepping faggots come in every night except Wednesdays and Saturdays."

"Why not Wednesdays and Saturdays?" she asked.

"How the fuck am I supposed to know? Bingo night and Saturday night mass maybe. Or maybe they all do a circle jerk crying 'Heil, Hitler' when they shoot off. How the fuck do I know'?"

"What's his real name'?"

"I don't know."

She looked around the bar. "Any of the boys here know?"

"Nah," Hal said. "Tit always comes in with the same limp-dicked crew and they leave together. They don't talk to no one else. It's verboten."

"Sounds like you don't like him."

"He's a stupid punk. They all are. Assholes who blame the fact that they're genetic mutations on other people."

"So why do you let them hang out here?"

"Because unlike them, I know that this is the U. S. of A,You can do what you want. Anyone is welcome here.

Black, white, Spic, Jap, whatever. Even stupid punks."

Esperanza almost smiled. Sometimes you find tolerance in the strangest places. "What else'?"

"That's all I know. lt's Saturday night. They'll be here tomorrow."

"Fine," Esperanza said. She ripped the bills in half.

"I'll give you the other half of the bills tomorrow."

Hal reached out his big hand and closed it over her forearm. His glare grew a little meaner. "Don't be too smart, hot legs," he said slowly. "I can yell gang bang and have you on your back on a pool table in five seconds.

You give the hundred and fifty now. Then you rip another hundred in half to keep my mouth shut. You got it?"

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. "Got it,"

she said. She handed him the other half of the bills. Then she took out another hundred, ripped it, and handed it to him.

"Get out, sweet buns. Like now."

He didn't have to tell her twice.

Chapter 20

There was nothing else they could do tonight. To approach the Squires estate would be foolhardy, at best. He couldn't call or contact the Coldrens. It was too late to try to reach Lloyd Rennart's widow. And lastly and perhaps most important Myron was bone-tired.

So he spent the evening at the guest house with his two best friends in the world. Myron, Win, and Esperanza lay sprawled on separate couches like Dali clocks. They wore T shirts and shorts and buried themselves deep within puffy pillows. Myron drank too much Yoo-Hoo; Esperanza drank too much diet Coke; Win drank almost enough Brooklyn Lager (Win drank only lager, never beer). There were pretzels and Fritos and Rufiles and freshly delivered pizza. The lights were out. The bigscreen television was on. Win had recently taped a whole bunch of Odd Couple episodes. They were on the fourth in a row. The best thing about the Odd Couple, Myron surmised, was the consistency. They never had a weak episode how many shows could say that?

Myron bit into a slice of pizza. He needed this. He had barely slept in the millermium since he'd first encountered the Coldrens (in reality, it only had been yesterday). His brain was fried; his nerves were fraying like overused floss. Sitting with Win and Esperanza, their faces blue-lit by the picture tube, Myron felt true contentment.

"It's simply not true," Win insisted.

"No way," Esperanza agreed, tossing down a RingDing.

"I'm telling you," Myron said. "Jack Klugrnan is wearing a hairpiece."

Win's voice was firm. "Oscar Madison would never wear a rug. Never, I say. Felix, maybe. But Oscar? It simply cannot be."

"It is," Myron said. "That's a hairpiece."

"You're still thinking of the last episode," Esperanza said. "The one with Howard Cosell."

"Yes, that's it," Win agreed with a snap of his fingers.

"Howard Cosell. He wore a hairpiece."

Myron looked up the ceiling, exasperated. "I'm not thinking of Howard Cosell. I know the difference between Howard Cosell and Jack Klugman. I'm telling you. Klugman is sporting a rug."

"Where's the line?" Win challenged, pointing at the screen. "I cannot see a break or a line or a discoloration.

And I'm usually quite good at spotting lines."

"I don't see it either," Esperanza added, squinting.

"That's two against one," Win said.

"Fine," Myron said. "Don't believe me."

"He had his own hair on Quincy," Esperanza said.

"No," Myron said, "he didn't."

"Two against one," Win repeated. "Majority rules."

"Fine," Myron repeated. "Wallow in ignorance."

On the screen, Felix fronted for a band called Felix Unger and the Sophisticatos. They rambled through an up-tempo number with the repeated phrase "Stumbling all around." Kinda catchy.

"What makes you so sure it's a rug?" Esperanza asked.

"The Twilight Zone," Myron said.

"Come again?"

"The Twilight Zone. Jack Klugman was in at least two episodes."

"Ah, yes," Win said. "Now, don't tell me, let me see if I remember." He paused, tapping his lip with his index finger. "The one with the little boy Pip. Played by . . . ?" Win knew the answer. Life with his friends was an ever-continuing game of Useless Trivia.

"Bill Mumy." It was Esperanza.

Win nodded. "Whose most famous role was . . . ?"

"Will Robinson," Esperanza said. "Lost in Space."

"Remember Judy Robinson?" Win sighed. 'Quite the Earth babe, no?"

"Except," Esperanza interjected, "what was up with her clothes? Kmart velour sweaters for space travel? Who came up with that one?"

"And we cannot forget the effervescent Dr. Zachery Smith," Win added. "The first gay character on series TV."

"Scheming, conniving, gutless with a hint of pedophilia," Esperanza said with a shake of her head.

"He set back the movement twenty years."

Win grabbed another slice of pizza. The pizza box was white with red-and-green lettering and had the classic caricature of a heavy-set chef twirling a thin mustache with his finger. The box read and this is absolutely true: Whether it's a pizza ar submarine, + We buy the best, T0 prepare the best, And leave it to you for the rest.

Wordsworth.

"I don't recall Mr. Klugman's second Twilight Zone," Win said.

"The one with the pool player," Myron answered.

"Jonathan Winters was in it too."

"Ah, yes," Win said with a serious nod. "Now I remember.

Jonathan Winters's ghost shoots pool against Mr. Klugman's character. For bragging rights or some such thing."

"Correct answer."

` ' 'So what do those two Twilight Zone episodes have to do with Mr. Klugman's hair?"

"You got them on tape?"

Win paused. "I believe that I do. I taped the last Twilight Zone marathon. One of those episodes is bound to be on it."

"Let's find it," Myron said.

It took the three of them almost twenty minutes of sitting through his vast video collection before they finally found the episode with Bill Mumy. Win put it in the VCR and reclaimed his couch. They watched in silence.

Several minutes later, Esperanza said, "I'll be damned."

A black and-white Jack Klugman was calling out "Pip," the name of his dead son, his tormented cries chasing a tender apparition from his past. The scene was quite moving, but also very much beside the point. The key factor, of course, was that even though this episode predated the Odd Couple by some ten years, Jack Klugman's hairline was in a serious state of retreat.

Win shook his head. "You are good," he said in a hushed voice. "So very good." He looked at Myron. "l am truly humbled to be in your presence."

"Don't feel bad," Myron said. "You're special in your own way."

This was about as heavy as the conversation got.

They laughed. They joked. They made fun of one another.

No one talked about a kidnapping or the Coldrens or business or money matters or landing Tad Crispin or the severed finger of a sixteen-year-old boy.

Win dozed off first. Then Esperanza. Myron tried to call Jessica again, but there was no answer. No surprise.

Jessica often didn't sleep well. Taking walks, she claimed, inspired her. He heard her voice on the machine and felt something inside him plunge. When the beep came on, he left a message: "I love you," he said. "I will always love you."

He hung up. He crawled back onto the couch and pulled the cover up to his neck.

Chapter 21

When Myron arrived at Merion Golf Club the next morning, he wondered briefly if Linda Coldren had told Jack about the severed finger. She had. By the third hole, Jack had already dropped three strokes off his lead. His complexion was cartoon Casper. His eyes were as vacant as the Bates Motel, his shoulders slumped like bags of wet peat moss.

Win frowned. "Guess that finger thing is bothering him."

Mr. Insight.

"That sensitivity workshop," Myron said, "it's really starting to pay off."

"I did not expect Jack's collapse to be so total."

"Win, his son's finger was chopped off by a kidnapper.

That's the kind of thing that could distract someone."

"I guess." Win didn't sound convinced; He turned away and started heading up the fairway. "Did Crispin show you the numbers in his Zoom deal?"

"Yes," Myron said.

"And'?"

"And he got robbed."

Win nodded. "Not much you can do about it now."

"Plenty I can do about it," Myron said. "It's called renegotiate. ' '

"Crispin signed a deal," Win said.

"So?"

"Please do not tell me that you want him to back out of it." +

"I didn't say I wanted him to back out. I said I wanted to renegotiate."

" 'Renegotiate,' " Win repeated as though the word tasted vinegary. He continued trudging up the fairway.

"How come an athlete who performs poorly never renegotiates?

How come you never see a player who has a terrible season restructure his deal downward?"

"Good point," Myron said. "But, you see, I have this job description. It reads something like this: Get the most money I can for a client."

"And ethics be damned."

"Whoa, where did that come from? I may search for legal loopholes, but I always play by the rules."

"You sound like a criminal defense attorney," Win said.

"Ooo, now that's a low blow," Myron said.

The crowd was getting caught up in the unfolding drama in an almost disturbing way. The whole experience was like watching a car crash in super slow motion. You were horrified; you stared; and part of you almost cheered the misfortune of a fellow human being. You gaped, wondering about the outcome, almost hoping the crash would be fatal. Jack Coldren was slowly dying. His heart was crumbling like brown leaves caught in a closed fist. You saw it all happening. And you wanted it to continue.

On the filth hole Myron and Win met up with Norm Zuckerman and Esme Fong. They were both on edge, especially Esme, but then again she had a hell of a lot riding on this round. On the eighth hole they watched Jack miss an easy putt. Stroke by stroke, the lead shrank from insurmountable to comfortable to nail-biting.

On the back nine Jack managed to control the hemorrhaging a bit. He continued to play poorly, but with only three holes left to play, Jack was still hanging on to a twostroke lead. Tad Crispin was applying pressure, but it would still take a fairly major gaffe on Jack Coldren's part for Tad to win.

Then it happened.

The sixteenth hole. The same hazard that had laid waste to Jack's dream twenty-three years ago. Both men started off line. They hit good tee-shots to what Win '

called "a slightly offset fairway." Uh-huh. But on Jack's second shot, disaster struck. He came over the top and left the sucker short. Way short.

The ball landed in the stone quarry.

The crowd gasped. Myron watched in horror. Jack had done the unthinkable. Again.

Norm Zuckerman nudged Myron. "I'm moist," he said giddily. "Swear to God, I'm moist in my nether regions.

Go ahead, feel for yourself"

"I'll take your word for it, Norm."

Myron turned to Esme Fong. Her face lit up. "Me too," she said.

A more intriguing proposal but still no sale.

Jack Coldren barely reacted, as if some internal wiring had shorted out. He was not waving a white fiag, but it looked like he should have been.

Tad Crispin took advantage. He hit a fine approach shot and was left with an eight-foot putt that would give him the lead. As young Tad stood over the ball, the silence in the gallery was overwhelming not just the crowd, but it was as if the nearby traffic and overhead planes and even the grass, the trees, the very course had all aligned themselves against Jack Coldren.

This was big-time pressure. And Tad Crispin responded in a big way.

When the putt dropped into the cup, there was no polite golf clap. The crowd erupted like Vesuvius in the last days. The sound spilled forward in a powerful wave, warming the young newcomer and sweeping aside the dying warhorse. Everyone seemed to want this. Everyone wanted to crown Tad Crispin and behead Jack Coldren.

The young handsome man against the ruffled veteran it was like the golf equivalent of the Nixon-Kennedy debates.

"What a yip master," someone said.

"A major case of the yips," another agreed.

Myron looked a question at Win.

"Yip," Win said. "The latest euphemism for choke."

Myron nodded. There was nothing worse you could call an athlete. It was okay to be untalented or to screw up or to have an off day -but not to choke. Never to choke.

Chokers were gutless. Chokers had their very manhood questioned. Being called a choker was tantamount to standing naked in front of a beautiful woman while she pointed and laughed. +

Er, or so Myron imagined.

He spotted Linda Coldren in a private grandstand tent overlooking the eighteenth hole. She wore sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low. Myron looked up at her. She did not look back. Her expression was one of mild confusion, like she was working on a math word problem or trying to recall the name behind a familiar face. For some reason, the expression troubled Myron. He stayed in her Line of vision, hoping she'd signal to him. She didn't.

Tad Crispin took a one-stroke lead into the final hole.

The other golfers were finished for the day, many coming out and standing around the eighteenth green to watch the final act of golf' s greatest collapse.

Win started playing Mr. Merion. "The eighteenth hole is a four hundred and sixty-five yard, par four," he began.

"The tee is in the stone quarry. You need to hit it up the hill a two-hundred yard carry."

"I see," Myron said. Huh?

Tad was up first. He hit what looked like a good, solid drive. The gallery did that polite golf-clap thing. Jack Coldren took his tum. His shot climbed higher, seemingly pulling itself against the elements.

"Very nice golf shot," Win said. "Super."

Myron tumed to Esme Fong. "What happens if it ends in a tie? Sudden death?"

Esme shook her head. "Other tournaments, yes. But not at the Open. They make both players come back tomorrow and play a whole round."

"All eighteen holes?"

"Yes."

Tad's second shot left him just short of the green.

"A solid golf shot," Win informed him. "Sets him up nicely for the par."

Jack took out an iron and approached the ball.

Win smiled at Myron. "Recognize this?"

Myron squinted. DTja vu swarmed in. He was no golf fan, but from this angle even he recognized the spot. Win kept the picture on his credenza at the office. Almost every golf book or golf pub or golf whatever had the photograph. Ben Hogan had stood exactly where Jack Coldren now stood. In 1950 or thereabouts. Hogan had stroked the famous one iron that had made him the U. S.

Open champion. It was the golf equivalent of "Havlicek stole the ball!"

As Jack took his practice swing, Myron could not help but wonder about old ghosts and strange possibilities.

"He has an almost impossible task," Win said.

"Why's that?"

' 'The pin placement is brutal today. Behind that yawning bunker."

A yawning bunker? Myron did not bother asking.

Jack fired a long iron at the green. He reached it, but as Win had predicted, he still left himself a good twentyplus feet away. Tad Crispin took his third shot, a beautiful little chip that came to rest within six inches of the hole.

Tad tapped it in for par. That meant that Jack had no chance of winning in regulation. The best he could do was force a tie. If he made this putt.

"A twenty-two-foot 'putt," Win said with a grim shake of the head. "No chance."

He had said twenty two feet not twenty-one feet or twenty-three feet. Twenty two feet. Win could tell from a quick glance from over fifly yards away. Golfers. Go figure.

Jack Coldren strolled to the green. He bent down, picked up his ball, put down a marker, picked up the marker, put down the ball again in the exact same spot.

Myron shook his head. Golfers.

Jack looked very far away, like he was putting from New Jersey. Think about it. He was twenty two feet away from a hole four-and-a-quarter inches in diameter. Break out a calculator. Do the math.

Myron, Win, Esme, and Norm waited. This was it.

The coup de grace. The part where the matador finally drives the long, thin blade home.

But as Jack studied the break in the green, some sort of transformation seemed to take place. The fleshy features hardened. The eyes became focused and steely and though it was probably Myron's imagination a hint of yesterday's "eye" seemed to flint up in them. Myron looked behind him. Linda Coldren had spotted the change too. For a brief moment she let her attention slip and her eyes sought out Myron's, as if for confirmation. Before Myron could do more than meet her gaze, she looked away.

Jack Coldren took his time. He read the green from several angles. He squatted down, his club pointing in front of him the way golfers do. He talked to Diane Hoffman at some length. But once he addressed the ball, there was no hesitation. The club went back like a metronome and kissed the ball hard on the way down.

The tiny white sphere carrying all of Jack Coldren's dreams circled toward the hole like an eagle seeking its prey. There was no question in Myron's mind. The pull was almost magnetic. Several seemingly infinite seconds later, the tiny white sphere dropped to the bottom of the hole with an audible clink. For a moment there was silence and then another eruption, this one more from surprise than exhilaration. Myron found himself applauding wildly.

Jack had done it. He'd tied the score. .

Over the crowd's cacophony, Norm Zuckerman said, "This is beautiful, Esme. The whole world will be watching tomorrow. The exposure will be incredible."

Esme looked stunned. "Only if Tad wins."

"What do you mean?"

. "What if Tad loses?"

"Hey, second place at the U. S. Open?" Norm said, palms up to the sky. "Not bad, Esme. Not bad at all.

That's where we were this morning. Before all this happened.

Nothing lost, nothing gained.

Esme Fong shook her head. "If Tad loses now, he doesn't come in second place. He's just a loser. He would have gone one-on-one with a famed choke-artist and lost.

Outchoked the ultimate choker. It'll be worse than the Buffalo Bills."

Norm made a scofling noise. "You worry too much, Esme," he said, but his usual bluster had tapered off.

The crowd began to dissipate, but Jack Coldren just stood in the same position, still holding his putter. He did not celebrate. He did not move, even when Diane Hoffman began to potmd his back. His features seemed to lose their tone again, his eyes suddenly more glazed than ever.

It was as if the effort of that one stroke had drained every ounce of energy, karma, strength, life force right out of him.

Or maybe, Myron wondered, there was something else at work here. Something deeper. Maybe that last moment of magic had given Jack some new insight some new life clarity as to the relative, long term importance of this tournament. Everyone else saw a man who had just sunk the most important putt of his life. But maybe Jack Coldren saw a man standing alone wondering what the big deal was and if his only son was still alive.

Linda Coldren appeared on the fringe of the green.

She tried to look enthusiastic as she approached her husband and dutifully kissed him. A television crew followed her. Long-lensed cameras clicked and their flashes strobed. A sportscaster came up to them, microphone at the ready. Linda and Jack both managed to smile.

But behind the smiles, Linda looked almost wary. And Jack looked positively terrified.

Chapter 22

Esperanza had come up with a plan. "Lloyd Rennart's widow's name is Francine. She's an artist."

"What kind?"

"I don't know. Painting, sculpture what's the difference?"

"Just curious. Go ahead."

"I called her up and said that you were a reporter for the Coastal Star. It's a local paper in the Spring Lake area. You are doing a lifestyle piece on several local artists."

Myron nodded. It was a good plan. People rarely refuse the chance to be interviewed for self-promoting puff pieces.

Win had already gotten Myron's car windows fixed.

How, Myron had no idea. The rich. They're different.

The ride took about two hours. It was eight o'clock .

Sunday night. Tomorrow Linda and Jack Coldren would drop off the ransom money. How would it be done? A 1

meeting in a public place? A go-between? For the umpteenth time, he wondered how Linda and Jack and Chad were faring. He took out the photograph of Chad. He imagined what Chad's young, carefree face must have looked like when his finger was being severed off. He wondered if the kidnapper had used a sharp knife or a .

cleaver or an axe or a saw or what.

He wondered what it felt like.

Francine Rermart lived in Spring Lake Heights, not Spring Lake. There was a big difference. Spring Lake was on the Atlantic Ocean and about as beautiful a shore town as you could hope to find. There was plenty of sun, very little crime, and almost no ethnics. It was a problem, actually.

The wealthy town was nicknamed the Irish Riviera.

That meant no good restaurants. None. The town's idea of haute cuisine was food served on a plate rather than in a basket. If you craved exotic, you drove to a Chinese take-out place whose eclectic menu included such rare delicacies as chicken chow mein, and for the especially adventurous, chicken lo mein. This was the problem with some of these towns. They needed some Jews or gays or something to spice things up, to add a bit of theater and a couple of interesting bistros.

One man's opinion.

If Spring Lake was an old movie, then Spring Lake Heights would be the other side of the tracks. There weren't slums or anything like that. The area where the Rennarts lived was a sort of` tract-house suburbia the middle ground between a trailer park and circa 1967 splitlevel colonials. Solid Americana.

Myron knocked on the door. A woman he guessed was Francine Rennart pushed open the screen. Her ready smile was shadowed by a daunting beak of a nose. Her burnt-auburn hair was wavy and undisciplined, like she'd just taken out her curlers but hadn't had time to comb it out.

"Hi," Myron said.

"You must be from the Coastal Star."

"That's right." Myron stuck out his hand. "l'm Bernie Worley." Scoop Bolitar uses a disguise.

"Your timing is perf`ect," Francine said. "I've just started a new exhibit."

The living room furniture didn't have plastic on it, But it should have. The couch was off green. The BarcaLounger a real, live BarcaLounger was maroon with duct tape mending rips. The console television had rabbit ears on top. Collectors plates Myron had seen advertised in Parade were neatly hung on a wall.

"My studio's in the back," she said.

Francine Rennart led him to a big addition off the kitchen. It was a sparsely furnished room with white walls. A couch with a spring sticking out of it sat in the middle of the room. A kitchen chair leaned against it. So did a rolled up carpet. There was something that looked like a blanket draped over the top in a triangular pattern.

Four bathroom wastepaper baskets lined the back wall.

Myron guessed that she must have a leak.

Myron waited for Francine Rennart to ask him to sit down. She didn't. She stood with him in the entranceway and said, "Well?"

He smiled, his brain stuck in a cusp where he was not dumb enough to say, "Well what?" but not smart enough to know what the hell she was talking about. So Myron froze there with his anchorman-waiting-to-go to-commercial grin.

"You like it?" Francine Rermart asked.

Still the grin. "Uh-huh."

"I know it's not for everybody."

"Hmm." Scoop Bolitar engages in sparkling repartee.

She watched his face for a moment. He kept up the idiot grin. "You don't know anything about installation art, do you?"

He shrugged. "Got me." Myron shifted gears on the ily. "Thing is, I don't do features normally. I'm a sports writer. That's my beat." Beat. Note the authentic reporter lingo. "But Tanya she's my boss she needed somebody to handle a lifestyle piece. And when Jennifer called in sick, well, the job fell to me. It's a story on a variety of local artists painters, sculptors . . ." He couldn't think of` any. other kind of artist, so he stopped. "Anyway, maybe you could explain a little bit about what it is you do." .

"My art is about space and concepts. lt's about creating a mood."

Myron nodded. "I see."

"It's not art, per se, in the classic sense. It goes beyond that. It's the next step in the artistic evolutionary process."

More nods. "I see."

"Everything in this exhibit has a purpose. Where I

place the couch. The texture of the carpeting. The color of the walls. The way the sunlight shines in through the windows. The blend creates a specific ambience."

Oh, boy.

Myron motioned at the, uh, art. "So how do you sell something like this?"

She frowned. "You don't sell it."

"Pardon?"

"Art is not about money, Mr. Worley. True artists do not put a monetary value on their work. Only hacks do that."

Yeah, like Michelangelo and Da Vinci, those hacks.

"But what do you do with this?" he asked. "I mean, do you just keep the room like this?"

"No. I change it around. I bring in other pieces. I

create something new."

"And what happens to this?"

She shook her head. "Art is not about permanence.

Life is temporary. Why shouldn't art be the same?"

Oooookay.

"Is there a name for this art'?"

"Installation art. But we do not like labels."

"How long have you been an, uh, installation artist?"

"I've been working on my masters at the New York Art Institute for two years."

He tried not to look shocked. "You go to school for this?"

"Yes. It's a very competitive program."

Yeah, Myron thought, like a TV/VCR repair course advertised by Sally Struthers.

They finally moved back into the living room. Myron sat on the couch. Gently. Might be art. He waited to be offered a cookie. Might be art too.

"You still don't get it, do you?"

Myron shrugged. "Maybe if you threw in a poker table and some dogs."

She laughed. Mr. Self Deprecation strikes again.

"Fair enough," she said.

"Let me shift gears for a moment, if I may," Myron said. "How about a little something on Francine Rennart, the person?" Scoop Bolitar mines the personal angle.

She looked a bit wary, but she said, "Okay, ask away."

"Are you married?"

"No." Her voice was like a slamming door.

' 'Divorced?" '

"No." _

Scoop Bolitar loves an garrulous interviewee. "I see,"

he said. "'l`hen I guess you have no children."

"I have a son."

"How old is he?"

"Seventeen. His name is Larry."

A year older than Chad Coldren. Interesting. "Larry Rennart'?"

"Yes."

"Where does he go to school?"

"Right here at Manasquan High. He's going to be a senior." +

"How nice." Myron risked it, nibbled on a cookie.

"Maybe I could interview him too."

"My son?" "

"Sure. I'd love a quote from the prodigal son on how proud he is of his mom, of how he supports what she's doing, that kinda thing." Scoop Bolitar grows pathetic.

"He's not home."

"Oh?"

He waited for her to elaborate. Nothing.

"Where is Larry?" Myron tried. "Is he staying with his father?"

"His father is dead." .

Finally. Myron put on the big act. "Oh, sheesh, I'm sorry. I didn't . . . I mean, you being so young and all. I

just didn't consider the possibility that . . ." Scoop Bolitar as Robert DeNiro.

"It's okay," Francine Rennart said. .

"I feel awful."

"No need to."

"Have you been widowed long?"

She tilted her head. "Why do you ask?"

"Background," he said.

' 'Background?' '

"Yes. I think it's crucial to understanding Francine Rennart the artist. I want to explore how being widowed affected you and your art." Scoop Bolitar shovels it good.

"I've only been a widow a short time."

Myron motioned toward the, uh, studio. "So when you created this work, did your husband's death have any bearing on the outcome? On the color of the wastebaskets maybe. Or the way you rolled up that rug."

"No, not really."

"How did your husband die?"

"Why would you "

"Again, I think it's important for digesting the entire artistic statement. Was it an accident, for example? The kind of death that makes you ponder fickle fate. Was it a long illness? Seeing a loved one suffer "

"He committed suicide."

Myron feigned aghast. "I'm so sorry," he said.

Her breathing was funny now, her chest giving off short hitches. As Myron watched her, an awful pang struck him deep in the chest. Slow down, he told himself.

Stop focusing solely on Chad Coldren and remember that this woman, too, has suffered. She had been married to this man. She had loved him and lived with him and built a life with him and had a child with him.

And after all that, he had chosen to end his life rather than spend it with her.

Myron swallowed. Fiddling with her pathos like this was, at best, unfair. Belittling her artistic expression because he did not understand it was cruel. Myron did not like himself much right now. For a moment he debated just going away the odds that any of this had anything to do with the case were so remote but then again, he couldn't simply forget a sixteen year old boy with a missing finger, either.

"Were you married long?"

"Almost twenty years," she said softly.

"I don't mean to intrude, but may I ask you his name?"

"Lloyd," she said. "Lloyd Rennart."

Myron narrowed his eyes as though scanning for a memory. "Why does that name ring a bell?"

Francine Rennart shrugged. "He co-owned a tavem in Neptime City. The Rusty Nail."

"Of course," Myron said. "Now I remember. He hung out there a lot, right?"

"Yes."

"My God, I met the man. Lloyd Rennart. Now I remember.

He used to teach golf right? Was in the big time for a while."

Francine Rennart's face slid closed like a car window.

"How do you know that?"

"The Rusty Nail. And I'm a huge golf fan. A real duffer, but I follow it like some people follow the Bible."

He was flailing, but maybe he was getting somewhere.

"Your husband caddied Jack Coldren, right? A long time ago. We talked about it a bit."

She swallowed hard. "What did he say?"

"Say?" "About being a caddie."

"Oh, not much. We mostly talked about some of our favorite golfers. Nicklaus, Trevino, Palmer. Some great courses. Merion mostly."

"No," she said.

"Ma'am?"

Her voice was firm. "Lloyd never talked about golf"

Scoop Bolitar steps in it in as big way.

Francine Rennart skewered him with her eyes. "You can't be from the insurance company. I didn't even try to make a claim." She pondered that for a moment. Then:

"Wait a second. You said you're a sports writer. That's why you're here. Jack Coldren is making a comeback, so you want to do a-where-are-they-now story."

Myron shook his head. Shame flushed his face.

Enough, he thought. He took a few deep breaths and said, "No."

"Then who are you?"

"My name is Myron Bolitar. I'm a sports agent."

She was confused now. "What do you want with me?"

He searched for the words, but they all sounded lame.

"l'm not sure. It's probably nothing, a complete waste of time. You're right. Jack Coldren is making a comeback.

But it's like . . . it's like the past is haunting him. Terrible things are happening to him and his family. And I just thought "

"Thought what?" she snapped. "That Lloyd came back from the dead to claim vengeance?"

"Did he want vengeance?" I

"What happened at Merion," she said. "It was a long time ago. Before I met hirn."

"Was he over it?"

Francine Rennart thought about that for a while. "It took a long time," she said at last. "Lloyd couldn't get any golf work after what happened. Jack Coldren was still the fair-haired boy and no one wanted to cross him. Lloyd lost all his friends. He started drinking too much." She hesitated. "There was an accident."

Myron stayed still, watching Francine Rennart draw breaths.

"He lost control of his car." Her voice was robot-like now. "It slammed into another car. In Narberth. Near where he used to live." She stopped and then looked at him. "His first wife died on impact."

Myron felt a chill rush through him. "I didn't know,"

he said softly.

"It was a long time ago, Mr. Bolitar. We met not long after that. We fell in love. He stopped drinking. He bought the tavern right away I know, I know, it sounds weird.

An alcoholic owning a bar. But for him, it worked. We bought this house too. I-I thought everything was okay."

Myron waited a beat. Then he asked, "Did your husband give Jack Coldren the wrong club on purpose?"

The question did not seem to surprise her. She plucked at the buttons on her blouse and took her time before answering. "The truth is, I don't know. He never talked about this incident. Not even with me. But there was something there. It may have been guilt, I don't know." She smoothed her skirt with both hands. "But all of this is irrelevant, Mr. Bolitar. Even if Lloyd did harbor ill feelings toward Jack, he's dead."

Myron tried to think of a tactful way of asking, but none came to him. "Did they find his body, Mrs. Rennart?"

His words landed like a heavyweight's hook. "It-it was a deep crevasse," Francine Rermart stammered.

"There was no way . . . the police said they couldn't send anyone down there. It was too dangerous. But Lloyd couldn't have survived. He wrote a note. He left his clothes there. I still have his passport .... " Her voice faded away.

Myron nodded. "Of course," he said. "I understand."

But as he showed himself out, he was pretty sure that he understood nothing.

Chapter 23

Tito the Crusty Nazi never showed at the Parker Inn.

Myron sat in a car across the street. As usual, he hated surveillance. Boredom didn't set in this time, but the devastated face of Francine Rennart kept haunting him. He wondered about the long-term effects of his visit. The woman had been privately dealing with her grief; locking her private demons in a back closet, and then Myron had gone and blown the hinges off the door. He had tried to comfort her. But in the end what could he say?

Closing time. Still no sign of Tito. His two buddiesBeneath and Escape were another matter. They'd arrived at ten-thirty. At one A. M. they both exited. Escape was on crutches the aftertaste, Myron was sure, of the nasty side kick to the knee. Myron smiled. It was a small victory, but you take them where you can.

Beneath had his arm slung around a woman's neck.

She had a dye job from the planet Bad Bottle and basically looked like the type of woman who might go for a tattoo infested skinhead or to say the same thing in a slightly different way, she looked like a regular on the Jerry Springer show.

Both men stopped to urinate on the outside wall. Beneath actually kept his arm around the girl while emptying his bladder. Jesus. So many men peed on that wall that Myron wondered if there was a bathroom inside. The two men broke off,Beneath got into the passenger side of a Ford Mustang. Bad Bleach drove. Escape hobbled onto his own chariot, a motorcycle of some kind. He strapped the crutches onto the side. The two vehicles drove off in separate directions.

Myron decided to follow Escape. When in doubt, tail the one that's lame.

He kept far back and remained extra careful. Better to lose him than risk in the slightest way the possibility of being spotted. But the tail didn't last long. Three blocks down the road, Escape parked and headed into a shabby excuse for a house. The paint was peeling off in flakes the size of manhole covers. One of the support columns on the front porch had completely given way, so the front lip of the roof looked like it'd been ripped in half by some giant. The two upstairs windows were shattered like a drunk's eyes. The only possible reason that this dump hadn't been condemned was that the building inspector had not been ableto stop laughing long enough to write up a summons.

Okay, so now what?

He waited an hour for something to happen. Nothing did. He had seen a bedroom light go on and off. That was it. The whole night was fast turning into a complete waste of time.

So what should he do?

He had no answer. So he changed the question around a bit.

What would Win do?

Win would weigh the risks. Win would realize that the situation was desperate, that a sixteen-year-old boy's finger had been chopped off like a bothersome thread. Rescuing him imminently was paramount.

Myron nodded to himself. Time to play Win.

He got out of the car. Making sure he kept out of sight, Myron circled around to the back of the dump. The yard was bathed in darkness. He trampled through grass long enough to hide, Viet Cong, occasionally stumbling across a cement block or rake or a garbage can top. His shin got whacked twice; Myron had to bite down expletives. .

The back door was boarded up with plywood. The window to its left, however, was open. Myron looked inside.

Dark. He carefully climbed into the kitchen.

The smell of spoilage assaulted his nostrils. Flies buzzed about. For a moment, Myron feared that he might find a dead body, but this stink was different, more like the odor of a Dumpster at a 7-Eleven than anything in the rotting flesh family. He checked the other rooms, walking on tiptoes, avoiding the several spots on the floor where there was no floor. No sign of a kidnap victim. No sixteen-year-old boy tied up. No one at all. Myron followed the snoring to the room he had seen the light in earlier.

Escape was on his back. Asleep. Without a care.

That was about to change. _

Myron leapt into the air and landed hard on Escape's bad knee. Escape's eyes widened. His mouth opened in a scream that Myron cut off with a snap punch in the mouth. He moved quickly, straddling Escape's chest with his knees. He put his gun against the punk's cheek.

"Scream and die," Myron said.

Escape's eyes stayed wide. Blood trickled out of his mouth. He did not scream. Still, Myron was disappointed in himself Scream and die? He couldn't come up with anything better than scream and die?

"Where is Chad Coldren'?"

"Who?"

Myron jammed the gun barrel into the bleeding mouth. It hit teeth and nearly gagged the man. "Wrong answer."

Escape stayed silent. The punk was brave. Or maybe, just maybe, he couldn't talk because Myron had stuck a gun in his mouth. Smooth move, Bolitar. Keeping his face firm, Myron slowly slid the barrel out. '

"Where is Chad Coldren?"

Escape gasped, caught his breath. "I swear to God, I

don't know what you're talking about."

"Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Give me your hand."

Escape lifted his hand into view. Myron grabbed the wrist, turned it, and plucked out the middle finger. He curled it inward and flattened the folded digit against the palm. The kid bucked in pain. "I don't need a knife,"

Myron said. "I can just grind it into splinters."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the kid managed. "I swear!"

Myron squeezed a little harder. He did not want the bone to snap. Escape bucked some more. Smile a little, Myron thought. That's how Win does it. He has just a hint of a smile. Not much. You want your victim to think you are capable of anything, that you are completely cold, that you might even enjoy it. But you don't want him thinking you are a complete lunatic, out of control, a nut who would hurt you no matter what. Mine that middle ground.

"Please . . ."

"Where is Chad Coldren?"

"Look, I was there, okay? When he jumped you. Tit said he'd give me a hundred bucks. But I don't know no Chad Coldren."

"Where is Tit?" That name again.

"At his crib, I guess. I don't know."

Crib? The neo-Nazi was using dated urban street lingo. Life's ironies. "Doesn't Tito usually hang out with you guys at the Parker Inn'?"

"Yeah, but he never showed."

"Was he supposed to?"

"I guess. It's not like we talk about it."

Myron nodded. "Where does he live?" "Mountainside Drive. Right down the street. Third house on the left after you make the turn."

' 'If you're lying to me, I will come back here and slice your eyes out."

"I ain't lying. Mountainside Drive." .

Myron pointed at the swastika tattoo with the barrel of the gun. "Why do you have this?"

"What?"

"The swastika, moron."

"I'm proud of my race, that's why."

"You want to put all the 'kikes' in gas chambers? Kill all the 'niggers'?"

"That ain't what we're about," he said. More confidence in his voice now that he was on well-rehearsed ground. "We're for the white man. We're tired of being overrun by niggers. We're sick of being trampled on by the Jews."

Myron nodded. "Well, by this Jew anyway," he said.

In life, you take satisfaction where you can. "You know what duct tape is."

"Yeah.''

"Gee, and I thought all neo-Nazis were dumb. Where is yours?"

Escape's eyes kinda narrowed. Like he was actually thinking. You could almost hear rusty gears churning.

Then: "I don't have none."

"Too bad. I was going to use it to tie you up, so you couldn't warn Tito. But if you don't have any, I'll just have to shoot both your kneecaps."

"Wait!"

Myron used up almost the entire roll.

Tito was in the driver's seat of his pickup truck with the monster wheels.

He was also dead.

Two shots in the head, probably from very close range.

Very bloody. There wasn't much of a head left anymore.

Poor Tito. No head to match his no ass. Myron didn't laugh. Then again, gallows humor was not his forte.

Myron remained calm, probably because he was still in Win mode. No lights were on in the house. Tito's keys were still in the ignition. Myron took them and unlocked the front door. His search confirmed what he'd already guessed: no one was there.

Now what?

Ignoring the blood and brain matter, Myron went back to the truck and did a thorough search. Talk about not his forte. Myron reclicked the Win icon. Just protoplasm, he told himself Just hemoglobin and platelets and enzymes and other stuff he'd forgotten since ninth-grade biology.

The blocking worked enough to allow him to dig his hands under the seats and into the cushion crevices. His fingers located lots of crud. Old sandwiches. Wrappers from Wendy's. Crumbs of various shapes and sizes.

Fingernail clippings.

Myron looked at the dead body and shook his head. A

little late for a scolding, but what the hell.

Then he hit pay dirt.

It was gold. It had a golf insignia on it. The initials C. B. C. were engraved lightly on the inside Chad Buckwell Coldren.

It was a ring.

Myron's first thought was that Chad Coldren had cleverly taken it off and left it behind as a clue. Like in a movie. The young man was sending a message. lf Myron was playing his part correctly, he would shake his head, toss the ring in the air, and mutter admiringly, "Smart kid."

Myron's second thought, however, was far more sobering. +

The severed finger in Linda Coldren's car had been the ring finger;

Chapter 24

What to do?

Should he contact the police? Just leave? Make an anonymous call? What?

Myron had no idea. He had to think first and foremost of Chad Coldren. What risk would calling the police put the kid in?

No idea.

Christ, what a mess. He wasn't even supposed to be involved in this anymore. He was supposed to haveshould have stayed out. But now the proverbial doo-doo was hitting a plethora of proverbial fans. What should he do about finding a dead body? And what about Escape?

Myron couldn't just leave him tied and gagged indefinitely.

Suppose he vomited into the duct tape, for chrissake?

Okay, Myron, think. First, you should not repeat, not call the police. Someone else will discover the body.

Or maybe he should make an anonymous call from a pay phone. That might work. But don't the police tape all incoming calls nowadays? They'd have his voice on tape.

He could change it maybe. The rhythm and tempo. Make the tone a little deeper. Add an accent or something. Oh, right, like Meryl Streep. Tell the dispatcher to hurry because "the dingo's got ma baby."

Wait, hold the phone.

Think about what had just happened. Rewind to about an hour ago and see how it looks. Without provocation, Myron had broken into a man's house. He had physically assaulted the man, threatened him in terrible ways, left him tied and gagged all in the pursuit of Tito. Not long after this incident, the police get an anonymous call. They find Tito dead in his pickup.

Who is going to be the obvious suspect?

Myron Bolitar, sports agent of the terminally troubled.

Damn.

So now what? No matter what Myron did at this stage - call or not call he was going to be a suspect. Escape would be questioned. He would tell about Myron, and then Myron would look like the killer. Very simple equation when you thought about it.

So the question remained: What to do?

He couldn't worry about what conclusions the police might leap upon. He also couldn't worry about himself.

The focus must be on Chad Coldren. What would be best for him? Hard to say. The safest bet, of course, would be to upset the apple cart as little as possible. Try not to make his presence in all this known.

Okay, good, that made sense.

So the answer was: Don't report it. Let the body lay where it was. Put the ring back in the seat cushion in case the police need it as evidence later. Good, this looked like a plan a plan that seemed the best way of keeping the kid safe and also obeying the Coldrens' wishes.

Now, what about Escape?

Myron drove back to Escape's shack. He found Escape right where he left him on his bed, hog-tied and gagged with gray duct tape. He looked half dead. Myron shook him. The punk started to, his face the green of seaweed. Myron ripped off the gag.

Escape retched and did a few dry heaves.

"I have a man outside," Myron said, removing more duct tape. "If he sees you move from this window, you will experience an agony very few have been forced to endure. Do you understand?"

Escape nodded quickly.

Experience an agony very few have been forced to endure. Jesus.

There was no phone in the house, so he didn't have to worry about that. With a few more harsh wamings lightly sprinkled with torture clichTs including Myron's personal favorite, "Before I'm finished, you'll beg me to kill you" he left the neo-Nazi alone to quake in his goosestepping black boots.

No one was outside. The proverbial coast was clear.

Myron got in the car, wondering yet again about the Coldrens.

What was going on with them right now? Had the kidnapper already called? Had he given them instructions?

How did Tito's death affect what was happening?

Had Chad suffered more bloodshed or had he escaped?

Maybe he'd gotten hold of the gun and shot someone.

Maybe. But doubtful. More likely, something had gone awry. Someone had lost control. Someone had gone nuts.

He stopped the car. He had to warn the Coldrens.

Yes, Linda Coldren had clearly instructed him to stay away. But that was before he'd found a dead body. How could he sit back now and leave them blind? Someone had chopped off their son's finger. Someone had murdered one of the kidnappers. A "simple" kidnapping if there is such a thing- had spun off its axis. Blood had been splattered about freely.

He had to warn them. He had to contact the Coldrens and let them know what he had learned;

But how?

He pulled onto Golf House Road. lt was very late now, almost two in the moming. Nobody would be up.

Myron flicked off his lights and cruised silently. He glided the car into a spot on the property line between two houses if by some chance one of the occupants was awake and looked out the window, he or she might believe the car belonged to someone visiting a neighbor. He stepped out and slowly made his way on foot toward the Coldren house.

Keeping out of sight, Myron moved closer. He knew, of course, that there was no chance the Coldrens would be asleep. Jack might give it a token effort; Linda wouldn't even sit down. But right now, that didn't much matter.

How was he going to contact them?

He couldn't call on the phone. He couldn't walk up and knock on the door. And he couldn't throw pebbles at the window, like some clumsy suitor in a bad romantic comedy. So where did that leave him?

Lost.

He moved from shrub to shrub. Some of the shrubs were familiar trom his last sojourn into these parts. He said hello to them, chatted, offered up his best cocktailparty banter. One shrub gave him a stock tip. Myron ignored it. He circled closer to the Coldren house, slowly, still careful not to be seen. He had no idea what he was going to do, but when he got close enough to see a light on in the den, an idea came to him.

A note.

He would write a note, telling them of his discovery, warning them to be extra careful, offering up his services.

How to get the note close to the house? Hmm. He could fold the note into a paper airplane and fly it in. Oh, sure, with Myron's mechanical skills, that would work. Myron Bolitar, the Jewish Wright Brother. What else? Tie the note to a rock maybe? And then what? Smash a window?

As it happened, he didn't have to do any of that.

He heard a noise to his right. Footsteps. On the street.

At two in the morning.

Myron quickly dove back down behind a shrub. The footsteps were moving closer. Faster. Someone approach-ing.

Running.

He kept down, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

The footsteps grew louder and then suddenly stopped.

Myron peeked around the side of the shrub. His view was blocked by still more hedges.

He held his breath. And waited.

The footsteps started up again. Slower this time. Unhurried.

Casual. Taking a walk now. Myron craned his neck around the other side of the shrub. Nothing. He moved into a crouch now. Slowly he raised himself, inch by inch, his bad knee protesting. He fought through the pain. His eyesreached the top of the shrub. Myron looked out and finally saw who it was.

Linda Coldren;

She was dressed in a blue sweat suit with running sneakers. Out for a jog? Seemed like a very strange time for it. But you never know. Jack drove golf balls. Myron shot baskets. Maybe Linda was into late-night jogging.

He didn't think so.

She neared the top of the driveway. Myron had to reach her. He clawed a rock out of the dirt and skimmed it toward her. Linda stopped and looked up sharply, like a deer interrupted while drinking. Myron threw another rock. She looked toward the bush. Myron waved a hand.

Christ, this was subtle. But if she had felt safe enough to leave the house if the kidnapper had not minded her taking a little night stroll then walking toward a bush shouldn't cause a panic either. Bad rationale, but it was getting late.

If not out for a jog, why was Linda out so late?

Unless . . .

Unless she was paying off the ransom.

But no, it was still Sunday night. The banks wouldn't be open. She couldn't raise one hundred grand without going to a bank. She had made that clear, hadn't she?

Linda Coldren slowly approached the bush. Myron was almost tempted to light the bush on fire, deepen his voice, and say, "Come forward, Moses." More gallows humor. More not-funny.

When she was about ten feet away, Myron raised his head into view. Linda's eyes nearly leaped out of their sockets.

"Get out of here!" Linda whispered.

Myron wasted no time. Whispering back, he said, "I

found the guy from the pay phone dead. Shot twice in the head. Chad's ring was in his car. But no sign of Chad."

"Get out!"

"I just wanted to warn you. Be careful. They're playing for keeps."

Her eyes darted about the yard. She nodded and turned away.

"When's the drop-off'?" Myron tried. "And where's Jack? Make sure you see Chad with your own eyes before you hand over anything."

But if Linda heard him, she gave no indication. She hurried down the driveway, opened the door, and disappeard from sight.

Chapter 25

Win opened the bedroom door. "You have visitors."

Myron kept his head on the pillow. Friends not knocking hardly fazed him anymore. "Who is it?"

"Law enforcement officials," Win said.

"Cops?"

"Yes."

' 'Uniformed? ' '

"Yes."

"Any idea what it's about?"

"Oooo, sorry. That would be a no. Let's move on to Kitty Carlisle."

Myron picked the sleep out of his eyes and threw on some clothes. He slipped into a pair of Top-Siders without socks. Very Win-like. A quick brush of the teeth, for the sake of breath rather than long-term dental health. He opted for a baseball cap rather than taking the time to wet his hair. The baseball cap was red and said TRIX CEREAL in the front and SILLY RABBIT on the back. Jessica had bought it for him. Myron loved her for it.

The two uniforms waited with cop-patience in the living room. They were young and healthy-looking. The taller one said, "Mr. Bolitar?"

"Yes."

"We'd appreciate it if you would accompany us."

"Where?"

"Detective Corbett will explain when we arrive."

"How about a hint?"

Two faces of stone. "We'd rather not, sir."

Myron shrugged. "Let's go then."

Myron sat in the back of the squad car. The two uniforms sat in the front. They drove at a pretty good clip but kept their siren off, Myron's cell phone rang.

"Do you guys mind if I take a call?"

Taller said, "Of course not, sir."

"Polite of you." Myron hit the on switch. "Hello."

"Are you alone?" It was Linda Coldren.

"Nope."

"Don't tell anyone I'm calling. Can you please get here as soon as possible? It's urgent."

"What do you mean you can't deliver it until Thursday?"

Mr. Throw Them Off Track.

"I can't talk right now either. Just get here as soon as you can. And don't say anything until you do. Please.

Trust me on this."

She hung up.

"Fine, but then I better get free bagels. You hear me?"

Myron tumed off the cell phone. He looked out the window. The route the cops were taking was overly familiar.

Myron had taken the same one to Merion. When they reached the club entranceway on Ardmore Avenue, Myron saw a plethora of media vans and cop cars.

"Dang," the taller cop said.

"You knew it wouldn't stay quiet for long," Shorter added.

"Too big a story," Taller agreed.

"You fellas want to clue me in?"

The shorter cop twisted his head toward Myron. "No, sir." He turned back around.

"Okeydokey," Myron said. But he didn't have a good feeling about this.

The squad car drove steadily through the press gauntlet.

Reporters pushed against the windows, peering in.

Flashes popped in Myron's face. A policeman waved them through. The reporters slowly peeled off the car like dandruff flakes. They parked in the club lot. There were at least a dozen other police cars, both marked and unmarked, nearby.

"Please come along," Taller said.

Myron did so. They walked across the eighteenth fairway.

Lots of uniformed officers were walking with their heads down, picking up pieces of lord-knows-what and putting them in evidence bags.

This was definitely not good.

When they reached the top of the hill, Myron could see dozens of officers making a perfect circle in the famed stone quarry. Some were taking photos. Crime scene photos. Others were bent down. When one stood up, Myron saw him.

He felt his knees buckle. "Oh no . . ."

In the middle of the quarry sprawled in the famed hazard that had cost him the tournament twenty-three years ago lay the still, lifeless body of Jack Coldren.

The uniforms watched him, gauging his reaction. Myron showed them nothing. "What happened?" he managed.

"Please wait here, sir."

The taller cop walked down the hill; the shorter stayed with Myron. Taller spoke brieily to a man in plainclothes Myron suspected was Detective Corbett. Corbett glanced up at Myron as the man spoke. He nodded to the shorter cop.

"Please follow me, sir."

Still dazed, Myron trudged down the hill into the stone quarry. He kept his eye on the corpse. Coagulated blood coated Jack's head like one of those spray-on toupees.

The body was twisted into a position it was never supposed to achieve. Oh, Christ. Poor, sad bastard.

The plainclothes detective greeted him with an enthusiastic handshake. "Mr. Bolitar, thank you so much for coming. I'm Detective Corbett."

Myron nodded numbly. "What happened?"

"A groundskeeper found him this morning at six."

"Was he shot?"

Corbett smiled crookedly. He was around Myron's age and petite for a cop. Not just short. Plenty of cops were on the short side. But this guy was small-boned to the point of being almost sickly. Corbett covered up the small physique with a trench coat. Not a great summer look. Too many episodes of Columbo, Myron guessed.

"I don't want to be rude or anything," Corbett said, "but do you mind if I ask the questions?"

Myron glanced at the still body. He felt light-headed.

Jack dead. Why? How did it happen? And why had the police decided to question him? "Where is Mrs. Coldren?"

Myron asked. +

Corbett glanced at the two officers, then at Myron.

"Why would you want to know that?"

"I want to make sure she's safe."

"Well then," Corbett began, folding his arms under his chest, "if that's the case, you should have asked, 'How is Mrs. Coldren?' or 'ls Mrs. Coldren all right'?'

not 'Where is Mrs. Coldren'?' I mean, if you're really interested in how she is." +

Myron looked at Corbett for several seconds. "God YouAreGood."

"No reason for sarcasm, Mr. Bolitar. You just seem very concerned about her."

"I am."

"You a friend?"

"Yes."

"A close iriend?"

"Pardon me'?"

"Again, I don't want to appear rude or anything,"

Corbett said, spreading his hands, "but have you been you know porking her?"

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Is that a yes?"

Calm down, Myron. Corbett was trying to keep him off balance. Myron knew the game. Dumb to let it get to him. "The answer is no. We've had no sexual contact whatsoever." .

"Really? That's odd."

He wanted Myron to bite with a "What's odd?" Myron did not oblige him.

"You see, a couple of witnesses saw you two together several times over the past few days. At a tent in Corporate Row, mostly. You sat alone for several hours. Very snuggly. Are you sure you weren't playing a little kissyface?"

Myron said, "No."

"No, you weren't playing a little kissy-face, or no ' '

"No, we weren't playing kissy-face or anything like that."

"Uh-huh, I see." Corbett feigned chewing over this little tidbit. "Where were you last night, Mr. Bolitar?"

"Am I a suspect, Detective?"

"We're just chatting amicably, Mr. Bolitar. That's all."

"Do you have an estimated time of death?" Myron asked.

Corbett offered up another cop-polite smile. "Once again, far be it from me to be obtuse or rude, but I would rather concentrate on you right now." His voice gathered a little more muster. "Where were you last night?"

Myron remembered Linda's call on the cell phone.

Undeniably the police had already questioned her. Had she told them about the kidnapping? Probably not. Either way, it was not his place to mention it. He didn't know where things stood. Speaking out of turn could jeopardize Chad's safety. Best to get out of here pronto.

"I'd like to see Mrs. Coldren."

"To make sure she's okay."

"That's sweet, Mr. Bolitar. And very noble. But I'd like you to answer my question."

"I'd like to see Mrs. Coldren first."

Corbett gave him the narrow cop-eyes. "Are you refusing to answer my questions?"

"No. But right now my priority is my potential client's welfare."

"Client?"

"Mrs. Coldren and I have been discussing the possibility of her signing on with MB SportsReps."

"I see," Corbett said, rubbing his chin. "So that explains your sitting together in the tent."

"I'll answer your questions later, Detective. Right now I'd like to check up on Mrs. Coldren."

"She's fine, Mr. Bolitar." .

"I'd like to see for myself"

"You don't trust me?"

"It's not that. But if I am going to be her agent, then I

must be at her disposal first and foremost."

Corbett shook his head and raised his eyebrows.

"That's some crock of shit you're peddling, Bolitar."

"May I go now?"

Corbett gave the big hand spread again. "You're not under arrest. In fact" he turned to the two officers "please escort Mr. Bolitar to the Coldren residence.

Make sure nobody bothers him on the way."

Myron smiled. "Thank you, Detective."

"Think nothing of it." As Myron began to walk away, Corbett called out, "Oh, one more thing." The man had definitely watched too much Columbo. "That call you got in the squad car just now. Was that from Mrs. Coldren'?"

Myron said nothing.

"No matter. We can check the phone records." He gave the Columbo wave. "Have a special day."

Chapter 26

There were four more cop cars outside the Coldren house. Myron walked to the door on his own and knocked. A black woman Myron did not recognize opened it.

Her eyes flicked at the top of his head. "Nice hat,"

she said without inflection. "Come on in."

The woman was about fifty years old and wore a nicely tailored suit. Her coffee skin looked leathery and worn. Her face was kind of sleepy, her eyes half-closed, her expression perpetually bored. "I'm Victoria Wilson,"

she said.

"Myron Bolitar."

"Yes, I know." Bored voice too.

"Is anybody else here?"

"Just Linda."

"Can I see her?"

Victoria Wilson nodded slowly; Myron half expected her to stifle a yawn. "Maybe we should talk first."

"Are you with the police?" Myron asked.

"The opposite," she said. "I'm Mrs. Coldren's attorney."

"That was fast."

"Let me put this plainly," she ho-hummed, sounding like a diner waitress reading off the specials in the last hour of a double shift. "The police believe that Mrs. Coldren killed her husband. They also think that you're involved in some way." .

Myron looked at her. "You're kidding, right?"

The same sleepy expression. "Do I look like a prankster, Mr. Bolitar?"

Rhetorical question.

"Linda does not have a solid alibi for late last night,"

she went on, still with the Hat tone. "Do you?"

"Not really."

"Well, let me tell you what the police already know."

The woman took blasT and raised it to an art form.

"First" -raising a finger in the air seemed to take great effort -"they have a witness, a groundskeeper, who saw Jack Coldren enter Merion at approximately one in the morning. The same witness also saw Linda Coldren do likewise thirty minutes later. He also saw Linda Coldren leave the grounds not long alter that. He never saw Jack Coldren leave."

"That doesn't mean "

"Second" another finger in the air, making a peace sign "the police received a report last night at approximately two in the morning that your car, Mr. Bolitar, was parked on Golf House Road. The police will want to know what you were doing parking in such a strange spot at such a strange time."

"How do you know all this?" Myron asked.

"I have good connections with the police," she said.

Again bored. "May I continue?" .

"Please."

"Third" yep, another finger-"Jack Coldren had been seeing a divorce attorney. He had, in fact, begun the process of filing papers."

"Did Linda know this?"

"No. But one of the allegations Mr. Coldren made concemed his wife's recent infidelity."

Myron put both hands to his chest. "Don't look at me."

"Mr. Bolitar?"

"What?"

"I am just stating facts. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't interrupt. Fourth" final finger "on Saturday, at the U. S. Open golf tournament, several witnesses described you and Mrs. Coldren as being a bit more than chummy."

. Myron waited. Victoria Wilson lowered the hand, never showing the thumb.

"Is that it?" Myron asked.

"No. But that's all we'll discuss for now."

"I met Linda for the first time on Friday."

"And you can prove that'?"

"Bucky can testify to it. He introduced us."

Another big sigh. "Linda Coldren's father. What a perfect, unbiased witness."

"I live in New York."

"Which is less than two hours by Amtrak from Philadelphia.

Go on."

"I have a girlfriend. Jessica Culver. I live with her."

"And no man has ever cheated on his girlfriend before.

Stunning testimony."

Myron shook his head. "So you're suggesting-"

"Nothing," Victoria Wilson interrupted him with the monotone. "l am suggesting absolutely nothing. I am telling you what the police believe that Linda killed Jack. The reason why there are so many police officers surrounding this house is because they want to make sure that we do not remove anything before a search warrant is issued. They have made it crystal clear that they want no Kardashians on this one."

Kardashian. As in 0. J. The man had changed law lexicon forever. "But . . ." Myron stopped. "This is ridiculous. Where is Linda?"

"Upstairs. I've informed the police that she is too grief-stricken to speak to them at this time."

"You don't understand. Linda.shouldn't even be a suspect. Once she tells you the whole story, you'll see what I mean."

Another near yawn. "She has told me the whole story."

"Even about . . . ?"

"The kidnapping," Victoria Wilson finished for him.

"Yes."

"Well, don't you think that kind of exonerates her?"

"No."

Myron was confused. "Do the police know about the kidnapping'?"

"Of course not. We are saying nothing at this time."

Myron made a face. "But once they hear about the kidnapping, they'll focus on that. They'll know Linda couldn't be involved."

Victoria Wilson tumed away. "Let's go upstairs."

"You don't agree'?"

She didn't respond. They began to climb the staircase.

Victoria said, "You are an attorney."

It didn't sound like a question, but Myron still said, "I

don't practice."

"But you passed the bar." `

"In New York."

"Good enough. I want you to be co-counsel in this case. I can get you an immediate dispensation."

"I don't do criminal law," Myron said.

"You don't have to. I just want you to be an attorney of record for Mrs. Coldren."

Myron nodded. "So I can't testify," he said. "So everything I hear falls under privilege."

Still bored. "You are a smart one." She stopped next to a bedroom door and leaned against a wall. "Go in. I'm going to wait out here."

Myron knocked. Linda Coldren told him to come in.

He opened the door. Linda stood by the far window looking out onto her backyard.

"Linda'?"

Her back still faced him. "I'm having a bad week, Myron." She laughed. It was not a happy sound.

"Are you okay'?" he asked.

"Me? Never better. Thanks for asking."

He stepped toward her, unsure what to say. "Did the kidnappers call about the ransom?"

"Last night," Linda said. " Jack spoke to them."

"What did they say?"

"I don't know. He stormed out after the call. He never told me."

Myron tried to picture this scene. A call comes in.

Jack answers it. He runs out without saying anything. It didn't exactly mesh.

"Have you heard from them again?" he tried.

"No, not yet."

Myron nodded, even though she wasn't facing him.

"So what did you do?"

"Do?"

"Last night. After Jack stormed out."

Linda Coldren folded her arms across her chest. "I

waited a few minutes for him to calm down," she said.

"When he didn't come back, I went out looking for him."

"You went to Merion," Myron said.

"Yes. Jack likes to stroll the grounds. To think and be alone."

"Did you see him there'?"

"No. I looked around for a while. Then I came back here. That's when I ran into you."

"And Jack never came back," Myron said.

With her back still to him, Linda Coldren shook her head. "What tipped you off, Myron? The dead body in the stone quarry?"

"Just trying to help."

She tumed to him. Her eyes were red. Her face was drawn. She was still incredibly beautiful. "I just need someone to take it out on." She shrugged, tried a smile.

"You're here."

Myron wanted to step closer. He refrained. "You've been up all night?"

She nodded. "I've been standing right here, waiting for Jack to come home. When the police knocked on the door, I thought it was about Chad. This is going to sound awful, but when they told me about Jack, I was almost relieved."

The phone rang.

Linda spun around with enough speed to start up a wind tunnel. She looked at Myron. He looked at her.

"It's probably the media," he said.

Linda shook her head. "Not on that line." She reached for the phone, pressed the lit up button, picked up the receiver.

"Hello," she said.

A voice replied. Linda gasped and bit down in midscream.

Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears pushed their way out of her eyes. The door flew open. Victoria Wilson stepped into the room, looking like a bear stirred from a power nap.

Linda looked up at them both. "It's Chad," she said.

"He's free."

Chapter 27

+Victoria Wilson took control. "We'll go pick him up," she said. "You stay on the line with him."

Linda started shaking her head. "But I want- "

"Trust me on this, honey. lf you go, every cop and news reporter will follow. Myron and I can lose them if we have to. I don't want the police talking to your son until I have. You just stay here. You say nothing. If the police come in with a warrant, you let them in. You don't say a word. No matter what. Do you understand'?"

Linda nodded.

"So where is he?"

"On Porter Street."

"Okay, tell him Aunt Victoria is on the way. We'll take care of him."

Linda grabbed her arm, her face pleading. "Will you bring him back here'?"

"Not right away, hon." The voice was still matter-offact. "The police will see. I can't have that. It'll raise too many questions. You'll see him soon enough."

Victoria Wilson tumed away. There was no debate with this woman.

In the car, Myron asked, "How do you know Linda?"

"My mother and father were servants for the Buckwells and Lockwoods," she replied. "I grew up on their estates."

"But somewhere along the line you went to law school?"

She frowned. "You writing my biography'?"

"I'm just asking."

"Why? You surprised that a middle-aged black woman is the attorney for rich WASPs?"

"Frankly," Myron said, "yes."

"Don't blame you. But we don't have time for that now. You got any important questions?"

"Yes," Myron said. He was doing the driving. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing that you need to know."

' 'I'm an attorney of record on the case. I need to know everything."

"Later. Let's concentrate on the boy first."

Again the no-argument monotone.

"Are you sure we're doing the right thing?" Myron continued. "Not telling the police about the kidnapping'?"

"We can always tell them later," Victoria Wilson replied.

"That's the mistake most defendants make. They think they have to talk their way out of it right away. But that's dangerous. There is always time to talk later."

"I'm not sure I agree."

"Tell you what, Myron. If we need some expertise on negotiating a sneaker deal, I'll put you in charge. But while this thing is still a criminal case, let me take the lead, okay?"

"The police want to question me."

"You say nothing. That is your right. You don't have to say a word to the police."

"Unless they subpoena me."

"Even then. You are Linda Coldren's attorney. You don't say anything."

Myron shook his head. "That only works for what she's said after you asked me to be co-counsel. They can ask me about anything that happened before."

"Wrong." Victoria Wilson gave a distracted sigh.

"When Linda Coldren first asked you to help, she knew you were a bar-appointed attomey. Therefore everything she told you fell under attorney-client."

Myron had to smile. 'That's reaching."

"But that's the way it is." He could feel her eyes on him now. "No matter what you might want to do, morally and legally you are not allowed to talk to anyone."

She was good.

Myron drove a bit faster. No one was tailing them; the police and the reporters had stuck to the house. The story was all over the radio. The anchorman kept repeating a one-line statement issued by Linda Coldren: "We are all saddened by this tragedy. Please allow us to grieve in peace."

"You issue that statement?" Myron asked.

"No. Linda did it before I got there."

Why?

"She thought it would keep the media off her back.

She knows better now."

They pulled up on Porter Street. Myron scanned the sidewalks.

"Up there," Victoria Wilson said. .

Myron saw him. Chad Coldren was huddled on the ground. The telephone receiver was still gripped in one hand, but he wasn't talking. The other hand was heavily bandaged. Myron felt a little queasy. He hit the gas pedal.

The car jerked forward. They pulled up to the boy. Chad stared straight ahead.

Victoria Wilson's indifferent expression finally melted a bit. "Let me handle this," she said.

She got out of the car and walked over to the boy. She bent down and cradled him. She took the receiver away from him, talked into it, hung up. She helped Chad to his feet, stroking his hair, whispering comforts. They both got into the backseat. Chad leaned his head against her.

She made soothing shushing noises. She nodded at Myron.

Myron put the car in drive.

Chad did not speak during the drive. Nobody asked him to. Victoria gave Myron directions to her office building in Bryn Mawr. The Coldren family doctor a grayhaired, old family friend named Hemy Lane had his office there too. He unwrapped Chad's bandage and examined the boy while Myron and Victoria waited in another room. Myron paced. Victoria read a magazine.

"We should take him to a hospital," Myron said.

"Dr. Lane will decide if that's necessary." Victoria yawned and flipped a page.

Myron tried to take it all in. With all the activity surrounding the police accusation and Chad's safe recovery, he had almost forgotten about Jack Coldren. Jack was dead. It was almost impossible for Myron to comprehend.

The irony did not escape him: the man finally has the chance at redemption and he ends up dead in the same hazard that altered his life twenty-three years ago.

Dr. Lane appeared in the doorway. He was everything you wanted a doctor to look like Marcus Welby without the receding hairline. "Chad is better now. He's talking.

He's alert." .

"How's his hand?" Myron asked.

"It'll need to be looked at by a specialist. But there's no infection or anything like that."

Victoria Wilson stood. "I'd like to talk to him."

Lane nodded. "I would warn you to go easy on him, Victoria, but I know you never listen."

Her mouth almost twitched. Not a smile. Not even close. But there was a sign of life. "You'll have to stay out here, Henry. The police may ask you what you heard."

The doctor nodded again. "I understand."

Victoria looked at Myron. "I'll do the talking."

"Okay."

When Myron and Victoria entered the room, Chad was staring down at his bandaged hand like he expected the missing finger to grow back.

"Chad?"

He slowly looked up. There were tears in his eyes.

Myron remembered what Linda had said about the kid's love of golf. Another dream lay in ashes. The kid did not know it, but right now he and Myron were kindred spirits.

"Who are you'?" Chad asked Myron.

"He's a friend," Victoria Wilson replied. Even with the boy, the tone was completely detached. "His name is Myron Bolitar."

"I want to see my parents, Aunt Vee."

Victoria sat across from him. "A lot has happened, Chad. I don't want to go into it all now. You'll have to trust me, okay?"

Chad nodded.

"I need to know what happened to you. Everything.

From the beginning?

"A man car-jacked me," Chad said.

"Just one man?"

"Yeah."

"Go on. Tell me what happened."

"I was at a traffic light, and this guy just opens the passenger door and gets in. He's wearing a ski mask and sticks this gun in my face. He told me to keep driving."

"Okay. What day was this'?"

"Thursday."

"Where were you Wednesday night?"

"At my friend Matt's house."

"Matthew Squires?"

"Yes."

"Okay, fine." Victoria Wilson's eyes did not wander from the boy's face. "Now where were you when this man got into your car?"

"A couple of blocks from school."

"Did this happen before or after summer school?"

"After. I was on my way home."

Myron kept quiet. He wondered why the boy was lying.

"Where did the man take you?"

' 'He told me to drive around the block. We pulled into this parking lot. Then he put something over my head. A

burlap bag or something. He made me lie down in the back. Then he started driving. I don't know where we went. I never saw anything. Next thing I knew I was in a room someplace. I had to keep the bag on my head all the time so I didn't see anything."

"You never saw the man's face?"

"Never."

"Are you sure it was a man? Could it have been a woman?"

"I heard his voice a few times. It was a man. At least, one of them was."

"There was more than one?"

Chad nodded. "The day he did this . . ." He lifted his bandaged hand into view. His face went totally blank.

He looked straight ahead, his eyes unfocused. "I had that burlap bag over my head. My hands were handcuffed behind my back." His voice was as detached as Victoria's now. "That bag was so itchy. I used to rub my chin against my shoulder. Just for relief. Anyway, the man came in and unlocked the handcuffs. Then he grabbed my hand and put it flat on the table. He didn't say anything.

He didn't warn me. The whole thing took less than ten seconds. He just put my hand on the table. I never saw a thing. I just heard a whack. Then I felt this weird sensation.

Not even pain at first. I didn't know what it was.

Then I felt a warm wetness. From the blood, I guess. The pain came a few seconds later. I passed out. When I woke up, my hand was wrapped. The throbbing was awful. The burlap bag was back over my head. Someone came in.

Gave me some pills. It dulled the pain a little. Then I

heard voices. Two of them. It sounded like they were arguing."

Chad Coldren stopped as though out of breath. Myron watched Victoria Wilson. She did not go over and comfort him.

"Were the voices both male?" I

' 'Actually, one sounded like a female. But I was pretty out of it. I can't say for sure." `

Chad looked back down at his bandages. He moved his lingers a bit. Testing them out.

"What happened next, Chad?"

He kept his eyes on the bandages. "'l`here's not a lot to tell, Aunt Vee. They kept me that way for a few days. I

don't know how many. They fed me mostly pizza and soda. They brought a phone in one day. Made me call Merion and ask for my dad."

The ransom call at Merion, Myron thought. The kidnapper's second call.

"They also made me scream."

"Made you scream?"

"The guy came in. He told me to scream and to make it scary. Otherwise, he would make me scream for real.

So I tried different screams for, like, ten minutes. Until he was satisfied."

The scream from the call at the mall, Myron thought.

The one where Tito demanded a hundred grand.

"That's about it, Aunt Vee."

"How did you escape?" Victoria asked.

"I didn't. They let me go. A little while ago someone led me to a car. I still had the burlap bag on my head. We drove a little. Then the car stopped. Someone opened the door and pulled me out. Next thing I knew, I was free."

Victoria looked over at Myron. Myron looked back.

Then she nodded slowly. Myron took that as his cue.

"He's lying."

Chad said, "What?"

Myron turned his attention to him. "You're lying, Chad. And worse, the police will know you're lying."

"What are you talking about?" His eyes sought Victoria's.-"Who is this guy?"

"You used your ATM card at 6:18 P. M. on Thursday on Porter Street," Myron said.

Chad's eyes widened. "That wasn't me. It was the asshole who grabbed me. He took my wallet "

"It's on videotape, Chad."

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then:

"They made me." But his voice was weak.

"l saw the tape, Chad. You were smiling. You were happy. You were not alone. You also spent an evening at the sleazy motel next door."

Chad lowered his head.

"Chad?" It was Victoria. She did not sound pleased.

"Look at me, boy."

Chad slowly raised his eyes.

"Why are you lying to me?"

' 'It has nothing to do with what happened, Aunt Vee.' '

Her face was unyielding. "Start talking, Chad. And now."

He looked down again, studying the bandaged hand.

"It's just like I said exeept the man didn't grab me in my car. He knocked on my door at that motel. He came in vith a gun. Everything else I told you is the truth."

"When was this?"

"Friday morning."

"So why did you lie to me?"

"I promised," he said. "I just wanted to keep her out of this."

"Who?" she asked.

Chad looked surprised. "You don't know?"

"I have the tape," Myron said, giving a little bluff here. "I haven't shown it to her yet."

"Aunt Vee, you have to keep her out of it. This could really hurt her."

"Honey, listen to me now. I think it's sweet that you're trying to protect your girlfriend. But I don't have time for that."

Chad looked from Myron to Victoria. "I want to see my mom please."

"You will, honey. Soon. But first you have to tell me about this girl."

"I promised that I would keep her out of it."

"If I can keep her name out of this, I will."

"I can't, Aunt Vee."

"Forget it, Victoria," Myron said. "If he won't tell, we can all just watch the tape together. Then we can call the girl on her own. or maybe the police will find her first. They'll have a copy of the tape too. They won't be so worried about her feelings."

"You don't understand," Chad said, looking from Victoria Wilson to Myron, then back at Victoria again. "I

promised her. She can get in serious trouble."

"We'll talk to her parents, if need be," Victoria said.

"We'll do what we can."

' 'Her parents?" Chad looked confused. ' 'I'm not worried about her parents. She's old enough .... " His voice died away.

"Who were you with, Chad?"

"I swore I'd never say anything, Aunt Vee."

"Fine," Myron said. "We can't waste time on this, Victoria. Let the police track her down."

"No!" Chad looked down. "She had nothing to do with it, okay? We were together. She went out for a little while and that's when they grabbed me. It wasn't her fault."

Victoria shiiied in her seat. "Who, Chad?"

His words came out slow and grudging. But they were also quite clear. "Her name is Esme Fong. She works for a company called Zoom."

Chapter 28

It was all starting to make awful, horrible sense.

Myron did not wait for permission. He stormed out of the office and down the corridor. It was time to confront Esme.

A scenario was fast taking shape in Myron's mind.

Esme Fong meets Chad Coldren while negotiating the Zoom deal with his mother. She seduces him. Why? Hard to say. For kicks maybe. Not important.

Anyway, Chad spends Wednesday night with his buddy Matthew. Then on Thursday he meets up with Esme for a romantic tryst at the Court Manor Inn. They pick up some cash at an ATM. They have their fun. And then things get interesting.

Esme Fong has not only signed Linda Coldren, but she has managed to land wunderkind Tad Crispin. Tad is playing wonderfully well in his first U. S. Open. After one round, he is in second place. Amazing. Great publicity.

But if Tad could somehow win if he could catch the veteran with a gigantic lead it would give Zoom's launch into the golf business a nuclear boost. It would be worth millions.

Millions.

And Esme had the leader's son right in front of her.

So what does the ambitious Esme Fong do? She hires Tito to grab the boy. Nothing complicated. She wants to distract Jack big time. Make him lose that edge. What better way than kidnapping his kid?

lt all kinda lit together.

Myron turned his attention to some of case's more bothersome aspects. First of all, the not demanding the ransom for so long? suddenly made sense. Esme Fong is no expert at this and she doesn't want a payoff that would just complicate marmers so the first few calls are awkward. She forgets to demand a ransom. Second, Myron remembered Tito's "chink bitch" call. How had he known Esme was there? Simple. Esme had told him when she would be there to scare the hell out of the Coldrens and make them think they were being watched.

Yep. It fit. Everything had been going according to Esme Fong's plan. Except for one thing.

Jack continued to play well.

He maintained his insurmountable lead through the next round. The kidnapping may have stunned him a bit, but he had regained his footing. His lead was still huge.

Drastic action was necessary.

Myron got into the elevator and headed down to the ground-floor lobby. He wondered how it had happened.

Maybe it had been Tito's idea. Maybe that was why Chad had heard two voices arguing. Either way, someone decided to do something that was guaranteed to throw Jack off his game.

Cut off Chad's linger.

Like it or not Tito's idea or hers Esme Fong took advantage. She had Linda's car keys. She knew what her car looked like. It wouldn't take much. Just a tum of the key, a quick drop on the car seat. Easy for her. Nothing suspicious. Who would notice an attractive, well-dressed woman unlocking a car with a key?

The severed finger did the trick, too. Jack's game was left in shambles. Tad Crispin stormed back. It was everything she wanted. But, alas, Jack had one more trick up his sleeve. He managed to land a big putt on the eighteenth hole, forcing a tie. This was a nightmare for Esme.

She could not take the risk of Tad Crispin losing to Jack, the ultimate choker, in a one+on-one situation.

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 alter 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.

Chapter 29

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 twentyseven 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 Wm 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 moming.

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.

Chapter 30