The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (216 page)

Esperanza shook her head again, but she went along. The group—a sort of cut-rate Dirty (One-Third of a) Dozen—broke off when they reached the street. Esperanza and Zorra would walk. Win, Myron, and Big Cyndi headed into a garage three blocks away. Win had a car there. Chevy Nova. Totally untraceable. Win had a bunch of them. He referred to them as disposable vehicles. Like paper cups or something. The rich. You don’t want to know what he does with them.

Win drove, Myron took the front passenger seat, and Big Cyndi squeezed into the back, which was a little like watching a film of childbirth on rewind. Then they were off.

The Stokes, Layton and Grace law firm was one of the most prestigious in New York. Big Cyndi stayed in reception. The receptionist, a skinny skirt-suit of gray, tried not to stare. So Big Cyndi stared at her, daring her not to look. Sometimes Big Cyndi would growl. Like a lion. No reason. She just liked to do it.

Myron and Win were ushered into a conference room that looked like a million other big Manhattan law firm conference rooms. Myron doodled on a yellow legal pad that looked like a million other big Manhattan law firm legal pads, watched through the window the smug, pink, fresh-scrubbed Harvard grads stroll by, again all looking exactly the same as the ones at a million other big Manhattan law firms. Reverse discrimination maybe, but all young white male lawyers looked the same to him.

Then again, Myron was a white Harvard law school graduate. Hmm.

Chase Layton trollied in with his rolly build and well-fed face and chubby hands and gray comb-over, looking like, well, a name partner at a big Manhattan law firm. He wore a gold wedding band on one hand and a Harvard ring on the other. He greeted Win warmly—most wealthy people do—and then gave a firm, I’m-your-guy handshake to Myron.

“We’re in a rush,” Win said.

Chase Layton shoved the big smile out of the room and strapped on his best battle-ready face. Everyone sat. Chase Layton folded his hands in front of him. He leaned forward, putting a bit of a belly push on the vest buttons. “What can I do for you, Windsor?”

Rich people always called him Windsor.

“You’ve been after my business for a long time,” Win said.

“Well, I wouldn’t say—”

“I’m here to give it to you. In exchange for a favor.”

Chase Layton was too smart to snap-bite at that. He looked at Myron. An underling. Maybe there’d be a
clue how to play on this plebeian’s face. Myron kept up the neutral. He was getting better at it. Must be from hanging around Win so much.

“We need to see Susan Lex,” Win said. “You are her attorney. We’d like you to get her to come here immediately.”

“Here?”

“Yes,” Win said. “At your office. Immediately.”

Chase opened his mouth, closed it, checked on the underling again. Still no clue. “Are you serious, Windsor?”

“You do that, you get the Lock-Horne business. You know how much income that would generate?”

“A great deal,” Chase Layton said. “And yet not even a third of what we receive from the Lex family.”

Win smiled. “Talk about having your cake and eating it too.”

“I don’t understand this,” Chase said.

“It’s pretty straightfoward, Chase.”

“Why do you want to see Ms. Lex?”

“We can’t divulge that.”

“I see.” Chase Layton scratched a ham-red cheek with a manicured finger. “Ms. Lex is a very private person.”

“Yes, we know.”

“She and I are friends.”

“I’m sure,” Win said.

“Perhaps I can set up an introduction.”

“No good. It has to be now.”

“Well, she and I usually conduct business at her office—”

“Again no good. It has to be here.”

Chase rolled his neck a bit, stalling for time, trying to sort through this, find an angle to play. “She’s a very busy woman. I wouldn’t even know what to say to get her here.”

“You’re a good attorney, Chase,” Win said, steepling his fingers. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

Chase nodded, looked down, studied his manicure.

“No,” he said. He looked back up slowly. “I don’t sell out clients, Windsor.”

“Even if it meant landing a client as big as Lock-Horne?”

“Even then.”

“And you’re not doing this just to impress me with your discretion?”

Chase smiled, relieved, as though he finally got the joke. “No,” he said. “But wouldn’t that be having my cake and eating it too?” He tried to laugh it off. Win didn’t join him.

“This isn’t a test, Chase. I need you to get her here. I guarantee that she won’t find out you helped me.”

“Do you think that’s all that concerns me here—how it would look?”

Win said nothing.

“If that’s the case, you’ve misread me. The answer is still no, I’m afraid.”

“Thank about it,” Win said.

“Nothing to think about,” Chase said. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, making sure the crease sat right. “You didn’t really think I’d go along with this, did you, Windsor?”

“I hoped.”

Chase again looked at Myron, then back at Win. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, gentlemen.”

“Oh, you’ll help us,” Win said.

“Pardon me?”

“It’s just a matter of what we need to do to get your cooperation.”

Chase frowned. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

“No,” Win said. “I already did that. By offering you our business.”

“Then I don’t understand—”

Myron spoke for the first time. “I’m going to make you,” he said.

Chase Layton looked at Myron and smiled. Again he said, “Pardon me?”

Myron rose. He kept his expression flat, remembering what he’d learned from Win about intimidation. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Myron said. “But you will call Susan Lex and get her to come here. And you’ll do it now.”

Chase folded his arms and sat them atop his belly. “If you wish to discuss this further—”

“I don’t,” Myron said.

Myron walked around the table. Chase did not back away. “I will not call her,” he said firmly. “Windsor, would you tell your friend to sit down?”

Win feigned a helpless shrug.

Myron stood directly over Chase. He looked back at Win. Win said, “Let me handle it.”

Myron shook his head. He loomed over Chase and let his gaze fall. “One last chance.”

Chase Layton’s face was calm, almost amused. He probably saw this as a bizarre put-on—or perhaps he was just certain that Myron would back down. That was how it was with men like Chase Layton. Physical violence was not a part of the Layton equation. Oh, sure, those uneducated animals on the street might engage in it. They might knock him on the head for his wallet. Other people—lesser people, really—yes, they solved problems with physical violence. But that was another planet—one filled with a more primitive species. In Chase Layton’s world, a world of status and position and lofty manners, you were untouchable. Men threatened. Men sued. Men cursed. Men schemed behind one another’s backs. Men never engaged in face-to-face violence.

That was why Myron knew that no bluff would work here. Men like Chase Layton believed that anything remotely physical was a bluff. Myron could probably point a gun at him, and he wouldn’t budge. And in that scenario, Chase Layton would be right.

But not this one.

Myron boxed Chase Layton’s ears hard with his palms.

Chase’s eyes widened in a way they probably never had before. Myron put his hand over the lawyer’s mouth, muffling the scream. He cupped the back of the man’s skull and pulled him back, knocking him off his chair and onto the floor.

Chase lay on his back. Myron looked him straight in the eye and saw a tear roll down the man’s cheek. Myron felt ill. He thought about Jeremy and that helped keep his face neutral. Myron said, “Call her.”

He slowly released his hand.

Chase’s breathing was labored. Myron glanced at Win. Win shook his head.

“You,” Chase said, spitting out the word, “are going to jail.”

Myron closed his eyes, made a fist, and punched the lawyer up and under the ribs, toward the liver. The lawyer’s face fell into itself. Myron held the man’s mouth again, but this time there was no scream to smother.

Win eased back in his chair. “For the record, I am the sole witness to this event. I’ll swear under oath that it was self-defense.”

Chase looked lost.

“Call her,” Myron said. He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice. He looked down at Chase Layton. Chase’s shirttail was out of his pants, his tie askew, his comb-over unraveling, and Myron realized that nothing would ever be the same for this man. Chase Layton had been physically assaulted. He would always walk a little more warily now. He would sleep a little less deeply. He would always be a little different inside.

Maybe so too would Myron.

Myron punched him again. Chase made an
oof
noise. Win stood by the door. Keep your face even, Myron told himself. A man at work. A man who won’t stop no matter what. Myron cocked his fist again.

Five minutes later, Chase Layton called Susan Lex.

“Would have been better,” Win said, “if you let me hurt him.”

Myron kept walking. “It would have been the same,” he said.

Win shrugged. They had an hour to set up. Big Cyndi was now in the conference room with Chase Layton, supposedly going over her new professional-wrestling contract. When she entered the room, all six-six, three hundred pounds of her wearing her Big Chief Mama costume, Chase Layton barely looked up. The pain from the punches, Myron was sure, was ebbing. He had not struck the man in any place that would do lasting damage, except maybe to the obvious.

Esperanza was set up in the lobby. Myron and Win met Zorra two levels down, on the seventh floor. Zorra had staked out the lower floors and decided that this would be the quietest and easiest to contain. The office suites on the northern side were empty, Zorra noted. Anyone entering or leaving had to do so from the west. Zorra was stationed there with one cell phone.

Esperanza had the other one downstairs. Win held the third. They were on a three-way line with one another. Myron and Win were in position. In the last twenty minutes, the elevator had stopped at their floor only twice. Good. Both times the door opened, Myron and Win feigned conversation, just two guys waiting for an elevator heading in the opposite direction. Real undercover commandos.

Myron hoped like hell no one happened upon the scene when it all went down. Zorra would warn them, of course, but once the operation was under way, it couldn’t be stopped. They’d have to come up with some excuse, say it was a drill maybe, but Myron was not sure he could stomach hurting any more innocents today. He closed his eyes. Can’t back down now. Too far gone.

Win smiled at him. “Wondering yet again if the ends justify the means?”

“Not wondering,” Myron said.

“Oh?”

“I know they don’t.”

“And yet?”

“I’m not in the mood for introspection right now.”

“But you’re so good at it,” Win said.

“Thanks.”

“And knowing you as well as I do, you’ll save it for later—for when you have more time. You’ll gnash your teeth over what you just did. You’ll feel ashamed, remorseful, guilty—though you’ll also be oddly proud that you didn’t have
moi
do your dirty work. You’ll end up making a clear declaration that it will never happen again. And perhaps it won’t—not, at least, until the stakes are this high.”

“So I’m a hypocrite,” Myron said. “Happy?”

“But that is my point,” Win said.

“What?”

“You’re not a hypocrite. You aim toward lofty
heights. The fact that your arrow cannot always reach them does not make you a hypocrite.”

“So in conclusion,” Myron said, “the ends do not justify the means. Except sometimes.”

Win spread his hands. “See? I just saved you hours of soul-searching. Perhaps I should consider penning one of those how-to-manage-your-time manuals.”

Esperanza broke in through the phone. “They’re here,” she said.

Win put the phone to his ear. “How many?”

“Three coming in. Susan Lex. That granite guy Myron keeps talking about. Another bodyguard. Two more staying parked outside.”

“Zorra,” Win said into the phone. “Please keep an eye on the two gentlemen outside.”

Zorra said, “And if they move?”

“Detain them.”

“With pleasure.” Zorra giggled. Win smiled. Welcome to the Psycho Hotline. Only $3.99 per minute. First call is free.

Myron and Win waited now. Two minutes past. Esperanza said, “Middle elevator. All three are inside.”

“Anyone else with them?”

“No … wait. Damn, two businessmen are going in.”

Myron closed his eyes and cursed.

Win looked at him. “Your call.”

Panic squeezed Myron’s chest. Innocent people in the elevator. There was sure to be violence. Witnesses now.

“Well?”

“Hold the phone.” It was Esperanza. “The granite guy blocked their path. Looks like he told them to wait for another elevator.”

“Top-notch security,” Win said. “Good to see we’re not dealing with amateurs.”

“Okay,” Esperanza said. “Just the three of them are inside now.”

The relief in Myron’s face was palpable.

Esperanza said, “Elevator closing … now.”

Myron pressed the Up button. Win took out his forty-four. Myron pulled out a Glock. They waited. Myron kept the gun by his thigh. It felt heavy in a terrible, comforting way. Myron kept glancing down the corridor. No one. He hoped their luck would hold. He felt his pulse start to race. His mouth was dry. The room suddenly felt warmer.

A minute later, the light above the middle elevator dinged.

Win’s face was in the zone, semi-euphoric. He wriggled his eyebrows and said, “Showtime.”

Myron tensed his muscles, leaned in a bit. The elevator’s whirring noise stopped. There was a delay and then the doors started sliding open. Win didn’t wait. He was inside before the opening had reached a foot. He found Grover and stuck the gun in the big man’s ear. Myron did the same with the other guard.

“Waxy ear buildup a problem, Grover?” Win said in his best voice-over. “Smith and Wesson has the solution!”

Susan Lex started to open her mouth. Win cut her off with a finger against her lip and a gentle “Shh.”