The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (111 page)

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?”

“I 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 gunpoint?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Myron said.

Confusion again. “Then what the hell do you mean?”

“After 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. “I won’t tell.”

At least, not yet.

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 to 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.”

“Why?”

“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 find 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 unknown destination. In fact, I’m supposed to be holding a gun 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 turn 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 of 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.”

“I 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 lifted Esperanza off her feet. She made an oofing noise and folded at the waist like an old wallet. Her body landed on the floor. 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.