The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (211 page)

Myron felt the room shrink, the walls closing in.

“We haven’t found any bodies yet, but we’re pretty sure he kills them,” she went on. “He kidnaps them, does Lord knows what, and makes the families suffer interminably. And you know he won’t stop.”

Myron kept his eyes steady. “What’s your point?”

“This isn’t funny.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not. So stop playing stupid games.”

She said nothing.

“I want to hear it from your mouth,” Myron said. “Do you think I’m involved in this, yes or no?”

Eric Ford took this one. “No.”

Kimberly Green slid back into her chair, her eyes never leaving Myron’s. Eric Ford made a big hand gesture. “Please sit down.”

Myron and Win moved back to their original positions.

Eric Ford said, “The novel exists. So do the passages Stan Gibbs plagiarized. The book was sent to our office anonymously—more specifically, to Special Agent Green here. We admit that we found that issue confusing at first. On the one hand, Gibbs knows about the kidnappings. On the other hand, he doesn’t know everything and he clearly copied excerpts from an old, out-of-print mystery novel.”

“There’s an explanation,” Myron said. “The kidnapper might have read the book. He might have identified with the character, become a copycat of sorts.”

“We considered that possibility,” Eric Ford said, “but we don’t believe that’s the case here.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Does it involve trigonometry?”

“You still think this is a joking manner?”

“You still think it’s smart to play games?”

Ford closed his eyes. Green looked on edge. Peck continued scribbling notes. When Ford opened his eyes, he said, “We don’t believe Stan Gibbs made up the crimes,” he said. “We believe he perpetrated them.”

Myron felt a pow. He looked up at Win. Nothing.

“You have some background in the criminal mind, do you not?” Ford asked.

Myron might have nodded.

“Well, here we have an old pattern with a new twist. Arsonists love to watch firemen put out the blaze. Oft-times they’re even the ones who report the fire. They play the good Samaritan. Murderers love to attend the funerals of their victims. We videotape funerals. I’m sure you know this.”

Myron nodded again.

“Sometimes killers make themselves part of the story.” Eric Ford was gesturing a lot now, his knotted hands rising and falling as though this were a press conference in too big a room. “They claim to be witnesses. They become the innocent bystanders who happened to find the body in the brush. You’re familiar with this moth-near-the-flame phenomenon, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“So what could be more enticing than being the only columnist to report the story? Can you imagine the high? How mind-bogglingly close to the investigation you’d be. The brilliance of your deception—for a psychotic, it’s almost too delicious. And if you are
perpetrating these crimes to get attention, then here you get a double dose. Attention as the serial kidnapper, one. Attention as the brilliant reporter with the scoop and possible Pulitzer, two. You even get the bonus attention of a man bravely defending the First Amendment.”

Myron was holding his breath. “That’s a hell of a theory,” he said.

“You want more?”

“Yes.”

“Why won’t he answer any of our questions?”

“You said it yourself. First Amendment.”

“He’s not a lawyer or psychiatrist.”

“But he is a reporter,” Myron said.

“What kind of monster would continue to protect his source in this situation?”

“I know plenty.”

“We spoke to the victims’ families. They swore they never spoke to him.”

“They could be lying. Maybe the kidnapper told them to say that.”

“Okay, then why hasn’t Gibbs done more to defend himself against the charges of plagiarism? He could have fought them. He could have even provided some detail that would have proved he was telling the truth. But no, instead he goes silent. Why?”

“You think it’s because he’s the kidnapper? The moth flew too close to the flame and is licking his wounds in darkness?”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

Myron said nothing.

“Lastly, there’s the murder of his mistress, Melina Garston.”

“What about it?”

“Think it through, Myron. We put the screws to him. Maybe he expected that, maybe he didn’t. Either way, the courts don’t see everything his way. You don’t know about the court findings, do you?”

“Not really, no.”

“That’s because they were sealed. In part, the judge demanded that Gibbs show some proof he had been in contact with the killer. He finally said that Melina Garston would back him.”

“And she did, right?”

“Yes. She claimed to have met the subject of his story.”

“I still don’t understand. If she backed him up, why would he kill her?”

“The day before Melina Garston died, she called her father. She told him that she lied.”

Myron sat back, tried to take it all in.

Eric Ford said, “He’s back now, Myron. Stan Gibbs has finally surfaced. While he was gone, the Sow the Seeds kidnapper was gone too. But this brand of psycho never stops on his own. He’s going to strike again and soon. So before that happens, you better talk to us. Why were you at his condominium?”

Myron thought about it but not for long. “I was looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“A missing bone marrow donor. He could save a child’s life.”

Ford looked at him steadily. “I assume that Jeremy Downing is the child in question.”

So much for being vague, but Myron was not surprised. Phone records probably. Or maybe there had indeed been a tail when he visited Emily’s. “Yes. And before I go on, I want your word that you will keep me in the loop.”

Kimberly Green said, “You’re not a part of this investigation.”

“I’m not interested in your kidnapper. I’m interested in my donor. You help me find him, I’ll tell you what I know.”

“We agree,” Ford said, waving Kimberly Green silent. “So how does Stan Gibbs fit in with your donor?”

Myron reviewed it for them. He started with Davis Taylor and then moved on to Dennis Lex and then the cryptic phone call. They kept their faces steady, Green and Peck scratching on their pads, but there was a definite jolt when he mentioned the Lex family.

They asked a few follow-up questions, like why he got involved in the first place. He said that Emily was an old friend. He wasn’t about to go into the patrimony issue. Myron could see Green getting antsy. He had served his purpose. She was anxious to get out and start tracking things down.

A few minutes later, the feds snapped their pads closed and rose. “We’re on it,” Ford said. He looked straight at Myron. “And we’ll find your donor. You stay out.”

Myron nodded and wondered if he could. After they left, Win took a seat in front of Myron’s desk.

“Why do I feel like I was picked up at a bar and now it’s the next morning and the guy just handed me the ‘I’ll call you’ line?” Myron asked.

“Because that’s precisely what you are,” Win said. “Slut.”

“Think they’re holding something back?”

“Without question.”

“Something big?”

“Gargantuan,” Win said.

“Not much we can do about it now.”

“Nope,” Win said. “Nothing at all.”

Myron’s mom met him at the front door.

“I’m picking up the takeout,” Mom said.

“You?”

She put her hands on her hips and shot him her best wither. “There a problem with that?”

“No, it’s just …” He decided to drop it. “Nothing.”

Mom kissed his cheek and fished through her purse for the car keys. “I’ll be back in a half hour. Your father is in the back.” She gave him the imploring eyes. “Alone.”

“Okay,” he said.

“No one else is here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“If you catch my drift.”

“It’s caught.”

“You’ll be alone.”

“Caught, Mom. Caught.”

“It’ll be an opportunity—”

“Mom.”

She put her hands up. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

He walked around the side of the house, past the garbage cans and recycling bins, and found Dad on the deck. The deck was sanded redwood with built-in benches and resin furniture and a Weber 500 barbecue, all brought to being during the famed Kitchen Expansion of 1994. Dad was bent over a railing with a screwdriver in his hand. For a moment, Myron fell back to those “weekend projects” with Dad, some of which lasted almost an entire hour. They would go out with toolbox in tow, Dad bent over like he was now, muttering obscenities under his breath. Myron’s sole task consisted of handing Dad tools like a scrub nurse in the operating room, the whole exercise boring as hell, shuffling his feet in the sun, sighing heavily, finding new angles from which to stand.

“Hey,” Myron said.

Dad looked up, smiled, put down the tool. “Screw loose,” he said. “But let’s not talk about your mother.”

Myron laughed. They found molded-resin chairs around a table impaled by a blue umbrella. In front of them lay Bolitar Stadium, a small patch of green-to-brown grass that had hosted countless, oft-solo football games, baseball games, soccer games, Wiffle ball games (probably the most popular sport at Bolitar Stadium), rugby scrums, badminton, kickball, and that favorite pastime for the future sadist, bombardment. Myron spotted Mom’s former vegetable garden—the word
vegetable
here being used to describe three annual soggy tomatoes and two flaccid zucchinis; it was now slightly more overgrown than a Cambodian rice paddy. To their right were the rusted remnants of their old tetherball pole. Tetherball. Now, there was a really dumb game.

Myron cleared his throat and put his hands on the table. “How you feeling?”

Dad gave a big nod. “Good. You?”

“Good.”

The silence floated down, puffy and relaxed. Silence
with a father can be like that. You drift back and you’re young and you’re safe, safe in that all-encompassing way only a child can be with his father. You still see him hovering in your darkened doorway, the silent sentinel to your adolescence, and you sleep the sleep of the naive, the innocent, the unformed. When you get older, you realize that this safety was just an illusion, another child’s perception, like the size of your backyard.

Or maybe, if you’re lucky, you don’t.

Dad looked older today, the flesh on his face more sagged, the once-knotted biceps spongy under the T-shirt, starting to waste. Myron wondered how to start. Dad closed his eyes for a three count, opened them, and said, “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Your mother is about as subtle as a White House press release,” Dad said. “I mean, when was the last time she picked up the takeout instead of me?”

“Has she ever?”

“Once,” Dad said. “When I had a fever of a hundred and four. And even then she whined about it.”

“Where’s she going?”

“She has me on a special diet now, you know. Because of the chest pains.”
Chest pains.
Euphemism for
heart attack.

“Yeah, I figured that.”

“She’s even tried cooking a little. She told you?”

Myron nodded. “She baked something for me yesterday.”

Dad’s body went stiff. “By God,” he said. “Her own son?”

“It was pretty scary.”

“The woman has many, many talents, but they could airdrop that stuff into starving African nations and no one would eat it.”

“So where’s she going?”

“Your mother is high on some crazy Middle Eastern
health food place. Just opened in West Orange. Get this, it’s called Ayatollah Granola.”

Myron gave him flat eyes.

“Hand to God, that’s the name. Food is almost as dry as that Thanksgiving turkey your mother made when you were eight. You remember that?”

“At night,” Myron said. “It still haunts my sleep.”

Dad looked off again. “She left us alone so we could talk, right?”

“Right.”

He made a face. “I hate when she does stuff like that. She means well, your mother. We both know that. But let’s not do it, okay?”

Myron shrugged. “You say so.”

“She thinks I don’t like growing old. News flash: No one does. My friend Herschel Diamond—you remember Heshy?”

“Sure.”

“Big guy, right? Played semipro football when we were young. So Heshy, he calls me and he says now that I’m retired, I can do tai chi with him. I mean, tai chi? What the hell is that anyway? If I want to move slowly, I have to drive down to the Y to do it with a bunch of old yentas? I mean, what’s that about? I tell him no. So then Heshy, this great athlete, Myron, he could hit a softball a country mile, this marvelous big ox, he tells me we can walk together. Walk. At the mall. Speed-walk, he calls it. At the mall, for chrissake. Heshy always hated the place—now he wants us to trot around like a bunch of jackasses in matching sweatsuits and expensive walking shoes. Pump our arms with these little
faigelah
barbells. Walking shoes, he calls them. What the hell is that anyway? I never had a pair of shoes I couldn’t walk in, am I right?”

He waited for an answer. Myron said, “As rain.”

Dad stood up. He grabbed a screwdriver and feigned working. “So now, because I don’t want to move like an
old Chinaman or walk around a godforsaken mall in overpriced sneakers, your mother thinks I’m not adjusting. You hear what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

Dad stayed bent, fiddling a little more with the railing. In the distance, Myron heard children playing. A bike bell rang. Someone laughed. A lawn mower purred. Dad’s voice, when he finally spoke again, was surprisingly soft. “You know what your mother really wants us to do?” he said.

“What?”

“She wants you and I to reverse roles.” Dad finally looked up through his heavy-lidded eyes. “I don’t want to reverse roles, Myron. I’m the father. I like being the father. Let me stay that, okay?”

Myron found it hard to speak. “Sure, Dad.”

His father put his head back down, the gray wisps upright in the humidity, his breathing tool-work heavy, and Myron again felt something open up his chest and grab hold of his heart. He looked at this man he’d loved for so long, who’d gone without complaint to that damn muggy warehouse in Newark for more than thirty years, and Myron realized that he didn’t know him. He didn’t know what his father dreamed about, what he wanted to be when he was a kid, what he thought about his own life.