The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (55 page)

Clip hesitated. His breathing was deep, almost labored. “I know something of your years with the FBI,” he said finally. “No details, of course. Not even vagaries really, but enough to know you have a background in this kinda stuff. We want you to find Greg. Quietly.”

Myron said nothing. His “undercover” work for the feds, it seemed, was the worst kept secret in the continental United States. Clip sipped his drink. He looked at Calvin’s full glass, then at Calvin. Calvin finally took a sip. Clip turned his attention back to Myron. “Greg’s divorced now,” Clip went on. “He’s basically a loner. All his friends—hell, all his acquaintances—are teammates. They’re his support group, if you will. His family. If anyone knows where he is—if anyone’s helping him stay hidden—it’s got to be one of the Dragons. I’ll be honest with you. These guys are a major pain in the ass. Spoiled, pampered prima donnas who think our purpose in life is to serve them. But they all have one thing in common: They see management as the enemy. Us against the world and all that crap. They won’t tell us the truth. They won’t tell reporters the truth. And if you approach them as some, uh, ‘parasitic entity,’ they won’t talk to you either. You have to be a player. It’s the only way to get on the inside.”

“So you want me to join the team so I can find Greg.”

Myron heard the echoes of hurt in his voice. It was unintentional, but he saw that both men heard it too. His face flushed in embarrassment.

Clip put a hand on his shoulder. “I meant what I said, Myron. You could have been great. One of the greatest.”

Myron took a deep swig of his Yoo-Hoo. No more sipping. “I’m sorry, Mr. Arnstein. I can’t help you.”

The scowl was back. “What?”

“I have a life. I’m a sports agent. I have clients to tend to. I can’t just drop it all.”

“You’ll get the players’ minimum prorated. That’s two hundred thousand dollars less whatever. And there’s only a couple of weeks left until the playoffs. We’ll keep you on till then no matter what.”

“No. My playing days are over. And I’m not a private investigator.”

“But we need to find him. He could be in danger.”

“I’m sorry. The answer is no.”

Clip smiled. “Suppose I sweeten the pot.”

“No.”

“Fifty-thousand-dollar signing bonus.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Greg could show up tomorrow and you’d still get to keep that. Fifty grand. Plus a share of playoff money.”

“No.”

Clip sat back. He stared at his drink, dipped his finger into it, stirred. His voice was casual. “You say you’re an agent, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m very friendly with the parents of three guys that will go in the first round. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“Suppose,” Clip said slowly, “I guarantee you that one of them signs with you.”

Myron pricked up. A first round draft pick. He tried to keep his expression cool—to do like Frosty—but his heart was thumping. “How can you do that?”

“Don’t worry about how.”

“It doesn’t sound ethical.”

Clip made a scoffing noise. “Myron, don’t play choirboy with me. You do me this favor and MB SportsReps gets a first round draft pick. Guaranteed. No matter how this thing with Greg plays out.”

MB SportsReps. Myron’s company. Myron Bolitar, ergo MB. Representing sports people, ergo SportsReps. Add it together: MB SportsReps. Myron came up with that name on his own but still no offers came in from major advertising companies to use his services.

“Make it a hundred-thousand-dollar signing bonus,” Myron said.

Clip smiled. “You’ve learned well, Myron.”

Myron shrugged.

“Seventy-five thousand,” Clip said. “And you’ll take it so don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

The two men shook hands.

“I have a few more questions about the disappearance,” Myron said.

Using both armrests Clip rose and stood over Myron. “Calvin will answer all your questions,” he said with a nod toward his general manager. “I have to go now.”

“So when do you want me to start practicing?”

Clip looked surprised. “Practicing?”

“Yeah. When do you want me to start?”

“We have a game tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Of course,” Clip said.

“You want me to suit up tonight?”

“We’re playing our old team, the Celtics. Calvin will make sure you have a uniform by game time. Press conference at six to announce your signing. Don’t be late.” Clip headed toward the door. “And wear that tie. I like it.”

“Tonight?” Myron repeated, but Clip was already gone.

Chapter 2

After Clip left the box, Calvin Johnson allowed himself a small smile. “I warned you it would be strange.”

“Serious strange,” Myron agreed.

“Finished with your nutritious chocolate beverage?”

Myron put down the can. “Yeah.”

“Come on. Let’s get you ready for the big debut.”

Calvin Johnson walked fluidly, back straight. He was black, six-foot-eight, thin but not gawky or disproportionate. He wore an olive Brooks Brothers suit. Perfectly tailored. Perfectly knotted tie. Perfectly shined shoes. His tightly kinked hair was receding, making his forehead overly prominent and shiny. When Myron matriculated at Duke, Calvin had been a senior at North Carolina. That made him around thirty-five years old, though he looked older. Calvin had enjoyed a solid pro career over eleven seasons. When he retired three years ago, everyone knew he’d end up in the front office. He started off as an assistant coach, moved to player personnel, and just recently was promoted to vice president and general manager of the New Jersey Dragons. These however were just titles. Clip ran the show. General managers, vice presidents, player personnel, trainers, even coaches all bent to his will.

“I hope you’re all right with this,” Calvin said.

“Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

Calvin shrugged. “I played against you,” he said.

“So?”

“You were the most competitive son of a bitch I ever faced,” Calvin said. “You’d stomp on someone’s head to win. Now you’re going to be a pissant bench-warmer. How’s that going to sit with you?”

“I can handle it,” Myron said.

“Uh huh.”

“I’ve mellowed over the years.”

Calvin shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“No?”

“You may think you’ve mellowed. You may even think you’ve got basketball out of your system.”

“I have.”

Calvin stopped, smiled, spread his arms. “Sure you have. Just look at you. You could be the poster child for life after sports. A fine example to your fellow athletes. Your whole career crashed down around your ears, but you rose to the challenge. You went back to school—at Harvard Law nonetheless. You started up your own business—a growing company in the field of sports representation. You still dating that writer?”

He meant Jessica. Their togetherness seemed to always be an iffy thing but Myron said, “Yes.”

“So you got the education, the job, and the gorgeous girlfriend. Yep, on the outside you’re happy and well adjusted.”

“On the inside too.”

Calvin shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Everyone’s Dr. Joyce Brothers. “Hey, I didn’t ask to be put on the team.”

“No, but you didn’t argue much either—except to up your price.”

“I’m an agent. That’s what I do. I up the price.”

Calvin stopped and looked at Myron. “Do you really think you have to be on the team to find Greg?”

“Clip seemed to think so.”

“Clip is a great man,” Calvin said, “but he often has ulterior motives.”

“Like what?”

Calvin did not respond. He started walking again.

They reached the elevator. Calvin pressed the button and the doors immediately slid open. They stepped inside and began to descend. “Look me in the eye,” Calvin said. “Look me in the eye and tell me you never think about playing again.”

“Who doesn’t
think
about it?” Myron countered.

“Yeah, but tell me you don’t take it one step further. Tell me you never drift off and dream about making a comeback. Even now, when you’re watching a game on TV, tell me you don’t sit there and do a slow burn. Tell me you never watch Greg and think about all the adulation and fame. Tell me you never say, ‘I was better than him,’ because it’s the truth. Greg is great. One of the top ten players in the league. But you were better, Myron. We both know that.”

“Long time ago,” Myron said.

Calvin smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Right.”

“What’s your point?”

“You’re here to find Greg. Once he’s found, you’re gone. The novelty will be over. Clip will be able to say he gave you a chance, but you weren’t up to the challenge. He’ll still be the good guy with the good press.”

“Good press,” Myron repeated, remembering the upcoming press conference. “One of his ulterior motives?”

Calvin shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you understand you don’t have a chance. You’re only going to play during scrub time and we rarely win or lose by a lot so that doesn’t happen and even if it does, even if you play spectacularly, we both know it’s scrub time. And you won’t play well because you are such a competitive son of a bitch, you need the points to mean something to the outcome of the game or you don’t play your best.”

“I understand,” Myron said.

“I hope you do, my friend.” Calvin looked up at the numbered lights. The lights flickered in his brown eyes. “Dreams never die. Sometimes you think they’re dead, but they’re just hibernating like some big old bear. And if the dream has been hibernating for a long time, that bear is going to wake up grumpy and hungry.”

“You should write country songs,” Myron said.

Calvin shook his head. “Just giving a friend fair warning.”

“Much obliged. Now why don’t you tell me what you know about Greg’s disappearance?”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Calvin led the way. “Not much to tell,” he said. “We played against the Sixers in Philly. After the game Greg got on the bus with everybody else. When we got here, he got off the bus with everybody else. The last time anyone saw him he was getting into his car. The end.”

“How did Greg seem that night?”

“Fine. He played well against Philly. Scored twenty-seven points.”

“And his mood?”

Calvin thought about it. “Nothing I noticed,” he said.

“Anything new going on in his life?”

“New?”

“Changes, that kind of thing.”

“Well, the divorce,” Calvin said. “It’s been nasty. I understand Emily can be quite difficult.” He stopped walking again and smiled at Myron. The Cheshire cat smile. Myron stopped but did not return the smile.

“Something on your mind, Frosty?”

The smile spread a bit farther. “Weren’t you and Emily an item at one time?”

“A lifetime ago.”

“College sweethearts, if I recall.”

“Like I said, a lifetime ago.”

“So,” Calvin said, starting to walk again, “you were even better with the women than Greg.”

Myron ignored the comment. “Does Clip know about my so-called past with Emily?”

“He’s very thorough.”

“So that explains why you chose me,” Myron said.

“It was a consideration, but I don’t think it’s too important.”

“Oh?”

“Greg hates Emily. He’d never confide in her. But since this whole custody battle started there’s definitely been a change in Greg.”

“How so?”

“For one thing, he signed a deal with Forte sneakers.”

Myron was surprised. “Greg? An endorsement deal?”

“It’s very hush-hush,” Calvin said. “They’re supposed to announce it end of the month, right before the playoffs.”

Myron whistled. “They must have paid him a bundle.”

“A bundle and a half, I hear. Upwards of ten million a year.”

“Makes sense,” Myron said. “A popular player who has refused to endorse any products for more than a decade—it’s an irresistible draw. Forte does well with track and tennis shoes, but they’re fairly unknown in the basketball world. Greg gives them instant credibility.”

“That he does,” Calvin agreed.

“Any idea why he changed his mind after all these years?”

Calvin shrugged. “Maybe Greg realized he wasn’t getting any younger and wanted to cash in. Maybe this whole divorce thing. Maybe he got whacked on the head and woke up with an iota of sanity.”

“Where’s he been living since the divorce?”

“In the house in Ridgewood. It’s in Bergen County.”

Myron knew it well. He asked for the address. Calvin gave it to him. “What about Emily?” Myron asked. “Where’s she staying?”

“She and the kids are with her mother. I think they’re in Franklin Lakes or thereabouts.”

“Have you done any checking yet—Greg’s house, his credit cards, bank accounts?”

Calvin shook his head. “Clip thought this thing was too big to trust to an agency. That’s why we called you. I’ve driven past Greg’s house a few times, knocked on the door once. No car in the driveway or garage. No lights on.”

“But no one’s checked inside the house?”

“No.”

“So for all you know he slipped in the bathtub and hit his head.”

Calvin looked at him. “I said, no lights on. You think he bathed in the dark?”

“That’s a good point,” Myron said.

“Some hotshot investigator.”

“I’m a slow starter.”

They arrived at the team room. “Wait here,” Calvin said.

Myron took out his cellular. “Mind if I make a call?”

“Go ahead.”

Calvin disappeared behind the door. Myron turned on the power and dialed. Jessica answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“I’m going to have to cancel dinner tonight,” Myron said.

“You better have a good excuse,” Jessica said.

“A great one. I’ll be playing professional basketball for the New Jersey Dragons.”

“That’s nice. Have a good game, dear.”

“I’m serious. I’m playing for the Dragons. Actually, ‘playing’ is probably not the right word. Might be more accurate to say I’ll be getting fanny sores for the Dragons.”

“Are you for real?”

“It’s a long story, but yes, I’m now officially a professional basketball player.”

Silence.

“I’ve never boffed a professional basketball player,” Jessica said. “I’ll be just like Madonna.”

“Like a virgin,” Myron said.

“Wow. Talk about a dated reference.”

“Yeah, well, what can I say. I’m an eighties kinda guy.”

“So, Mr. Eighties, you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“No time now. Tonight. After the game. I’ll leave a ticket at the window.”

Calvin stuck his head back in. “What’s your waist? Thirty-four?”

“Thirty-six. Maybe thirty-seven.”

Calvin nodded and withdrew. Myron dialed the private line of Windsor Horne Lockwood III, president of the prestigious investment firm of Lock-Horne Securities in midtown Manhattan. Win answered on the third ring.

“Articulate,” Win said.

Myron shook his head. “Articulate?”

“I said articulate, not repeat.”

“We have a case,” Myron said.

“Oh yippee,” he drawled in that preppy, Philly Main-Line accent of his. “I’m enthralled. I’m elated. But before I completely wet myself, I must ask but one question.”

“Shoot.”

“Is this case of your customary charity persuasion?”

“Wet away,” Myron said. “The answer is no.”

“What? No moral crusade for brave Myron?”

“Not this time.”

“Heavens be, do tell.”

“Greg Downing is missing. It’s our job to find him.”

“And for services rendered we receive?”

“At least seventy-five grand plus a first round draft pick as a client.” Now was not the time to fill Win in on his temporary career change.

“My, my,” Win said happily. “Pray tell, what shall we do first?”

Myron gave him the address of Greg’s house in Ridgewood. “Meet me there in two hours.”

“I’ll take the Batmobile,” Win said and hung up.

Calvin returned. He held out a purple-and-aqua Dragon uniform. “Try this on.”

Myron did not reach for it right away. He stared at it, his stomach twisting and diving. When he spoke his voice was soft. “Number thirty-four?”

“Yeah,” Calvin said. “Your old number at Duke. I remembered.”

Silence.

Calvin finally broke it. “Go try it on.”

Myron felt something well up in his eye. He shook his head. “No need,” he said. “I’m sure it’s the right size.”