Three Harlan Coben Novels Read online

  Once in the elevator, Myron checked his cell phone. Aimee had still not called him back. He tried her number again and was not surprised when it went to voice mail. Enough, he thought. He would just call her house. See what’s what.

  Aimee’s voice came to him: “You promised . . .”

  He dialed Erik and Claire’s home number. Claire answered. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Myron.”

  “Hi.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Not much,” Claire said.

  “I saw Erik this morning”—man, was it really the same day?—“and he told me about Aimee getting accepted to Duke. So I wanted to offer up my congratulations.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Is she there?”

  “No, not right now.”

  “Can I call her later?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Myron changed gears. “Everything okay? You sound a little distracted.”

  He was about to say more but again Aimee’s words—“You promised you wouldn’t tell my parents”—floated down to him.

  “Fine, I guess,” Claire said. “Look, I gotta go. Thanks for writing that recommendation letter.”

  “No big deal.”

  “Very big deal. The kids ranked four and seven in her class both applied and didn’t get in. You were the difference.”

  “I doubt it. Aimee’s a great candidate.”

  “Maybe, but thanks anyway.”

  There was a grumbling noise in the background. Sounded like Erik.

  In his mind, there was Aimee’s voice again: “Things aren’t so great with them right now.” Myron was trying to think of something else to say, a follow-up question maybe, when Claire hung up the phone.

  Loren Muse had landed a fresh homicide case—double homicide, actually, two men shot outside a nightclub in East Orange. Rumor was that the killings were a hit carried out by John “The Ghost” Asselta, a notorious hitman who’d actually been born and raised in the area. Asselta had been quiet for the past few years. If he was back, they were about to be very busy.

  Loren was reviewing the ballistics report when her private line rang. She picked up and said, “Muse.”

  “Guess who?”

  She smiled. “Lance Banner, you old dog. Is that you?”

  “It is.”

  Banner was a police officer in Livingston, New Jersey, the suburb where they’d both grown up.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “You still investigating Katie Rochester’s disappearance?”

  “Not really,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, there’s no evidence of violence. For another, Katie Rochester is over eighteen.”

  “Just barely.”

  “In the eyes of the law, eighteen might as well be eighty. So officially we don’t even have an investigation going on.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “I met with a doctor named Edna Skylar.” She recounted Edna’s story, using almost the same words she’d used when she’d told her boss, county prosecutor Ed Steinberg. Steinberg had sat there for a long while before predictably concluding: “We don’t have the resources to go after such a maybe.”

  When she finished, Banner asked, “How did you get the case in the first place?”

  “Like I said, there was no case, really. She’s of age, no signs of violence, you know the drill. So no one was assigned. Jurisdiction is questionable anyway. But the father, Dominick, he made a lot of noise with the press, you probably saw it, and he knew someone who knows someone, and that led to Steinberg. . . .”

  “And that led to you.”

  “Right. The key word being led. As in past tense.”

  Lance Banner asked, “Do you have ten minutes to spare?”

  “Did you hear about that double homicide in East Orange?”

  “I did.”

  “I’m the lead.”

  “As in the present tense of led?”

  “You got it.”

  “I figured that,” Banner said. “It’s why I’m only asking for ten minutes.”

  “Important?” she asked.

  “Let’s just say”—he stopped, thinking of the word—“very odd.”

  “And it involves Katie Rochester’s disappearance?”

  “Ten minutes max, Loren. That’s all I’m asking for. Heck, I’ll take five.”

  She checked her watch. “When?”

  “I’m in the lobby of your building right now,” he said. “Can you get us a room?”

  “For five minutes? Sheesh, your wife wasn’t kidding about your bedroom stamina.”

  “Dream on, Muse. Hear that ding? I’m stepping into the elevator. Get the room ready.”

  Livingston police detective Lance Banner had a crew cut. He was big with features and a build that made you think of right angles. Loren had known him since elementary school and she still couldn’t get that image out of her head, of what he looked like back then. That’s how it is with kids you grew up with. You always see them as second-graders.

  Loren watched him hesitate when he entered, unsure how to greet her—a kiss on the cheek or a more professional handshake. She took the lead and pulled him toward her and kissed his cheek. They were in an interrogation room, and they both headed for the interrogator seat. Banner pulled up, raised both hands, sat across from her.

  “Maybe you should Mirandize me,” he said.

  “I’ll wait until I have enough for an arrest. So what have you got on Katie Rochester?”

  “No time for chitchat, eh?”

  She just looked at him.

  “Okay, okay, let’s get to it then. Do you know a woman named Claire Biel?”

  “No.”

  “She lives in Livingston,” Banner said. “She would have been Claire Garman when we were kids.”

  “Still no.”

  “She was older than us anyway. Four, five years probably.” He shrugged. “I was just checking.”

  “Uh-huh,” Loren said. “Do me a favor, Lance. Pretend I’m your wife and skip the foreplay.”

  “Fine, here it is. She called me this morning. Claire Biel. Her daughter went out last night and hasn’t come home.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She just turned eighteen.”

  “Any sign of foul play?”

  He made a face suggesting an inner debate. Then: “Not yet.”

  “So?”

  “So normally we wait a little. Like you said on the phone—over eighteen, no signs of violence.”

  “Like with Katie Rochester.”

  “Right.”

  “But?”

  “I know the parents a little. Claire was in school with my older brother. They live in the neighborhood. They’re concerned, of course. But on the face of it, well, you figure the kid is just messing around. She got accepted to college the other day. Made Duke. Her first choice. She goes out partying with her friends. You know what I’m saying.”

  “I do.”

  “But I figure, what’s the harm in doing a little checking, right? So I do the easiest thing. Just to satisfy the parents that their girl—her name is Aimee, by the way—that Aimee is okay.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I ran her credit card number, see if Aimee made any charges or used an ATM.”

  “And?”

  “Sure enough. She took out a thousand dollars, the max, at an ATM machine at two in the morning.”

  “You get the video from the bank?”

  “I did.”

  Loren knew that this was done in seconds now. You didn’t have an old-fashioned tape anymore. The videos are digital and could be e-mailed and downloaded almost instantaneously.

  “It was Aimee,” he said. “No question about it. She didn’t try to hide her face or anything.”

  “So?”

  “So you figure it’s a runaway, right?”

  “Right.”

  “A slam dunk,” he went on. “She took the m
oney and is doing a little partying, whatever. Blowing off steam at the end of her senior year.” Banner looked off.

  “Come on, Lance. What’s the problem?”

  “Katie Rochester.”

  “Because Katie did the same thing? Used an ATM before disappearing?”

  He tilted his head back and forth in a maybe-yes, maybe-no gesture. His eyes were still far away. “It’s not just that she did the same thing as Katie,” he said. “It’s that she did the exact same thing.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “The ATM machine Aimee Biel used was located in Manhattan—more specifically”—he slowed his words now—“at a Citibank on Fifty-second Street and Sixth Avenue.”

  Loren felt the chill begin at the base of her skull and travel south.

  Banner said, “That’s the same one Katie Rochester used, right?”

  She nodded and then she said something truly stupid: “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Could be,” he agreed.

  “You got anything else?”

  “We’re just starting, but we pulled the logs on her cell phone.”

  “And?”

  “She made a phone call right after she took out the money.”

  “To whom?”

  Lance Banner leaned back and crossed his legs. “Do you remember a guy a few years ahead of us—big basketball star named Myron Bolitar?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Down in Miami, Myron dined with Rex Storton, a new client, at some super-huge restaurant Rex had picked out because a lot of people walked by. The restaurant was one of those chains like Bennigans or TGI Fridays or something equally universal and awful.

  Storton was an aging actor, a one-time superstar who was looking for the indie role that would launch him out of Miami’s Loni Anderson Dinner Theater and back into the upper echelon of La-La Land. Rex was resplendent in a pink polo with the collar turned up, white pants that a man his age just shouldn’t involve himself with, and a shiny gray toupee that looked good when you weren’t sitting directly across the table from it.

  For years Myron had represented professional athletes only. When one of his basketball players wanted to cross over and do movies, Myron started meeting actors. A new branch of the business took root, and now he handled the Hollywood clients almost exclusively, leaving the sports management stuff to Esperanza.

  It was strange. As an athlete himself, one would think that Myron would relate more to those in a similar profession. He didn’t. He liked the actors more. Most athletes are singled out right away, at fairly young ages, and elevated to godlike status from the get-go. Athletes are in the lead clique at school. They get invited to all the parties. They nab all the hot girls. Adults fawn. Teachers let them slide.

  Actors are different. Many of them had started out at the opposite end of the spectrum. Athletics rule in most towns. Actors were often the kids who couldn’t make the team and were looking for another activity. They were often too small—ever meet an actor in real life and notice that they’re tiny?—or uncoordinated. So they back into acting. Later, when stardom hits them, they are not used to the treatment. They’re surprised by it. They’re somewhat more appreciative. In many cases—no, not all—it makes them more humble than their athletic counterparts.

  There were other factors, of course. They say that actors take to the stage to fill a void of emptiness only applause can fill. Even if true, it made thespians somewhat more anxious to please. While athletes were used to people doing their bidding and came to believe it was their due in life, actors came to that from a position of insecurity. Athletes need to win. They need to beat you. Actors need only your applause and thus your approval.

  It made them easier to work with.

  Again this was a complete generalization—Myron was an athlete, after all, and did not consider himself difficult—but like most generalizations, there was something to it.

  He told Rex about the indie role as, to quote the pitch, “a geriatric, cross-dressing car thief, but with a heart.” Rex nodded. His eyes continuously scanned the room, as if they were at a cocktail party and he was waiting for someone more important to come in. Rex always kept one eye toward the entrance. This was how it was with actors. Myron repped one guy who was world-renowned for detesting the press. He had battled with photographers. He had sued tabloids. He had demanded his privacy. Yet whenever Myron ate dinner with him, the actor always chose a seat in the center of the room, facing the door, and whenever someone would enter, he’d look up, just for a second, just to make sure he was recognized.

  His eyes still moving, Rex said, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Do I have to wear a dress?”

  “For some scenes, yes.”

  “I’ve done that before.”

  Myron arched an eyebrow.

  “Professionally, I mean. Don’t be a wiseass. And it was tastefully done. The dress must be something tasteful.”

  “So, what, nothing with a plunging neckline?’

  “Funny, Myron. You’re a scream. Speaking of which, do I have to do a screen test?”

  “You do.”

  “Chrissakes, I’ve made eighty films.”

  “I know, Rex.”

  “He can’t look at one of them?”

  Myron shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

  “You like the script?”

  “I do, Rex.”

  “How old is this director?’

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Jesus. I was already a has-been by the time he was born.”

  “They’ll pay for a flight to L.A.”

  “First class?”

  “Coach, but I think I can get you a business upgrade.”

  “Ah, who am I kidding? I’d sit on the wing in only my girdle if the role was right.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  A mother and daughter came over and asked Rex for his autograph. He smiled grandly and puffed out his chest. He looked at the obvious mother and said, “Are you two sisters?”

  She giggled as she left.

  “Another happy customer,” Myron said.

  “I aim to please.”

  A buxom blonde came by for an autograph. Rex kissed her a little too hard. After she sashayed away, Rex held up a piece of paper. “Look.”

  “What is it?”

  “Her phone number.”

  “Terrific.”

  “What can I say, Myron? I love women.”

  Myron looked up and to his right.

  “What?”

  “I’m just wondering,” Myron said, “how your prenup will hold up.”

  “Very funny.”

  They ate some chicken from a deep fryer. Or maybe it was beef or shrimp. Once in the deep fryer, it all tasted the same. Myron could feel Rex’s eyes on him.

  “What?” Myron said.

  “It’s sort of tough to admit this,” Rex said, “but I’m only alive when I’m in the spotlight. I’ve had three wives and four kids. I love them all. I enjoyed my time with them. But the only time I feel really myself is when I’m in the spotlight.”

  Myron said nothing.

  “Does that sound pathetic to you?”

  Myron shrugged.

  “You know what else?”

  “What?”

  “In their heart of hearts, I think most people are like that. They crave fame. They want people to recognize them and stop them on the streets. People say it’s a new thing, what with the reality TV crap. But I think it’s always been that way.”

  Myron studied his pitiful food.

  “You agree?”

  “I don’t know, Rex.”

  “For me, the spotlight has dimmed a touch, you know what I’m saying? It’s faded bit by bit. I was lucky. But I’ve met some one-hit wonders. Man, they’re never happy. Not ever again. But me, with the slow fade, I could get used to it. And even now, people still recognize me. It’s why I eat out every night. Yeah, that’s awful to say, but it’s true. And even now, when I’m in my seventies, I still dream about clawing my way back
to that brightest of spotlights. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I do,” Myron said. “It’s why I love you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re honest about it. Most actors tell me it’s just about the work.”

  Rex made a scoffing noise. “What a load of crap. But it’s not their fault, Myron. Fame is a drug. The most potent. You’re hooked, but you don’t want to admit it.” Rex gave him the twinkly smile that used to melt the girls’ hearts. “And what about you, Myron?”

  “What about me?”

  “Like I said, there’s this spotlight, right? For me it faded slowly. But for you, top college basketball player in the country, on your way to a big pro career . . .”

  Myron waited.

  “. . . and then, flick”—Rex snapped his fingers—“lights out. When you’re only, what, twenty-one, twenty-two?”

  “Twenty-two,” Myron said.

  “So how did you cope? And I love you too, sweetums. So tell me the truth.”

  Myron crossed his legs. He felt his face flush. “Are you enjoying the new show?”

  “What, the dinner theater gig?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s dog crap. It’s worse than stripping on Route 17 in Lodi, New Jersey.”

  “And you know this from personal experience?”

  “Stop trying to change the subject. How did you cope?”

  Myron sighed. “Most would say I coped amazingly well.”

  Rex lifted his palm to the sky and curled his fingers as if to say, Come on, come on.

  “What exactly do you want to know?”

  Rex thought about it. “What did you do first?”

  “After the injury?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rehab. Lots of rehab.”

  “And once you realized that your basketball days were over . . . ?”

  “I went back to law school.”

  “Where?”

  “Harvard.”

  “Very impressive. So you went to law school. Then what?”

  “You know what, Rex. I got my JD, opened up a sports agency, grew into a full-service agency that now represents actors and writers too.” He shrugged.