The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (106 page)

Francine Rennart’s face slid closed like a car window. “How do you know that?”

“The Rusty Nail. And I’m a huge golf fan. A real duffer, but I follow it like some people follow the Bible.” He was flailing, but maybe he was getting somewhere. “Your husband caddied Jack Coldren, right? A long time ago. We talked about it a bit.”

She swallowed hard. “What did he say?”

“Say?”

“About being a caddie.”

“Oh, not much. We mostly talked about some of our favorite golfers. Nicklaus, Trevino, Palmer. Some great courses. Merion mostly.”

“No,” she said.

“Ma’am?”

Her voice was firm. “Lloyd never talked about golf.”

Scoop Bolitar steps in it in a big way.

Francine Rennart skewered him with her eyes. “You can’t be from the insurance company. I didn’t even try to make a claim.” She pondered that for a moment. Then: “Wait a second. You said you’re a sports writer. That’s why you’re here. Jack Coldren is making a comeback, so you want to do a where-are-they-now story.”

Myron shook his head. Shame flushed his face. Enough, he thought. He took a few deep breaths and said, “No.”

“Then who are you?”

“My name is Myron Bolitar. I’m a sports agent.”

She was confused now. “What do you want with me?”

He searched for the words, but they all sounded lame. “I’m not
sure. It’s probably nothing, a complete waste of time. You’re right. Jack Coldren is making a comeback. But it’s like … it’s like the past is haunting him. Terrible things are happening to him and his family. And I just thought—”

“Thought what?” she snapped. “That Lloyd came back from the dead to claim vengeance?”

“Did he want vengeance?”

“What happened at Merion,” she said. “It was a long time ago. Before I met him.”

“Was he over it?”

Francine Rennart thought about that for a while. “It took a long time,” she said at last. “Lloyd couldn’t get any golf work after what happened. Jack Coldren was still the fair-haired boy and no one wanted to cross him. Lloyd lost all his friends. He started drinking too much.” She hesitated. “There was an accident.”

Myron stayed still, watching Francine Rennart draw breaths.

“He lost control of his car.” Her voice was robot-like now. “It slammed into another car. In Narberth. Near where he used to live.” She stopped and then looked at him. “His first wife died on impact.”

Myron felt a chill rush through him. “I didn’t know,” he said softly.

“It was a long time ago, Mr. Bolitar. We met not long after that. We fell in love. He stopped drinking. He bought the tavern right away—I know, I know, it sounds weird. An alcoholic owning a bar. But for him, it worked. We bought this house too. I—I thought everything was okay.”

Myron waited a beat. Then he asked, “Did your husband give Jack Coldren the wrong club on purpose?”

The question did not seem to surprise her. She plucked at the buttons on her blouse and took her time before answering. “The truth is, I don’t know. He never talked about this incident. Not even with me. But there was something there. It may have been guilt, I don’t know.” She smoothed her skirt with both hands. “But all of this is irrelevant, Mr. Bolitar. Even if Lloyd did harbor ill feelings toward Jack, he’s dead.”

Myron tried to think of a tactful way of asking, but none came to him. “Did they find his body, Mrs. Rennart?”

His words landed like a heavyweight’s hook. “It—it was a deep crevasse,” Francine Rennart stammered. “There was no way … the police said they couldn’t send anyone down there. It was too dangerous. But Lloyd couldn’t have survived. He wrote a note. He left his clothes there. I still have his passport.…” Her voice faded away.

Myron nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I understand.”

But as he showed himself out, he was pretty sure that he understood nothing.

Tito the Crusty Nazi never showed at the Parker Inn.

Myron sat in a car across the street. As usual, he hated surveillance. Boredom didn’t set in this time, but the devastated face of Francine Rennart kept haunting him. He wondered about the long-term effects of his visit. The woman had been privately dealing with her grief, locking her private demons in a back closet, and then Myron had gone and blown the hinges off the door. He had tried to comfort her. But in the end what could he say?

Closing time. Still no sign of Tito. His two buddies—Beneath and Escape—were another matter. They’d arrived at ten-thirty. At one
A.M.
they both exited. Escape was on crutches—the aftertaste, Myron was sure, of the nasty side kick to the knee. Myron smiled. It was a small victory, but you take them where you can.

Beneath had his arm slung around a woman’s neck. She had a dye job from the planet Bad Bottle and basically looked like the type of woman who might go for a tattoo-infested skinhead—or to say the same thing in a slightly different way, she looked like a regular on the
Jerry Springer
show.

Both men stopped to urinate on the outside wall. Beneath actually kept his arm around the girl while emptying his bladder.
Jesus. So many men peed on that wall that Myron wondered if there was a bathroom inside. The two men broke off. Beneath got into the passenger side of a Ford Mustang. Bad Bleach drove. Escape hobbled onto his own chariot, a motorcycle of some kind. He strapped the crutches onto the side. The two vehicles drove off in separate directions.

Myron decided to follow Escape. When in doubt, tail the one that’s lame.

He kept far back and remained extra careful. Better to lose him than risk in the slightest way the possibility of being spotted. But the tail didn’t last long. Three blocks down the road, Escape parked and headed into a shabby excuse for a house. The paint was peeling off in flakes the size of manhole covers. One of the support columns on the front porch had completely given way, so the front lip of the roof looked like it’d been ripped in half by some giant. The two upstairs windows were shattered like a drunk’s eyes. The only possible reason that this dump hadn’t been condemned was that the building inspector had not been able to stop laughing long enough to write up a summons.

Okay, so now what?

He waited an hour for something to happen. Nothing did. He had seen a bedroom light go on and off. That was it. The whole night was fast turning into a complete waste of time.

So what should he do?

He had no answer. So he changed the question around a bit.

What would Win do?

Win would weigh the risks. Win would realize that the situation was desperate, that a sixteen-year-old boy’s finger had been chopped off like a bothersome thread. Rescuing him imminently was paramount.

Myron nodded to himself. Time to play Win.

He got out of the car. Making sure he kept out of sight, Myron circled around to the back of the dump. The yard was bathed in darkness. He trampled through grass long enough to hide Viet Cong, occasionally stumbling across a cement block or rake or a garbage can top. His shin got whacked twice; Myron had to bite down expletives.

The back door was boarded up with plywood. The window to its left, however, was open. Myron looked inside. Dark. He carefully climbed into the kitchen.

The smell of spoilage assaulted his nostrils. Flies buzzed about. For a moment, Myron feared that he might find a dead body, but this stink was different, more like the odor of a Dumpster at a 7-Eleven than anything in the rotting flesh family. He checked the other rooms, walking on tiptoes, avoiding the several spots on the floor where there was no floor. No sign of a kidnap victim. No sixteen-year-old boy tied up. No one at all. Myron followed the snoring to the room he had seen the light in earlier. Escape was on his back. Asleep. Without a care.

That was about to change.

Myron leapt into the air and landed hard on Escape’s bad knee. Escape’s eyes widened. His mouth opened in a scream that Myron cut off with a snap punch in the mouth. He moved quickly, straddling Escape’s chest with his knees. He put his gun against the punk’s cheek.

“Scream and die,” Myron said.

Escape’s eyes stayed wide. Blood trickled out of his mouth. He did not scream. Still, Myron was disappointed in himself. Scream and die? He couldn’t come up with anything better than scream and die?

“Where is Chad Coldren?”

“Who?”

Myron jammed the gun barrel into the bleeding mouth. It hit teeth and nearly gagged the man. “Wrong answer.”

Escape stayed silent. The punk was brave. Or maybe, just maybe, he couldn’t talk because Myron had stuck a gun in his mouth. Smooth move, Bolitar. Keeping his face firm, Myron slowly slid the barrel out.

“Where is Chad Coldren?”

Escape gasped, caught his breath. “I swear to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Give me your hand.”

“What?”

“Give me your hand.”

Escape lifted his hand into view. Myron grabbed the wrist, turned it, and plucked out the middle finger. He curled it inward and flattened the folded digit against the palm. The kid bucked in pain. “I don’t need a knife,” Myron said. “I can just grind it into splinters.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the kid managed. “I swear!”

Myron squeezed a little harder. He did not want the bone to snap. Escape bucked some more. Smile a little, Myron thought. That’s how Win does it. He has just a hint of a smile. Not much. You want your victim to think you are capable of anything, that you are completely cold, that you might even enjoy it. But you don’t want him thinking you are a complete lunatic, out of control, a nut who would hurt you no matter what. Mine that middle ground.

“Please …”

“Where is Chad Coldren?”

“Look, I was there, okay? When he jumped you. Tit said he’d give me a hundred bucks. But I don’t know no Chad Coldren.”

“Where is Tit?” That name again.

“At his crib, I guess. I don’t know.”

Crib? The neo-Nazi was using dated urban street lingo. Life’s ironies. “Doesn’t Tito usually hang out with you guys at the Parker Inn?”

“Yeah, but he never showed.”

“Was he supposed to?”

“I guess. It’s not like we talk about it.”

Myron nodded. “Where does he live?”

“Mountainside Drive. Right down the street. Third house on the left after you make the turn.”

“If you’re lying to me, I will come back here and slice your eyes out.”

“I ain’t lying. Mountainside Drive.”

Myron pointed at the swastika tattoo with the barrel of the gun. “Why do you have this?”

“What?”

“The swastika, moron.”

“I’m proud of my race, that’s why.”

“You want to put all the ‘kikes’ in gas chambers? Kill all the ‘niggers’?”

“That ain’t what we’re about,” he said. More confidence in his voice now that he was on well-rehearsed ground. “We’re for the white man. We’re tired of being overrun by niggers. We’re sick of being trampled on by the Jews.”

Myron nodded. “Well, by this Jew anyway,” he said. In life, you take satisfaction where you can. “You know what duct tape is?”

“Yeah.”

“Gee, and I thought all neo-Nazis were dumb. Where is yours?”

Escape’s eyes kinda narrowed. Like he was actually thinking. You could almost hear rusty gears churning. Then: “I don’t have none.”

“Too bad. I was going to use it to tie you up, so you couldn’t warn Tito. But if you don’t have any, I’ll just have to shoot both your kneecaps.”

“Wait!”

Myron used up almost the entire roll.

Tito was in the driver’s seat of his pickup truck with the monster wheels.

He was also dead.

Two shots in the head, probably from very close range. Very bloody. There wasn’t much of a head left anymore. Poor Tito. No head to match his no ass. Myron didn’t laugh. Then again, gallows humor was not his forte.

Myron remained calm, probably because he was still in Win mode. No lights were on in the house. Tito’s keys were still in the ignition. Myron took them and unlocked the front door. His search confirmed what he’d already guessed: No one was there.

Now what?

Ignoring the blood and brain matter, Myron went back to the truck and did a thorough search. Talk about not his forte. Myron reclicked the Win icon. Just protoplasm, he told himself. Just
hemoglobin and platelets and enzymes and other stuff he’d forgotten since ninth-grade biology. The blocking worked enough to allow him to dig his hands under the seats and into the cushion crevices. His fingers located lots of crud. Old sandwiches. Wrappers from Wendy’s. Crumbs of various shapes and sizes.

Fingernail clippings.

Myron looked at the dead body and shook his head. A little late for a scolding, but what the hell.

Then he hit pay dirt.

It was gold. It had a golf insignia on it. The initials
C.B.C
. were engraved lightly on the inside—Chad Buckwell Coldren.

It was a ring.

Myron’s first thought was that Chad Coldren had cleverly taken it off and left it behind as a clue. Like in a movie. The young man was sending a message. If Myron was playing his part correctly he would shake his head, toss the ring in the air, and mutter admiringly, “Smart kid.”

Myron’s second thought, however, was far more sobering.

The severed finger in Linda Coldren’s car had been the ring finger.

What to do?

Should he contact the police? Just leave? Make an anonymous call? What?

Myron had no idea. He had to think first and foremost of Chad Coldren. What risk would calling the police put the kid in?

No idea.

Christ, what a mess. He wasn’t even supposed to be involved in this anymore. He was supposed to have—should have—stayed out. But now the proverbial doo-doo was hitting a plethora of proverbial fans. What should he do about finding a dead body? And what about Escape? Myron couldn’t just leave him tied and gagged indefinitely. Suppose he vomited into the duct tape, for chrissake?

Okay, Myron, think. First, you should not—repeat, not—call the police. Someone else will discover the body. Or maybe he should make an anonymous call from a pay phone. That might work. But don’t the police tape all incoming calls nowadays? They’d have his voice on tape. He could change it maybe. The rhythm and tempo. Make the tone a little deeper. Add an accent
or something. Oh, right, like Meryl Streep. Tell the dispatcher to hurry because “the dingo’s got ma baby.”