Three Harlan Coben Novels (19 page)

M
yron and Jessica hugged good-bye. The hug lasted a long time. Myron could smell Jessica’s hair. He didn’t remember the name of her shampoo, but it had lilacs and wildflowers and was the same one she’d used when they’d been together.

Myron called Claire. “I have a quick question,” he said to her.

“Erik said he saw you last night.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s been on the computer all night.”

“Good. Look, do you know a teacher named Harry Davis?”

“Sure. Aimee had him for English last year. He’s also a guidance counselor now, I think.”

“Did she like him?”

“Very much.” Then: “Why? Does he have something to do with this?”

“I know you want to help, Claire. And I know Erik wants to help. But you have to trust me on this, okay?”

“I do trust you.”

“Erik told you about the cut-through we found?”

“Yes.”

“Harry Davis lives on the other side of it.”

“Oh my God.”

“Aimee is not in his house or anything. We already checked.”

“What do you mean, you checked? How did you check?”

“Please, Claire, just listen to me. I’m working on this, but I need to do it without interference. You have to keep Erik off my back, okay? Tell him I said to search all the surrounding streets online. Tell him to drive
around that area, but not on that cul-de-sac. Or better yet, have him call Dominick Rochester—that’s Katie’s father—”

“He called us.”

“Dominick Rochester?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last night. He said he met with you.”

Met,
Myron thought. Nice euphemism.

“We’re getting together this morning—the Rochesters and us. We’re going to see if we can find a connection between Katie and Aimee.”

“Good. That’ll help. Listen, I have to go.”

“You’ll call?”

“As soon as I know something.”

Myron heard her sob.

“Claire?”

“It’s been two days, Myron.”

“I know. I’m on it. You might want to try to pressure the police more too. Now that we’ve crossed the forty-eight-hour mark.”

“Okay.”

He wanted to say something like
Be strong
, but it sounded so stupid in his head that he let it go. He said good-bye and hung up. Then he called Win.

“Articulate,” Win said.

“I can’t believe you still answer the phone that way. ‘Articulate.’ ”

Silence.

“Is Harry Davis still heading to the high school?”

“He is.”

“On my way.”

Livingston High School, his alma mater. Myron started up the car. The total ride would be maybe two miles, but whoever was tailing him either wasn’t very good at it or didn’t care. Or maybe, after the debacle with the Twins, Myron was being more wary. Either way, a gray Chevy, maybe a Caprice, had been on him since he made the first turn.

He called Win and got the customary “Articulate.”

“I’m being followed,” Myron said.

“Rochester again?”

“Could be.”

“Make and license plate?”

Myron gave it to him.

Win said, “We’re still on Route 280, so stall a little. Take them down past Mount Pleasant Avenue. I’ll get in behind them, meet you back at the circle.”

Myron did as Win suggested. He turned into Harrison School for the U-turn. The Chevy following him kept going straight. Myron started back down the other way on Livingston Avenue. By the time he hit the next traffic light, the gray Chevy was back on his tail.

Myron hit the big circle in front of the high school, parked, and got out of his car. There were no stores here, but this was the nerve center of Livingston—a plethora of identical brick. There was the police station, the courthouse, the town library, and there, the large crown jewel, Livingston High School.

The early morning joggers and walkers were on the circle. Most were on the elderly side and moved slowly. But not all. A group of four hotties, all hard-bodied and maybe twenty-ish, were jogging in his direction.

Myron smiled at them and arched an eyebrow. “Hello, ladies,” he said as they passed.

Two of them snickered. The other two looked at him as though he’d just announced that he had a poopie in his pants.

Win sidled up next to him. “Did you give them the full-wattage smile?”

“I’d say a good eighty, ninety watts.”

Win studied the young women before making a declaration: “Lesbians,” he said.

“Must be.”

“A lot of that going around, isn’t there?”

Myron did the math in his head. He probably had fifteen to twenty years on them. When it comes to young girls, you just never want to feel it.

“The car following you,” Win said, keeping his eyes on the young joggers, “is an unmarked police vehicle with two uniforms inside. They’re parked in the library lot watching us through a telephoto lens.”

“You mean they’re taking our picture right now?”

“Probably,” Win said.

“How’s my hair?”

Win made an
eh
gesture with his hand.

Myron thought about what it meant. “They probably still see me as a suspect.”

“I would,” Win said. He had what looked like a Palm Pilot in his hand. It was tracking the car’s GPS. “Our favorite teacher should be arriving now.”

The teachers’ lot was on the west side of the school. Myron and Win walked over. They figured that it would be better to confront him here, outside, before class started.

As they headed over, Myron said, “Guess who stopped by my house at three a.m.?”

“Wink Martindale?”

“No.”

“I love that guy.”

“Who doesn’t? Jessica.”

“I know.”

“How . . .” Then he remembered. He’d called Win’s cell when he heard the click at the door. He’d hung up as they headed down to the kitchen.

Win said, “Did you do her?”

“Yes. Many times. But not in the last seven years.”

“Good one. Pray tell, did she stop by to shag for old times’ sake?”

“ ‘Shag?’ ”

“My Anglo ancestory. Well?”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells. But yes.”

“And you refused?”

“I remain chaste.”

“Your chivalry,” Win said. “Some would call it admirable.”

“But not you.”

“No, I’d call it—and I’m breaking out the big words here so pay attention—really, really moronic.”

“I’m involved with someone else.”

“I see. So you and Miss Six-Point-Eight have promised to shag only one another?”

“It’s not like that. It’s not like one day you turn to the other and say, ‘Hey, let’s not sleep with anybody else.’ ”

“So you didn’t specifically promise?”

“No.”

Win held up both hands, totally lost. “I don’t understand then. Did Jessica have BO or something?”

Win. “Just forget it.”

“Done.”

“Sleeping with her would only complicate things, okay?”

Win just stared.

“What?”

“You’re a very big girl,” Win said.

They walked a little more.

Win said, “Do you still need me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll be in the office then. If there’s trouble, hit the cell.”

Myron nodded as Win headed off. Harry Davis got out of his car. There were clusters of cliques in the lot. Myron shook his head. Nothing changed. The Goths wore only black with silver studs. The Brains had heavy backpacks and dressed in short-sleeved button-down shirts of one hundred percent polyester like a bunch of assistant managers at a chain drugstore convention. The Jocks took up the most space, sitting on car hoods and wearing leather-sleeved varsity jackets, even though it was too hot for them.

Harry Davis had the easy walk and carefree smile of the well-liked. His looks landed him smack in the average category, and he dressed like a high school teacher, which was to say poorly. All the cliques greeted him, which said something. First, the Brains shook his hand and called out, “Hey, Mr. D!”

Mr. D?

Myron stopped. He thought back to Aimee’s yearbook, her favorite teachers: Miss Korty . . .

. . . and Mr. D.

Davis kept moving. The Goths were next. They gave him small waves, much too cool to do more than that. When he approached the Jocks, several offered up high-fives and “Yo, Mr. D!”s.

Harry Davis stopped and started talking to one of the Jocks. The two moved a few feet away from the cluster. The conversation appeared more animated. The jock had a varsity jacket with a football on the back of it and the letters
QB
for
quarterback
on the sleeve. Some of the guys were calling to him. They yelled out, “Hey, Farm.” But the quarterback was focused on the teacher. Myron moved closer for a better look.

“Well, hello,” Myron said to himself.

The boy talking with Harry Davis—Myron could see him clearly now, the soul patch on his chin, the Rastafarian hair—was none other than Randy Wolf.

M
yron considered his next move—let them keep talking or confront them now? He checked his watch. The bell was about to sound. Both Harry Davis and Randy Wolf would probably head inside then, lost to him for the day.

Showtime.

When Myron was about ten feet away from them, Randy spotted him. The boy’s eyes widened with something akin to recognition. Randy stepped away from Harry Davis. Davis turned to see what was going on.

Myron waved. “Hi, guys.”

Both froze as though caught in headlights.

“My father said I shouldn’t talk to you,” Randy said.

“But your father never got to know the real me. I’m actually quite a sweetheart.” Myron waved to the confused teacher. “Hi, Mr. D.”

He was almost on them when he heard a voice behind him.

“That’s far enough.”

Myron turned around. Two cops in full uniform stood in front of them. One was tall and lanky. The other was short with long, dark, curly hair and a bushy mustache. The shorter one looked like he’d just stepped out of a VH1 special on the eighties.

The tall one said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“This is public property. I’m walking on it.”

“Are you smarting off to me?”

“You think that’s smarting off?”

“I’ll ask you again, wise guy. Where do you think you’re going?”

“To class,” Myron said. “There’s a bitch of an algebra final coming up.”

The tall one looked at the short one. Randy Wolf and Harry Davis stared without saying a word. Some of the students began to point and gather. The bell rang. The taller officer said, “Okay, nothing to see here. Break it up, get to class now.”

Myron pointed at Wolf and Davis. “I need to talk to them.”

The taller officer ignored him. “Get to class.” Then looking at Randy, he added: “All of you.”

The crowd thinned and then vanished. Randy Wolf and Harry Davis were gone too. Myron was alone with the two officers.

The tall one came up close to Myron. They were about the same height, but Myron had at least twenty or thirty pounds on him. “You stay away from this school,” he said slowly. “You don’t talk to them. You don’t ask questions.”

Myron thought about that. Don’t ask questions? That was not the kind of thing you say to a suspect. “Don’t ask who questions?”

“Don’t ask anybody anything.”

“That’s pretty vague.”

“You think I should be more specific?”

“That would help, yes.”

“Are you being a smart guy again?”

“Just looking for clarification.”

“Hey, asswipe.” It was the shorter cop with the VH1-eighties look. He took out his nightstick and held it up. “This clarification enough for you?”

Both cops smiled at Myron.

“What’s the matter?” The shorter cop with the bushy mustache was slapping the nightstick against his palm. “Cat got your tongue?”

Myron looked first at the tall cop, then back at the short one with the mustache. Then he said: “Darryl Hall called. He wants to know if the reunion tour is still on.”

That made the smiles vanish.

The taller officer said, “Put your hands behind your back.”

“What, are you going to tell me he doesn’t look like John Oates?”

“Hands behind your back now!”

“Hall and Oates? ‘Sarah Smile’? ‘She’s Gone’?”

“Now!”

“It’s not an insult. Many chicks dug John Oates, I’m sure.”

“Turn around now!”

“Why?”

“I’m cuffing you. We’re taking you in.”

“On what charge?”

“Assault and battery.”

“On whom?”

“Jake Wolf. He told us you trespassed on his residence and attacked him.”

Bingo.

His cop-needling had worked. Now he knew why these guys were on him. It wasn’t about him being a suspect in Aimee’s disappearance. It was the pressure brought upon them by one Big Jake Wolf.

Of course, the plan hadn’t gone perfectly. They were arresting him now.

The John Oates cop snapped on the cuffs, making the obvious move of having them pinch his skin. Myron checked out the taller one. He looked a little nervous now, his eyes darting about. Myron figured that was a good thing.

The shorter one dragged him by the cuffs back to the same gray Chevy that had been tailing him since he’d left his house. He pushed Myron into the backseat, trying to hit his head on the doorframe, but Myron was ready and ducked it. In the front seat, Myron spotted a camera with a telephoto lens, just as Win had said.

Hmm. Two cops taking pictures, following him from his house, stopping him from talking to Randy, cuffing him—Big Jake had some juice.

The taller one stayed outside and paced. This was all going a little too fast for him. Myron decided that he could play that. The short one with the bushy mustache and dark curly hair slid into the seat next to Myron and grinned.

“I really liked ‘Rich Girl,’ ” Myron said to him. “But ‘Private Eyes’—I mean, what was up with that song? ‘Private eyes, they’re watching you.’ I mean, don’t all eyes watch you? Public, private, whatever?”

The short guy’s fuse blew faster than anticipated. He took a swing at Myron’s gut. Myron was still ready. One of the lessons Myron had
learned over the years was how to take a punch. It was crucial if you were going to get into any physical confrontation. In a real fight, you almost always get hit, no matter how good you are. How you reacted psychologically often decided the outcome. If you don’t know what to expect, you shrivel up and cower. You get too defensive. You let the fear conquer you.

If the blow is a headshot, you need to play the angles. Don’t let the punch land square, especially on the nose. Even slight head tilts can help. Instead of four knuckles landing, maybe it will only be two or one. That makes a huge difference. You also have to relax your body, let it go. You should turn away from the strike, literally roll with the punch. When a blow is aimed at your abdomen, especially when your hands are cuffed behind your back, you need to clench the stomach muscles, shift, and bend at the waist so it doesn’t wallop the breadbasket. That was what Myron did.

The blow didn’t hurt much. But Myron, noting the taller guy’s nervousness, put on a performance that would have made De Niro take notes.

“Aarrrggggghhh!”

“Damn, Joe,” the tall one said, “what the hell are you doing?”

“He was making fun of me!”

Myron stayed bent over and faked loss of breath. He wheezed, he retched, he started coughing uncontrollably.

“You hurt him, Joe!”

“I just knocked the wind out of him. He’ll be fine.”

Myron coughed more. He faked like he couldn’t breathe. Then he added convulsions. He rolled back his eyes and started bucking like a fish on the dock.

“Calm down, dammit!”

Myron stuck his tongue out, gagged some more. Somewhere, a casting agent was speed-dialing Scorsese.

“He’s choking!”

“Medicine!” Myron managed.

“What?”

“Can’t breathe!”

“Dammit, get the cuffs off him!”

“Can’t breathe!” Myron gasped and made his body wrack. “Heart medicine! In my car!”

The taller one opened the door. He grabbed the keys from his partner and unlocked the cuffs. Myron kept up with the convulsions and eye rolls.

“Air!”

The tall one was wide-eyed. Myron could see what he was thinking: out of hand. This was getting too out of hand.

“Air!”

The tall one stepped aside. Myron rolled out of the car. He got up and pointed to his car. “Medicine!”

“Go,” the taller one said.

Myron ran to his car. The two officers, dumbfounded, just watched. Myron had expected that. They were just here to scare him off. They had not expected any back talk. They were town cops. The citizens of this happy suburb obeyed them without question. But this guy hadn’t bowed to them. They’d lost their cool and assaulted a man. This could mean huge trouble. They both just wanted it to end. So did Myron. He had learned what he needed to—Big Jake Wolf was scared and trying to hide something.

So when Myron reached his car, he slid into the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, started it up, and simply drove off. He glanced in his rearview mirror. He figured that the odds were on his side, that the two cops would not chase him.

They didn’t. They just stood there.

In fact, they looked relieved to just let him go.

He had to smile. Yep, there was no question about it now.

Myron Bolitar was baaack.