The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (12 page)

As soon as Myron entered the Reston University campus, his car phone rang.

“Listen, putz, I got what you want,” P.T. said. “My friend’s name is Jake Courter. He’s the town sheriff.”

“Sheriff Jake,” Myron said. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Hey, don’t let the title fool you. Jake used to work homicide in Philly, Boston, and New York. Good man. He said he’d meet with you today at three.”

Myron checked his watch. It was one o’clock now. The station was five minutes away. “Thanks, P.T.”

“Can I ask you something, Myron?”

“Shoot.”

“Why you looking into this?”

“It’s a long story, P.T.”

“This have to do with her sister? That great piece of tail you used to nail?” He cackled.

“You’re all class, P.T.”

“Hey, Myron, I want to hear about it sometime. The whole story.”

“It’s a promise.”

Myron parked the car and headed into the old athletic center. The corridor was a bit more beaten up than Myron had expected. Three rows of framed photographs of past athletic teams—some from as far back as a hundred years ago—lined the walls. Myron approached a beaded-glass door that looked like something out of an old Sam
Spade film. The word
FOOTBALL
was stenciled in black. He knocked.

The voice was like an old tire on an unpaved road. “What?”

Myron stuck his head. “Busy, Coach?”

Reston University football coach Danny Clarke looked up from his computer. “Who the hell are you?” he rasped.

“Fine, thanks. But let’s dispense with the pleasantries.”

“That supposed to be funny?”

Myron tilted his head. “You didn’t think so?”

“I’ll ask one more time: Who the hell are you?”

“Myron Bolitar.”

The coach’s scowl did not change. “Am I supposed to know you?”

It was a hot summer day, the campus was practically empty, and here sat the school’s legendary football coach wearing a suit and tie, watching videotapes of high school prospects. A suit and tie and no air conditioning. If the heat bothered Danny Clarke, it didn’t show. Everything about him was well groomed and tidy. He was shelling and eating peanuts, but no mess was visible. His jaw muscles bunched as he chewed, making little knobs appear and disappear near his ears. He had a prominent vein in his forehead.

“I’m a sports agent.”

He flicked his eyes away like a ruler dismissing an underling. “Get out of here. I’m busy.”

“We need to talk.”

“Out of here, asshole. Now.”

“I just—”

“Listen up, shithead.” He pointed a coach finger at Myron. “I don’t talk to bottom-feeders. Ever. I run a clean program with clean players. I don’t take payoffs
from so-called agents or any of that bullshit. So if you got an envelope stuffed with green, you can go shove it up your ass.”

Myron clapped. “Beautiful. I laughed, I cried, it became a part of me.”

Danny Clarke looked up sharply. He wasn’t used to having his orders questioned, but part of him seemed almost amused by it. “Get the hell out of here,” he growled, but more gently now. He turned back to the television. On the screen a young quarterback threw a long, tight spiral. Caught. Touchdown.

Myron decided to disarm him with tact. “The kid looks pretty good,” he said.

“Yeah, well, it’s a good thing you’re a scum-sucking leech and not a scout. The kid can’t play a lick. Now take a hike.”

“I want to talk to you about Christian Steele.”

That got his attention. “What about him?”

“I’m his agent.”

“Oh,” Danny Clarke said. “Now I remember. You’re the old basketball player. The one who hurt his knee.”

“At your service,” Myron said.

“Is Christian okay?”

Myron tried to look noncommittal. “I understand he didn’t get along with his teammates.”

“So? You his social coordinator?”

“What was the problem?”

“I can’t see how it matters now,” he said.

“Then humor me.”

It took the coach some time to relax his glare. “It was a lot of things,” he said. “But I guess Horty was the main problem.”

“Horty?” Clever interrogation techniques. Pay attention.

“Junior Horton,” he explained. “A defensive lineman.
Good speed, good size, good talent. The brains of a citrus beverage.”

“So what does this Horty have to do with Christian?”

“They didn’t see eye to eye.”

“How come?”

Danny Clarke thought a moment. “I don’t know. Something to do with that girl who disappeared.”

“Kathy Culver?”

“Right. Her.”

“What about her?”

He turned back to the VCR and changed tapes. Then he typed something on his computer. “I think maybe she dated Horty before Christian. Something like that.”

“So what happened?”

“Horty was a bad apple from the get-go. In his senior year I found out he was pushing drugs to my players: cocaine, dope, Lord knows what else. So I bounced him. Later, I heard he’d been supplying the guys with steroids for three years.”

Later my ass, Myron thought. But for once he kept the thought to himself. “So what does this have to do with Christian?”

“Rumors started circulating that Christian had gotten Horty thrown off the team. Horty fueled them, you know, telling the guys that Christian was turning them all in for using steroids, stuff like that.”

“Was that true?”

“Nope. Two of my best players showed up game day so stoned, they could barely see. That’s when I took action. Christian had nothing to do with it. But you know how it is. They all figured Christian was the star. If he wanted his ass wiped, the coaches asked Charmin or Downy.”

“Did you tell your guys Christian had nothing to do with it?”

He made a face. “You think that would have helped? They would have thought I was covering for him, protecting him. They would have hated him even more. As long as it didn’t affect their play—and it didn’t—it was not my concern. I just let it be.”

“You’re a real character developer, Coach.”

He gave Myron his best intimidate-the-freshman glare. The forehead vein started pulsing. “You’re out of line, Bolitar.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I care about my boys.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You let Horty stay as long as he pumped your boys with dangerous albeit play-enhancing drugs. When he graduated to the big leagues—to the stuff that had a negative on-the-field impact—all of a sudden you became a righteous drug czar.”

“I don’t have to listen to this bullshit,” Danny Clarke ranted. “Especially from a no-good, bloodsucking vampire. Get the hell out of my office. Now.”

Myron said, “You want to catch a movie together sometime? Maybe a Broadway show?”

“Out!”

Myron left. Another day, another friend. Charm was the key.

He had plenty of time to kill before he visited Sheriff Jake, so he decided to take a stroll. The campus was like a ghost town, except no tumbleweeds were skittering along the ground. The students were gone for summer break. The buildings stood lifeless and sad. In the distance a stereo was playing Elvis Costello. Two girls appeared. Co-ed types wearing crotch-riding shorts and halter tops. They were walking a hairy, little dog—a Shih Tzu. It looked like Cousin It after one too many spins in the dryer. Myron smiled and nodded as the girls
passed him. Neither one fainted or disrobed. Astonishing. The little dog, however, snarled at him. Cujo.

He was nearly at his car when he spotted the sign:

He stopped, looked around the grounds, saw nobody. Hmm. It was worth a try.

The inside of the post office was painted institutional green, the same color as the school bathroom. A long V-shaped corridor was wallpapered with p.o. boxes. He heard the distant sound of a radio. He couldn’t make out the song, just a strong, monotonous bass beat.

Myron approached the mail window. A kid sat with his feet up. The music was coming from the kid’s ears. He was listening to one of those Walkman clones with the minispeakers that bypass the ears and plug directly into the cerebrum. His black high-tops rested on a desk, his baseball hat tipped down like a sombrero at siesta time. There was a book on his lap. Philip Roth’s
Operation Shylock.

“Good book,” Myron said.

The kid did not look up.

“Good book,” Myron said again, this time yelling.

The kid pulled the speakers out of his ears with a sucking pop. He was pale and red-haired. When he took off his hat, his hair was Afro-wild. Bernie from
Room 222.

“What?”

“I said, good book.”

“You read it?”

Myron nodded. “Without moving my lips.”

The kid stood. He was tall and lanky.

“You play basketball?” Myron asked.

“Yeah,” the kid said. “Just finished my freshman year. Didn’t play much.”

“I’m Myron Bolitar.”

The kid looked at him blankly.

“I played ball for Duke.”

Blink, blink.

“No autographs, please.”

“How long ago did you play?” the kid asked.

“Graduated ten years ago.”

“Oh,” the kid replied, as though that explained everything. Myron did some quick math in his head. The kid had been seven or eight when Myron won the national title. He suddenly felt very old.

“We used peach baskets back then.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Can I ask you a few questions?”

The kid shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“How often are you on duty in the post office?”

“Five days a week in the summer, nine to five.”

“Is it always this quiet?”

“This time of year, yeah. No students, so there’s almost no mail.”

“Do you do the mail sorting?”

“Sure.”

“Do you do pick-ups?”

“Pick-ups?”

“Campus mail.”

“Yeah, but there’s only that slot by the front door.”

“That’s the only campus mailbox?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Been getting a lot of campus mail lately?”

“Next to none. Three, four letters a day.”

“Do you know Christian Steele?”

“Heard of him,” the kid said. “Who hasn’t?”

“He got a big manila envelope in his box a few days
ago. There was no postmark, so it had to be mailed from campus.”

“Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

“Did you see who mailed it?” Myron asked.

“No,” the kid said. “But they were the only pieces of mail I got that whole day.”

Myron cocked his head. “They?”

“What?”

“You said ‘they.’ They were the only pieces.’ ”

“Right. Two big envelopes. Exact same except for the address.”

“Do you remember who the other one was addressed to?”

“Sure,” the kid said. “Harrison Gordon. He’s the dean of students.”

Nancy Serat dropped her suitcase on the floor and rewound the answering machine. The tape raced back, shrieking all the way. She had spent the weekend in Cancún, a final vacation before starting her fellowship at Reston University, her alma mater.

The first message was from her mother.

“I don’t want to disturb you on vacation, dear. But I thought you’d want to know that Kathy Culver’s father died yesterday. He was stabbed by a mugger. Awful. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know. Give us a call
when you get back in. Your father and I want to take you out to dinner for your birthday.”

Nancy’s legs felt weak. She collapsed into the chair, barely hearing the next two messages—one from her dentist’s office reminding her of a teeth cleaning on Friday, the other from a friend planning a party.

Adam Culver was dead. She couldn’t believe it. Her mother had said it was a mugger. Nancy wondered. Was it really random? Or did it have something to do with his visit on …?

She calculated the days.

Kathy’s father had visited on the day he died.

A voice on the machine jarred her back to the present.

“Hello, Nancy. This is Jessica Culver, Kathy’s sister. When you get in, please give me a call. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. I’m staying with my mom. The number here is 555-1477. It’s kind of important. Thank you.”

Nancy suddenly felt very cold. She listened to the rest of the messages. Then she sat without moving for several minutes, debating her options. Kathy was dead—or so everyone believed. And now her father, hours after talking to Nancy, was dead too.

What did it mean?

She remained very still, the only sound her own breaths coming in short, hitching gasps. Then she picked up the phone and dialed Jessica’s number.

    The dean’s office was closed, so Myron proceeded straight to his house. It was an old Victorian with cedar shingles on the west end of the campus. He rang the doorbell. A very attractive woman opened the door. She smiled solicitously.

“May I help you?”

She wore a tailored cream suit. She was not young,
but she had a grace and beauty and sex appeal that made Myron’s mouth a little dry. In front of such a lady Myron wanted to remove his hat, except he wasn’t wearing one.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m looking for Dean Gordon. My name is Myron Bolitar, and—”

“The basketball player?” she interrupted. “Of course. I should have recognized you right away.”

To grace, beauty, and sex appeal, add knowledge of basketball.

“I remember watching you in the NCAAs,” she continued. “I cheered you all the way.”

“Thank you—”

“When you got hurt—” She stopped, shook the head attached to the Audrey Hepburn neck. “I cried. I felt like a part of me was hurt too.”

Grace, beauty, sex appeal, basketball knowledge, and alas, sensitivity. She was also long-legged and curvy. All in all, a nice package.

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Myron.”

Even his first name sounded good coming from those lips. “And you must be Dean Gordon’s wife. The lovely dean-nessa.”

She laughed at the Woody Allen rip-off. “Yes, I’m Madelaine Gordon. And no, my husband is not home at the moment.”

“Are you expecting him soon?”

She smiled as though the question were a double entendre. Then she gave him a look that flushed his cheeks. “No,” she said slowly. “He won’t be home for hours.”

Heavy accent on the word
hours.

“Well then, I won’t bother you anymore.”

“It’s no bother.”

“I’ll come by another time,” he said.

Madelaine (he liked that name) nodded demurely. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“Nice meeting you.” With Myron, every line was a lady-slayer.

“Nice meeting you too,” she singsonged. “Good-bye, Myron.”

The door closed slowly, teasingly. He stood there for another moment, took a few deep breaths, and hurried back to his car. Whew.

He checked his watch. Time to meet Sheriff Jake.

    Jake Courter was alone in the station, which looked like something out of Mayberry RFD. Except Jake was black. There were never any blacks in Mayberry. Or Green Acres. Or any of those places. No Jews, Latinos, Asians, ethnics of any kind. Would have been a nice touch. Maybe have a Greek diner or a guy named Abdul working for Sam Drucker at the grocery store.

Myron estimated Jake to be in his mid-fifties. He was in plainclothes, his jacket off, his tie loosened. A big gut spilled forward like something that belonged to someone else. Manila files were scattered across Jake’s desk, along with the remnants of what might be a sandwich and an apple core. Jake gave a tired shrug and wiped his nose with what looked like a dishrag.

“Got a call,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m supposed to help you out.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Myron said.

Jake leaned back and put his feet on the desk. “You played ball against my son. Gerard. Michigan State.”

“Sure,” Myron said, “I remember him. Tough kid. Monster on the boards. Defensive specialist.”

Jake nodded proudly. “That’s him. Couldn’t shoot worth a lick, but you always knew he was there.”

“An enforcer,” Myron added.

“Yep. He’s a cop now. In New York. Made detective second grade already. Good cop.”

“Like his old man.”

Jake smiled. “Yeah.”

“Give him my regards,” Myron said. “Better yet, give him an elbow to the rib cage. I still owe him a few.”

Jake threw back his head and laughed. “That’s Gerard. Finesse was never his forte.” He blew his nose into the dishrag. “But I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to talk basketball.”

“No, I guess not.”

“So why don’t you tell me what this is all about, Myron?”

“The Kathy Culver case,” he said. “I’m looking into it. Very surreptitiously.”

“Surreptitiously,” Jake repeated with a raised eyebrow. “Awfully big word, Myron.”

“I’ve been listening to self-improvement tapes in the car.”

“That right?” Jake blew his nose again. Sounded like a ewe’s mating call. “So what’s your interest in this—aside from the fact that you represent Christian Steele and you used to have a thing for Kathy’s sister.”

Myron said, “You’re thorough.”

He took a bite out of the half-eaten sandwich on his desk, smiled. “Man does love to be flattered.”

“It’s like you said. Christian Steele. He’s a client. I’m trying to help him out.”

Jake studied him, waiting again. It was an old trick. Stay silent long enough, and the witness would start talking again, elaborating. Myron did not bite.

After a full minute had passed Jake said, “So let me get this straight. Christian Steele signs on with you. One day you start chatting. He says, ‘You know, Myron, the way you been licking my lily-white ass and all, I’d like
you to go play Dick Fuckin’ Tracy and find my old squeeze who’s been missing for the last year and a half and the cops and feds can’t find.’ That how it went, Myron?”

“Christian doesn’t curse,” Myron said.

“Okay, fine, you want to skip the dance? Let’s skip it. You want me to give, you have to give back.”

“That’s fair enough,” Myron said. “But I can’t. Not yet, anyhow.”

“Why not?”

“It could hurt a lot of people,” Myron said. “And it’s probably nothing.”

He made a face. “What do you mean, hurt?”

“I can’t elaborate.”

“Fuck you can’t.”

“I’m telling you, Jake. I can’t say anything.”

Jake studied him again. “Let me tell you something, Bolitar. I’m no glory hound. I’m like my son was on the court. Not flashy but a workhorse. I don’t look for clippings so I can climb up the ladder. I’m fifty-three years old. My ladder don’t go no higher. Now this may seem a bit old-fashioned to you, but I believe in justice. I like to see truth prevail. I’ve lived with Kathy Culver’s disappearance for eighteen months. I know her inside and out. And I have no idea what happened that night.”

“What do you think happened?” Myron asked.

Jake picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. “Best guess based on the evidence?”

Myron nodded.

“She’s a runaway.”

Myron was surprised. “What makes you say that?”

A slow smile spread across Jake’s face. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“P.T. said you would help.”

Jake shrugged and took another bite from yet another
sandwich scrap. “What about Kathy’s sister? I understand you two were pretty heavy.”

“We’re friends now.”

Jake gave a low whistle. “I’ve seen her on TV,” he said. “Hard to be friends with a woman who looks like that.”

“You’re a real nineties guy, Jake.”

“Yeah, well, I forgot to renew my subscription to
Cosmo
.”

They stared at each other for a while. Jake settled back in his chair and examined his fingernails. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Myron said. “From the beginning.”

Jake folded his arms across his chest. He took a deep breath and let it loose slowly. “Campus security got a call from Kathy Culver’s roommate, Nancy Serat. Kathy and Nancy lived in the Psi Omega sorority house. Nice house. All pretty white girls with blond hair and white teeth. Kind that all look alike and sound alike. You get the picture.”

Myron nodded. He noticed that Jake was not reading or even consulting a file. This was coming from memory.

“Nancy Serat told the rent-a-cop that Kathy Culver hadn’t returned to her room for three days.”

“Why did Nancy wait so long to call?” Myron asked.

“Seems Kathy wasn’t spending too many nights in the sorority house anyhow. She slept in your client’s room most of the time. You know, the one who doesn’t like to curse.” Brief smile. “Anyhow, your boy and Nancy got to talking one day, both figuring Kathy had been spending all her time with the other. That’s when they realized she was missing and called campus security.

“Campus security told us about it, but no one got
very excited at first. A co-ed missing for a few days is hardly an earth-shattering event. But then one of the rent-a-cops found the panties on top of a waste bin, and well, you know what happened then. The story spread like a grease stain on Elvis’s pillow.”

“I read there was blood on the panties,” Myron said.

“A media exaggeration. There was a bloodstain, dry, probably from a menstrual cycle. We typed it. B negative. Same type as Kathy Culver’s. But there was also semen. Enough antibodies for a DNA and blood test.”

“Did you have any suspects?”

“Only one,” Jake said. “Your boy, Christian Steele.”

“Why him?”

“Usual reasons. He was the boyfriend. She was on her way to see him when she vanished. Nothing very specific or damaging. But the DNA test on the semen cleared him.” He opened a small refrigerator behind him. “Want a Coke?”

“No, thanks.”

Jake grabbed a can and snapped it open. “Here’s what you probably read in the papers,” he continued. “Kathy is at a sorority cocktail party. She has a drink or two, nothing serious, leaves at ten
P.M.
to meet Christian, and disappears. End of story. But now let me fill it in a little.”

Myron leaned forward. Jake took a swig of Coke and wiped his mouth with a forearm the size of an oak trunk.

“According to several of her sorority sisters,” he said, “Kathy was distracted. Not herself. We also know she got a phone call a few minutes before she left the house. She told Nancy Serat the call was from Christian and she was going to meet him. Christian denies making the call. These were all intracampus calls, so there is no way for us to tell. But the roommate says Kathy sounded
strained on the phone, not like she was talking to her true love, Mr. Clean-Mouth.

“Kathy hung up the phone and went back downstairs with Nancy. Then she posed for the now-famous last photograph before leaving for good.”

He opened his desk drawer and handed Myron the photograph. Myron had, of course, seen it countless times before. Every media outlet in the country had run the photograph with morbid fascination. A picture of twelve sorority sisters. Kathy stood second from the left. She wore a blue sweater and skirt. Pearls adorned her neck. Very preppy. According to Kathy’s sorority sisters, Kathy left the house alone immediately after the picture was taken. She never returned.

“Okay,” Jake said, “so she leaves the cocktail party. Only one person saw her for sure after that.”

“Who?” Myron asked.

“Team trainer. Guy named Tony Gardola. He saw her, strangely enough, entering the team’s locker room around quarter after ten. The locker room was supposed to be empty at that hour. Only reason Tony was there was that he forgot something. He asked her what she was doing there, and she said she was meeting Christian. Tony figured what the hell, kids today. Might be having a kinky locker-room encounter. Tony decided it was in his best interest not to ask too many questions.

“That’s our last
firm
report on her whereabouts. We have a possible sighting of her on the western edge of campus at around eleven
P.M.
Someone saw a blond woman wearing a blue sweater and skirt. It was too dark to make a positive ID. The witness said he wouldn’t have even noticed, except she seemed in a rush. Not running but doing one of those quick-walks.”

“Where on the western edge of campus?” Myron asked.

Jake opened a file and took out a map, still studying Myron’s face as though it held a clue. He spread the map out and pointed. “Here,” he said. “In front of Miliken Hall.”

“What’s Miliken Hall?” Myron asked.

“Math building. Locked tight by nine o’clock. But the witness said she was moving west.”

Myron’s eyes traced a path to the west. There were four other buildings labeled
FACULTY HOUSING
. Myron remembered the spot.

It was where Dean Gordon lived.

“What is it?” Jake asked.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, Bolitar. You see something.”

“It’s nothing.”

Jake’s eyebrows furrowed. “Fine. You want to play it that way? Then get the fuck out. I still got my ace in the hole, and I ain’t showing it.”

Myron had planned for this. Jake Courter would have to be given something. That was fine, as long as Myron could turn it to his advantage.