The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (115 page)

“But I do love my son—
my
son—more than life itself. The fact
that it’s more believable that I’d maim him because I’m an adoptive mother rather than a biological one is sick and grotesque in the extreme. I love Chad as much as any mother could love a child.”

She stopped, her chest heaving. “I want you both to know that.”

“We know,” Victoria said. Then: “Let’s all sit down.”

When they were settled in their seats, Victoria continued to take charge. “I know it’s early, but I want to start thinking about reasonable doubt. Their case will have holes. I’ll be sure to exploit them. But I’d like to hear some alternative theories on what happened.”

“In other words,” Myron said, “some other suspects.”

Victoria caught something in his tone. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Well, you already have one ace in the hole, don’t you?”

Victoria nodded coolly. “I do.”

“Tad Crispin, right?”

This time, Linda did indeed look surprised. Victoria remained unfazed. “Yes, he’s a suspect.”

“The kid hired me last night,” Myron said. “Talking about him would be a conflict of interest.”

“Then we won’t talk about him.”

“I’m not sure that’s good enough.”

“Then you’ll have to dump him as a client,” Victoria said. “Linda hired you first. Your obligation must be to her. If you feel that there is a conflict, then you’ll have to call Mr. Crispin and tell him that you cannot represent him.”

Trapped. And she knew it.

“Let’s talk about other suspects,” Myron said.

Victoria nodded. Battle won. “Go ahead.”

“First off, Esme Fong.” Myron filled them in on all the reasons that she made a good suspect. Again Victoria looked sleepy; Linda looked semi-homicidal.

“She seduced my son?” Linda shouted. “The bitch came into my house and seduced my son?”

“Apparently so.”

“I can’t believe it. That’s why Chad was at that sleazy motel?”

“Yup—”

“Okay,” Victoria interrupted. “I like it. This Esme Fong has motive. She has means. She was one of the few people who knew where Chad was.”

“She also has an alibi for the killing,” Myron added.

“But not a great one. There must be other ways in and out of that hotel. She could have worn a disguise. She could have sneaked out when Miguel took a bathroom break. I like her. Who else?”

“Lloyd Rennart.”

“Who?”

“Jack’s former caddie,” Myron explained. “The one who helped throw the Open.”

Victoria frowned. “Why him?”

“Look at the timing. Jack returns to the site of his greatest failure and suddenly all this happens. It can’t be a coincidence. Firing Rennart ruined his life. He became a drunk. He killed his own wife in a car crash.”

“What?” It was Linda.

“Not long after the Open, Lloyd totaled his car while DWI. His wife was killed.”

Victoria asked, “Did you know her?”

Linda shook her head. “We never met his family. In fact, I don’t think I ever saw Lloyd outside of our home or the golf course.”

Victoria crossed her arms and leaned back. “I still do not see what makes him a viable suspect.”

“Rennart wanted vengeance. He waited twenty-three years to get it.”

Victoria frowned again.

“I admit that it’s a bit of a stretch.”

“A bit? It’s ridiculous. Do you know where Lloyd Rennart is now?”

“That’s a little complicated.”

“Oh?”

“He may have committed suicide.”

Victoria looked at Linda, then at Myron. “Would you please elaborate?”

“The body was never found,” Myron said. “But everyone thinks he jumped off a cliff in Peru.”

Linda groaned. “Oh, no …”

“What is it?” Victoria asked.

“We got a postcard from Peru.”

“Who did?”

“It was addressed to Jack, but it was unsigned. It arrived last fall or winter.”

Myron’s pulse raced. Last fall or winter. About the time Lloyd allegedly jumped. “What did it say?”

“It only had two words on it,” Linda said. “ ‘Forgive me.’ ” Silence.

Victoria broke it. “That doesn’t sound like the words of a man out for revenge.”

“No,” Myron agreed. He remembered what Esperanza had learned about the money Rennart had used to buy his house and bar. This postcard now confirmed what he had already suspected: Jack had been sabotaged. “But it also means that what happened twenty-three years ago was no accident.”

“So what good does that do us?” Victoria asked.

“Someone paid Rennart off to throw the U.S. Open. Whoever did that would have motive.”

“To kill Rennart maybe,” Victoria countered. “But not Jack.”

Good point. Or was it? Somebody had hated Jack enough twenty-three years ago to destroy his chances of winning the Open. Maybe that hatred had not died. Or maybe Jack had learned the truth and thus had to be quieted. Either way, it was worth looking into.

“I do not want to go digging into the past,” Victoria said. “It could make things very messy.”

“I thought you liked messy. Messy is fertile land for reasonable doubt.”

“Reasonable doubt, I like,” she said. “But the unknown, I don’t. Look into Esme Fong. Look into the Squires family. Look into whatever. But stay away from the past, Myron. You never know what you might find back there.”

On the car phone: “Mrs. Rennart? This is Myron Bolitar.”

“Yes, Mr. Bolitar.”

“I promised that I’d call you periodically. To keep you updated.”

“Have you learned something new?”

How to proceed? “Not about your husband. So far, there is no evidence that suggests Lloyd’s death was anything other than a suicide.”

“I see.”

Silence.

“So why are you calling me, Mr. Bolitar?”

“Have you heard about Jack Coldren’s murder?”

“Of course,” Francine Rennart said. “It’s on every station.” Then: “You don’t suspect Lloyd—”

“No,” Myron said quickly. “But according to Jack’s wife, Lloyd sent Jack a postcard from Peru. Right before his death.”

“I see,” she said again. “What did it say?”

“It had only two words on it: ‘Forgive me.’ He didn’t sign it.”

There was a brief pause and then she said, “Lloyd is dead, Mr. Bolitar. So is Jack Coldren. Let it lie.”

“I’m not out to damage your husband’s reputation. But it is becoming clear that somebody either forced Lloyd to sabotage Jack or paid him to do it.”

“And you want me to help you prove that?”

“Whoever it was may have murdered Jack and maimed his son. Your husband sent Jack a postcard asking for forgiveness. With all due respect, Mrs. Rennart, don’t you think Lloyd would want you to help?”

More silence.

“What do you want from me, Mr. Bolitar? I don’t know anything about what happened.”

“I realize that. But do you have any old papers of Lloyd’s? Did he keep a journal or a diary? Anything that might give us a clue?”

“He didn’t keep a journal or a diary.”

“But there might be something else.” Gently, fair Myron. Tread gently. “If Lloyd did receive compensation”—a nice way of saying a bribe—“there may be bank receipts or letters or something.”

“There are boxes in the basement,” she said. “Old photos, some papers maybe. I don’t think there are any bank statements.” Francine Rennart stopped talking for a moment. Myron kept the receiver pushed against his ear. “Lloyd always did have a lot of cash,” she said softly. “I never really asked where it came from.”

Myron licked his lips. “Mrs. Rennart, can I look through those boxes?”

“Tonight,” she said. “You can come by tonight.”

Esperanza was not back at the cottage yet. But Myron had barely sat down when the intercom buzzed.

“Yes?”

The guard manning the front gate spoke with perfect diction. “Sir, a gentleman and a young lady are here to see you. They claim that they are not with the media.”

“Did they give a name?”

“The gentleman said his name is Carl.”

“Let them in.”

Myron stepped outside and watched the canary-yellow Audi climb the drive. Carl pulled to a stop and got out. His flat hair looked freshly pressed, like he’d just gotten it “martinized,” whatever that was. A young black woman who couldn’t have been twenty years old came out of the passenger door. She looked around with eyes the size of satellite dishes.

Carl turned to the stables and cupped his big hand over his eyes. A female rider decked out in full gear was steering a horse through some sort of obstacle course.

“That what they call steeplechasing?” Carl asked.

“Got me,” Myron said.

Carl continued to watch. The rider got off the horse. She unstrapped her black hat and patted the horse. Carl said, “You don’t see a lot of brothers dressed like that.”

“What about lawn jockeys?”

Carl laughed. “Not bad,” he said. “Not great, but not bad.”

Hard to argue. “You here to take riding lessons?”

“Not likely,” Carl said. “This is Kiana. I think she may be of help to us.”

“Us?”

“You and me together, bro.” Carl smiled. “I get to play your likable black partner.”

Myron shook his head. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“The likable black partner always ends up dead. Usually early on, too.”

That stopped Carl a second. “Damn, I forgot about that.”

Myron shrugged a what-can-you-do. “So who is she?”

“Kiana works as a maid at the Court Manor Inn.”

Myron looked at her. She was still out of earshot. “How old is she?”

“Why?”

Myron shrugged. “Just asking. She looks young.”

“She’s sixteen. And guess what, Myron? She’s not an unwed mother, she’s not on welfare, and she’s not a junkie.”

“I never said she was.”

“Uh-huh. Guess none of that racist shit ever seeps into your color-blind cranium.”

“Hey Carl, do me a favor. Save the racial-sensitivity seminar for a less active day. What does she know?”

Carl beckoned her forward with a tight nod. Kiana approached, all long limbs and big eyes. “I showed her this photo”—he handed Myron a snapshot of Jack Coldren—“and she remembered seeing him at the Court Manor.”

Myron glanced at the photograph, and then at Kiana. “You saw this man at the motel?”

“Yes.” Her voice was firm and strong and belied her years. Sixteen. She was the same age as Chad. Hard to imagine.

“Do you remember when?”

“Last week. I saw him there twice.” Twice?

“Yes.”

“Would that have been Thursday or Friday?”

“No.” Kiana kept up with the poise. No ringing hands or happy feet or darting eyes. “It was Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest.”

Myron tried to process this tidbit. Jack had been at the Court Manor twice
before
his son. Why? The reason was fairly obvious: If the marriage was dead for Linda, it was probably dead for Jack. He, too, would be engaging in extramarital liaisons. Maybe that was what Matthew Squires witnessed. Maybe Jack had pulled in for his own affair and spotted his son’s car. It kinda made sense.…

But it was also a hell of a coincidence. Father and son end up at the same hot sheets at the same time? Stranger things have happened, but what were the odds?

Myron gestured to Jacks photograph. “Was he alone?”

Kiana smiled. “The Court Manor doesn’t rent out a lot of single rooms.”

“Did you see who was with him?”

“Very briefly. The guy in the photograph checked them in. His partner stayed in the car.”

“But you saw her? Briefly anyway.”

Kiana glanced at Carl, then back at Myron. “It wasn’t a her.”

“Excuse me?”

“The guy in the photograph,” she said. “He wasn’t there with a woman.”

A large boulder fell from the sky and landed on Myron’s head. It was his turn now to glance at Carl. Carl nodded. Another click. A big click. The loveless marriage. He had known why Linda Coldren stayed in it—she was afraid of losing custody of her son. But what about Jack? Why hadn’t he left? The answer was suddenly transparent: Being married to a beautiful, constantly traveling woman was the perfect cover. He remembered Diane Hoffman’s reaction when he asked her if she’d been sleeping with Jack—the way she laughed and said, “Not likely with ol’ Jack.”

Because ol’ Jack was gay.

Myron turned his focus back to Kiana. “Could you describe the man he was with?”

“Older—maybe fifty or sixty. White. He had this long dark hair and a bushy beard. That’s about all I can tell you.”

But Myron did not need more.

It was starting to come together now. It wasn’t there. Not yet anyway. But he was suddenly a quantum leap closer.

As Carl drove out, Esperanza drove in.

“Find anything?” Myron asked her.

Esperanza handed him a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping. “Read this.”

The headline read:
CRASH FATALITY

Economy of words. He read on:

Myron reread the paragraph twice. “ ‘The injured were rushed,’ ” he read out loud. “As in more than one.”

Esperanza nodded.

“So who else was hurt?”

“I don’t know. There was no follow-up article.”

“Nothing on the arrest or the arraignment or the court case?”

“Nothing. At least, nothing I could find. There was no further mention of any Rennarts. I also tried to get something from St. Elizabeth’s, but they wouldn’t help. Hospital-patient confidentiality, they claimed. I doubt their computers go back to the seventies anyway.”

Myron shook his head. “This is too weird,” he said.

“I saw Carl heading out,” Esperanza said. “What did he want?”

“He came by with a maid from the Court Manor. Guess who Jack Coldren was linking up with for a little afternoon delight?”

“Tonya Harding?”

“Close. Norm Zuckerman.”