The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (113 page)

Victoria Wilson sighed and turned away. “Go home, Myron. I’ll call you if anything new turns up.”

It was time to face Win.

Myron rehearsed several possible approaches in the car. None felt right, but that really did not matter much. Win was his friend. When the time came, Myron would deliver the message and Win would adhere to it or not.

The trickier question was, of course, should the message be delivered at all? Myron knew that repression was unhealthy and all that—but did anybody really want to risk unbottling Win’s suppressed rage?

The cell phone rang. Myron picked it up. It was Tad Crispin.

“I need your help,” Tad said.

“What’s up?”

“The media keep hounding me for a comment. I’m not sure what to say.”

“Nothing,” Myron told him. “Say nothing.”

“Yeah, okay, but it’s not that easy. Learner Shelton—he’s the Commissioner of the USGA—called me twice. He wants to have a big trophy ceremony tomorrow. Name me U.S. Open champion. I’m not sure what to do.”

Smart kid, Myron thought. He knows that if this is handled poorly it could seriously wound him. “Tad?”

“Yes?”

“Are you hiring me?” Business was still business. Agenting was not charity work.

“Yeah, Myron, you’re hired.”

“Okay then, listen up. There’ll be details to work out first. Percentages, that kinda thing. Most of it is fairly standard.” Kidnapping, limb-severing, murder—nothing stopped the almighty agent from trying to turn a buck. “In the meantime, say nothing. I’ll have a car come by to pick you up in a couple of hours. The driver will call up to your room before he gets there. Go straight to the car and say nothing. No matter what the press yells at you, keep silent. Do not smile or wave. Look grim. A man has just been murdered. The driver will bring you to Win’s estate. We’ll discuss strategy then.”

“Thanks, Myron.”

“No, Tad, thank you.”

Profiting from a murder. Myron had never felt so much like a real agent in all his life.

The media had set up camp outside Win’s estate.

“I’ve hired extra guards for the evening,” Win explained, empty brandy snifter in hand. “If anybody approaches the gate, they’ve been instructed to shoot to kill.”

“I appreciate that.”

Win gave a quick head bow. He poured some Grand Marnier into the snifter. Myron grabbed a Yoo-Hoo from the fridge. The two men sat.

“Jessica called,” Win said.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t she call me on the cellular?”

“She wanted to speak with me,” Win said.

“Oh.” Myron shook his Yoo-Hoo, just like the side of the can said. SHAKE! IT’S GREAT! Life is poetry. “What about?”

“She was worried about you,” Win said.

“Why?”

“For one thing, Jessica claimed that you left a cryptic message on the answering machine.”

“Did she tell you what I said?”

“No. Just that your voice sounded strained.”

“I told her that I loved her. That I’d always love her.”

Win took a sip and nodded as though that explained everything.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Win said.

“No, tell me. What?”

Win put down the snifter and steepled his fingers. “Who were you trying to convince?” he asked. “Her or you?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Bouncing the fingers now instead of steepling. “Nothing.”

“You know how much I love Jessica.”

“Indeed I do,” Win said.

“You know what I’ve gone through to get her back.”

“Indeed I do.”

“I still don’t get it,” Myron said. “That’s why Jess called you? Because my voice sounded strained?”

“Not entirely, no. She’d heard about Jack Coldren’s murder. Naturally, she was upset. She asked me to watch your back.”

“What did you tell her?”

“No.”

Silence.

Win lifted the snifter in the air. He swirled around the liquid and inhaled deeply. “So what did you wish to discuss with me?”

“I met your mother today.”

Win took a slow sip. He let the liquid roll over his tongue, his eyes studying the bottom of the glass. After he swallowed, he said, “Pretend I just gasped in surprise.”

“She wanted me to give you a message.”

A small smile came to Win’s lips. “I assume that dear ma-ma told you what happened.”

“Yes.”

A bigger smile now. “So now you know it all, eh, Myron?”

“No.”

“Oh come, come, don’t make it so easy. Give me some of that pop psychology you’re so fond of expounding. An eight-year-old boy witnessing his grunting mother on all fours with another man—surely that scarred me emotionally. Can we not trace back everything I’ve become to that one dastardly moment? Isn’t this episode the reason why I treat women the way I do, why I build an emotional fortress around myself, why I choose fists where others choose words? Come now, Myron. You must have considered all this. Tell me all. I am sure it will all be oh-so-insightful.”

Myron waited a beat. “I’m not here to analyze you, Win.”

“No?”

“No.”

Win’s eyes hardened. “Then wipe that pity off your face.”

“It’s not pity,” Myron said. “It’s concern.”

“Oh please.”

“It may have happened twenty-five years ago, but it had to hurt. Maybe it didn’t shape you. Maybe you would have ended up the exact same person you are today. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

Win relaxed his jaw. He picked up the snifter. It was empty. He poured himself more. “I no longer wish to discuss this,” he said. “You know now why I want nothing to do with Jack Coldren or my mother. Let us move on.”

“There’s still the matter of her message.”

“Ah, yes, the message,” Win repeated. “You are aware, are you not, that dear ma-ma still sends me presents on my birthday and assorted holidays?”

Myron nodded. They had never discussed it. But he knew.

“I return them unopened,” Win said. He took another sip. “I think I will do the same with this message.”

“She’s dying, Win. Cancer. She has maybe a week or two.”

“I know.”

Myron sat back. His throat felt dry.

“Is that the entire message?”

“She wanted you to know that it’s your last chance to talk to her,” Myron said.

“Well, yes, that’s true. It would be very difficult for us to chat after she’s dead.”

Myron was flailing now. “She’s not expecting any kind of big reconciliation. But if there are any issues you want to resolve …” Myron stopped. He was being redundant and obvious now. Win hated that.

“That’s it?” Win asked. “That’s your big message?”

Myron nodded.

“Fine, then. I’m going to order some Chinese. I hope that will be suitable with you.”

Win rose from his seat and strolled toward the kitchen.

“You claim it didn’t change you,” Myron said. “But before that day, did you love her?”

Win’s face was a stone. “Who says I don’t love her now?”

The driver brought Tad Crispin in through the back entrance.

Win and Myron had been watching television. A commercial came on for Scope. A married couple in bed woke up and turned their heads in disgust. Morning breath, the voice-over informed them. You need Scope. Scope cures morning breath.

Myron said, “So would, say, brushing your teeth?”

Win nodded.

Myron opened the door and led Tad into the living room. Tad sat on a couch across from Myron and Win. He glanced about, his eyes searching for a spot to settle on but not having any luck. He smiled weakly.

“Would you care for a beverage?” Win asked. “A croissant or a Pop Tart perhaps?” The Host with the Most.

“No, thank you.” Another weak smile.

Myron leaned forward. “Tad, tell us about Learner Shelton’s call.”

The kid dove right in. “He said that he wanted to congratulate me on my victory. That the USGA had officially declared me the U.S. Open champion.” For a moment, Tad stopped. His eyes
hazed over, the words hitting him anew. Tad Crispin, U.S. Open champion. The stuff of dreams.

“What else did he say?”

Crispin’s eyes slowly cleared. “He’s holding a press conference tomorrow afternoon. At Merion. They’ll give me the trophy and a check for $360,000.”

Myron did not waste time. “First of all, we tell the media that you do not consider yourself the U.S. Open champion. If they want to call you that, fine. If the USGA wants to call you that, fine. You, however, believe that the tournament ended in a tie. Death should not rob Jack Coldren of his magnificent accomplishment or his claim to the title. A tie it ended. A tie it is. From your vantage point, you two are co-winners. Do you understand?”

Tad was hesitant. “I think so.”

“Now, about that check.” Myron strummed the end table with his fingers. “If they insist on giving you the full winner’s purse, you’ll have to donate Jack’s portion to charity.”

“Victims’ rights,” Win said.

Myron nodded. “That would be good. Something against violence—”

“Wait a second,” Tad interrupted. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his thighs. “You want me to give away $180,000?”

“It’ll be a tax write-off,” Win said. “That knocks the value down to half that.”

“And it’ll be chicken feed compared to the positive press you’ll get,” Myron added.

“But I was charging back,” Tad insisted. “I had the momentum. I would have won.”

Myron leaned in a little closer. “You’re an athlete, Tad. You’re competitive and confident. That’s good—heck, that’s great. But not in this situation. This murder story is huge. It transcends sports. For most of the world’s population, this will be their first look at Tad Crispin. We want them to see someone likable. Someone decent and trustworthy and modest. If we brag now about what a great golfer you are—if we dwell on your comeback rather than this tragedy—people are going to see you as cold, as
another example of what’s wrong with today’s athletes. Do you see what I’m saying?”

Tad nodded. “I guess so.”

“We have to present you in a certain light. We have to control the story as much as possible.”

“So we do interviews?” Tad asked.

“Very few.”

“But if we want publicity—”

“We want carefully orchestrated publicity,” Myron corrected. “This story is so big, the last thing we need to do is create more interest. I want you to be reclusive, Tad. Thoughtful. You see, we have to maintain the right balance. If we toot our horn, it looks like we’re grandstanding. If we do a lot of interviews, it looks like we’re taking advantage of a man’s murder.”

“Disastrous,” Win added.

“Right. What we want to do is control the flow of information. Feed the press a few tiny morsels. No more.”

“Perhaps one interview,” Win said. “One where you will be at your most contrite.”

“With Bob Costas maybe.”

“Or even Barbara Walters.”

“And we don’t announce your big donation.”

“Correct, no press conference. You are far too magnanimous for such bravado.”

That confused Tad. “How are we supposed to get good press if we don’t announce it?”

“We leak it,” Myron said. “We get someone at the charity to tell a nosy reporter, maybe. Something like that. The key is, Tad Crispin must remain far too modest a fellow to publicize his own good deeds. Do you see what we’re aiming for here?”

Tad’s nod was more enthusiastic now. He was warming up. Myron felt like a heel. Spin-doctoring—just another hat today’s sports representative must wear. Being an agent was not always pretty. You had to get dirty sometimes. Myron did not necessarily like it, but he was willing. The media would portray events one way; he would present them another. Still he felt like a grinning
political strategist after a debate, and you cannot get much lower than that.

They discussed details for a few more minutes. Tad started to look off again. He was rubbing the famed palms against the pants again. When Win left the room for a minute, Tad whispered, “I saw on the news that you’re Linda Coldren’s attorney.”

“I’m one of them.”

“Are you her agent?”

“I might be,” Myron said. “Why?”

“Then you’re a lawyer too, right? You went to law school and everything?”

Myron was not sure he liked where this was going. “Yes.”

“So I can hire you to be my lawyer too, right? Not just my agent?”

Myron really didn’t like where this was going. “Why would you need a lawyer, Tad?”

“I’m not saying I do. But if I did—”

“Whatever you tell me is confidential,” Myron said.

Tad Crispin stood. He put his arms out straight and gripped an imaginary golf club. He took a swing. Air golf. Win played it all the time. All golfers do. Basketball players don’t do that. It’s not like Myron stops at every store window and checks the reflection of his shot in the mirror.

Golfers.

“I’m surprised you don’t know about this already,” Tad said slowly.

But the creeping feeling in the pit of Myron’s stomach told him that maybe he did. “Don’t know about what, Tad?”

Tad took another swing. He stopped his movement to check his backswing. Then his expression changed to one of panic. He dropped the imaginary club to the floor. “It was only a couple of times,” he said, his words pouring out like silver beads. “It was no big deal really. I mean, we met while we were filming those ads for Zoom.” He looked at Myron, his eyes pleading. “You’ve seen her, Myron. I mean, I know she’s twenty years older than me, but she’s so good-looking and she said her marriage was dead.…”

Myron did not hear the rest of his words; the ocean was crashing in his ears. Tad Crispin and Linda Coldren. He could not believe it, yet it made perfect sense. A young guy obviously charmed by a stunning older woman. The mature beauty trapped in a loveless marriage finding escape in young, handsome arms. Nothing really wrong with it.

Yet Myron felt his cheeks go scarlet. Something inside of him began to fume.

Tad was still droning on. Myron interrupted him.

“Did Jack find out?”

Tad stopped. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I think maybe he did.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It was just the way he acted. We played two rounds together. I know we were competitors and that he was trying to intimidate me. But I kind of got the impression he knew.”