Think Twice

Chapter Fourteen

The next step was obvious: Find Bo’s mom.

They did. Fast.

By the next day, Myron was in Pine Bush, New York. Win had offered to come, but Myron decided to handle it himself. Pine Bush was classified as a hamlet rather than a town or a city and while the definition was confusing, it really just meant “pretty dang small.”

Bo/Brian had put on a convincing performance, but something about it kept bumping Myron. The kid was lying. Not about everything. But once Myron realized that some level of deception was at hand, he stopped pushing him for information. He let Bo talk himself out. Myron nodded along as though he was buying every word, and then he apologized to Bo for the mistake. He never told Bo why he’d been looking for Greg. He didn’t inquire — though man oh man he wanted to — where Bo’s mom resided now that Greg was dead. He figured that Bo either would lie to him or tip her off or more likely, both.

He wanted to catch Bo’s mom unawares.

They — Myron, Win, and Esperanza — found clues fast. Bo and Spark’s mom had been named Grace Konners. Five years ago, right around the time she and Greg presumably ran overseas, she changed her last name to Conte. She kept the Grace. That was not uncommon. It is hard to change first names, to not react when you hear your name called and, of course, to react when you hear a name that was not yours. It can trip you up.

Once Grace changed her last name, boom, she vanished off the so-called grid. No credit cards. No mortgages. No employment records. No social media accounts. All Grace Konners activity stopped, and no Grace Conte activity took its place.

That fit.

But more recently, probably because several years had passed and she felt somewhat safe, Grace Conte risked using her Social Security number to open a cash management account with Bank of America. She was still careful. The account had been opened online, and the address used was a post office box in Charlotte, North Carolina, right near the bank’s headquarters — clearly a move to hide her whereabouts on the rare chance someone would discover the account.

It took a bit more digging and triangulating locations and history. Your life is on your mobile phone. Most people realize this by now. It’s not much of a shock. But perhaps we don’t quite recognize the depth of that technology. Companies know everything. All movement. Bo used burner phones, so he was somewhat less conspicuous. It made sense. Bad guys like Joey the Toe were searching for him. His brother Spark was more of an open book. He traveled a lot, but it almost exclusively fit into the Amherst College basketball schedule. If the team was playing Bowdoin, his phone showed that he was in Brunswick, Maine. When the team played Middlebury, Spark was in Vermont.

But there was no reason for him to have visited Pine Bush, New York, three times.

The rest fell into place. Grace Conte never wrote checks. She never used the credit card that came with her account either. But she did make cash deposits at a variety of bank branches in Newburgh and Poughkeepsie — both larger towns near Pine Bush. Grace Conte also owned car insurance for a blue Acura RDX. She used the North Carolina address, but now that they had zeroed in on Pine Bush, it was just a matter of time.

Myron hadn’t gotten an exact address yet, though judging by Spark’s phone, she lived on a large rural plot of land off Route 302. He’d driven by it and spotted two possible driveways that could lead up to a house that might match the coordinates. One had a chain-link gate blocking the entrance. The second was open, so Myron risked driving up. Near the house, he spotted four cars — none of them a blue Acura RDX — and he figured that with that many people and that many non-Acura cars, this was probably not the right house. He took another look at the chain-link fence property from a distance. There was a camera attached to a tree.

Hmm.

He texted the address to Esperanza. She texted back.

No reason to wait here and look conspicuous. Myron drove back to the “hamlet’s” center to grab something to eat. He chose Larry’s Chinese Restaurant and Bar because it had over four hundred Google ratings and 4.5 stars and because, to quote Elton John singing “Levon,” he “likes the name.”

Myron took a seat at the bar. Larry’s reminded him of the Shanty Lounge in Havre, Montana. It didn’t look the same, other than the neon beer signs, but local American taverns all have the same feel. There is a comfort for the regulars and a try-to-be-comfort for the strangers, but he still felt like a tourist and that was okay. The menu was, as expected, Chinese, but there was also more classic Irish-pub fare like buffalo wings and burgers.

Chinese food at an Irish pub. Who said Myron wasn’t willing to take risks?

A big burly man behind the bar introduced himself as “your host and barkeep, Rick Legrand.” Full name. Odd. Myron asked Rick for a recommendation. Big Rick suggested a Chinese dish called Charlie’s Angels. Myron asked what was in that. Rick Legrand made a face and said, “Do you want a recommendation or do you want me to read you the whole menu?” That, Myron thought, was a fair point. He ordered the Charlie’s Angels and whatever beer was cold on tap. Rick wearily told him all the beers on tap were cold. “What, you think we keep warm beer here?” Then Rick shook his head and asked whether this was Myron’s first time in a bar.

Everyone’s a wiseass.

Myron spun the barstool around to check out the clientele. Hey, he could get lucky again. Maybe Grace Conte would just be here. His eyes scanned the place. Myron could hear the sizzle from a wok. The place reeked of MSG. Myron could almost feel his arteries harden. He checked all the faces.

Nope, no luck.

But when the bar door swung open again, allowing sunshine and a brief view of the outside, perhaps even greater luck hit him.

He spotted a blue Acura RDX.

“Rick Legrand?” Myron said.

Rick turned toward him. “Sup?”

“Cancel my order,” Myron said.

“It’s almost done.”

Myron dropped two twenties on the table. “Give it to someone worthy.”

Rick shrugged. “I’m almost on break.”

“Then I deem you worthy, my man.”

Myron hustled to the door and pushed it open, blinking into the sunlight. The blue Acura RDX was parked across the street in front of a place called, according to the sign, the Blush Boutique, the kind of shop Myron’s mother would have described as “cutesy.”

Now what?

Myron hustled back to his rental car. The ride up from Manhattan had been a little under two hours. Win had made sure that Myron had come prepared. That meant a locked Kevlar bag that contained a handgun (over the years, guns had come in handier than Myron wanted to admit), zip-tie handcuffs (not handy), and a magnetic GPS tracking device (somewhat handy). Myron figured that if he could stick a GPS tracker on Grace’s blue Acura RDX he could follow at a safe distance.

He slid into the front seat and grabbed the Kevlar bag. He’d started working the spinning combo lock when a woman emerged from the Blush Boutique. Myron stopped. In every photo Myron had seen of her, Grace Konners had long, white-blonde hair. This woman had a short auburn cap. In every photo, Grace Konners had worn cropped and fitted flex-da-bod see-through summer whites. This woman wore high-waisted dad (or were they also mom?) jeans and a loose green sweatshirt with a cartoon camel on it.

Again, like with Bo, you wouldn’t recognize her unless you were really staring, but Myron had little doubt. This was Grace Konners now Grace Conte or whatever.

Bo/Brian and Spark’s mom.

Grace moved with purpose toward her Acura. Myron had little chance of cutting her off before she drove off. And did he even want that?

Better, he figured, to follow her.

She started the car and pulled out onto Main Street before turning left onto Route 302. Myron followed in his car. If the coordinates they’d gotten off Spark Konners’s phone were correct, the ride would be a short one. Three minutes later, the blue Acura RDX, yep, pulled into the driveway with the chain-link fence. The fence slid open. Grace Conte drove in. The fence started to slide back into place. Myron tried to pull in behind her, but the fence was already too closed for his car to fit. Myron threw it into park, turned off the engine, hustled out, and slid through before the fence completely shut again.

Now what?

There was no reason to hide anymore. She would see him. He started trekking up the driveway. He decided not to take the handgun. Win would have scolded him over that. Win always carried a gun. Always. More than one usually. He’d told Myron repeatedly to do the same because of situations like these. But Myron didn’t like carrying a gun. They were bulky. They were heavy. They chafed.

Not much to be done about it now.

He trudged up the dirt driveway. He had no idea how far up the house was. Also dumb. He could have probably checked that on Google Maps. As he continued, he cupped his hand around his mouth and started to call out.

“Hello? Grace? Ms. Conte? I just want to talk to you, okay?”

When he came to a turn about a hundred yards up the drive, he saw the house. He’d expected something rustic and charmingly decrepit, but the renovations on this particular A-frame were impressive. The house was pristine, white, with huge windows. There was something whimsical about it. The dirt road was gone now, replaced with a carefully laid brick drive. The yard was asymmetrically landscaped, as though the overgrown fauna and shrubbery were both completely natural and perfectly planned. It was a welcoming home. You could easily see yourself living here. Relax. Unwind. Enjoy a cup of coffee on the front veranda and watch the morning sun rise. That kind of thing.

“You’re trespassing.”

She was standing next to the Acura with the car door still open as though readying for a quick escape. She held up her phone. “I’m going to call the police.”

“I’m not here to hurt you, Grace.”

“Do I know you?”

“My name is Myron Bolitar. I was — I am — Greg’s agent.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Myron gave her a somewhat theatrical sigh. “Do we really have to play this game? Go ahead. Call the police. Let everyone, including Joey the Toe, know where you are.”

She didn’t move.

“I don’t want to get you or your family in trouble. And by family, I mean your son Brian aka Bo aka Montana bartender Stevie.”

Grace swallowed and finally lowered the phone. “How did you find me?”

“It doesn’t matter. No one else is onto you. Yet.”

“So what do you want?”

“I need to talk to Greg.”

“Greg is dead.”

“Yeah no,” Myron said.

“What?”

“He’s not dead.” Myron started walking to the house. “Is he here?”

“No, of course not. He’s dead. You’re his friend. You know that.”

Ah, so now she knows who Myron is.

“This house is awfully big for one person,” Myron said.

“Greg bought it for me before he died.”

“When?”

“That’s not your—”

“I can get the tax records.”

“I have a new boyfriend now.”

“Uh-huh. So how did Greg die?”

“He had cancer.”

“What kind?”

Slightest of hesitations. “Kidney.”

“Painful,” Myron said. “So was he hospitalized? In palliative care? Where did he die exactly?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“I spoke to his doctor. A mutual friend of ours named Ellen Nakhnikian. She said Greg was healthy.”

“Doctors can’t say anything. Patient-client—”

“Well, maybe. But Greg is dead, so Dr. Nakhnikian had no issue talking to me.”

She stuck out her chin. “Greg went to another doctor.”

“Did he now?”

“He didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Noble,” Myron said. “But that’s not what happened. Dr. Nakhnikian saw Greg two months before you two ran off. Gave him a clean bill of health.” Myron switched gears, hoping a sudden change might throw her. “Do you know who Cecelia Callister is?”

“No.” Then: “Wait, the name is familiar.”

“She was a big model. She was recently murdered along with her son Clay.”

“Oh right. I read about that. What does that have to do with—?”

“The police think Greg did it. That’s why I’m here. They want to question him.”

“That makes no sense. Greg is dead.”

“Yeah, Grace, that’s not going to fly. I’ll keep digging. But worse — the cops will keep digging. Heck, Joey the Toe will keep digging. I beat them all here, but they’ll find you too. It’s just a question of time.”

“I’m telling you—”

And then from behind Myron, another voice, a familiar male voice, said, “Let it go, hon. Damn, Bolitar, you always were a stubborn son of a bitch who didn’t know when to quit.”

Myron turned around. He had a full beard now covering up his famous baby face. His straight hair had been permed to a curl. But there was no doubt.

It was Greg Downing.