The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (85 page)

Myron Bolitar ran MB SportsReps, a sports representation firm located on Park Avenue in New York City. He rented the space from his former college roommate, Win, a Waspy, old-money, big-time investment banker whose family owned Lock-Horne Securities on the same Park Avenue in New York. Myron handled the negotiations while Win, one of the country’s most respected brokers, handled the investments and finances. The other member of the MB team, Esperanza Diaz, handled everything else. Three branches with checks and balances. Just like the American government. Very patriotic.

Slogan:
MB SportsReps—the other guys are commie pinkos
.

As the old man ushered Myron through the crowd, several men in green blazers—another look sported mostly at golf courses, perhaps to camouflage oneself against the grass—greeted him with whispered, “How do, Bucky,” or “Looking good, Buckster,” or “Fine day for golf, Buckaroo.” They all had the accent of the rich and preppy, the kind of inflection where
mommy
is pronounced “mummy” and summer and winter are verbs. Myron was about to comment on a grown man being called Bucky, but when your name is Myron, well, glass houses and stones and all that.

Like every other sporting event in the free world, the actual playing area looked more like a giant billboard than a field of competition. The leader board was sponsored by IBM. Canon handed out the periscopes. American Airlines employees worked the food stands (an airline handling food—what think tank came up with that one?). Corporate Row was jam-packed with companies who shelled out over one hundred grand a pop to set up a tent for a few days, mostly so that company executives had an excuse to go. Travelers Group, Mass Mutual, Aetna (golfers must like insurance), Canon, Heublein. Heublein. What the hell was a Heublein? They looked like a nice company. Myron would probably buy a Heublein if he knew what one was.

The funny thing was, the U.S. Open was actually less commercialized than most tourneys. At least they hadn’t sold their name
yet. Other tournaments were named for sponsors and the names had gotten a little silly. Who could get up for winning the JC Penney Open or the Michelob Open or even the Wendy’s Three-Tour Challenge?

The old man led him to a primo parking lot. Mercedeses, Caddies, limos. Myron spotted Win’s Jaguar. The USGA had recently put up a sign that read
MEMBERS PARKING ONLY
.

Myron said, “You’re a member of Merion.” Dr. Deduction.

The old man twisted the neck thing into something approaching a nod. “My family dates back to Merion’s inception,” he said, the snooty accent now more pronounced. “Just like your friend Win.”

Myron stopped and looked at the man. “You know Win?”

The old man sort of smiled and shrugged. No commitment.

“You haven’t told me your name yet,” Myron said.

“Stone Buckwell,” he said, hand extended. “Everyone calls me Bucky.”

Myron shook the hand.

“I’m also Linda Coldren’s father,” he added.

Bucky unlocked a sky-blue Cadillac and they slid inside. He put the key in the ignition. The radio played Muzak—worse, the Muzak version of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” Myron quickly opened the window for air, not to mention noise.

Only members were allowed to park on the Merion grounds, so it wasn’t too much of a hassle getting out. They made a right at the end of the driveway and then another right. Bucky mercifully flipped off the radio. Myron stuck his head back in the car.

“What do you know about my daughter and her husband?” Bucky asked.

“Not much.”

“You are not a golf fan, are you, Mr. Bolitar?”

“Not really.”

“Golf is truly a magnificent sport,” he said. Then he added, “Though the word
sport
does not begin to do it justice.”

“Uh-huh,” Myron said.

“It’s the game of princes.” Buckwell’s ruddy face glowed a bit now, the eyes wide with the same type of rapture one saw in the
very religious. His voice was low and awed. “There is nothing quite like it, you know. You alone against the course. No excuses. No teammate. No bad calls. It’s the purest of activities.”

“Uh-huh,” Myron said again. “Look, I don’t want to appear rude, Mr. Buckwell, but what’s this all about?”

“Please call me Bucky.”

“Okay. Bucky.”

He nodded his approval. “I understand that you and Windsor Lockwood are more than business associates,” he said.

“Meaning?”

“I understand you two go back a long way. College roommates, am I correct?”

“Why do you keep asking about Win?”

“I actually came to the club to find him,” Bucky said. “But I think it’s better this way.”

“What way?”

“Talking to you first. Maybe after … well, we’ll see. Shouldn’t hope for too much.”

Myron nodded. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Bucky turned onto a road adjacent to the course called Golf House Road. Golfers were so creative.

The course was on the right, imposing mansions on the left. A minute later, Bucky pulled into a circular driveway. The house was fairly big and made of something called river rock. River rock was big in this area, though Win always referred to it as “Mainline Stone.” There was a white fence and lots of tulips and two maple trees, one on each side of the front walk. A large porch was enclosed on the right side. The car came to a stop, and for a moment neither of them moved.

“What’s this all about, Mr. Buckwell?”

“We have a situation here,” he said.

“What kind of situation?”

“I’d rather let my daughter explain it to you.” He grabbed the key out of the ignition and reached for the door.

“Why come to me?” Myron asked.

“We were told you could possibly help.”

“Who told you that?”

Buckwell started rolling his neck with greater fervor. His head looked like it’d been attached by a loose ball socket. When he finally got it under control, he managed to look Myron in the eyes.

“Win’s mother,” he said.

Myron stiffened. His heart plummeted down a dark shaft. He opened his mouth, closed it, waited. Buckwell got out of the car and headed for the door. Ten seconds later, Myron followed.

“Win won’t help,” Myron said.

Buckwell nodded. “That’s why I came to you first.”

They followed a brick path to a door slightly ajar. Buckwell pushed it open. “Linda?”

Linda Coldren stood before a television in the den. Her white shorts and sleeveless yellow blouse revealed the lithe, toned limbs of an athlete. She was tall with short spunky black hair and a tan that accentuated the smooth, long muscles. The lines around her eyes and mouth placed her in her late thirties, and he could see instantly why she was a commercial darling. There was a fierce splendor to this woman, a beauty derived from a sense of strength rather than delicacy.

She was watching the tournament on the television. On top of the set were framed family photographs. Big, pillowy couches formed a V in one corner. Tactfully furnished, for a golfer. No putting green, AstroTurf carpet. None of that golf artwork that seemed a step or two below the aesthetic class of, say, paintings of dogs playing poker. No cap with a tee and ball on the brim hanging from a moose head.

Linda Coldren suddenly swung her line of vision toward them, firing a glare past Myron before settling on her father. “I thought you were going to get Jack,” she snapped.

“He hasn’t finished the round yet.”

She motioned to the television. “He’s on eighteen now. I thought you were going to wait for him.”

“I got Mr. Bolitar instead.”

“Who?”

Myron stepped forward and smiled. “I’m Myron Bolitar.”

Linda Coldren flicked her eyes at him, then back to her father. “Who the hell is he?”

“He’s the man Cissy told me about,” Buckwell said.

“Who’s Cissy?” Myron asked.

“Win’s mother.”

“Oh,” Myron said. “Right.”

Linda Coldren said, “I don’t want him here. Get rid of him.”

“Linda, listen to me. We need help.”

“Not from him.”

“He and Win have experience with this type of thing.”

“Win,” she said slowly, “is psychotic.”

“Ah,” Myron said. “Then you know him well?”

Linda Coldren finally turned her attention to Myron. Her eyes, deep and brown, met his. “I haven’t spoken to Win since he was eight years old,” she said. “But you don’t have to leap into a pit of flames to know it’s hot.”

Myron nodded. “Nice analogy.”

She shook her head and looked back at her father. “I told you before: no police. We do what they say.”

“But he’s not police,” her father said.

“And you shouldn’t be telling anyone.”

“I only told my sister,” Bucky protested. “She’d never say anything.”

Myron felt his body stiffen again. “Wait a second,” he said to Bucky. “Your sister is Win’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“You’re Win’s uncle.” He looked at Linda Coldren. “And you’re Win’s first cousin.”

Linda Coldren looked at him like he’d just peed on the floor. “With smarts like that,” she said, “I’m glad you’re on our side.”

Everyone’s a wiseass.

“If it’s still unclear, Mr. Bolitar, I could break out some poster board and sketch a family tree for you.”

“Could you use lots of pretty colors?” Myron said. “I like pretty colors.”

She made a face and turned away. On the television, Jack Coldren lined up a twelve-foot putt. Linda stopped and watched. He tapped it; the ball took off and arched right into the hole. The
gallery applauded with modest enthusiasm. Jack picked up the ball with two fingers and then tipped his hat. The IBM leader board flashed on the screen. Jack Coldren was up by a whopping nine strokes.

Linda Coldren shook her head. “Poor bastard.”

Myron kept still. So did Bucky.

“He’s waited twenty-three years for this moment,” she continued. “And he picks now.”

Myron glanced at Bucky. Bucky glanced back, shaking his head.

Linda Coldren stared at the television until her husband exited to the clubhouse. Then she took a deep breath and looked at Myron. “You see, Mr. Bolitar, Jack has never won a professional tournament. The closest he ever came was in his rookie year twenty-three years ago, when he was only nineteen. It was the last time the U.S. Open was held at Merion. You may remember the headlines.”

They were not altogether unfamiliar. This morning’s papers had rehashed it a bit. “He lost a lead, right?”

Linda Coldren made a scoffing sound. “That’s a bit of an understatement, but yes. Since then, his career has been completely unspectacular. There were years he didn’t even make the tour.”

“He picked a hell of a time to snap his streak,” Myron said. “The U.S. Open.”

She gave him a funny look and folded her arms under her chest. “Your name rings a bell,” she said. “You used to play basketball, right?”

“Right.”

“In the ACC. North Carolina?”

“Duke,” he corrected.

“Right, Duke. I remember now. You blew out your knee after the draft.”

Myron nodded slowly.

“That was the end of your career, right?”

Myron nodded again.

“It must have been tough,” she said.

Myron said nothing.

She made a waving motion with her hand. “What happened to you is nothing compared to what happened to Jack.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You had an injury. It may have been tough, but at least you weren’t at fault. Jack had a six-stroke lead at the U.S. Open with only eight holes left. Do you know what that’s like? That’s like having a ten-point lead with a minute left in the seventh game of the NBA finals. It’s like missing a wide-open slam dunk in the final seconds to lose the championship. Jack was never the same man after that. He never recovered. He has spent his whole life since just waiting for the chance of redemption.” She turned back to the television. The leader board was back up. Jack Coldren was still up by nine strokes.

“If he loses again …”

She did not bother finishing the thought. They all stood in silence. Linda staring at the television. Bucky craning his neck, his eyes moist, his face quivering near tears.

“So what’s wrong, Linda?” Myron asked.

“Our son,” she said. “Somebody has kidnapped our son.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” Linda Coldren said. “He said he’d kill him.”

“Who said?”

Linda Coldren took several deep breaths, like a child atop the high board. Myron waited. It took some time, but she finally took the plunge.

“I got a call this morning,” she said. Her large indigo eyes were wide and everywhere now, settling down on no one spot for more than a second. “A man said he had my son. He said if I called the police, he would kill him.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Just that he’d call back with instructions.”

“That’s it?”

She nodded.

“What time was this?” Myron asked.

“Nine, nine-thirty.”

Myron walked over to the television and picked up one of the framed photographs. “Is this a recent photograph of your son?”

“Yes.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen. His name is Chad.”

Myron studied the photograph. The smiling adolescent had the fleshy features of his father. He wore a baseball cap with the brim curled the way kids like to nowadays. A golf club rested proudly on his shoulder like a minuteman with a bayonet. His eyes were squinted as though he were looking into the sun. Myron looked over Chad’s face, as if it might give him a clue or some rare insight. It didn’t.

“When did you first notice that your son was missing?”

Linda Coldren gave her father a quick glance, then straightened up, holding her head high as if she were readying herself for a blow. Her words came slow. “Chad had been gone for two days.”

“Gone?” Myron Bolitar, Grand Inquisitor.

“Yes.”

“When you say gone—”

“I mean just that,” she interrupted. “I haven’t seen him since Wednesday.”

“But the kidnapper just called today?”

“Yes.”

Myron started to speak, stopped himself, softened his voice. Tread gently, fair Myron. Ever gently. “Did you have any idea where he was?”