The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (86 page)

“I assumed he was staying with his friend Matthew,” Linda Coldren replied.

Myron nodded, as if this statement showed brilliant insight. Then nodded again. “Chad told you that?”

“No.”

“So,” he said, aiming for casual, “for the past two days, you didn’t know where your son was.”

“I just told you: I thought he was staying with Matthew.”

“You didn’t call the police.”

“Of course not.”

Myron was about to ask another follow-up question, but her posture made him rethink his words. Linda took advantage of his indecisiveness. She walked to the kitchen with an upright, fluid grace. Myron followed. Bucky seemed to snap out of a trance and trailed.

“Let me make sure I’m following you,” Myron said, approaching from a different angle now. “Chad vanished before the tournament?”

“Correct,” she said. “The Open started Thursday.” Linda Coldren pulled the refrigerator handle. The door opened with a sucking pop. “Why? Is that important?”

“It eliminates a motive,” Myron said.

“What motive?”

“Tampering with the tournament,” Myron said. “If Chad had vanished today—with your husband holding such a big lead—I might think that someone was out to sabotage his chances of winning the Open. But two days ago, before the tournament had begun …”

“No one would have given Jack a snowball’s chance in hell,” she finished for him. “Oddsmakers would have put him at one in five thousand. At best.” She nodded as she spoke, seeing the logic. “Would you like some lemonade?” she asked.

“No, thanks.”

“Dad?”

Bucky shook his head. Linda Coldren bent down into the refrigerator.

“Okay,” Myron said, clapping his hand together, trying his best to sound casual. “We’ve ruled out one possibility. Let’s try another.”

Linda Coldren stopped and watched him. A gallon glass pitcher was gripped in her hand, her forearm bunching easily with the weight. Myron debated how to approach this. There was no easy way.

“Could your son be behind this?” Myron asked.

“What?”

“It’s an obvious question,” Myron said, “under the circumstances.”

She put the pitcher down on a wooden center block. “What the hell are you talking about? You think Chad faked his own kidnapping?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I wanted to check out the possibility.”

“Get out.”

“He was gone two days, and you didn’t call the police,” Myron said. “One possible conclusion is that there was some sort of tension here. That Chad had run away before.”

“Or,” Linda Coldren countered, her hands tightening into fists, “you could conclude that we trusted our son. That we gave him a level of freedom compatible with his level of maturity and responsibility.”

Myron looked over at Bucky. Bucky’s head was lowered. “If that’s the case—”

“That’s the case.”

“But don’t responsible kids tell their parents where they’re going? I mean, just to make sure they don’t worry.”

Linda Coldren took out a glass with too much care. She set it on the counter and slowly poured herself some lemonade. “Chad has learned to be very independent,” she said as the glass filled. “His father and I are both professional golfers. That means, quite frankly, that neither one of us is home very often.”

“Your being away so much,” Myron said. “Has it led to tension?”

Linda Coldren shook her head. “This is useless.”

“I’m just trying—”

“Look, Mr. Bolitar, Chad did not fake this. Yes, he’s a teenager. No, he’s not perfect, and neither are his parents. But he did not fake his own kidnapping. And if he did—I know he didn’t, but let’s just pretend for the sake of argument that he did—then he is safe and we do not need you. If this is some kind of cruel deception, we’ll learn it soon enough. But if my son is in danger, then following this line of thought is a waste of time I can ill afford.”

Myron nodded. She had a point. “I understand,” he said.

“Good.”

“Have you called his friend since you heard from the kidnapper? The one you thought he might’ve been staying with?”

“Matthew Squires, yes.”

“Did Matthew have any idea where he was?”

“None.”

“They’re close friends, right?”

“Yes.”

“Very close?”

She frowned. “Yes, very.”

“Does Matthew call here a lot?”

“Yes. Or they talk by E-mail.”

“I’ll need Matthew’s phone number,” Myron said.

“But I just told you I spoke to him already.”

“Humor me,” Myron said. “Okay, now let’s back up a second. When was the last time you saw Chad?”

“The day he disappeared.”

“What happened?”

She frowned again. “What do you mean, what happened? He left for summer school. I haven’t seen him since.”

Myron studied her. She stopped and looked back at him a little too steadily. Something here was not adding up. “Have you called the school,” he asked, “to see if he was there that day?”

“I didn’t think of it.”

Myron checked his watch. Friday. Five
P.M.
“I doubt anyone will still be there, but give it a shot. Do you have more than one phone line?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t call on the line the kidnapper called in on. I don’t want the line tied up in case he calls back.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Does your son have any credit cards or ATM cards or anything like that?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need a list. And the numbers, if you have them.”

She nodded again.

Myron said, “I’m going to call a friend, see if I can get an override Caller ID put in on this line. For when he calls back. I assume Chad has a computer?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Where is it?”

“Up in his room.”

“I’m going to download everything on it to my office via his modem. I have an assistant named Esperanza. She’ll comb through it and see what she can find.”

“Like what?”

“Frankly I have no idea. E-mails. Correspondence. Bulletin boards he participates in. Anything that might give us a clue. It’s not a very scientific process. You check out enough stuff and maybe something will click.”

Linda thought about it for a moment. “Okay,” she said.

“How about you, Mrs. Coldren? Do you have any enemies?”

She sort of smiled. “I’m the number one–rated woman golfer in the world,” she said. “That gives me a lot of enemies.”

“Anyone you can imagine doing this?”

“No,” she said. “No one.”

“How about your husband? Anybody who hates your husband enough?”

“Jack?” She forced out a chuckle. “Everyone loves Jack.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She just shook her head and waved him off.

Myron asked a few more questions, but there was little left for him to excavate. He asked if he could go up to Chad’s room and she led him up the stairs.

The first thing Myron saw when he opened Chad’s door were the trophies. Lots of them. All golf trophies. The bronze figure on the top was always a man coiled in postswing position, the golf club over his shoulder, his head held high. Sometimes the little man wore a golf cap. Other times he had short, wavy hair like Paul Hornung in old football reels. There were two leather golf bags in the right corner, both jammed past capacity with clubs. Photographs of Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Sam Snead, Tom Watson blanketed the walls. Issues of
Golf Digest
littered the floor.

“Does Chad play golf?” Myron asked.

Linda Coldren just looked at him. Myron met her gaze and nodded sagely.

“My powers of deduction,” he said. “They intimidate some people.”

She almost smiled. Myron the Alleviator, Master Tension-Easer. “I’ll try to still treat you the same,” she said.

Myron stepped toward the trophies. “Is he any good?”

“Very good.” She turned away suddenly and stood with her back to the room. “Do you need anything else?”

“Not right now.”

“I’ll be downstairs.”

She didn’t wait for his blessing.

Myron walked in. He checked the answering machine on Chad’s phone. Three messages. Two from a girl named Becky. From the sound of it, she was a pretty good friend. Just calling to say, like, hi, see if he wanted to, like, do anything this weekend, you know? She and Millie and Suze were going to, like, hang out at the Heritage, okay, and if he wanted to come, well, you know, whatever. Myron smiled. Times they might be a-changin’, but her words could have come from a girl Myron had gone to high school with or his father or his father’s father. Generations cycle in. The music, the movies, the language, the fashion—they change. But that’s just outside stimuli. Beneath the baggy pants or the message-cropped hair, the same adolescent fears and needs and feelings of inadequacy remained frighteningly constant.

The last call was from a guy named Glen. He wanted to know if Chad wanted to play golf at “the Pine” this weekend, being that Merion was off-limits because of the Open. “Daddy,” Glen’s preppy taped voice assured Chad, “can get us a tee time, no prob.”

No messages from Chad’s close buddy Matthew Squires.

He snapped on the computer. Windows 95. Cool. Myron used it too. Chad Coldren, Myron immediately saw, used America Online to get his E-mail. Perfect. Myron hit
FLASHSESSION
. The modem hooked on and screeched for a few seconds. A voice said, “Welcome. You have mail.” Dozens of messages were automatically downloaded. The same voice said, “Good-bye.” Myron checked Chad’s E-mail address book and found Matthew Squires’s E-mail address. He skimmed the downloaded messages. None were from Matthew.

Interesting.

It was, of course, entirely possible that Matthew and Chad were not as close as Linda Coldren thought. It was also entirely
possible that even if they were, Matthew had not contacted his friend since Wednesday—even though his friend had supposedly vanished without warning. It happens.

Still, it was interesting.

Myron picked up Chad’s phone and hit the redial button. Four rings later a taped voice came on. “You’ve reached Matthew. Leave a message or don’t. Up to you.”

Myron hung up without leaving a message (it was, after all, “up to him”). Hmm. Chad’s last call was to Matthew. That could be significant. Or it could have nothing to do with anything. Either way, Myron was quickly getting nowhere.

He picked up Chad’s phone and dialed his office. Esperanza answered on the second ring.

“MB SportsReps.”

“It’s me.” He filled her in. She listened without interrupting.

Esperanza Diaz had worked for MB SportReps since its inception. Ten years ago, when Esperanza was only eighteen years old, she was the Queen of Sunday Morning Cable TV. No, she wasn’t on any infomercial, though her show ran opposite plenty of them, especially that one with the abdominal exerciser that bore a striking resemblance to a medieval instrument of torture; rather, Esperanza had been a professional wrestler named Little Pocahontas, the Sensual Indian Princess. With her petite, lithe figure bedecked in only a suede bikini, Esperanza had been voted FLOW’s (Fabulous Ladies Of Wrestling) most popular wrestler three years running—or, as the award was officially known, the Babe You’d Most Like to Get in a Full Nelson. Despite this, Esperanza remained humble.

When he finished telling her about the kidnapping, Esperanza’s first words were an incredulous, “Win has a mother?”

“Yep.”

Pause. “There goes my spawned-from-a-satanic-egg theory.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Or my hatched-in-an-experiment-gone-very-wrong theory.”

“You’re not helping.”

“What’s to help?” Esperanza replied. “I like Win, you know
that. But the boy is—what’s the official psychiatric term again?—cuckoo.”

“That cuckoo saved your life once,” Myron said.

“Yeah, but you remember how,” she countered.

Myron did. A dark alley. Win’s doctored bullets. Brain matter tossed about like parade confetti. Classic Win. Effective but excessive. Like squashing a bug with a wrecking ball.

Esperanza broke the long silence. “Like I said before,” she began softly, “cuckoo.”

Myron wanted to change the subject. “Any messages?”

“About a million. Nothing that can’t wait, though.” Then she asked, “Have you ever met her?”

“Who?”

“Madonna,” she snapped. “Who do you think? Win’s mother.”

“Once,” Myron said, remembering. More than ten years ago. He and Win had been having dinner at Merion, in fact. Win hadn’t spoken to her on that occasion. But she had spoken to him. The memory made Myron cringe anew.

“Have you told Win about this yet?” she asked.

“Nope. Any advice?”

Esperanza thought a moment. “Do it over the phone,” she said. “At a very safe distance.”

They got a quick break.

Myron was still sitting in the Coldrens’ den with Linda when Esperanza called back. Bucky had gone back to Merion to get Jack.

“The kid’s ATM card was accessed yesterday at 6:18
P.M.
,” Esperanza said. “He took out $180. A First Philadelphia branch on Porter Street in South Philly.”

“Thanks.”

Information like that was not difficult to obtain. Anybody with an account number could pretty much do it with a phone by pretending they were the account holder. Even without one, any semi-human who had ever worked in law enforcement had the contacts or the access numbers or at least the wherewithal to pay off the right person. It didn’t take much anymore, not with today’s overabundance of user-friendly technology. Technology did more than depersonalize; it ripped your life wide open, gutted you, stripped away any pretense of privacy.

A few keystrokes revealed all.

“What is it?” Linda Coldren asked.

He told her.

“It doesn’t necessarily mean what you think,” she said. “The kidnapper could have gotten the PIN number from Chad.”

“Could have,” Myron said.

“But you don’t believe it, do you?”

He shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m more than a little skeptical.”

“Why?”

“The amount, for one thing. What was Chad’s max?”

“Five hundred dollars a day.”

“So why would a kidnapper only take $180?”

Linda Coldren thought a moment. “If he took too much, someone might get suspicious.”