The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (17 page)

The morning papers had no mention of Nancy Serat’s murder, but the radio was beginning to pick up early reports of a murdered woman. Just a question of time. Myron took Route 280 east to the New Jersey Turnpike north. Scenic road. Like driving through west Beirut on a good day. Problem was, people unfairly judged New Jersey by this road. It was like judging a woman’s beauty by the size of her feet.

Billy Joel was on the radio, singing, “I love you just the way you are.” Big talk, Myron mused, when you’ve been married to Christie Brinkley.

Exit 16W led him directly into the Meadowlands parking lot. Murder and intrigue were all well and good, but agenting paid the bills. He had a meeting with Otto Burke. Otto was expecting a response to his demand vis-à-vis Christian’s contract. Myron had prepared one for him.

He had spent the night in Jessica’s hospital room, trying to get comfortable in a chair that doubled as a medieval torture device. But he had not minded. He liked watching her sleep. It brought back memories.
He’d always hoped they’d one day sleep together again, though last night was not precisely what he had had in mind.

Jess had woken up two hours ago. Belligerent. Testy. Demanding. In a word: herself. Before her brother Edward took her home, Myron had told her all he knew—especially about his visit to Lucy’s photo studio. She had given him a photograph of her father to show Lucy. Myron was surprised to see Jessica carried one in her wallet. But he was far more surprised to catch a fleeting glimpse of a picture from four summers ago—a picture she tried to skip past without his seeing. But he had seen it, and he remembered the precise moment it had been taken. Their last weekend in Martha’s Vineyard. Just the two of them. Tan, happy, relaxed. A barbecue at Win’s summer house. The pinnacle before the inevitable slide.

Myron had not had a chance to change clothes. He looked as if he’d spent the evening in the bottom of a laundry hamper.

Otto was waiting for him in the owner’s box on Titans Stadium mezzanine level. Larry Hanson was with him. Otto greeted Myron with a bony handshake and a wide smile. Mr. Sunshine Larry offered a quick wave. He did not meet Myron’s eye. It was no wonder. Larry Hanson was a tough guy, a loud brute even, but he tried to play fair. He didn’t like to cheat, and he did not like what Otto was doing now. He looked, in fact, as if he wanted to blend into the wall.

“Please, Myron,” Otto said, spreading his arms like Carol Merrill on
Let’s Make a Deal
, “sit wherever you like.”

“Always the perfect host, Otto.”

“I do try, Myron. Thank you for noticing.”

“Sarcasm, Otto. It’s called sarcasm.”

Otto kept the smile aglow. His goatee was exactly the
same as always, never heavier or lighter. Must trim it every day, Myron thought. They sat in two seats facing the field. Fifty yard line. Fans would kill for these seats. Down below, players were scattered across the field. Myron spotted Christian walking toward the sideline. His helmet was off, his head held high. Christian didn’t know about Nancy Serat’s murder—her name had not yet been released—but the press would be all over him soon enough. Myron could protect him only so much, though he did entertain hopes that the news of Christian’s signing would deflect some attention away from the murder.

“So,” Otto said with a clap of his hands, “are you ready to sign?”

Down on the field Christian was being introduced to a bunch of long-haired men. Myron recognized the men from a video on MTV. They were Otto Records’ latest find. A group called StillLife. Good sound, but did they have the raw talent, of, say, Pap Smear?

“Sure,” Myron said. “We would like nothing more.”

“Great I have a pen.”

“How handy. I have a contract.” He handed it to Otto. Otto read it quickly. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes frowned. He passed it to Larry Hanson.

“I’m confused, Myron. This looks like your last offer.”

“Very perceptive, Otto.”

“I thought we had an agreement,” he said.

“We do. There it is.”

“I think you’re forgetting”—he paused, searching for the right word—“Christian’s sudden devaluation.”

“You make him sound like a foreign currency.”

Otto laughed. He looked over to Larry as if to say, laugh too. Larry could only muster a smile. “Okay, Myron, I’ll accept that. We are all, to some extent, commodities.
Your client, however, is now trading at a lower rate against the U.S. dollar.”

“Thanks for keeping within the metaphor, Otto, but I don’t see it that way.” Myron looked at Larry Hanson. “How’s his play been, Larry?”

“Well, it’s very early,” Larry said, clearing his throat. “You really can’t tell too much after such a short time period.”

“But if you had to grade him so far?”

Another throat clear. “Let’s just say,” he replied, “that Christian’s play has not been a disappointment.”

“There you go,” Myron said, matching Otto’s smile. “His value has, if anything, increased with his recent on-the-field display. You have now had a tasty morsel of his potential. I don’t see how you could expect us to drop our asking price.”

Otto rose, nodding his head. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the bar. “Care for a drink, Myron?”

“Do you have any Yoo-Hoo?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Nothing, then.”

Otto poured himself a 7-Up. He did not ask Larry Hanson if he wanted anything. “I will admit,” Otto said, “that Christian’s play so far has been impressive, though I must caution you, Myron—and you too, Larry—that there is a big difference between practice and games. Between how an athlete performs in a scrimmage and how he performs in a pressure situation.”

Myron and Larry exchanged a glance. The glance said, Pretentious asshole.

“But let me also add,” Otto continued, “that our product is dependent on more than just performance. If, for example, our team were to win the Super Bowl but
were also involved in a major drug or sex scandal, the overall value of the product may decline.”

“Can you demonstrate that with a graph?” Myron asked. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“It means,” Otto said, “that the photograph in that sleazy publication makes Christian worth less money to us.”

“But it’s not a picture of him.”

“It’s a picture of his fiancée.”

“Ex-fiancée.”

“His fiancée who vanished under mysterious circumstances.”

“Christian and I are willing to take the chance,” Myron said. “It was in a small publication. It hasn’t gotten out so far. We don’t think it will.”

Otto sipped his 7-Up. He seemed to enjoy it, even adding an “aaah” like he was taping a commercial. “But the press might find out.”

“I don’t think so,” Myron said. “I’ve discussed it with Christian. We both feel the same.”

“Then you are both fools.”

The facade had dropped open a crack.

“Now, Otto, that wasn’t very nice.”

The facade slid back up, smooth as an electric car window. “Let me remind you of our previous discussion on this very subject, Myron. See if you can follow this. You were to take our agreement and knock it down by a third. If not, the picture of the au naturel Ms. Culver goes public, thereby ruining your player’s endorsement career.”

“But he didn’t do anything, Otto. It’s only a picture of Kathy Culver.”

“It doesn’t matter. Advertisers do not like the smallest whiff of controversy. Remember this, Myron: In business, appearance is far more important than reality.”

“Appearance versus reality,” Myron said. “That I have to write down.”

Otto took out a contract of his own. “Sign it,” he said. “Now.”

Myron just smiled at him.

“Sign it, Myron. Or I’ll ruin you.”

“I don’t think so, Otto.”

Myron began to unbutton his shirt.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t get excited, Otto. I’m stopping after the third button. Just enough to show you this.” He pointed to the small microphone on his chest.

“What the hell—?”

“It’s a wire, Otto. It leads to a tape recorder stuck in my belt. You can make the picture public, that’s up to you. It may damage Christian, it may not. I, in turn, will make this tape public. I will also sue your sorry ass for any damages Christian may have suffered because of your actions, and I will also see to it that you are arrested for extortion and blackmail.” Myron smiled. “I always wanted to own a record company. Chicks dig that, don’t they, Otto?”

Otto looked at him coolly. “Larry?”

“Yes, Mr. Burke.”

“Take the tape away from him. Forcibly, if necessary.”

Myron looked at Hanson “You’re a big guy, Larry,” Myron said. “And I know you were one of the toughest fullbacks ever to play this game. But if you get out of that chair, I’ll put you in a body cast.”

Larry Hanson merely nodded. Not afraid, but not moving either.

“There are two of us,” Otto urged. “I can call in security guards to help.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Burke.” Larry was almost
smiling. “And I don’t think a few security guards are going to scare him very much. Are they, Myron?”

“Not likely.”

“I think we should sign his contract, Mr. Burke. I think it’s best for all.”

“I’ve even drawn up a press release,” Myron said. “Says how happy Christian is to be playing for such an outstanding and reputable organization as the Titans.”

Otto thought a moment. “If I sign,” he said, “you’ll hand over the tape?”

“Not likely.”

“Why not?”

“You keep the magazine and I keep the tape. Think of it as our own little balance of terror. A throwback to the cold war.”

“But you have my word—”

“Please, Otto, it hurts when I laugh.”

Otto thought a moment. He was shaken but calm. A guy his age doesn’t reach this level without learning to take a few knocks.

“Myron?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t tell you how thrilled the Titans are to have Christian Steele, the quarterback of the future, with us.”

“Just sign right here, Otto.”

“My pleasure, Myron.”

“No, Otto. Mine.”

Otto signed. Myron and Otto shook hands. The deal was done.

“Shall we meet the press jointly, Myron?”

“Sounds wondrous, Otto.”

“There’s a shower downstairs. I’ll make sure you’re provided with shaving equipment, if you like.”

“Very kind of you.”

Otto’s smile was back. The man was never down
long. He picked up the phone. “Christian Steele has been signed,” Otto said. Then, looking back and winking at Myron, he added, “At the highest salary ever given to a rookie.”

Myron winked back and gave him the thumbs up. Lifelong chums. He checked his watch. There would be just enough time to shower and do the press conference before he would have to head back into the city for his meeting with Herman Ache.

He had no idea how he was going to handle the evil Ache brothers. But he was still working on it. Feverishly.

Jessica arrived at the house in Ridgewood at ten o’clock. The doctor had wanted to run some more tests in the morning. Jessica refused. They finally reached a compromise whereby Jessica promised to visit him in his office sometime during the week. Edward had driven her home in silence.

When they arrived, Jessica noted that her mother’s car was not in the driveway. Good. Not in much of a mood to handle a hysterical mother on top of everything else, Jessica had insisted that no one tell her mother about last night’s incident. Mom had enough on her mind. No reason to get her unnecessarily upset.

Jessica headed straight for the study. Her father had been up to something, that much was clear. There were
too many weird happenings for it to have been any other way. He had visited Nancy Serat on the morning of his death. He had skipped out on a medical examiners’ convention in Denver because he hadn’t felt well—something he would never do. He had possibly even purchased nude photographs of Kathy.

You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to realize something was amiss.

She flicked on the track lights, illuminating the room a bit too harshly for her taste. She used the dimmer. Downstairs, Edward was in the kitchen opening the refrigerator.

She began to rifle through her father’s drawers. She had no idea what she was looking for. Perhaps a small box with the words
BIG CLUE
scrawled across the top. That would be nice. She tried not to think about Nancy Serat, about her blue face frozen in terror, but the thought stayed anchored front and center. She thought of more pleasant things, like waking to see Myron folded up in that hospital chair like a contortionist from Le Cirque du Soleil. The image made her smile.

In the file drawer she found a folder marked CMA. Her father’s Merrill Lynch Cash Management Account. She pulled it out. The CMA statement is a financial instrument of great beauty. Everything in one statement—your stocks, bonds, other holdings, checks, Visa card transactions. Jessica had one of her own.

She checked the charges and checks cleared on the most recent statement. Nothing unusual. Problem was, the statement ended three weeks ago. She needed something more recent.

She flipped to the last page. On the bottom in small print it read “You have an alphabetic character in your Merrill Lynch account number. Please use nine-eight-two-three-three-four
as your account access number for CMA-DATA.”

CMA-DATA. The 800 line. She had used it before with her own account, whenever she found a discrepancy. She dialed the number and immediately heard a taped voice say, “Welcome to the Merrill Lynch Financial Service Center. Enter your Merrill Lynch account number or your account access number.”

Jessica entered the number.

“Enter your selection. You may interrupt the dialogue at any time. For your current balance and purchasing power, enter one. For check clearing information, enter two. For most recent funds received, enter three. For most recent Visa transactions, enter six.”

She decided to start with the charges and then look at the checks. She pressed six.

The voice said, “Visa draft for $28.50 is on delay debit as of May twenty-eighth. Visa draft for $14.75 is on delay debit as of May twenty-eighth.”

The machine was not telling her where the charges were coming from. The same would be true for the checks. Knowing just the amounts would do her no good.

“Visa draft for $3,478.44 is on delay debit as of May twenty-seventh.”

She froze. Three thousand dollars? For what? She hung up, hit the redial button, and put in the account access number.

“Enter your selection.”

This time she pressed zero for a customer service representative.

“Good morning,” a pleasant-voiced woman singsonged. “May I help you?”

“Yes, there’s a Visa charge on my account for over
three thousand dollars. I’d like to know where the charge came from.”

“Your account number, please?”

“Nine-eight-two-three-three-four.”

There was some keyboard clacking in the background. “And you are?” the rep asked.

Jessica checked the statement. A joint account, thank God. “Carol Culver,” she said.

“Hold one moment, Mrs. Culver.”

More clacking. “Yes, I have it here. $3,478.44. Eye-Spy Shop in Manhattan.”

Eye-Spy? What the hell was that all about?

“Thank you,” Jessica said.

“Anything else today, Mrs. Culver?”

“Yes. My husband and I have all our records on a personal computer, and I’m afraid the computer has had a disk failure. Can I ask you to give me the most recent checks that have been written against the account?”

“Certainly.”

More clacking. “Check one-nineteen for $295 to Volvo Finance, written on May twenty-fifth.”

Car payment.

“Check one-eighteen for $649 to Getaway Realty, also written on May twenty-fifth.”

Hold the phone. “Did you say Getaway Realty?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Does it say where they’re located?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have that information.”

They went through the rest of the month’s checks. Nothing unusual. Jessica thanked the woman and hung up.

$649 to Getaway Realty? $3,478.44 to Eye-Spy? More and more amiss.

Edward knocked on the door. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He stepped into their father’s study, head lowered.

“I’m sorry about the other day,” Edward said. He blinked several times, his to-die-for eyelashes waving up and down. “About running out like that.”

“It’s okay.”

“You hit a raw nerve,” he said. “Asking all those questions and everything.”

“They need to be asked,” she replied. “I think everything is connected. What happened to Kathy. What happened to Dad. What made Kathy change.”

Edward flinched at the word
change.
Then he shook his head. His T-shirt of the day featured Beavis and Butthead. “You’re wrong,” he said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to her.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Only way to find out is if you tell me.”

“I don’t feel comfortable about it. It’s painful.”

“I’m your sister. You can trust me.”

“We were never very close,” he said bluntly. “Not like you and Kathy.”

“Or you and Kathy,” Jessica said. “But I still love you.”

She waited.

“I don’t know where to begin exactly,” he said. “It started her senior year of high school. You had just moved to Washington. I was at Columbia. I was living off campus with my friend Matt. Remember him?”

“Of course. Kathy dated him for two years.”

“Almost three,” Edward corrected. “Matt and Kathy were like something out of another century. They were together three years, and he never got, well, below the neck. I mean, never. And it wasn’t just from a lack of trying. Matt was as straightlaced as any guy I knew, but that didn’t mean he didn’t push it now and again. But Kathy held him off.”

Jessica nodded, remembering. Kathy had still been confiding in her at that stage.

“Mom loved Matt,” Edward continued. “She thought he was the greatest. She used to invite him over for tea like something out of
The Glass Menagerie.
A gentleman caller sitting on the porch with the youngest daughter. Dad liked him too. Everything seemed to be going well. They planned on getting engaged in another year, married after he graduated, the whole Chevy-and-apple-pie love story. Then one day Kathy called him on the phone and just dumped him. No explanation.

“Matt was shocked. He tried to talk to her, but Kathy wouldn’t see him. I tried to talk to her too, but she just blew me off. Then I started hearing rumors.”

Jessica shifted in her chair. “What kind of rumors?” she asked.

“The kind,” Edward said slowly, “a brother doesn’t like to hear about his sister.”

“Oh.”

“Worse than oh. Guys were trashing her nonstop. Someone had finally found the key to Miss Prude’s chastity belt, they said, and now they couldn’t get it back closed. I even got into a fight. Got the shit beaten out of me protecting Kathy’s honor.” He spat out the word
honor
as though it had an offensive taste.

“She changed at home too. She never went to mass anymore. I thought Mom would have a stroke—you know how she gets about stuff like that.”

Jessica nodded. She knew only too well.

“But she never said a word. Kathy started staying out late. She went to college parties. Some nights she wouldn’t even come home.”

“Didn’t Mom stop her?” Jessica asked.

“She couldn’t, Jess. It was unbelievable. Kathy had spent her entire life in fear of the woman. Now it was
like Kathy had found Kryptonite. Mom couldn’t touch her.”

“What about Dad?”

“He was never as strict as Mom, you know that. He wanted to be everyone’s buddy, not the bad guy. But strangely enough, Kathy grew closer to Dad during all this. He was thrilled by the sudden attention. I think he was afraid if he laid down the law, he’d push her away from him.”

Sounded like her father. “What did you do?” she asked.

“I confronted her.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing really. She wouldn’t deny it or admit it. She would just stand there and smile eerily. She said I didn’t understand, that I was ‘naïve.’ Naïve. Can you believe Kathy could call someone else naïve?”

Jessica thought a minute. “But none of that explains what started it, what made her change in the first place.”

Edward opened his mouth, stopped. He spread his hands, then dropped them back to his sides as though they were too heavy to hold up. His voice was barely audible “Something with Mom,” he said.

“What with Mom?”

“I don’t know. I think maybe Mom does. Kathy became withdrawn from you and me. But she still loved us. It was Mom who got the brunt of it.”

Jessica leaned back in her father’s chair, considering his last comment. “I knew Kathy had changed the last couple of years, but I had no idea …” Her voice sort of faded away.

“But it ended, Jess. You have to remember that.”

“What ended?” she asked.

“This stage Kathy went through. That’s why I don’t
think it’s related to her disappearance. By the time she disappeared, it was all in the past.”

“What do you mean, in the past?”

“She changed back. Oh, I don’t mean she started going to mass every Sunday or became buddies with Mom. But whatever had twisted her out of shape had finally let go. She was regaining her old self. I think Christian had a lot to do with that. I think he helped bring her back from the edge. The slutty behavior certainly stopped. So did the drugs, the drinking, the partying. Other things too. The smile even came back a little.”

Jessica remembered Kathy’s school transcript. The terrible grades in her senior year and the beginning of college. Then the sudden turnabout back toward excellence that had started her second semester freshman year—when she met Christian. It added up with what Edward was saying.

So was the past irrelevant? Was this period of her life, as Edward had insisted, all behind her? Perhaps. But Jessica doubted it. If it were truly dead and buried, why was her picture now appearing in a pornographic magazine? And that of course led to the central question in all this:

What had made Kathy change in the first place?

Jessica still did not know. But she now had a pretty good idea who might.