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When he thought that his voice would not betray him, Myron called Win on the cell phone.

After a quick hello, Win said, "Bummer about Jack."

"From what I hear, he used to be your friend."

Win cleared his throat. "Myron?"

"What?"

"You know nothing. Remember that."

True enough. "Can we have dinner tonight?"

Win hesitated. "Of course."

"At the cottage. Six-thirty."

"Fine."

Win hung up. Myron tried to put it out of his mind. He had other things to worry about.

Esme Fong paced the sidewalk outside the entrance to the Omni Hotel on the corner of Chestnut Street and Fourth. She wore a white suit and white stockings. Killer legs. She kept wringing her hands.

Myron got out of the taxi. "Why are you waiting out here?" he asked.

"You insisted on talking privately," Esme answered.

"Norm is upstairs."

"You two live in the same room?"

"No, we have adjoining suites."

Myron nodded. The no-tell motel was making more sense now. "Not much privacy, huh?"

"No, not really." She gave him a tentative smile.

"But it's okay. I like Norm."

"I'm sure you do."

"What's this about, Myron?"

"You heard about Jack Coldren?"

"Of course. Norm and I were shocked. Absolutely shocked."

Myron nodded. "Come on," he said. "Let's walk."

They headed up Fourth Street. Myron was tempted to stay on Chestnut Street, but that would have meant strolling past Independence Hall and that would have been a tad too cliche for his liking. Still, Fourth Street was in the colonial section. Lots of brick. Brick sidewalk, brick walls and fence, brick buildings of tremendous historical significance that all looked the same. White ash trees lined the walk. They turned right into a park that held the Second Bank of the United States. There was a plaque with a portrait of the bank's first president. One of Win's ancestors. Myron looked for a resemblance but could not find one.

"I've tried to reach Linda," Esme said. "But the phone is busy."

"Did you try Chad's line?"

Something hit her face, then fled. "Chad's line?"

"He has his own phone in the house," he said. "You must have known that."

"Why would I know that?"

Myron shrugged. "I thought you knew Chad."

"I do," she said, but her voice was slow, careful. "I

mean, I've been over to the house a number of times."

"Uh-huh. And when was the last time you saw Chad?"

She put her hand to her chin. "I don't think he was there when I went over Friday night," she said, the voice still slow. "I don't really know. I guess a few weeks ago."

Myron made a buzzing noise. "Incorrect answer."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't get it, Esme."

"What?"

Myron continued walking, Esme stayed in step.

"You're what," he said, "twenty-four years old?"

' 'Twenty five. ' '

"You're smart. You're successful. You're attractive.

But a teenage boy what's up with that?"

She stopped. "What are you talking about?"

"You really don't know?"

"I don't have the slightest idea."

His eyes bore into hers. "You. Chad Coldren. The Court Manor Inn. That help?"

"No."

Myron gave her skeptical. "Please."

+ "Did Chad tell you that?"

"Esme . . ."

"He's lying, Myron. My God, you know how teenage boys are. How could you believe something like that?"

"Pictures, Esme."

Her face went slack. "What?"

"You two stopped at an ATM machine next door to the motel, remember? They have cameras. Your face was clear as day." It was a bluff. But it was a damn good one.

She caved a little piece at a time. She looked around and then collapsed on a bench. She turned and faced a colonial building with a lot of scaffolding. Scaffolding, Myron thought, ruined the effect like armpit hair on a beautiful woman. It shouldn't really matter, but it did.

"Please don't tell Norm," she said in a faraway voice.

"Please don't."

Myron said nothing.

"It was dumb. I know that. But it shouldn't cost me my job."

Myron sat next to her. "Tell me what happened."

She looked back at him. "Why? What business is this of yours?"

"There are reasons."

"What reasons?" Her voice was a little sharper now.

"Look, I'm not proud of myself But who appointed you my conscience?"

"Fine. I'll go ask Norm then. Maybe he can help me."

Her mouth dropped. "Help you with what? I don't understand. Why are you doing this to me?"

"I need some answers. I don't have time to explain."

"What do you want me to say? That I was dumb? I

was. I could tell you that I was lonely being in a nice place. That he seemed like a sweet, handsome kid and that at his age, I figured there'd be no fear of disease or attachments. But at the end of the day, that does not change much. I was wrong. I'm sorry, okay?"

"When was the last time you saw Chad?"

"Why do you keep asking me that?" Esme insisted. , "Just answer my questions or I'll go to Norm, I swear it."

She studied his face. He put on his most impermeable face, the one he'd learned from really tough cops and toll collectors on the New Jersey Turnpike. After a few seconds she said, "At that motel."

"The Court Manor Inn?"

"Whatever it was called. I don't remember the name."

"What day was that?" Myron asked.

She thought a moment. "Friday morning. Chad was still sleeping."

"You haven't seen or spoken to him since?"

"No."

"You didn't have any plans to rendezvous for another tryst?"

She made an unhappy face. "No, not really. I thought he was just out for some fun, but once we were there, I

could see he was developing a crush. I didn't count on that. Frankly I was worried."

"Of what exactly?"

"That he'd tell his mother. Chad swore he wouldn't, but who knew what he'd do if I hurt him? When I didn't hear from him again, I was relieved."

Myron searched her face and her story for lies. He couldn't find one. Didn't mean they weren't there.

Esme shifted on the bench, crossing her legs. "I still don't understand why you're asking me all this." She thought about it a moment and then something seemed to spark in her eyes. She squared her shoulders toward Myron.

"Does this have something to do with Jack's murder?" '

Myron said nothing.

"My God." Her voice quaked. "You can't possibly think that Chad has something to do with it."

Myron waited a beat. All-or-nothing time. "No," he said. "But I'm not so sure about you."

Confusion set camp on her face. "What?"

"l think you kidnapped Chad."

She raised both hands. "Are you out of your mind?

Kidnapped? It was completely consensual. Chad was more than willing, believe me. Okay, he was young. But do you think I took him to that motel at gimpoint?"

"That's not what I mean," Myron said.

Confusion again. "Then what the hell do you mean?"

"Aiter you left the motel on Friday. Where did you go?"

"To Merion. I met you there that night, remember?"

"How about last night? Where were you?"

"Here."

"In your suite?"

"Yes."

"What time?"

"From eight o'clock on."

"Anybody who can verify that?"

"Why would I need someone to verify that?" she snapped. Myron put on the impermeable face again not even gases could get through. Esme sighed. "I was with Norm until midnight. We were working."

"And after that?" "I went to bed."

"Would the hotel's nightman be able to verify that you never left your suite after midnight'?"

"I think so, yes. His name is Miguel. He's very nice."

Miguel. He'd have Esperanza track down that one. If her alibi stuck, his neat little scenario went down the toilet.

"Who else knew about you and Chad Coldren?"

"No one," she said. "At least, I told no one."

"How about Chad? Did he tell anyone?"

"It sounds to me like he told you," she said pointedly.

"He might have told someone else, I don't know."

Myron thought about it. The black-clad man crawling out Chad's bedroom window. Matthew Squires. Myron remembered his own teenage years. If he had somehow managed to bed an older woman who looked like Esme Fong, he would have been busting to tell someone especially if he'd been staying at his best friend's house the night before.

Once again, things circled back to the Squires kid.

Myron asked, "Where will you be if I need to reach you?"

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card.

"My cell phone number is on the bottom."

"Good-bye, Esme."

"Myron?"

He turned to her.

"Are you going to tell Norm?"

She seemed only worried about her reputation and her job, not a murder rap. Or was this just a clever diversion?

No way of knowing for sure.

"No," he said. "l won't tell.", At least, not yet.

Chapter 31

Episcopal Academy. Win's high school alma mater.

Esperanza had picked him up in front of Esme Fong's and driven him here. She parked across the street. She turned off the ignition and faced him.

"Now what?" she asked.

"I don't know. Matthew Squires is in there. We can wait for a lunch break. Try to get in then."

"Sounds like a plan," Esperanza said with a nod. "A

really bad one."

"You have a better idea?"

"We can go in now. Pretend we're touring parents."

Myron thought about it. "You think that'll work?"

"Better than hanging out here doing nothing."

"Oh, before I forget. I want you to check out Esme's alibi, The hotel nightman named Miguel."

"Miguel," she repeated. "It's because I'm Hispanic, right?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

She had no problem with that. "I put a call in to Peru this morning."

"And?" '

"I spoke to some local sheriff. He says Lloyd Rennart committed suicide."

"What about the body?"

"The cliff is called El Garganta del Diablo in English, Throat of the Devil. No bodies are ever located. It's Actually a fairly common suicide plunge."

"Great. Think you can do a little more background stuff on Rennart?"

"Like what?"

' 'How did he buy the bar in Neptune? How did he buy the house in Spring Lake Heights? Stuff like that."

"Why would you want know that'?"

"Lloyd Rennart was a caddie for a rookie golfer. That isn't exactly loads of dough."

"So?"

"So maybe he had a windfall after Jack blew the U. S.

Open."

Esperanza saw where he was going. "You think somebody paid Rennart off to throw the Open?"

"No," Myron said. "But I think it's a possibility."

"It's going to be hard to trace after all this time."

"Just give it a shot. Also, Rennart got into a serious car accident twenty years ago in Narberth. It's a small town right around here. His first wife was killed in the crash. See what you can find out about it."

Esperanza frowned. "Like what?"

"Like was he drunk. Was he charged with anything.

Were there other fatalities."

"Maybe he pissed off someone. Maybe his first wife's family wants vengeance.' '

Esperanza kept the frown. "So they what?- waited twenty years, followed Lloyd Rennart to Peru, pushed him off a cliff, came back, kidnapped Chad Coldren, killed Jack Coldren .... Are you getting my point?"

Myron nodded. "And you're right. But I still want you to run down everything you can on Lloyd Rennart. I

think there's a connection somewhere. We just have to find what it is."

"I don't see it," Esperanza said. She tucked a curl of black hair behind her ear. "Seems to me that Esme Fong is still a much better suspect."

"Agreed. But I'd still like you to look into it. Find out what you can. There's also a son. Larry Rennart. Seventeen years old. See if we can iind out what he's been up to."

She shrugged. "A waste of time, but okay." She gestured toward the school. "You want to go in now'?"

"Sure."

Before they moved, a giant set of knuckles gently tapped on Myron's window. The sound startled him. Myron looked out his window. The large black man with the Nat King Cole hair the one from the Court Manor Inn was smiling at him. "Nat" made a cranking motion with his hand, signaling Myron to lower the window. Myron complied.

"Hey, I'm glad we ran into you," Myron said.,"I

never got the number of your barber." '

The black man chuckled. He made a frame with his large hands thumbs touching, arms outstretched and tilted it back and forth the way a movie director does.

"You with my doo," he said with a shake of his head.

"Somehow I just don't see it."

He leaned into the car and stuck his hand across Myron toward Esperanza. "My name is Carl."

"Esperanza." She shook his hand.

"Yes, I know."

Esperanza squinted at him. "I know you."

"Indeed you do."

She snapped her fingers. "Mosambo, the Kenyan Killer, the Safari Slasher."

Carl smiled. "Nice to see Little Pocahontas remembers."

Myron said, "The Safari Slasher?"

"Carl used to be a professional wrestler," Esperanza explained. "We were in the ring together once. In Boston, right?"

Carl climbed into the backseat of the car. He leaned forward so his head was between Esperanza's right shoulder and Myron's left. "Hartford," he said. "At the Civic Center."

"Mixed tag-team," Esperanza said.

"That's right," Carl said with his easy smile. "Be a sweetheart, Esperanza, and start up the car. Head straight until the third traffic light."

Myron said, "You mind telling us what's going on?"

"Sure thing. See that car behind you?"

Myron used the passenger-side mirror. ' "The one with the two goons?" .

"Yep. They're with me. And they are bad men, Myron.

Young. Far too violent. You know how the kids are today. Bam, bam, no talk. The three of us are supposed to escort you to an unknowm destination. In fact, I'm supposed to be holding a gum on you now. But hell, we're all friends here, right? No need, the way I see it. So just start heading straight. The goons will follow."

"Before we take off," Myron said, "do you mind if we let Esperanza go?"

Carl chuckled. "Kinda sexist, don't you think?"

"Excuse me'?"

' 'If Esperanza were a man like, say, your buddy Win would you be making this gallant gesture?"

"I might," he said. But even Esperanza was shaking her head.

"Me thinks not, Myron. And trust me here: it would be the wrong move. The young goons back there, they'd want to know what's up. They'd see her get out of the car and they got those itchy fingers and those crazy eyes and they like hurting people. Especially women. And maybe.

just maybe, Esperanza here is an insurance policy. Alone.

you might try something dumb; with Esperanza right there, you might not be so inclined."

Esperanza glanced at Myron. Myron nodded. She started the car.

"Make a left at the third light," Carl said.

"Tell me something," Myron said. "Is Reginald Squires as big a nut-job as I hear'?"

Still leaning forward, Carl turned to Esperanza. "Am I supposed to be wowed by his sharp deductive reasoning skills?"

"Yes," Esperanza replied. "He'll be terribly disappointed if you aren't."

' 'Figured that. And to answer your question, Squires is not that big a nut-job when he stays on his medication.' '

"Very comforting," Myron said.

The young goons stayed right on their tail for the entire fifteen-minute drive. Myron was not surprised when Carl told Esperanza to tum down Green Acres Road.

When they approached the ornate front entrance, the iron gates swung open like on the closing credits of Get Smart.

They continued up a windy driveway through the heavily wooded property. After about a half mile, they hit a clearing with a building. The building was big and plain and rectangular, like a high school gym.

The only entrance Myron could see was a garage door.

As if on cue, the door slid open. Carl told Esperanza to pull into it. Once far enough inside, he told her to park and kill the engine. The goon car came in behind them and did likewise. .

The garage door came back down, slowly slicing out the sun. No lights were on inside; the room was submerged in total darkness.

"This is just like the haunted house at Six Flags,"

Myron said.

"Give me your gun, Myron."

Carl had his game face on. Myron handed him the gun.

"Step out of the car."

"But I'm afraid of the dark," Myron said.

"You too, Esperanza."

They all stepped out the car. So did the two goons behind them. Their movements echoed off the cement floor, hinting to Myron that they were in a very large room. The interior car lights provided a modicum of illumination, but that didn't last long. Myron made out nothing before the doors were closed.

Absolute blackness.

Myron made his way around the car and found Esperanza.

She took his hand in hers. They remained still and waited.

A beacon, the kind used at a lighthouse or a movie premiere, snapped on in their faces. Myron's eyes slammed shut. He shaded them with his hand and slowly squinted them open. A man stepped in front of the bright light. His body cast a giant shadow on the wall behind Myron. The effect reminded Myron of the Bat Signal.

"No one will hear your screams," the man said.

"Isn't that a line from a movie?" Myron asked. "But I think the line was, 'No one will hear you scream.' I

could be wrong about that."

"People have died in this room," the voice boomed.

'My name is Reginald Squires. You will tell me everything I want to know. Or you and your friend will be next."

Oh, boy. Myron looked at Carl. Carl's face remained stoic. Myron turned back toward the light. "You're rich, right?"

"Very rich," Squires corrected.

"Then maybe you could afford a better scriptwriter."

Myron glanced back at Carl. Carl slowly shook his head no. One of the two young goons stepped forward. In the harsh light, Myron could see the man's psychotic, happy smile. Myron tensed, waited.

The goon cocked a fist and threw it at Myron's head.

Myron ducked, and the punch missed. As the fist flew by him, Myron grabbed the goon's wrist. He put his forearm against the back of the man's elbow and pulled the joint back in a way it was never intended to bend. The goon had no choice. He dropped to the ground. Myron added a bit more pressure. The goon tried to squirm free. Myron snapped his knee straight into the goon's nose. Something splattered. Myron could actually feel the nose cartilage give way and fan out.

The second goon took out his gun and pointed it at Myron.

"Stop," Squires shouted.

Myron let the goon go. He slid to the floor like wet sand through a torn bag.

"You will pay for that, Mr. Bolitar." Squires liked to project his voice. "Robert?"

The goon with the gun said, "Yes, Mr. Squires." +

"Hit the girl. Hard."

"Yes, Mr. Squires."

Myron said, "Hey, hit me. I'm the one who smarted off."

. "And this is your punishment," Squires said calmly.

"Hit the girl, Robert. Now."

Goon Robert moved toward Esperanza.

"Mr. Squires?" It was Carl.

"Yes, Carl." .

Carl stepped into the light. "Allow me to do it."

"l did not think you were the type, Carl."

"I'm not, Mr. Squires. But Robert might do serious damage to her."

"But that's my intent."

"No, I mean, he'll leave bruising or break something.

You want her to feel pain. That's my area of expertise."

"I realize that, Carl. It's why I pay you what I do."

"So then let me do my job. I can hit her without leaving a mark or permanent injury. I know control. I

know the right spots."

The shadowy Mr. Squires considered this a moment.

"Will you make it painful?" he asked. "Very painful?"

"If you insist." Carl sounded reluctant but resolved.

"I do. Right now. I want it to hurt her a great deal."

Carl walked up to Esperanza. Myron start to move toward him, but Robert placed the gun against his head.

There was nothing he could do. He tried fire-throwing a warning glare at Carl.

"Don't," Myron said.

Carl ignored him. He stood in front of Esperanza now.

She looked at him defiantly. Without preamble he punched her deep in the stomach.

The power of the blow liited Esperanza off her feet.

She made an oofing noise and folded at the waist like an old wallet. Her body landed on the fioor. She curled up into a protective ball, her eyes wide, her chest heaving for air. Carl looked down at her without emotion. Then he looked at Myron.

"You son of a bitch," Myron said.

"It's your fault," Carl said.

Esperanza continued to roll on the ground in obvious agony. She still couldn't get any air into her lungs. Myron's whole body felt hot and red. He moved toward her, but Robert again stopped him by pressing the gun hard against his neck.

Reginald Squires did the big voice projection again.

"You will listen now, won't you, Mr. Bolitar?"

Myron took deep breaths. His muscles bunched. Every part of him fumed. Every part of him craved vengeance.

He watched in silence as Esperanza writhed on the floor. After a while she managed to get to all fours.

Her head was down. Her body heaved. A retching noise came out of her. Then another retching noise.

The sound made Myron pause.

Something about the sound . . . Myron searched his memory banks. Something about the whole scenario, the way she doubled up, the way she rolled on the floor it was strangely familiar. As though he'd seen it before. But that was impossible. When would he . . . ? He stopped as the answer came to him.

In the wrestling ring.

My God, Myron thought. She was faking it!

Myron looked over at Carl. There was a hint of a smile on his face.

Son of a bitch. It was an act!

Reginald Squires cleared his throat. "You have taken an unhealthy interest in my son, Mr. Bolitar," he continued, voice thundering. "Are you some sort of pervert?"

Myron almost flew off another wisecrack, but he bit it back. "No."

"Then tell me what you want with him."

Myron squinted into the light. He still couldn't see anything but the shadowy outline of Squires. What should he say? The guy was a major loony tune. No question about that. So how to play this . . . ?

"You've heard about Jack Coldren's murder," Myron said.

"Of course."

"I'm working on the case."

"You're trying to find out who murdered Jack Coldren'?"

"Yes."

"But Jack was murdered last night," Squires countered. "You were asking about my son Saturday."

"It's a long story," Myron said.

The shadow's hands spread. "We have all the time in the world."

How did Myron know he was going to say that?

With nothing much to lose, Myron told Squires about the kidnapping. Most of it anyway. He emphasized several times that the actual abduction had happened at the Court Manor Inn. There was a reason for that. It had to do with the egocentricity. Reginald Squires the ego in question reacted in predictable fashion.

"Are you telling me," he shouted, "that Chad Coldren was kidnapped at my motel?"

His motel. Myron had figured that out by now. It was the only explanation for why Carl had run interference for Stuart Lipwitz.

"That's right," Myron said.

"Carl?"

"Yes, Mr. Squires?"

"Did you know anything about this kidnapping?"

"No, Mr. Squires."

"Well, something has to be done," Squires shouted.

"No one does something like that on my turf. You hear me? No one."

This guy had seen waaaaaay too many gangster films.

"Whoever did this is dead," he ranted on. "Do you hear me? I want them dead. D-E-A-D. Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Bolitar?"

"Dead," Myron said with a nod.

The shadow pointed a long finger at Myron. ' 'You find him for me. You find who did this and then you call me.

You let me handle it. Do you understand, Mr. Bolitar?"

"Call you. You handle."

"Go then. Find the wretched bastard."

Myron said, "Sure thing, Mr. Squires. Sure thing."

Hey, two can play the Bad Movie Dialogue game. "But the thing is, I need some help."

"What sort of help?"

"With your permission, I'd like to speak with your son Matthew. Find out what he knows about all this."

"What makes you think he knows anything?"

"He's Chad's best friend. He may have heard or seen something. I don't know, Mr. Squires, but I'd like to check it out."

There was a brief silence. Then Squires snapped, "Do it. Carl will take you back to the school. Matthew will speak freely to you."

"Thank you, Mr. Squires." .

The light went off, bathing them again in thick darkness.

Myron felt his way to the car door. The "recovering"

Esperanza managed to do likewise. So did Carl. The three of them got in.

Myron turned around and looked at Carl. Carl shrugged his shoulders and said, "Guess he forgot to take his medication."

Chapter 32

"Chad, like, told me he was hooking up with an older babe."

"Did he tell you her name?" Myron asked.

"Nah, man," Matthew Squires said. "Just that she was take-out."

' 'Take-out?' '

"You know. Chinese."

Jesus.

Myron sat facing Matthew Squires. The kid was pure Yah Dude. His long, stringy hair was parted in the middle and hung past his shoulders. The coloring and texture reminded Myron of Cousin It from the Addams Family.

He had acne, a fair amount of it. He was over six feet and weighed maybe one hundred twenty pounds. Myron wondered what it had been like for this kid growing up with Mr. Spotlight as a father.

Carl was on his right. Esperanza had taken a taxi to check out Esme Fong's alibi and look into Lloyd Rennart's past.

"Did Chad tell you where he was meeting her?"

"Sure, dude. That hot sheet is, like, my dad's haunt, you know."

"Did Chad know your father owned the Court Manor?"

"Nah. We don't, like, talk daddy's dinero or anything.

Not righteous, you know what I'm saying?"

Myron and Carl exchanged a glance. The glance bemoaned today's youth.

"Did you go with him to the Court Manor?"

"Nah. I went later, you know. I figured the dude would want to party after getting a little, you know. Kinda celebrate and shit."

"So what time did you go to the Court Manor?"

"Ten thirty, eleven, something like that."

"Did you see Chad?"

"Nah. Things got, like, so weird right away. Never got the chance."

"What do you mean, weird?"

Matthew Squires hesitated a bit. Carl leaned forward.

"It's okay, Matthew. Your father wants you to tell him the whole story."

The kid nodded. When the chin went down, the stringy hair slid across the face. It was like a tasseled curtain opening and closing in rapid succession. "Okay, like, here's the deal: When I pulled my Benz into the parking lot, I saw Chad's old man."

Myron felt a queasy surge. ". Jack Coldren? You saw Jack Coldren? At the Court Manor Inn?"

Squires nodded. "He was just, like, sitting in his car,"

he said. "Next to Chad's Honda. He looked really pissed off, man. I wanted no part of it, you know? So I took a hike."

Myron tried not to look too sturmed. Jack Coldren at the Court Manor Inn. His son inside a room screwing Esme Fong. The next moming Chad Coldren would be kidnapped.

What the hell was going on?

"Friday night," Myron continued, "I saw someone climb out the window of Chad's room. Was that you'?"

"Yeah."

"You want to tell me what you were doing?"

"Seeing if Chad was home. That's what we do. I

climb through his window. Like Vinny used to do with Doogie Howser. Remember that show?"

Myron nodded. He did know. Kinda sad when you thought about it.

There was not much more to extract from young Matthew.

When they finished up, Carl walked Myron to his car.

"Strange shit," Carl said.

"Yep."

"You'll call when you learn something?"

"Yep." Myron didn't bother telling him that Tito was already dead. No point. "Nice move, by the way. The fake punch with Esperanza."

Carl smiled. "We're professionals. I'm disappointed you spotted it."

"If I hadn't seen Esperanza in the ring, I wouldn't have. It was very nice work. You should be proud."

"Thanks." Carlistuck out his hand. Myron shook it.

He got in the car and drove away. Now where? `

Back to the Coldren house, he guessed.

His mind still reeled from this latest revelation: Jack Coldren had been at the Court Manor Inn. He had seen his son's car there. How the heck did that fit into this?

Was Jack Coldren following Chad? Maybe. Was he just there by coincidence? Doubtful. So what other options were there? Why would Jack Coldren be following his own son? And where had he followed him from Matthew Squires's house? Did that make sense? The man plays in the U. S. Open, has a great opening round, and then goes parking in front of the Squires estate waiting for his kid to pull out?

Nope.

Hold the phone.

Suppose Jack Coldren had not been following his son.

Suppose he had been following Esme Fong.

Something in his brain went "click."

Maybe Jack Coldren had been having an affair with Esme Fong too. His marriage was on the rocks. Esme Fong was probably a bit of a kinkster. She had seduced a teenage boy what would have stopped her from seducing his father? But did this make sense either? Was Jack stalking her? Had he somehow found out about the tryst?

What?

And the larger question: What does any of this have to do with Chad Coldren's kidnapping and Jack Coldren's murder?

He pulled up to the Coldren house. The media had been kept back, but there were now at least a dozen cops on hand. They were hauling out cardboard boxes. As Victoria Wilson had feared, the police had gotten a search warrant.

Myron parked around the corner and walked toward the house. Jack's caddie, Diane Hoffman, sat alone on the curb across the street. He remembered the last time he had seen her at the Coldren house: in the backyard, fighting with Jack. He also realized that she had been one of the very few people who knew about the kidnappinghadn't she been standing right there when Myron first talked about it with Jack at the driving range?

She was worth a conversation.

Diane Hoffman was smoking a cigarette. The several stubs by her feet indicated that she had been there for more than a few minutes. Myron approached.

"Hi," he said. "We met the other day."

Diane Hoffman looked up at him, took a deep drag of the cigarette, released it into the still air. "l remember."

Her hoarse voice sounded like old tires on rough pavement "My condolences," Myron said. "You and Jack must have been very close."

Another deep drag. "Yeah."

"Caddy and golfer. Must be a tight relationship?

She looked up at him, squinting suspiciously.

"Yeah."

"Almost like husband and wife. Or business partners."

"Uh-huh. Something like that."

"Did you two ever iight?"

She glared at him for a second, then she broke into a laugh that ended in a hacking cough. When she could talk again, she asked, "Why the hell do you want to know that?"

"Because I saw you two fighting?

"What?"

"Friday night. You two were in the backyard. You called him names. You threw down your cigarette in disgust."

Diane Hoflinan crushed out the cigarette. There was the smallest smile on her face. "You some kinda Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Bolitar?"

"No. I'm just asking you a question."

"And I can tell you to go mind your own fucking business, right?"

"Right."

"Good. Then you go do that." The smile became fuller now. It was not a particularly pretty smile. "But first to save you some time I'll tell you who killed Jack. And also who kidnapped the kid, if you like."

"I'm all ears."

"The bitch in there." She pointed to the house behind her with a thumb. "The one you got the hots for."

"I don't have the hots for her."

Diane Hoffman sneered. "Right."

"What makes you so sure it was Linda Coldren?"

"Because I know the bitch."

"That's not much of an answer." +

"Tough luck, cowpoke. Your girlfriend did it. You want to know why Jack and me was fighting? I'll tell you.

I told him he was being an asshole for not calling the police about the kidnapping. He said he and Linda thought it best." She sneered. "He and Linda, my ass."

Myron watched her. Something wasn't meshing again.

"You think it was Linda's idea not to call the police?''

"Damm straight. She's the one who grabbed the kid.

The whole thing was a big setup."

"Why would she do that?"

"Ask her." An awful smile. "Maybe she'll tell you."

"I'm asking you."

She shook her head. "Not that easy, cowpoke. I told you who did it. 'That's enough, don't you think?"

Time to approach from another angle. "How long have you been Jack's caddie?" he asked.

"A year."

"What's your qualifications, if I may ask? Why did Jack choose you?"

She snorted a chuckle. "Don't matter none. Jack didn't listen to caddies. Not since ol' Lloyd Rennart."

"Did you know Lloyd Rennart?"

"Nope."

"So why did Jack hire you?"

She did not answer.

"Were you two sleeping together?"

Diane Hoflinan gave another cough-laugh. A big one.

"Not likely." More hacking laughter. "Not likely with ol' Jack."

Somebody called his name. Myron turned around. It was Victoria Wilson. Her face was still sleepy, but she beckoned him with some urgency. Bucky stood next to her. The old man looked like a window draft would send him skittering.

"Better head on down there, cowpoke," she mocked.

"I think your girlfriend is gonna need some help."

He gave her a last look and turned toward the house.

Before he moved three steps, Detective Corbett was on him. "Need a word with you, Mr. Bolitar."

Myron brushed past him. "In a minute."

When he reached Victoria Wilson, she made herself very clear: "Do not talk to the cops," she said. "In fact, go to Win's and stay put."

"I'm not crazy about taking orders," Myron said.

"Sorry if I'm bruising your male ego," she said in a tone that made it clear she was anything but. "But I know what I'm doing."

"Have the police found the finger?"

Victoria Wilson crossed her arms. "Yes."

"And?"

"And nothing."

Myron looked at Bucky. Bucky looked away. He turned his attention back to Victoria Wilson. "They didn't ask you about it?"

"They asked. We refused to answer."

"But the finger could exonerate her."

Victoria Wilson sighed and turned away. "Go home, Myron. I'll call you if anything new turns up."

Chapter 33

It was time to face Win.

Myron rehearsed several possible approaches in the car. None felt right, but that really did not matter much.

Win was his friend. When the time came, Myron would deliver the message and Win would adhere to it or not.

The trickier question was, of course, should the message be delivered at all? Myron knew that repression was unhealthy and all that but did anybody really want to risk unbottling Win's suppressed rage?

The cell phone rang. Myron picked it up. It was Tad Crispin.

"I need your help," Tad said.

"What's up?"

"The media keep hounding me for a comment. I'm not sure what to say."

"Nothing," Myron told him. "Say nothing."

"Yeah, okay, but it's not that easy. Leamer Sheltonhe's the Commissioner of the USGA called me twice.

He wants to have a big trophy ceremony tomorrow. Name me U. S. Open champion. l'm not sure what to do."

Smart kid, Myron thought. He knows that if this is handled poorly, it could seriously wound him. "Tad?"

"Yes?"

"Are you hiring me?" Business was still business.

Agenting was not charity work.

"Yeah, Myron, you're hired."

"Okay then, listen up. There'll be details to work out first. Percentages, that kinda thing. Most of it is fairly standard." Kidnapping, limb-severing, murder nothing stopped the almighty agent from trying to tum a buck.

"In the meantime, say nothing. I'll have a car come by to pick you up in a couple of hours. The driver will call up to your room before he gets there. Go straight to the car and say nothing. No matter what the press yells at you, keep silent. Do not smile or wave. Look grim. A man has just been murdered. The driver will bring you to Win's estate. We'll discuss strategy then."

"Thanks, Myron."

"No, Tad, thank you."

Profiting from a murder. Myron had never felt so much like a real agent in all his life.

The media had set up camp outside Win's estate.

"I've hired extra guards for the evening," Win explained, empty brandy snifter in hand. "If anybody approaches the gate, they've been instructed to shoot to kill."

"I appreciate that."

Win gave a quick head bow. He poured some Grand Marnier into the snifter. Myron grabbed a Yoo-Hoo from the fridge. The two men sat.

"Jessica called," Win said.

"Here'?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't she call me on the cellular?"

"She wanted to speak with me," Win said.

"Oh." Myron shook his Yoo-Hoo, just like the side of the can said. SHAKE! IT'S GREAT! Life is poetry. "What about?" '

"She was worried about you," Win said.

"For one thing, Jessica claimed that you left a cryptic message on the answering machine."

"Did she tell you what I said?"

"No. Just that your voice sounded strained."

"I told her that I loved her. That I'd always love her."

Win took a sip and nodded as though that explained everything. '

"What?"

"Nothing," Win said.

"No, tell me. What?"

Win put down the snifter and steepled his fingers.

"Who were you trying to convince'?" he asked. "Her or you?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

Bouncing the fingers now instead of steepling. ' 'Nothing."

"You know how much I love Jessica."

"Indeed I do," Win said.

."You know what I've gone through to get her back."

" Indeed I do."

"I still don't get it," Myron said. "That's why Jess called you? Because my voice sounded strained?"

"Not entirely, no. She'd heard about Jack Coldren's murder. Naturally, she was upset. She asked me to watch your back." `

"What did you tell her?"

"No."

Silence.

Win lifted the snifter in the air. He swirled aroimd the liquid and inhaled deeply. "So what did you wish to discuss with me?"

"I met your mother today."

Win took a slow sip. He let the liquid roll over his tongue, his eyes studying the bottom of the glass. After he swallowed, he said, "Pretend I just gasped in surprise."

"She wanted me to give you a message."

A small smile came to Win's lips. "I assume that dear ma-ma told you what happened."

"Yes."

A bigger smile now. "So now you know it all, eh, Myron?"

"No."

"Oh come, come, don't make it so easy. Give me some of that pop psychology you're so fond of expounding.

An eight-year-old boy witnessing his grunting mother on all fours with another man surely that scarred me emotionally. Can we not trace back everything I've become to that one dastardly moment? Isn't this episode the reason why I treat women the way I do, why I build an emotional fortress around myself, why I choose fists where others choose words? Come now, Myron. You must have considered all this. Tell me all. I am sure it will all be oh-so-insightful."

Myron waited a beat- "I'm not here to analyze you, Win."

"No?"

"No."

Win's eyes hardened. "Then wipe that pity off your face."

"It's not pity," Myron said. "It's concern."

"Oh please."

"It may have happened twenty-five years ago, but it had to hurt. Maybe it didn't shape you. Maybe you would have ended up the exact same person you are today. But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt."

Win relaxed his jaw. He picked up the snifter. It was empty. He poured himself more. "I no longer wish to discuss this," he said. "You know now why I want nothing to do with Jack Coldren or my mother. Let us move on."

"There's still the matter of her message."

"Ah, yes, the message," Win repeated. "You are aware, are you not, that dear ma-ma still sends me presents on my birthday and assorted holidays?"

Myron nodded. They had never discussed it. But he knew.

"I return them unopened," Win said. He took another sip. "I think I will do the same with this message."

"She's dying, Win. Cancer. She has maybe a week or two."

"I know."

Myron sat back. His throat felt dry.

. "Is that the entire message?"

"She wanted you to know that it's your last chance to talk to her," Myron said.

"Well, yes, that's true. It would be very difficult for us to chat after she's dead."

Myron was flailing now. "She's not expecting any kind of big reconciliation. But if there are any issues you want to resolve . . ." Myron stopped. He was being redundant and obvious now. Win hated that.

"That's it?" Win asked. "That's your big message?"

Myron nodded.

"Fine, then. I'm going to order some Chinese. I hope that will be suitable with you."

Win rose from his seat and strolled toward the kitchen.

"You claim it didn't change you," Myron said. "But before that day, did you love her?"

Win's face was a stone. "Who says I don't love her now?"

Chapter 34

The driver brought Tad Crispin in through the back entrance.

Win and Myron had been watching television. A commercial came on for Scope. A married couple in bed woke up and turned their heads in disgust. Morning breath, the voice-over informed them. You need Scope.

Scope cures morning breath.

Myron said, "So would, say, brushing your teeth?"

Win nodded.

Myron opened the door and led Tad into the living room. Tad sat on a couch across from Myron and Win. He glanced about, his eyes searching for a spot to settle on but not having any luck. He smiled weakly.

"Would you care for a beverage?" Win asked. "A

croissant or a Pop Tart perhaps'?" The Host with the Most.

"No, thank you." Another weak smile.

Myron leaned forward. "Tad, tell us about Learner Shelton's call."

The kid dove right in. "He said that he wanted to congratulate me on my victory. That the USGA had officially declared me the U. S. Open champion." For a moment, Tad stopped. His eyes hazed over, the words hitting him anew. Tad Crispin, U. S. Open champion. The stuff of dreams.

"What else did he say?"

Crispin's eyes slowly cleared. "He's holding a press conference tomorrow afternoon. At Merion. They'll give me the trophy and a check for $360,000."

Myron did not waste time. "First of all, we tell the media that you do not consider yourself the U. S. Open champion. If they want to call you that, fine. If the USGA

wants to call you that, fine. You, however, believe that the tournament ended in a tie. Death should not rob Jack Coldren of his magnificent accomplishment or his claim to the title. A tie it ended. A tie it is. From your vantage point, you two are co winners. Do you understand?"

Tad was hesitant. "l think so."

"Now, about that check." Myron strummed the end table with his fingers. "If they insist on giving you the full winner's purse, you'll have to donate Jack's portion to charity."

"Victims' rights," Win said.

Myron nodded. "That would be good. Something against violence "

"Wait a second," Tad interrupted. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his thighs. "You want me to give away $l80,000?"

"It'll be a tax write-off," Win said. "That knocks the value down to half that."

"And it'll be chicken feed compared to the positive press you'll get," Myron added.

"But I was charging back," Tad insisted. "I had the momentum. I would have won."

Myron leaned in a little closer. "You're an athlete, Tad. You're competitive and confident. That's goodheck, that's great. But not in this situation. This murder story is huge. It transcends sports. For most of the world's population, this will be their first look at Tad Crispin. We want them to see someone likable. Someone decent and trustworthy and modest. If we brag now about what a great golfer you are if we dwell on your comeback rather than this tragedy- people are going to see you as cold, as another example of what's wrong with today's athletes. Do you see what I'm saying?"

Tad nodded. "I guess so."

"We have to present you in a certain light. We have to control the story as much as possible."

"So we do interviews?" Tad asked.

"Very few."

"But if we want publicity "

"We want carefully orchestrated publicity," Myron corrected. "This story is so big, the last thing we need to do is create more interest. I want you to be reclusive, Tad.

Thoughtful. You see, we have to maintain the right balance.

If we toot our horn, it looks like we're grandstanding.

If we do a lot of interviews, it looks like we're taking advantage of a man's murder."

"Disastrous," Win added.

"Right. What we want to do is control the flow of information. Feed the press a few tiny morsels. No more."

"Perhaps one interview," Win said. "One where you will be at your most contrite."

"With Bob Costas maybe."

"Or even Barbara Walters."

"And we don't announce your big donation."

"Correct, no press conference. You are far too magnanimous for such bravado."

That confused Tad. "How are we supposed to get good press if we don't announce it?"

"We leak it," Myron said. "We get someone at the charity to tell a nosy reporter, maybe. Something like that. The key is, Tad Crispin must remain far too modest a fellow to publicize his own good deeds. Do you see what we're aiming for here?"

. Tad's nod was more enthusiastic now. He was warming up. Myron felt like a heel. Spin-doctoring- just another hat today's sports representative must wear. Being an agent was not always pretty. You had to get dirty sometimes. Myron did not necessarily like it, but he was willing.

The media would portray events one way; he would present them another. Still he felt like a grinning political strategist after a debate, and you cannot get much lower than that.

They discussed details for a few more minutes. Tad started to look off again. He was rubbing the famed palms against the pants again. When Wm left the room for a minute, Tad whispered, "I saw on the news that you're Linda Coldren's attomey."

"I'm one of them."

"Are you her agent?"

"I might be," Myron said. "Why?"

"Then you're a lawyer too, right? You went to law school and everything?"

Myron was not sure he liked where this was going.

"Yes." +

"So I can hire you to be my lawyer too, right? Not just my agent?"

Myron really didn't like where this was going. "Why would you need a lawyer, Tad?"

"I'm not saying I do. But if I did "

"Whatever you tell me is confidential," Myron said.

Tad Crispin stood. He put his arms out straight and gripped an imaginary golf club. He took a swing. Air golf, Win played it all the time. All golfers do. Basketball players don't do that. It's not like Myron stops at every store window and checks the reflection of his shot in the mirror.

Golfers.

"I'm surprised you don't know about this already,"

Tad said slowly.

But the creeping feeling in the pit of Myron's stomach told him that maybe he did. "Don't know about what, 'Tad?"

Tad took another swing. He stopped his movement to check his backswing. Then his expression changed to one of panic. He dropped the imaginary club to the floor. "It was only a couple of times," he said, his words pouring out like silver beads. "It was no big deal really. I mean, we met while we were filming those ads for Zoom." He looked at Myron, his eyes pleading. "You've seen her, Myron. I mean, I know she's twenty years older than me, but she's so good-looking and she said her marriage was dead .... "

Myron did not hear the rest of his words; the ocean was crashing in his ears. Tad Crispin and Linda Coldren.

He could not believe it, yet it made perfect sense. A

young guy obviously charmed by a stunning older woman. The mature beauty trapped in a loveless marriage finding escape in young, handsome arms. Nothing really wrong with it.

Yet Myron felt his cheeks go scarlet. Something inside of him began to fume.

Tad was still droning on. Myron interrupted him.

"Did Jack find out?"

Tad stopped. "I don't know," he said. "But I think maybe he did."

"What makes you say that?"

"It was just the way he acted. We played two rounds together. I know we were competitors and that he was trying to intimidate me. But I kind of got the impression he knew."

Myron lowered his head into his hands. He felt sick to his stomach.

Tad asked, "Do you think it'll get out?"

Myron held back a chuckle. This would be one of the biggest news stories of the year. The media would attack like old women at a Loehmann's clearance sale. "I don't know, Tad."

"What do we do?"

"We hope it doesn't get out."

Tad was scared. "And if it does?"

Myron faced him. Tad Crispin looked so darrm young check that, he was young. Most kids his age are happily pulling fraternity pranks. And when you thought about it, what had Tad really done that was so bad? Slept with an older woman who for some odd reason remained in a dead marriage. Hardly unnatural. Myron tried to picture himself at Tad's age. If a beautiful older woman like Linda Coldren had come on to him, would he have stood a chance?

Like, duh. He probably did not stand a chance now.

But what about Linda Coldren? Why did she stay in this dead marriage? Religion? Doubtful. For the sake of her son? The kid was sixteen years old. It might not be easy, but he'd survive.

"Myron, what'll happen if the media find out?"

But Myron was suddenly no longer thinking about the media. He was thinking about the police. He was thinking about Victoria Wilson and reasonable doubt. Linda Coldren had probably told her ace attorney about her affair with Tad Crispin. Victoria would have seen it too.

Who is declared U. S. Open champion now that Jack Coldren is dead?

Who doesn't have to worry about out-choking the choker in front of a massive audience?

Who has all the same motives to kill Jack Coldren that Myron had earlier assigned to Esme Fong?

Whose squeaky-clean image might get soiled by a Coldren divorce, especially one where Jack Coldren would name his wife's indiscretion?

Who was having an affair with the deceased's wife?

The answer to all the above was sitting in front of him.

Chapter 35

Tad Crispin left not long after that.

Myron and Win settled into the couch. They put on Woody Allen's Broadway Danny Rose, one of Woody's most underrated masterpieces. What a flick. Rent it sometime.

During the scene where Mia drags Woody to the fortune teller, Esperanza arrived.

She coughed into her fist. "I, ahem, don't want to sound didactic or fictitious in any manner," she began, doing a great Woody impression. She had his timing, the speech delay tactics. She had the hand mannerisms. She had the New York accent. It was her best work. "But I may have some important information."

Myron looked up. Win kept his eyes on the screen.

' 'I located the man Lloyd Rennart bought the bar from twenty years ago," Esperanza said, returning to her own voice. "Rennart paid him in cash. Seven grand. I also checked on the house in Spring Lake Heights. Bought at the same time for $21,000. No mortgage."

"Lots of expenses," Myron said, "for a washed-up caddie."

"Si, senior. And to make matters more interesting, I

also found no indication that he worked or paid taxes from the time he was fired by Jack Coldren until he purchased the Rusty Nail bar."

"Could be an inheritance."

"I would doubt it," Esperanza said. "I managed to go back to 1971 and found no record of him paying any inheritance tax."

Myron looked at Win. "What do you think?"

Win's eyes were still on the screen. "I'm not listening."

"Right, I forgot." He looked back at Esperanza.

"Anything else?"

"Esme Fong's alibi checks out. I spoke to Miguel.

She never left the hotel."

"Is he solid?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Strike one. "Anything else?"

"Not yet. But I found the office for the local paper in Narberth. They have the back editions in a storage room.

I'll go through them tomorrow, see what I can dig up on the car accident."

Esperanza grabbed a take-out container and a pair of chopsticks from the kitchen and then she plopped down on the open couch. A mafioso hit man was calling Woody a cheesehead. Woody commented that he had no idea what that meant, but he was confident it wasn't a good thing. Ah, the Woodman.

Ten minutes into Love and Death, not long after Woody wondered how old Nahampkin could be younger than young Nahampkin, exhaustion overtook Myron. He fell asleep on the couch. A deep sleep. No dreams. No stirring. Nothing but the long fall down the deep well.

He woke up at eight-thirty. The television was off. A

clock ticked and then chimed. Someone had laid a comforter over Myron while he'd been sleeping. Win probably.

He checked the other bedrooms. Win and Esperanza were both gone.

He showered and dressed and put on some coffee. The phone rang. Myron picked it up and said, "Hello."

It was Victoria Wilson. She still sounded bored.

"They arrested Linda."

Myron found Victoria Wilson in an attomey waiting area.

"How is she?"

"Fine," Victoria replied. "I brought Chad home last night. That made her happy."

"So where is Linda?"

"In a holding cell awaiting arraignment. We'll see her in a few minutes."

"What do they have?"

"Quite a bit, actually," Victoria said. She sounded almost impressed. "First, they have the guard who saw her entering and leaving an otherwise abandoned golf course at the time of the murder. With the exception of Jack, nobody else was seen going in or out all night."

"Doesn't mean nobody did. lt's an awfully big area."

"Very true. But from their standpoint it gives Linda opportunity. Second, they found hairs and fibers on Jack's body and around the murder scene that preliminary tests link to Linda. Naturally, this one should be no problem to discredit. Jack is her husband; of course he'd have hair and fibers from her on his body. He could have spread them around the scene."

"Plus she told us she went to the course to look for Jack," Myron added.

"But we're not telling them that."

"Why not?"

"Because right now we are saying and admitting to nothing."

Myron shrugged. Not important. "What else?"

"Jack owned a twenty-two-caliber handgun. The police found it in a wooded area between the Coldren residence and Merion last night."

"It was just sitting out?"

"No. It was buried in fresh dirt. A metal detector picked it up."

"They're sure it's Jack's gun?"

She nodded. "The serial numbers match. The police ran an immediate ballistics test. It's the murder weapon."

Myron's veins iced up.

' 'Fingerprints?' ' he asked.

Victoria Wilson shook her head. "Wiped clean."

"Are they running a powder test on her?" The police run a test on the hands, see if there are any powder burns.

"It'll take a few days," Victoria said, "and it'll probably be negative."

"You had her scrub her hands?"

"And treat them, yes."

"Then you think she did it."

Her tone remained unruffled. "Please don't say that."

She was right. But it was starting to look bad. "Is there more?" he asked.

"The police found your tape machine still hooked up to the phone. They were obviously curious as to why the Coldrens found it necessary to tape all incoming calls."

"Did they find any tapes of the conversations with the kidnapper?"

". Iust the one where the kidnapper refers to the Fong woman as a 'chink bitch' and demands one hundred grand. And to answer your next two questions, no, we did not elaborate on the kidnapping and yes, they are pissed off"

Myron pondered that for a moment. Something was not right. "That was the only tape they found?"

"That's it."

He frowned. "But if the machine was still hooked up, it should have taped the last call the kidnapper made to Jack. The one that got him to storm out of the house and head to Merion."

Victoria Wilson looked at him steadily. "The police found no other tapes. Not in the house. Not on Jack's body. Nowhere."

Again the ice in the veins. The implication was obvious:

The most reasonable explanation for there being no tape was that there was no call. Linda Coldren had made it up. The lack of a tape would have been viewed as a major contradiction if she had said anything to the cops.

Fortunately for Linda, Victoria Wilson had never let her tell her story in the first place.

The woman was good.

"Can you get me a copy of the tape the police found'?" he asked.

Victoria Wilson nodded. "There is still more," she said.

Myron was almost afraid to hear it.

"Let's take the severed finger for a moment," she continued as though ordering it as an appetizer. "You found it in Linda's car in a manila envelope."

Myron nodded.

"The envelope is the type sold only at Staples their brand, the number ten size. The writing was done by a red Flair pen, medium-point. Three weeks ago, Linda Coldren visited Staples. According to the receipt found at her house yesterday, she purchased numerous office supplies, including a box of Staples' number ten manila envelopes and a red Flair medium-point pen."

Myron could not believe what he was hearing.

"On the positive side, their handwriting analyst could not tell if the writing on the envelope came from Linda."

But something else was dawning on Myron. Linda had waited around for him at Merion. The two of them had gone to the car together. They had found the finger together.

The district attomey would pounce upon that story. Why had she waited for Myron? The answer, the DA would claim, was obvious: she needed a witness. She had planted the finger in her own car she could certainly do that without drawing suspicion and she needed a hapless dupe to be with her when she found it.

Enter Myron Bolitar, the dupe du jour.

But of course, Victoria Wilson had neatly arranged it so that the DA would never hear that story. Myron was Linda's attorney. He could not tell. No one would ever know.

Yep, the woman was good except for one thing.

"The severed finger," Myron said. "That has to be the kicker, Victoria. Who is going to believe that a mother would cut off her own son's finger?"

Victoria looked at her watch. "Let's go talk to Linda."

"No, hold up here. That's the second time you blew this off. What aren't you telling me?"

She slung her purse over her shoulder. "Come on."

"Hey, I'm getting a little tired of getting jerked around here."

Victoria Wilson nodded slowly, but she did not speak or stop walking. Myron followed her into a holding room.

Linda Coldren was already there. She was decked out in a bright orange prison jumpsuit. Her hands were still manacled.

She looked up at Myron through hollow eyes. There were no hellos or hugs or even pleasantries.

Without preamble, Victoria said, "Myron wants to know why I don't think the severed finger helps us."

Linda faced him. There was a sad smile on her face.

"I guess that's understandable?

"What the hell is going on here?" Myron said. "I

know you didn't cut off your own son's finger."

The sad smile remained. "I didn't do it," Linda said.

"That part is true."

"What do you mean, that part?"

"You said I didn't cut off my son's finger," she continued.

"But Chad is not my son."

Chapter 36

Something in Myron's head clicked again.

"I'm infertile," Linda explained. She said the words with great ease, but the pain in her eyes was so raw and naked that Myron almost flinched. "I have this condition where my ovaries cannot produce eggs. But Jack still wanted a biological child."

Myron spoke softly. "You hired a surrogate?"

Linda looked toward Victoria. "Yes," she said.

"Though it was not quite so aboveboard."

"It was all done to the letter of the law," Victoria interjected.

"You handled it for them?" Myron asked.

"I did the paperwork, yes. The adoption was completely legal."

"We wanted to keep it a secret," Linda said. "That's why I took off from the tour so early. I went into seclusion.

The birth mother was never even supposed to know who we were."

Something else in his head went click. "But she found out."

"Yes."

Another click. "It's Diane Hoffman, isn't it?"

Linda was too exhausted to look surprised. "How did you know?"

"Just an educated guess." Why else would Jack hire Diane Hoffman as his caddie? Why else would she have gotten upset at the way they were handling the kidnapping?

"How did she find you?"

Victoria answered that one. "As I said, it was all done legally. With all the new disclosure laws, it wasn't that hard to do."

Another click. "That's why you couldn't divorce Jack. He was the biological parent. He'd have the upper hand in a custody battle." .

Linda slumped her shoulders and nodded.

"Does Chad know about all this?"

"No," Linda said.

"At least, not to your knowledge," Myron said.

"What?"

"You don't know for sure. Maybe he found out.

Maybe Jack told him. Or Diane. Maybe that's how this whole thing got started."

Victoria crossed her arms. "I don't see it, Myron.

Suppose Chad did find out. How would that have led to his own kidnapping and his f`ather's murder?"

Myron shook his head. It was a good question. "I

don't know yet. l need time to think it through. Do the police know all this?"

"About the adoption? Yes."

It was beginning to make sense now. "This gives the DA their motive. 'They'll say that Jack's suing for divorce worried Linda. That she killed him to keep her son."

Victoria Wilson nodded. "And the fact that Linda is not the biological mother could play one of two ways:

eiher she loved her son so much that she killed Jack to keep him or because Chad was not her own flesh and blood- she could indeed be driven to cut off his finger."

"Either way, finding the finger doesn't help us."

Victoria nodded. She did not say "I told you so," but she might as well have.

"Can I say something?" It was Linda. They turned and looked at her.

"I didn't love Jack anymore. I told you that straight out, Myron. I doubt I would have, if I'd been planning on killing him."

Myron nodded. Made sense.

' 'But I do love my son my son more than life itself.

The fact that it's more believable that I'd maim him because I'm an adoptive mother rather than a biological one is sick and grotesque in the extreme. I love Chad as much as any mother could love a child."

She stopped, her chest heaving. "I want you both to know that."

"We know," Victoria said. Then: "Let's all sit down."

When they were settled in their seats, Victoria continued to take charge. "I know it's early, but I want to start thinking about reasonable doubt. Their case will have holes. I'll be sure to exploit them. But I'd like to hear some alternative theories on what happened."

"In other words," Myron said, "some other suspects."

Victoria caught something in his tone. "That's exactly what I mean." .

"Well, you already have one ace in the hole, don't you?"

Victoria nodded coolly. "I do."

"Tad Crispin, right?"

This time, Linda did indeed look surprised. Victoria remained unfazed. "Yes, he's a suspect."

"The kid hired me last night," Myron said. "Talking about him would be a conilict of interest."

"Then we won't talk about him."

"I'm not sure that's good enough."

"Then you'll have to dump him as a client," Victoria said. "Linda hired you first. Your obligation must be to her. If you feel that there is a conflict, then you'll have to call Mr. Crispin and tell him that you cannot represent him."

Trapped. And she knew it.

"Let's talk about other suspects," Myron said.

Victoria nodded. Battle won. "Go ahead."

"First off, Esme Fong." Myron filled them in on all the reasons that she made a good suspect. Again Victoria looked sleepy; Linda looked semi-homicidal.

"She seduced my son?" Linda shouted. "The bitch came into my house and seduced my son?"

"Apparently so."

"I can't believe it. That's why Chad was at that sleazy motel'?"

"Okay," Victoria interrupted. "I like it. This Esme Fong has motive. She has means. She was one of the few people who knew where Chad was."

"She also has an alibi for the killing," Myron added.

' 'But not a great one. There must be other ways in and out of that hotel. She could have worn a disguise. She could have sneaked out when Miguel took a bathroom break. I like her. Who else?"

"Lloyd Rennart."

"Who?"

"Jack's former caddie," Myron explained. "The one who helped throw the Open."

Victoria frowned. "Why him?"

"Look at the timing. Jack returns to the site of his greatest failure and suddenly all this happens. It can't be a coincidence. Firing Rennart ruined his life. He became a drunk. He killed his own wife in a car crash."

"What?" It was Linda.

"Not long after the Open, Lloyd totaled his car while DWI. His wife was killed."

Victoria asked, "Did you know her?"

Linda shook her head. "We never met his family. In fact, I don't think I ever saw Lloyd outside of our home or the golf course."

Victoria crossed her arms and leaned back. "I still do not see what makes him a viable suspect."

"Rennart wanted vengeance. He waited twenty-three years to get it."

+ Victoria frowned again.

"I admit that it's a bit of a stretch."

"A bit? It's ridiculous. Do you know where Lloyd Rermart is now?"

"That's a little complicated."

"Oh?"

"He may have committed suicide."

Victoria looked at Linda, then at Myron. "Would you please elaborate?"

"The body was never found," Myron said. "But everyone thinks he jumped off a cliff in Peru."

Linda groaned. "Oh, no . . ."

"What is it?" Victoria asked.

"We got a postcard from Peru."

"Who did'?" '

"It was addressed to Jack, but it was unsigned. It arrived last fall or winter."

Myron's pulse raced. Last fall or winter. About the time Lloyd allegedly jumped. "What did it say?"

"It only had two words on it," Linda said. " 'Forgive me.' "

Silence.

Victoria broke it. "That doesn't sound like the words of a man out for revenge."

"No," Myron agreed. He remembered what Esperanza had learned about the money Rennart had used to buy his house and bar. This postcard now confirmed what he had already suspected: Jack had been sabotaged. "But it also means that what happened twenty-three years ago was no accident."

"So what good does that do us'?" Victoria asked.

"Someone paid Rennart off to throw the U. S. Open.

Whoever did that would have motive."

"To kill Rennart maybe," Victoria countered. "But not Jack."

Good point. Or was it? Somebody had hated Jack enough twenty-three years ago to destroy his chances of winning the Open. Maybe that hatred had not died. Or maybe Jack had learned the truth and thus had to be quieted.

Either way, it was worth looking into.

"I do not want to go digging into the past," Victoria said. "It could make things very messy."

"I thought you liked messy. Messy is fertile land for reasonable doubt."

"Reasonable doubt, I like," she said. "But the unknown, I don't. Look into Esme Fong. Look into the Squires family. Look into whatever. But stay away from the past, Myron. You never know what you might find back there."

Chapter 37

On the car phone: "Mrs. Rennart? This is Myron Bolitar."

"Yes, Mr. Bolitar."

"I promised that I'd call you periodically. To keep you updated." .

"Have you learned something new'?"

How to proceed? "Not about your husband. So far, there is no evidence that suggests Lloyd's death was anything other than a suicide."

"l see."

Silence.

"So why are you calling me, Mr. Bolitar'?"

"Have you heard about Jack Coldren's murder?"

"Of course," Francine Rennart said. "It's on every station." Then: "You don't suspect Lloyd-"

"'No," Myron said quickly. "But according to Jack's wife, Lloyd sent Jack a postcard from Peru. Right before his death."

"I see," she said again. "What did it say?"

"It had only two words on it: 'Forgive me.' He didn't sign it."

There was a brief pause and then she said, "Lloyd is dead, Mr. Bolitar. So is Jack Coldren. Let it lie."

"I'm not out to damage your husband's reputation.

But it is becoming clear that somebody either forced Lloyd to sabotage Jack or paid him to do it."

"Arid you want me to help you prove that'?"

"Whoever it was may have murdered Jack and maimed his son. Your husband sent Jack a postcard asking for forgiveness. With all due respect, Mrs. Rennart, don't you think Lloyd would want you to heIp?"

More silence.

"What do you want from me, Mr. Bolitar? I don't know anything about what happened."

"I realize that. But do you have any old papers of Lloyd's'? Did he keep a journal or a diary? Anything that might give us a clue?"

"He didn't keep a journal or a diary."

"But there might be something else." Gently, fair Myron. Tread gently. "If Lloyd did receive compensation", "a nice way of saying a bribe "there may be bank receipts or letters or something."

"There are boxes in the basement," she said. "Old photos, some papers maybe. I don't think there are any bank statements." Francine Rennart stopped talking for a moment. Myron kept the receiver pushed against his ear.

"Lloyd always did have a lot of cash," she said softly. "I

never really asked where it came from."

Myron licked his lips. "Mrs. Rennart, can I look I through those boxes?"

"Tonight," she said. "You can come by tonight."

Esperanza was not back at the cottage yet. But Myron had barely sat down when the intercom buzzed.

"Yes?"

The guard manning the front gate spoke with perfect diction. "Sir, a gentleman and a young lady are here to see you. They claim that they are not with the media."

"Did they give a name?"

"The gentleman said his name is Carl."

"Let them in."

Myron stepped outside and watched the canary-yellow Audi climb the drive. Carl pulled to a stop and got out.

His Hat hair looked freshly pressed, like he'd just gotten it "martinized," whatever that was. A young black woman who couldn't have been twenty years old came out of the passenger door. She looked around with eyes the size of satellite dishes.

Carl turned to the stables and cupped his big hand over his eyes. A female rider decked out in full gear was steering a horse through some sort of obstacle course.

"That what they call steeplechasing?" Carl asked.

"Got me," Myron said.

Carl continued to watch. The rider got off the horse.

She unstrapped her black hat and patted the horse. Carl said, "You don't see a lot of brothers dressed like that."

"What about lawn jockeys?"

Carl laughed. "Not bad," he said. "Not great, but not bad."

Hard to argue. "You here to take riding lessons'?"

"Not likely," Carl said. "This is Kiana. I think she may be of help to us."

"Us?"

"You and me together, bro." Carl smiled. "I get to play your likable black partner."

Myron shook his head. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"The likable black partner always ends up dead. Usually early on, too."

That stopped Carl a second. "Damn, I forgot about that."

Myron shrugged a what-can-you-do. "So who is she?"

"Kiana works as a maid at the Court Manor Inn."

Myron looked at her. She was still out of earshot.

"How old is she?"

Myron shrugged. "Just asking. She looks young."

"She's sixteen. And guess what, Myron? She's not an unwed mother, she's not on welfare, and she's not a junkie."

"I never said she was."

"Uh-huh. Guess none of that racist shit ever seeps into your color-blind cranium."

"Hey, Carl, do me a favor. Save the racial-sensitivity seminar for a less active day. What does she know?"

Carl beckoned her forward with a tight nod. Kiana approached, all long limbs and big eyes. "I showed her this photo" he handed Myron a snapshot of Jack Coldren "and she remembered seeing him at the Court Manor."

Myron glanced at the photograph, and then at Kiana.

"You saw this man at the motel?"

"Yes." Her voice was firm and strong and belied her years. Sixteen. She was the same age as Chad. Hard to imagine.

"Do you remember when?"

"Last week. I saw him there twice."

"Twice?"

"Yes."

"Would that have been Thursday or Friday?"

"No." Kiana kept up with the poise. No ringing hands or happy feet or darting eyes. "It was Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest."

Myron tried to process this tidbit. Jack had been at the Court Manor twice before his son. Why? The reason was fairly obvious: If the marriage was dead for Linda, it was probably dead for Jack. He, too, would be engaging in extramarital liaisons. Maybe that was what Matthew Squires witnessed. Maybe Jack had pulled in for his own affair and spotted his son's car. It kinda made sense ....

But it was also a hell of a coincidence. Father and son end up at the same hot sheets at the same time? Stranger things have happened, but what were the odds?

Myron gestured to Jack's photograph. "Was he alone?"

Kiana smiled. "The Court Manor doesn't rent out a lot of single rooms."

"Did you see who was with him?"

"Very briefly. The guy in the photograph checked them in. His partner stayed in the car."

"But you saw her? Briefly anyway."

Kiana glanced at Carl, then back at Myron. "It wasn't a her."

++ "Excuse me?" "The guy in the photograph," she said. "He wasn't there with a woman."

A large boulder fell from the sky and landed on Myron's head. It was his turn now to glance at Carl. Carl nodded. Another click. A big click. The loveless marriage.

He had known why Linda Coldren stayed in it she was afraid of losing custody of her son. But what about Jack? Why hadn't he left? The answer was suddenly transparent: Being married to a beautiful, constantly traveling woman was the perfect cover. He remembered Diane Hoffman's reaction when he asked her if she'd been sleeping with Jack the way she laughed and said, "Not likely with ol' Jack."

Because ol' Jack was gay.

Myron turned his focus back to Kiana. "Could you describe the man he was with?"

"Older maybe fifty or sixty. White. He had this long dark hair and a bushy beard. That's about all I can tell you."

But Myron did not need more.

It was starting to come together now. It wasn't there.

Not yet anyway. But he was suddenly a quantum leap closer.

Chapter 38

As Carl drove out, Esperanza drove in.

"Find anything?" Myron asked her.

Esperanza handed him a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping. "Read this."

The headline read: CRASH FATALITY

Economy of words. He read on:

Mr. Lloyd Rennart of 27 Darby Place crashed his automobile into a parked car on South Dean Street near the intersection of Coddington Terrace.

Mr. Rennart was taken into police custody under suspicion of driving while intoxicated. The injured were rushed to St. Elizabeth's Medical Center, where Lucille Rennart, Mr. Lloyd Rennart's wife, was pronounced dead. Funeral services are to be arranged.

Myron reread the paragraph twice. " 'The injured were rushed,' " he read out loud. "As in more than one.' '

Esperanza nodded.

"So who else was hurt?"

"I don't know. There was no follow up article."

' 'Nothing on the arrest or the arraignment or the court case?"

"Nothing. At least, nothing I could find. There was no further mention of any Rennarts. I also tried to get something from St. Elizabeth's, but they wouldn't help. Hospital patient confidentiality, they claimed. I doubt their computers go back to the seventies anyway."

Myron shook his head. "This is too weird," he said.

"I saw Carl heading out," Esperanza said. "What did he want'?"

"He came by with a maid from the Court Manor.

Guess who Jack Coldren was linking up with for a little aftemoon delight?"

"Tonya Harding'?"

"Close. Norm Zuckerman."

Esperanza tilted her head back and forth, as though sizing up an abstract work at the Met. "I'm not surprised.

About Norm anyway. Think about it. Never married. No family. In public, he always surrounds himself with young, beautiful women."

"For show," Myron said.

"Right. They're beards. Camouflage. Norm is the front man for a major sports fashion business. Being a known gay could destroy him."

"So," Myron said, "if it got out that he was gay . . ."

"lt would hurt a lot," Esperanza said.

"Is that a motive for murder?"

"Sure," she said. "It's millions of dollars and a man's reputation. People kill for a lot less."

Myron thought about it. "But how did it happen?

Let's say Chad and Jack meet up at the Court Manor by accident. Suppose Chad figures out what Daddy and Norm are up to. Maybe he mentions it to Esme, who works for Norm. Maybe she and Norm . . ."

"They what?" Esperanza finished. "They kidnap the kid. cut off his finger, and then let him go?"

"Yeah, it doesn't mesh," Myron agreed. "Not yet ' anyway. But we're getting close."

"Oh sure, we're really narrowing down the field. Let's see. It could be Esme Fong. It could be Norm Zuckerman.

It could be Tad Crispin. It could be a still-alive Lloyd Rennart. It could be his wife or his kid. It could be Matthew Squires or his father or both. Or it could be a combination plan of any of the above- the Rennart family perhaps, or Norm and Esme. And it could be Linda Coldren. How does she explain the gun from her house being the murder weapon? Or the envelopes and the pen she bought?"

"I don't know," Myron said slowly. Then: "But you may be on to something here."

"What?"

"Access. Whoever killed Jack and cut off Chad's finger had access to the Coldren house. Barring a break-in, who could have gotten hold of the gun and the stationery supplies?"

Esperanza barely hesitated. "Linda Coldren, Jack Coldren, maybe the Squires kid, since he liked to crawl in through the window." She paused. "I guess that's it."

"Okay, good. Now let's move on a little. Who knew that Chad Coldren was at the Court Manor Inn? I mean, whoever kidnapped him had to know where he was, right?"

"Right. Okay, Jack again, Esme Fong, Norm Zuckerman, Matthew Squires again. Boy, Myron, this is really helping."

"So what names show up on both lists?"

"Jack and Matthew Squires. And I think we can leave Jack's name off-his being the victim and all."

But Myron stopped for a moment. He thought about his conversation with Win. About the naked desire to win How far would Jack go to guarantee victory? Win had said that he would stop at nothing. Was he right?

Esperanza snapped her fingers in his face. "Yo, Myron?"

"What?"

"l said, we can eliminate Jack Coldren. Dead people rarely bury murder weapons in nearby woods."

That made sense. "So that leaves Matthew Squires,"

Myron said, "and I don't think he's our boy."

"Neither do I," Esperanza said. "But we're forgetting someone someone who knew where Chad Coldren was and had complete access to the gun and stationery supplies."

"Who?"

"Chad Coldren."

"You think he cut off his own finger?"

Esperanza shrugged. "What about your old theory?

The one where the kidnapping was a hoax that went out of control. Think about it. Maybe he and Tito had a fallingout. Maybe it was Chad who killed Tito."

Myron considered the possibility. He thought about Jack. He thought about Esme. He thought about Lloyd Rennart. Then he shook his head. "This is getting us nowhere. Sherlock Holmes warned that you should never theorize without all the facts because then you twist facts to suit theories rather than theories to suit facts."

"That never stopped us before," Esperanza said.

"Good point." Myron checked his watch. "I gotta go see Francine Rennart."

"The caddie's wife."

"Yup."

Esperanza went sniff sniff "What?" Myron asked.

One more big sniff "l smell a complete waste of time she said.

She smelled wrong.

Chapter 39

Victoria Wilson called on the car phone. What, Myron wondered, did people do before the car phone, before the cell phone, before the beeper?

Probably had a lot more fun.

"The police found the body of your neo Nazi friend,' '

she said. "His last name is Marshall."

"Tito Marshall?" Myron frowned. "Please tell me you're joking."

"I don't joke, Myron."

Of that he had little doubt. "Do the police have any idea he's tied into this?" Myron asked.

"None whatsoever."

"And I assume he died of a gunshot wound."

"That's the preliminary finding, yes. Mr. Marshall was shot twice in the head at close range with a thirtyeight."

"A thirty-eight? But Jack was killed with a twentytwo."

"Yes, Myron, I know."

"So different guns killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall."

Victoria did the bored thing again. "Hard to believe you're not a professional ballistics expert."

Everyone's a smart-ass. But this new development threw a whole bunch of scenarios out of whack. If two different guns had killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall, did that mean there were two different killers? Or was the killer smart enough to use different weapons? Or had the killer disposed of the thirty-eight after killing Tito and was thus forced to use the twenty-two on Jack? And what kind of warped mind names a kid Tito Marshall? Bad enough to go through life with a moniker like Myron. But Tito Marshall? No wonder the kid had turned out as a neo-Nazi. Probably started out as a virulent anti-Communist.

Victoria interrupted his thoughts. ' 'I called for another reason, Myron."

"Oh?"

"Did you pass on the message to Win?"

"You set that up, didn't you? You told her I'd be there."

"Please answer the question."

"Yes, I delivered the message."

"What did Win say?"

"I delivered the message," Myron said. "But that doesn't mean I'm giving out reports on my friend's reaction."

"She's getting worse, Myron."

"I'm sorry."

Silence.

"Where are you right now?" she asked.

"I just hit the New Jersey Turnpike. I'm on my way to Lloyd Rennart's house."

"I thought I told you to leave that path alone."

"So you did."

More silence.

"Good-bye, Myron."

She hung up. Myron sighed. He suddenly longed for the days before the car phone, the cell phone, the beeper.

Reaching out and touching someone was getting to be a real pain in the ass.

An hour later, Myron parked again in front of the Rennarts' modest home. He knocked on the door. Mrs.

Rennart opened it immediately. She studied his face for a few long seconds. Neither of them spoke. Not even a greeting or salutation.

"You look tired," she said at last.

"I am."

"Did Lloyd really send that postcard?"

"Yes."

The answer had been automatic. But now he wondered had Lloyd Rennart sent a postcard? For all he knew, Linda was simply sizing him for the title role in Big Sap:

The Musical. Take the missing taped phone call, for example.

If indeed the kidnapper had called Jack before his death, where was the tape of the call? Maybe the call had never occurred. Maybe Linda had lied about it. Maybe she was lying about the postcard too. Maybe she was lying about everything. Maybe Myron was simply being semi seduced, like the hormone-driven male in one of those cheesy, unrated, direct to-video, Body Heat rip-offs co-starring women with names like Shannon or Tawny.

Not a pleasant thought.

Francine Rennart silently led him into a dark basement. When they hit bottom, she reached up and switched on one of those swinging lightbulbs like something out of Psycho. The room was pure cement. There was a water heater, a gas heater, a washer and dryer, and storage containers of various sizes, shapes, and material. Four boxes lay on the floor in front of him.

"That's his old stuff," Francine Rennart said without looking down.

"Thank you."

She tried, but she could not make herself look at the boxes. "I'll be upstairs," she said. Myron watched her feet disappear from view. Then he turned to the boxes and squatted down. The boxes were taped shut. He took out his key-chain penknife and slit the packing tape.

The first box had golf memorabilia. There were certificates and trophies and old tees. A golf ball was mounted to a wooden base with a rusty plaque that read:

HOLE IN ONE 15TH HOLE AT HICKORY PARK

JANUARY 17, 1972

Myron wondered what life had been like for Lloyd on that clear, crisp golf afternoon. He wondered how often Lloyd had replayed the shot in his mind, how many times he'd sat alone in that BarcaLounger and tried to recapture that pure, cold rush. Had he remembered the feel of the club's grip, the tightness in his shoulders as he began the backswing, the clean, solid stroke of the ball, the floating follow-through.

In the second box, Myron found Lloyd's high school diploma. He found a yearbook from Penn State. There was a picture of the golf team. Lloyd Rennart had been captain. Myron's finger touched upon a large, felt P.

Lloyd's varsity letter. There was a recommendation letter from his golf coach at Penn State. The words bright future jumped out at Myron. Bright future. The coach may have been a great motivator, but he made a lousy soothsayer.

The third box started off with a photograph of Lloyd in Korea. It was a casual group photo, a dozen or so boys/

men in unbuttoned fatigues, arms dangling loosely around neighboring necks. Lots of smiles, seemingly happy smiles. Lloyd was thinner there, but he saw nothing gaunt or drawn in the eyes.

Myron put the picture down. In the background, Betty Buckley was not singing "Memory," but maybe she should have been. These boxes were a life a life that in spite of these experiences and dreams and wants and hopes had chosen to terminate itself From the bottom of the box Myron pulled out a wedding album. The faded gold leaf read: Lloyd and Lucille, November 17, 1968, Now and Forever. More irony. The fake-leather cover was crusted with what looked like drink ringlets. Lloyd's first marriage, neatly wrapped and packed away in the bottom of a box.

Myron was about to put the album to the side when his curiosity got the better of him. He sat all the way down, his legs splayed like a kid with a new pack of baseball cards. He placed the photo album on the cement floor and began to open it. The binding made a cracking noise from the years of disuse.

The first photograph almost made Myron scream out loud.

Chapter 40

Myron's accelerator foot never eased.

Chestnut Street near Fourth is a no parking zone, but that did not even make Myron pause. He was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop, ignoring the chorus of honking homs. He hurried through the Omni's lobby and into an open elevator. When he got off on the top floor, he found the right room number and knocked hard.

Norm Zuckerman opened the door. "Bubbe," he said with a big smile. "What a nice surprise."

"Can I come in'?"

"You? Of course, sweetheart, anytime."

But Myron had already pushed by him. The suite's outer room was to use hotel brochure lingo spacious and elegantly appointed. Esme Fong sat on a couch. She looked up at him with the cornered-rabbit face. Posters and blueprints and advertisements and similar paraphernalia carpeted the floor and cascaded off the coffee table.

Myron spotted blown-up images of Tad Crispin and Linda Coldren. Zoom logos were everywhere, inescapable, like vengeful ghosts or telemarketers.

"We were just doing a little strategizing," Norm said.

But hey, we can always take a break, right, Esme'?"

Esme nodded.

Norm made his way behind a wet bar. "You want something, Myron? I don't think they have any Yoo-Hoo in here, but I'm sure "

' 'Nothing,' ' Myron interrupted.

Norm did the mock surrender thing with his hands.

"Sheesh, Myron, relax," he said. "What's twisting your nipple?"

"I wanted to warn you, Norm."

"Warn me about what?"

"I don't want to do this. As far as I'm concemed, your love life should be personal. But it's not that easy.

Not anymore. It's going to get out, Norm. I'm sorry."

Norm Zuckerman did not move. He opened his mouth as though readying to protest. Then he stopped. "How did you find out?"

' 'You were with Jack. At the Court Manor Inn. A maid saw you."

Norm looked at Esme, who kept her head high. He turned back to Myron. ' 'Do you know what will happen if words gets out that I'm a faygeleh?"

"I can't help that, Norm."

"I am the company, Myron. Zoom is about fashion and image and sports which just so happens to be the most blatantly homophobic entity on this planet. Perception is everything in this business. If they find out I'm an old queen, you know what happens? Zoom goes plop down the septic tank."

"I'm not sure I agree," Myron said, "but either way, it can't be helped."

"Do the police know?" Norm asked.

"No, not yet."

Norm threw up his hands. "So why does it have to come out? It was just a fling, for crying out loud. Okay, so I met Jack. So we were attracted to each other. So we both had a ton to lose if either of us opened our traps. No big whup. It's got nothing to do with his murder."

Myron stole a glance at Esme. She looked back at him with eyes that urged him to keep silent. "Unfortunately,' '

Myron said, "I think it does."

"You think? You're going to destroy me on an 'I

think'?"

"I'm sorry."

"I can't talk you out of it?"

"I'm afraid not."

Norm moved away from the bar and half-collapsed into a chair. He put his face in the palms of his hands, his fingers sliding toward the back, meeting up in the hair, interweaving. "I've spent my entire life with lies, Myron,'

he began. "I spent my childhood in Poland pretending I wasn't a Jew. Can you believe that? Me, Norm Zuckerman, pretending I was some slack-jawed goy. But I

survived. I came here. And then I spent my adult life pretending I was a real man, a Casanova, a guy who always had a beautiful girl on his arm. You get used to lying, Myron. It gets easier, you know what I mean? The lies become a sort of second reality."

"I'm sorry, Norm."

He breathed deeply and forced up a tired smile.

"Maybe it's for the best," Norm said. "Look at Dennis Rodman. He cross-dresses, for crying out loud. Hasn't hurt him any, has it?"

"No. It hasn't.'

Norm Zuckerman lifted his eyes toward Myron.

"Hey, once I got to this country, I became the most inyour-face Jew you ever saw. Didn't I? Tell me the truth.

Am I not the most in your-face Jew you've ever met, or what?"

"In my face," Myron said.

"Bet your skirmy melinka of a butt I am. And when I

first started out, everyone told me to tone it down. Stop being so Jewish, they said. So ethnic. You'll never be accepted." His face had true hope now. ' 'Maybe I can do the same for us closet faygelehs, Myron. Be in the world's face again, you know what I'm saying?"

"Yes, I do," Myron said softly. Then he asked, "Who else knew about you and Jack?"

"Knew?"

"Did you tell anybody?"

"No, of course not."

Myron gestured toward Esme. "How about one of those beautiful girlfriends on your arm? How about someone who practically lived with you? Wouldn't it have been easy for her to find out?"

Norm shrugged. "I suppose so. You get this close to someone, you trust them. You drop your guard. So maybe she knew. So what?"

Myron looked at Esme. "You want to tell him?"

Esme's voice was cool. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Tell me what'?"

Myron kept his eyes on hers. "I wondered why you'd seduce a sixteen-year-old boy. Don't get me wrong. You gave a bravo performance all that talk about being lonely and Chad being sweet and disease-free. You waxed quite eloquent. But it still rang hollow."

Norm said, "What the hell are you talking about, Myron?"

Myron ignored him. "And then there was the matter of the bizarre coincidence you and Chad showing up at the same motel at the same time as Jack and Norm. Too weird. I just couldn't buy it. But of course, we both know that it wasn't a coincidence. You planned it that way.

Esme."

"What plan?" Norm interjected. "Myron, will you tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Norm, you mentioned that Esme used to work on Nike's basketball campaign. That she quit that job to come to you."

"So?"

"Did she take a cut in salary?"

"A little." Norm shrugged. "Not much."

"When exactly did she hook up with you?"

"I don't know." `

"Within the past eight months?"

Norm thought a moment. "Yeah, so?"

"Esme seduced Chad Coldren. She set up a liaison with him at the Court Manor Inn. But she wasn't bringing him there for sex or because she was lonely. She brought him there as part of a setup."

"What kind of setup?"

"She wanted Chad to see his father with another man."

"Huh?"

"She wanted to destroy Jack. It was no coincidence.

Esme knew your routine. She learned about your affair with Jack. So she tried to set it up so Chad would see what his father was really about."

Esme remained silent.

"Tell me something, Norm. Were you and Jack supposed to meet Thursday night?"

"Yeah," Norm said.

"What happened?"

"Jack called it off He pulled into the lot and got spooked. He said he saw a familiar car."

"Not just familiar," Myron said. "His son's. That's where Esme screwed up. Jack spotted the car. He left before Chad had a chance to see him."

Myron stood and walked toward Esme. She remained still. "I almost had it right from the beginning," he told her. "Jack took the lead at the Open. His son was there, right in front of you. So you kidnapped Chad to throw Jack's game off. It was just like I thought. Except I missed your real motive. Why would you kidnap Chad?

Why would you crave such vengeance against Jack Coldren? Yes, money was part of the motive. Yes, you wanted Zoom's new campaign to succeed. Yes, you knew that if Tad Crispin won the Open, you'd be heralded as the marketing genius of the world. All that played into it. But, of course, that never explained why you brought Chad to the Court Manor Inn in the first place- before Jack had the lead."

Norm sighed. "So tell us, Myron. What possible reason could she have for wanting to hurt Jack?"

Myron reached into his pocket and pulled out a grainy photograph. The first page of the wedding album. Lloyd and Lucille Rennart. Smiling. Happy. Standing side by side. Lloyd in a tux. Lucille holding a bouquet of flowers.

Lucille looking stunning in a long white gown. But that wasn't what had shocked Myron to the core. What shocked him had nothing to do with what Lucille wore or held; rather, it was what she was.

Lucille Rennart was Asian.

"Lloyd Rennart was your father," Myron said. "You were in the car that day when he crashed into a tree. Your mother died. You were rushed to the hospital too."

Esme's back was rod-straight, but her breathing was coming out in hitches.

"I'm not sure what happened next," he continued.

' 'My guess would be that your father had hit rock bottom.

He was a drunk. He had just killed his own wife. He felt washed-up, useless. So maybe he realized that he couldn't raise you. Or he didn't deserve to raise you. Or maybe an arrangement was reached with your mother's family. In return for not pressing charges, Lloyd would give Lucille's family custody of you. I don't know what happened.

But you ended up being raised by your mother's family. By the time Lloyd straightened himself out, he probably felt it would be wrong to tear you out by the roots. Or maybe he was afraid that his daughter wouldn't take back the father who'd been responsible for killing her mother. Whatever, Lloyd kept quiet. He never even told his second wife about you."

Tears were streaming down Esme's cheeks now. Myron felt like crying too.

"How close am I, Esme?"

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

"'There'll be records," Myron said. "Birth certificates, for certain. Probably adoption papers. It won't take the police long to trace." He held up the photograph, his voice soft.

"The resemblance between you and your mother is almost enough."

Tears continued to flow, but she was not crying. No sobs. No hitching. No quivering facial muscles. Just tears.

' 'Maybe Lloyd Rennart was my father," Esme said "But you still have nothing. The rest is pure conjecture."

"No, Esme. Once the police confirm your parentage, the rest will be easy. Chad will tell them that it was you who suggested you go to the Court Manor Inn. They'll look closely into Tito's death. There'll be a connection there. Fibers. Hairs. It'll all come together. But I have one question for you."

She remained still.

"Why did you cut off Chad's iinger?"

Without warning, Esme broke into a run. Myron was caught off guard. He jumped over the couch to block her path. But he had misjudged her. She had not been heading for an exit; she was going into a bedroom. Her bedroom.

Myron hurdled back over the couch. He reached her room, but he was a little late.

Esme Fong had a gun. She pointed it at Myron's chest.

He could see in her eyes that there'd be no confession, no explanations, no talk. She was ready to shoot.

"Don't bother," Myron said.

"What?"

He pulled out his cell phone and handed it to her.

"This is for you."

Esme did not move for a moment. Then, with her hand still on the gun, she reached out and took the phone. She pressed it against her ear, but Myron could hear just line.

A voice said, "This is Detective Alan Corbett from the Philadelphia Police Department. We are standing outside your door listening to every word that has been said.

Put down the gun."

Esme looked back at Myron. She still had the gun aimed at his chest. Myron felt a bead of sweat run down his back. Looking into the barrel of a gun was like staring into the cavern of death. Your eyes saw the barrel, Only the barrel, as though it were growing impossibly larger, preparing to swallow you whole.

"It would be dumb," he said.

She nodded then and lowered the gun. "And pointless."

The weapon dropped to the iloor. Doors burst open.

Police swarmed in.

Myron looked down at the gun. "A thirty-eight," he said to Esme. "That the gun you killed Tito with?"

Her expression gave him the answer. The ballistics tests would be conclusive. She would be prosecutorial toast.

"Tito was a lunatic," Esme said. "He chopped off the boy's finger. He started making money demands. You have to believe that."

Myron gave a noncommittal nod. She was testing out her defense, but it sort of sounded like the truth to Myron.

Corbett snapped handcuffs onto her wrists.

Her words were spilling out fast now. "Jack Coldren destroyed my entire family. He ruined my father and killed my mother. And for what? My father did nothing wrong."

"Yes," Myron said, "he did."

"He pulled the wrong club out of a golf bag, if you believe Jack Coldren. He made a mistake. An accident.

Should it have cost him so much?"

Myron said nothing. It was no mistake, no accident.

And Myron had no idea what it should have cost.

Chapter 4l .

The police cleaned up. Corbett had questions, but Myron was not in the mood. He left as soon as the detective was distracted. He sped to the police station where Linda Coldren was about to be released. He took the cement steps three or four at a clip, looking like a spastic Olympian timing the triple jump.

Victoria Wilson almost the key word being almostsmiled at him. "Linda will be out in a few minutes."

"Do you have that tape I asked you to get?"

"The phone call between Jack and the kidnapper'?"

"Yes."

"l have it," she said. "But why "

"Please give it to me," Myron said.

She heard something in his tone. Without argument, she reached into her handbag and pulled it out. Myron took it. "Do you mind if I drive Linda home'?" he said.

Victoria Wilson regarded him. "I think maybe that would be a good idea."

. A policeman came out. "She's ready to leave," he said.

Victoria was about to turn away, when Myron said, "l guess you were wrong about digging into the past. The past ended up saving our client."

Victoria held his eye. "It's like I said before," she began. "You never know what you will find."

They both waited for the other to break the eye contact.

Neither did until the door behind them opened.

Linda was back in civilian clothes. She stepped out tentatively, like she'd been in a dark room and wasn't sure her eyes could handle the sudden light. Her face broke into a wide smile when she saw Victoria. They hugged. Linda dug her face into Victoria's shoulder and rocked in her arms. When they released, Linda turned and hugged Myron. Myron closed his eyes and felt his muscles unbunch. He smelled her hair and felt the wondrous skin of her cheek against his neck. They embraced for a long time, almost like a slow dance, neither wanting to let go, both perhaps a little bit afraid.

Victoria coughed into her fist and made her excuses.

With the police leading the way, Myron and Linda made it to the car with a minimum of press fuss. They strapped on their seat belts in silence.

"Thank you," she said.

Myron said nothing. He started the car. For a while neither of them spoke. Myron switched on the airconditioning.

"We have something here, don't we?"

"I don't know," Myron said. "You were worried about your son. Maybe that's all it was."

Her face said that she was not buying. "How about you?" Linda asked. "Did you feel anything?"

"I think so," he said. "But part of that might be fear, too."

"Fear of what?"

"Of Jessica."

She gave a weary grin. "Don't tell me you're one of those guys who fears commitment?

"Just the opposite. I fear how much I love her. I fear how much I want to commit."

'So what's the problem?"

"Jessica left me once before. I don't want to be exosed like that again."

Linda nodded. "So you think that's what it was? Fear of abandonment?"

"l don't know."

"l felt something," she said. "For the first time in a very long time. Don't get me wrong. I've had affairs.

Like with Tad. But that's not the same thing." She looked at him. "It felt nice."

Myron said nothing.

"You're not making this very easy," Linda said.

"We have other things to talk about."

"Like what?"

"Victoria filled you in on Esme Fong?"

"Yes."

"lf you remember, she had a solid alibi for Jack's murder."

"A night clerk at a big hotel like the Omni? I doubt I

that will hold up on scrutiny."

"Don't be so sure," Myron said.

"Why do you say that?"

+ Myron did not answer. He turned right and said, "You '

know what always bothered me, Linda?"

"No, what?"

"The ransom calls."

"What about them?" she asked.

"The first one was made on the moming of the kid- +

napping. You answered. The kidnappers told you that they had your son. But they made no demands. I always found that odd, didn't you'?"

She thought about it. "I guess so."

"Now I understand why they did that. But back then.

we didn't know what the real motive for the kidnapping was.

"l don't understand."

"Esme Fong kidnapped Chad because she wanted revenge on Jack. She wanted to make him lose the tournament.

How? Well, I'd thought that she'd kidnapped Chad to fluster Jack. Make him lose his focus. But that was too abstract. She wanted to make sure Jack lost. That was her ransom demand right from the beginning. But you see, the ransom call came in a little late. Jack was already at the course. You answered the phone."

Linda nodded. "I think I see what you're saying. She had to reach Jack directly."

"She or Tito, but you're right. That's why she called Jack at Merion. Remember the second call, the one Jack got after he finished the round'?"

"Of course."

"That was when the ransom demand was made," Myron said. "The kidnapper told Jack plain and simpleyou start losing or your son dies."

"Hold up a second," Linda said. "Jack said they didn't make any demands. They told him to get some money ready and they'd call back."

"Jack lied."

"But . . . ?" She stopped, and then said, "Why?"

"He didn't want us or more specifically, you to now the truth."

Linda shook her head. "I don't understand."

Myron took out the cassette Victoria had given him.

"Maybe this will help explain." He pushed the tape into the cassette player. There were several seconds of silence and then he heard Jack's voice like something from beyond the grave: '

"Hello? "

"Who's the chink bitch? "

"I don 't know what "

"You trying to fuck with me, you dumb son of a bitch?

I'll start sending you the fucking brat in little pieces. "

'Please "

"What's the point of this, Myron?" Linda sounded a little annoyed.

"Just hold on another second. The part I'm interested in is coming up."

"Her name is Esme Fong. She works for a clothing company. She 's just here to set up an endorsement deal with my wife, that's all. "

' 'Bullshit. ' '

"It's the truth, I swear. "

I don 't know, Jack .... "

"I wouldn't lie to you. "

"Well, Jack, we 'll just see about that. This is gonna cost you. "

"What do you mean? "

"One hundred grand. Call it a penalty price. "

"For what? "

Myron hit the STOP button. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

" 'Call it a penalty price.' Clear as day."

"So?"

"lt wasn't a ransom demand. It was a penalty."

"This is a kidnapper, Myron. He's probably not all that caught up in semantics."

" 'One hundred grand,' " Myron repeated. " 'Call it a penalty price.' As if a ransom demand had already been made. As if the hundred grand was something he'd just decided to tack on. And what about Jack's reaction? The kidnapper asks for one hundred grand. You would figure he would just tell him fine. But instead he says, 'For what?' Again, because it's in addition to what he's already been told. Now listen to this." Myron pushed the PLAY button.

"Never you fucking mind. You want the kid alive? lt's gonna cost you one hundred grand now. That 's in "

"Now hold on a second. "

Myron hit the STOP button again. " 'lt's gonna cost you one hundred grand now.' " Myron repeated. "Now.

That's the key word. Now. Again as if it's something new.

As if before this call there was another price. And then Jack interrupts him. The kidnapper says, 'That's in '

when Jack jumps in. Why? Because Jack doesn't want him to finish the thought. He knew that we were listening.

'That's in addition I'd bet anything that was the next word he was about to say. 'That's in addition to our original demand.' Or, 'that's in addition to losing the tournament.' "

Linda looked at him. "But I still don't get it. Why wouldn't Jack just tell us what they wanted?"

"Because Jack had no intention of complying with their demand."

That stopped her. "What?"

"He wanted to win too badly. More than that he needed to win. Had to. But if you learned the truth you who had won so often and so easily you would never understand. This was his chance at redemption, Linda.

His chance of going back twenty-three years and making his life worth living. How badly did he want to win, Linda? You tell me. What would he have sacrificed?"

"Not his own son," Linda countered. "Yes, Jack needed to win. But not badly enough to forfeit his own son's life."

"But Jack didn't see it that way. He was looking through his own rose tinted prism of desire. A man sees what he wants to, Linda. What he has to. When I showed you and Jack the bank videotape, you both saw something different. You didn't want to believe your son could do something so hurtful. So you looked for explanations that could counter that evidence. Jack did just the opposite.

He wanted to believe that his son was behind it. That it was only a big hoax. That way he could continue to try his hardest to win. And if by some chance he was wrong if Chad had indeed been kidnapped well, the kidnappers were probably bluffing anyway. They'd never really go through with it. In other words, Jack did what he had to do: he rationalized the danger away."

"You think his desire to win clouded his thinking that much?"

"How much clouding did he need? We all had doubts atter watching that bank tape. Even you. So how hard would it be for him to go the extra step?"

Linda sat back. "Okay," she said. "Maybe I buy it.

But I still don't see what this has to do with anything."

"Bear with me a little while longer, okay? Let's go back to when I showed you the bank videotape. We're at your house. I show the tape. Jack storms out. He is upset, of course, but he still plays well enough to keep the big lead. This angers Esme. He's ignoring her threat. She realizes that she has to up the ante."

"By cutting off Chad's finger."

"It was probably Tito, but that's not really relevant right now anyway. The key thing is, the finger is severed, and Esme wants to use it to show Jack she's serious."

"So she plants it in my car and we find it."

"No," Myron said.

"What?"

"Jack finds it first."

"In my car?"

Myron shook his head. "Remember that Chad's key chain has Jack's car keys on it as well as yours. Esme wants to warn Jack, not you. So she puts the finger in Jack's car. He finds it. He's shocked, of course, but he's in the lie too deep now. If the truth came out, you'd never forgive him. Chad would never forgive him. And the tournament would be over for him. He has to get rid of the finger. So he puts the finger in an envelope and writes that note. Remember it? 'I warned you not to seek help.'

Don't you see? It's the perfect distraction. It not only draws attention away from him, but it also gets rid of me."

Linda chewed on her lower lip. "That would explain the envelope and pen," she said. "I bought all the office supplies. Jack would have had some in his briefcase."

"Exactly. But here is where things get really interesting."

She arched an eyebrow. "They're not interesting now?"

"Just hold on. It's Sunday morning. Jack is about to head into the final round with an insurmountable lead.

Bigger than he had twenty-three years ago. If he loses now, it would be the greatest golf collapse in history. His name would forever be synonymous with choking the one thing Jack hated more than anything else. But on the other hand, Jack was not a complete ogre. He loved his son. He knew now that the kidnapping was not a hoax. He was probably torn, not sure what to do. But in the end he made a decision. He was going to lose the toumament."

Linda said nothing.

"Stroke by stroke, we watched him die. Win understands the destructive side of wanting to win far better than I. He also saw that Jack had the fire back, that old need to win. But despite all that, Jack still tried to lose.

He didn't completely collapse. That would have looked too suspicious. But he started dropping strokes. He made it close. And then he purposely fumbled big-time in the stone quarry and lost his lead.

"But imagine what was going on in his head. Jack is fighting against everything that he was. They say a man can't drown himself. Even if it means saving his own child's life, a man cannot keep himself under water until his lungs burst. I'm not so sure that's any different than what Jack was trying to do. He was literally killing himself.

His sanity was probably ripping away like divots on the course. On the eighteenth green, the survival instinct took over. Maybe he started rationalizing again-or more likely, he just couldn't help himself. But we both saw the transformation, Linda. We saw his face suddenly crystallize on eighteen. Jack stroked that putt home and tied the score."

Linda's voice was barely audible. "Yes," she said. "I saw him change." She sat up in her seat and let loose a long breath. "Esme Fong must have been in a panic by then."

"Yes."

"Jack had left her no choice. She had to kill him."

Myron shook his head. "No."

She looked confused again. "But it adds up. Esme was desperate. You said so yourself. She wanted vengeance for her father, and on top of that she was now worried about what would happen if Tad Crispin lost. She had to kill him."

"One problem," Myron said.

"What?"

"She called your house that night."

"Right," Linda said. "To set up the meeting at the course. She probably told Jack to come alone. To not tell me anything."

"No," Myron said. "That's not what happened."

"What?"

"If that was what happened," Myron continued.

"we'd have the call on tape."

Linda shook her head. "What are you talking about'?"

' 'Esme Fong did call your house. That part is true. My bet is that she just threatened him some more. Let him know that she meant business. Jack probably begged forgiveness.

I don't know. I'll probably never know. But I'd bet he ended the call by promising to lose the next day."

"So?" Linda said. "What does that have to do with the call being taped?"

"Jack was going through hell," Myron went on. "The pressure was too much. He was probably close to a breakdown. So he ran out of the house just as you said and ended up at his favorite place in the world. Merion. The golf course. Did he go out there just to think? I don't know. Did he bring the gun with him, maybe even contemplating suicide? Again, I don't know. But I do know that the tape machine was still hooked up to your phone.

The police confirmed that. So where did the tape of that last conversation go?"

Linda's tone was suddenly more measured. "I don't know."

"Yes, Linda, you do."

She gave him a look.

"Jack might have forgotten the call was recorded,"

Myron continued. "But you didn't. When he ran out of the house, you went down to the basement. You played the tape. And you heard everything. What I'm telling you in this car is not new to you. You knew why the kidnappers had taken your child. You knew what Jack had done.

You knew where he liked to go when he took his walks.

And you knew you had to stop him."

Myron waited. He missed the turnoff, took the next one, U-turned back onto the highway. He found the right exit and put on his blinker.

"Jack did bring the gim," Linda said too calmly. "I didn't even know where he kept it."

Myron gave a slight nod, silently trying to encourage.

"You're right," she continued. "When I played back the tape, I realized that Jack couldn't be trusted. He knew it too. Even with the threat of his own son's death, he had nailed that putt on eighteen. I followed him out to the course. I confronted him. He started to cry. He said he would try to lose. But" -she hesitated, weighed her words ' 'that drowning man example you gave. That was Jack."

Myron tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.

"Jack wanted to kill himself And I knew he had to.

I'd listened to the tape. I'd heard the threats. And I had no doubts: If Jack won, Chad was dead. I also knew something else."

She stopped and looked at Myron.

"What?" he said.

"I knew Jack would win. Win was right the fire was back in. Jack's eyes. But it was a raging inferno now. One that even he couldn't control anymore."

"So you shot him," Myron said.

"I struggled to get the gun from him. I wanted to injure him. Seriously injure him. If there was the possibility he could play again, I was afraid the kidnapper might just hold on to Chad indefinitely. The voice on the phone sounded that desperate. But Jack wouldn't surrender the gun nor would he pull it away from me. It was weird.

He just held on and looked at me. Almost like he was waiting. So I curled my finger around the trigger and pulled."Her voice was very clear now. "It didn't go off accidentally. I had hoped to wound him seriously, not kill him. But I fired. I fired to save my son. And Jack ended up dead."

More silence.

"Then you headed back to the house," Myron said.

'You buried the gun. You saw me in the bushes. When you got inside, you erased the tape."

"Yes." .

"And that was why you released that press announcement so early. The police wanted to keep it quiet, but you needed the story to go public. You wanted the kidnappers to know that Jack was dead, so they'd let Chad go."

"It was my son or my husband," Linda said. She turned her body to face him. "What would you have done?"

"I don't know. But I don't think I would have shot him."

" 'Don't think'?" she repeated with a laugh. "You talk about Jack being under pressure, but what about me?

I hadn't slept. I was stressed and I was confused and I was more scared than I had ever been in my entire life and yes, I was enraged that Jack had sacrificed our son's chance of playing the game we all so loved. I didn't have the luxury of an I-don't-know, Myron. My son's life was hanging in the balance. I only had time to react."

They turned up Ardmore Avenue and drove in silence past the Merion Golf Club. They both looked out the window at the course's gently sloping sea of green broken up only by the clean, white faces of sand. It was, Myron had to admit, a magnificent sight.

"Are you going to tell?" she asked.

She already knew the answer. "I'm your attorney,"

Myron said. "I can't tell."

"And if you weren't my attorney?"

"It wouldn't matter. Victoria would still be able to offer up enough reasonable doubt to win the case."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know," Myron said. He left it at that. She waited, but no answer was coming.

"I know you don't care," Linda continued, "but I

meant what I said before. My feelings for you were real."

Neither of them spoke again. Myron pulled into the driveway. The police kept the media back. Chad was outside, waiting. He smiled at his mother and ran toward her.

Linda opened the car door and got out. They might have embraced, but Myron did not see it. He was already backing out the drive.

Chapter 42

Victoria opened the door.

"In the bedroom. Follow me."

"How is she?" Myron asked.

"She's been sleeping a lot. But I don't think the pain is that bad yet. We have a nurse and a morphine drip ready if she needs it."

The decor was far simpler and less opulent than Myron had expected. Solid-colored furniture and pillows.

Uncluttered white walls. Pine bookcases with artifacts gathered from vacations to Asia and Africa. Victoria had told him that Cissy Lockwood loved to travel.

They stopped in front of a doorway. Myron looked inside. Win's mother lay in bed. Exhaustion emanated from her. Her head was back on the pillow as though it were too heavy to lift. An IV bag was attached to her arm.

She looked at Myron and mustered a gentle smile. Myron smiled back. With his peripheral vision, he saw Victoria signal to the nurse. The nurse stood and moved past him.

Myron stepped inside. The door closed behind him.

Myron moved closer to the bed. Her breathing was labored and constricted, as though she was being slowly strangled from inside. Myron did not know what to say.

He had seen people die before, but those had been quick, violent deaths, the life force snuifed out in one big, powerful gust. This was different. He was actually watching a human being die, her vitality dripping out of her like the liquid in her IV bag, the light in her eyes almost imperceptibly dimming, the grinding whir of tissues and sinews and organs eroding under the onslaught of whatever manic beast had lain claim to her.

She lifted a hand and put it on his. Her grip was surprisingly strong. She was not bony or pale. Her muscles were still toned, her summer tan only slightly faded.

"You know," she said.

Myron nodded.

She smiled. "How?"

"A lot of little things," he said. "Victoria not wanting me to dig into the past. Jack's mischievous past. Your toocasual comment about how Win was supposed to be playing golf with Jack that day. But mostly it was Win. When I told him about our conversation, he said that I now knew why he wanted nothing to do with you and Jack. You, I could understand. But why Jack?"

Her chest heaved a bit. She closed her eyes for a moment.

"Jack destroyed my life," she said. "I realize that he was only a teenager pulling a prank. He apologized profusely. He told me that he had not realized that my husband was on the premises. He said that he was certain I would hear Win coming and hide. It was all a joke, he said. Nothing more. But none of that made him less liable.

I lost my son forever because of what he did. He had to face the consequences."

Myron nodded. "So you paid off Lloyd Rennart to sabotage Jack at the Open."

"Yes. It was an inadequate punishment for what he had done to my family, but it was the best I could do."

The bedroom door opened, and Win stepped into the room. Myron felt the hand release his. A sob came out of Cissy Lockwood. Myron did not hesitate or say good-bye.

He turned away and walked out the door.

She died three days later. Win never left her side. When the last pitiful breath was drawn, when the chest mercifully stopped rising and falling and her face froze in a final, bloodless death mask, Win appeared in the corridor.

Myron stood and waited. Win looked at him. His face was serene, untroubled.

"I did not want her to die alone," he said.

Myron nodded. He tried to stop shaking.

"I am going to take a walk."

"Is there anything I can do?" Myron asked.

Win stopped. "Actually," he said, "there is."

"Name it."

They played thirty-six holes at Merion that day. And thirty-six more the next. And by the third day, Myron was starting to get it.