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  The Final Detail

  ( Myron Bolitar - 6 )

  Harlan Coben

  From the award-winning author of One False Move comes Harlan Coben's most mesmerizing and emotionally charged novel to date.Myron Bolitar, sports agent and reluctant sleuth, is happily basking in the sun of the Caribbean, clearing his head with a woman he hardly knows, when Win, his loyal but morally questionable sidekick, arrives to tell him that Esperanza, Myron's partner at MB SportsReps and best friend, has been arrested for the murder of Clu Haid, a fallen baseball star and Bolitar client.Myron returns to the city immediately to prove Esperanza's innocence. But she isn't speaking. And neither is her lawyer, except to say that Myron and Win should keep their distance lest they hurt her case. But he is determined to help her, even against her own wishes--because, for Myron, this one is personal.As he plunges into his most difficult and bizarre case yet, Myron finds himself scouring the strangest angles: a transsexual nightclub, a Yankee owner with a long-lost daughter, a dubious drug test, an impossible murder scene, and a computer disk with the image of a disintegrating girl. And as he tries to unearth a killer amid a tangled trail of lies, Myron's own investigation points to only one other suspect: himself . . . as this spellbinding novel twists, jolts, and careens toward its dazzling finish.

  The Final Detail

  Myron 6

  Harlan Coben

  Chapter 1

  Myron lay sprawled next to a knee-knockingly gorgeous brunette clad only in a Class-B-felony bikini, a tropical drink sans umbrella in one hand, the aqua clear Caribbean water lapping at his feet, the sand a dazzling white powder, the sky a pure blue that could only be God's blank canvas, the sun as soothing and rich as a Swedish masseur with a snifter of cognac, and he was intensely miserable.

  The two of them had been on this island paradise for, he guessed, three weeks. Myron had not bothered counting the days. Neither, he imagined, had Terese. The island seemed as remote as Gilligan's no phone, some lights, no motorcar, plenty of luxury, not much like Robinson Crusoe, and well, not as primitive as can be either. Myron shook his head. You can take the boy out of the television, but you can't take the television out of the boy.

  At the horizon's midway point, slicing toward them and ripping a seam of white in the aqua-blue fabric, came the yacht. Myron saw it, and his stomach clenched.

  He did not know where they were exactly, though the island did indeed have a name: St. Bacchanals. Yes, for real. It was a small patch of planet, owned by one of those mega-cruise lines that used one side of the island for passengers to swim and barbecue and enjoy a day on their own personal island paradise. Personal. Just them and the other twenty-five hundred turistas squeezed onto a short stretch of beach. Yep, personal, bacchanal like.

  This side of the island, however, was quite different. There was only this one home, owned by the cruise line's CEO, a hybrid between a thatched hut and a plantation manor. The only person within a mile was a servant. Total island population: maybe thirty, all of whom worked as caretakers hired by the cruise line.

  The yacht shut off its engine and drifted closer.

  Terese Collins lowered her Bolle sunglasses and frowned. In three weeks no vessel except the mammoth cruise liners they had subtle names like the Sensation or the Ecstasy or the G Spot had ambled past their stretch of sand.

  Did you tell anybody where we were? she asked.

  No.

  Maybe it's John.

  John was the aforementioned CEO of said cruise line, a friend of Terese's.

  I don't think so, Myron said.

  Myron had first met Terese Collins, well, a little more than three weeks ago. Terese was on leave from her high-profile job as prime-time anchorwoman for CNN. They both had been bullied into going to some charity function by well-meaning friends and had been immediately drawn to each other as though their mutual misery and pain were magnetic. It started as little more than a dare: Drop everything and flee. Just disappear with someone you found attractive and barely knew. Neither backed down, and twelve hours later they were in St. Maarten. Twenty-four hours after that they were here.

  For Myron, a man who had slept with a total of four women in his entire life, who had never really experienced one-night stands even in the days when they were fashionable or ostensibly disease-free, who had never had sex purely for the physical sensation and without the anchors of love or commitment, the decision to flee felt surprisingly right.

  He had told no one where he was going or for how long mostly because he didn't have a clue himself. He'd called Mom and Dad and told them not to worry, a move tantamount to telling them to grow gills and breathe underwater. He'd sent Esperanza a fax and gave her power of attorney over MB SportsReps, the sports agency they now partnered. He had not even called Win.

  Terese was watching him. You know who it is.

  Myron said nothing. His heartbeat sped up.

  The yacht came closer. A cabin door in the front opened, and as Myron feared, Win stepped but on deck. Panic squeezed the air out of him. Win was not one for casual drop-bys. If he was here,

  it meant something was very wrong.

  Myron stood. He was still too far to yell, so he settled for a wave. Win gave a small nod.

  Wait a second, Terese said. Isn't that the guy whose family owns Lock-Horne Securities?

  Yes.

  I interviewed him once. When the market plunged. He has some long, pompous name.

  Windsor Home Lockwood the third, Myron said.

  Right. Weird guy.

  She should only know.

  Good-looking as all hell, Terese continued, in that old-money, country-club, born-with-asilver-golf-club-in-his-hands kinda, way.

  As though on cue, Win put a hand through the blond locks and smiled.

  You two have something in common, Myron said.

  What's that?

  You both think he's good-looking as all hell.

  Terese studied Myron's face. You're going back. There was a hint of apprehension in her

  voice.

  Myron nodded. Win wouldn't have come otherwise.

  She took his hand. It was the first tender moment between them in the three weeks since the

  charity ball. That might sound strange lovers alone on an island, the sex constant, who had never shared a gentle kiss or a light stroke or soft words but their relationship had been about forgetting and surviving: two desperate souls standing in the rubble with no interest in trying to rebuild a damn thing.

  Terese had spent most days taking long walks by herself; he'd spent them sitting on the beach and exercising and sometimes reading. They met up for food, sleep, and sex. Other than that, they left each other alone to if not heal at least stave off the blood flow. He could see that she too had been shattered, that some recent tragedy had struck her deep and hard and to the bone. But he never asked her what had happened. And she never asked him either.

  An unspoken rule of their little folly.

  The yacht stopped and dropped anchor. Win stepped down onto a motorized dinghy. Myron waited. He shifted his feet, bracing himself. When the dinghy was close enough to the shore, Win snapped off the motor.

  My parents? Myron called out.

  Win shook his head. They're fine.

  Esperanza?

  Slight hesitation. She needs your help.

  Win stepped gingerly into the water, almost as though he expected it to hold his weight. He was dressed in a white button-down oxford and Lilly Pulitzfer shorts with colors loud enough to repel sharks. The Yacht Yuppie. His build was on the slight side, but his forearms looked like steel snakes coiling beneath the skin.

  Terese stood as Win approached. Win admired the view without ogling. He was one of the few men Myron knew who could get a
way with that. Breeding. He took Terese's hand and smiled. They exchanged pleasantries. Fake smiles and pointless bandies followed. Myron stood frozen, not listening. Terese excused herself and headed to the house.

  Win carefully watched her saunter away. Then he said, Quality derriFre.

  Would you be referring to me? Myron asked.

  Win kept his eyes keenly focused on the, er, target. On television she's always sitting behind that anchor desk, he noted. One would never guess that she had such a high-quality derriFre. He shook his head. It's a shame really.

  Right, Myron said. Maybe she should stand a couple times during each broadcast. Twirl around a few times, bend over, something like that.

  There you go. Win risked a quick glance at Myron. Take any action snapshots, perhaps a videotape?

  No, that would be you, Myron said, or maybe an extra-perverse rock star.

  Shame.

  Yeah, shame, I got that. Quality derrifere? So what's wrong with Esperanza?

  Terese finally disappeared through the front door. Win sighed softly and turned toward Myron.

  The yacht will take half an hour to refuel. We'll leave then. Mind if I sit?

  What happened, Win?

  He did not answer, choosing instead to sit on a chaise longue and ease back. He put his hands

  behind his head and crossed his ankles. Til say this for you. When you decide to wig out, you

  do it in style.

  I didn't wig out. I just needed a break.

  Uh-hmm. Win looked off, and a realization smacked Myron in the head: He had hurt Win's

  feelings. wStrange but probably true. Win might be a blue-blooded, aristocratic sociopath, but

  hey, he was still human, sort of. The two men had been inseparable since college, yet Myron had

  run off without even calling. In many ways Win had no one else.

  I meant to call you, Myron said weakly.

  Win kept still.

  But I knew if there was a problem, you'd be able to find me. That was true. Win could find a

  Hoffa needle in a Judge Crater haystack.

  Win waved a hand. Whatever.

  So what's wrong with Esperanza?

  Clu Haid.

  Myron's first client, a right-handed relief pitcher in the twilight of his career. What about him?

  He's dead, Win said.

  Myron felt his legs buckle a bit. He let himself land on the chaise.

  Shot three times in his own abode.

  Myron lowered his head. I thought he'd straightened himself out.

  Win said nothing.

  So what does Esperanza have to do with this?

  Win looked at his watch. Right about now, he said, she is in all likelihood being arrested for

  his murder.

  What?

  Win said nothing again. He hated to repeat himself.

  They think Esperanza killed him?

  Good to see your vacation hasn't dulled your sharp powers of deduction. Win tilted his face

  toward the sun.

  What sort of evidenpe do they have?

  The murder weapon, for one. Bloodstains. Fibers. Do you have any sunblock?

  But how ? Myron studied his friend's face. As usual, it gave away nothing. Did she do it?

  I have no idea.

  Did you ask her?

  Esperanza does not wish to speak with me.

  What?

  She does not wish to speak with you either.

  I don't understand, Myron said. Esperanza wouldn't kill anyone.

  You're quite sure about that, are you? Myron swallowed. He had thought that his recent experience would help him understand Win better. Win had killed too. Often, in fact. Now that Myron had done likewise, he thought that there would be a fresh bond. But there wasn't. Just the opposite, in fact. Their shared experienced was opening a whole new chasm.

  Win checked his watch. Why don't you go get packed?

  There's nothing I need to bring.

  Win motioned to the house. Terese stood there, watching them silently. Then say good-bye to

  La Derriere and let's be on our way.

  Chapter 2

  Terese had put on a robe. She leaned against the doorway and waited.

  Myron was not sure what to say. He settled for Thank you.

  She nodded.

  Do you want to come along? he asked.

  No.

  You can't stay here forever.

  Why not?

  Myron thought about it for a moment. You know anything about boxing?

  Terese sniffed the air. Do I detect the distinct odor of an upcoming sports metaphor?

  I'm afraid so, he said.

  Ugh. Go on.

  This whole thing is sort of like a boxing match, Myron began. We've been ducking and

  diving and weaving and trying to keep away from our opponent. But we can only do that for so

  long. Eventually we have to throw a punch.

  She made a face. Christ, that was lame.

  Spur of the moment.

  And inaccurate, she added. Try this. We've tasted our opponent's power. It dropped us to the

  canvas. Somehow we managed to get back to our feet. But our legs are still rubbery, and our

  eyes are still hazed over. Another big blow and the fight will be over. Better to keep dancing.

  Better to avoid getting hit and hope to go the distance.

  Hard to argue.

  They fell into silence.

  Myron said, If you come up to New York, give me a call and

  Right.

  Silence.

  We know what would happen, Terese said. We'd meet up for drinks, maybe hop back in the

  sack, but it won't be the same. We'll both be uncomfortable as all hell. We'll pretend that we'll

  get together again, and we won't even exchange Christmas cards. We're not lovers, Myron. We're

  not even friends. I don't know what the hell we are, but I'm grateful.

  A bird cawed. The small waves hummed their soft song. Win stood by the shore, his arms crossed, his body frighteningly patient.

  Have a good life, Myron.

  You too, he replied.

  He and Win took the dinghy to the yacht. A crew member offered Myron his hand. Myron grabbed it and hoisted himself on board. The yacht took off. Myron stood on the deck and watched the shore grow smaller. He was leaning on a teakwood rail. Teakwood. Everything on this vessel was dark and rich and teak.

  Here, Win said.

  Myron turned. Win tossed him a Yoo-Hoo, Myron's favorite drink, kind of a cross between a soda pop and chocolate milk. Myron smiled. I haven't had one of these in three weeks.

  The withdrawal pains, Win said. They must have been agony.

  No TV and no Yoo-Hoo. It's a wonder I survived.

  Yes, you practically lived like a monk, Win said. Then, looking back at the island, he added, Well, like a monk who gets laid a lot.

  They were both stalling.

  How long until we get back? Myron asked.

  Eight hours on the boat, Win said. A chartered jet is waiting at St. Bart's. The flight should take about four hours.

  Myron nodded. He shook the can and popped it. He took a deep swig and turned back toward the water.

  I'm sorry, he said.

  Win ignored the statement. Or maybe it was enough for him. The yacht picked up speed. Myron closed his eyes and let the water and gentle spray caress his face. He thought a moment about Clu Haid. Clu hadn't trusted agents a small step below pedophile was how he put it so he asked Myron to negotiate his contract, even though Myron was merely a first-year student at Harvard Law. Myron did it. He liked it. And MB SportsReps soon followed.

  Clu was a lovable screwup. He unapologetically pursued wine, women, and song not to mention any high he could get his hands/nose/veins on. Clu never met a party he didn't like. He was a redheaded big guy with a teddy bear gut, handsome in a boyish way, an almost oldfashioned cad, and immensely charming. Everyone loved Clu. Even Bonnie, h
is long-suffering wife. Their marriage was a boomerang. She'd throw him out, he'd spin in the air for a while, and then she'd catch him on the return.

  Clu had seemed to be slowing down a bit. After all the times Myron had gotten him out of trouble drug suspensions, drunk driving charges, whatever Clu had gone puffy, reached the end of his charm reign. The Yankees had traded for him, putting him on strict probation, giving him one last chance at redemption. Clu had stayed in rehab for the first time. He'd been attending

  the AA meetings. His fastball was back up in the nineties.

  Win interrupted his thoughts. Do you want to hear what happened?

  I'm not sure, Myron said.

  Oh?

  I screwed up last time. You warned me, but I didn't listen. A lot of people died because of me.

  Myron felt the tears come to his eyes. He pushed them back down. You have no idea how bad it

  ended.

  Myron?

  He turned to his friend. Their eyes met.

  Get over yourself, Win said.

  Myron made a noise one part sob, two parts chuckle. I hate when you coddle me.

  Perhaps you would prefer it if I served up some useless platitudes, Win said. He swirled his

  liquor and tasted a bit. Please select one of the following and then we'll move on: Life is hard; life is cruel; life is random; sometimes good people are forced to do bad things; sometimes innocent people die; yes, Myron, you screwed up, but you'll do better this time; no, Myron, you didn't screw up, it wasn't your fault; everyone has a breaking point and now you know yours. Can I stop now?

  Please.

  Then let us begin with Clu Haid.

  Myron nodded, took another swig of Yoo-Hoo, emptied the can.

  Everything seemed to be going swimmingly for our old college chum, Win said. He was

  pitching well. Domestic bliss seemed to reign. He was passing his drug tests. He was making curfew with hours to spare. That all changed two weeks ago when a surprise drug test produced a positive result.

  For what?

  Heroin.

  Myron shook his head.

  Clu kept his mouth shut to the media, Win said, but privately he claimed the test was fixed.

  That someone had tampered with his food or some such nonsense.