The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (88 page)

“I don’t think so,” the old man said.

There was noise in the background. “Where are you?” Myron asked.

“I’m at Merion. Look, Jack answered the phone. He’s still in shock.”

“Jack answered?”

“Yes.”

Doubly confused. “The kidnapper called Jack at Merion?”

“Yes. Please, Myron, can you get back over here? It’ll be easier to explain.”

“On my way.”

He drove from the seedy motel to a highway and then into green. Lots of green. The Philadelphia suburbs were lush lawns and high bushes and shady trees. Amazing how close it was—at
least in a geographic sense—to the meaner streets of Philly. Like most cities, there was tremendous segregation in Philadelphia. Myron remembered driving with Win to Veterans Stadium for an Eagles game a couple of years back. They’d gone through an Italian block, a Polish block, an African American block; it was as if some powerful, invisible force field—again, like on
Star Trek—
isolated each ethnicity. The City of Brotherly Love could almost be called Little Yugoslavia.

Myron turned down Ardmore Avenue. Merion was about a mile away. His thoughts turned to Win. How, he wondered, would his old friend react to the maternal connection in this case?

Probably not well.

In all the years they had been friends, Myron had heard Win mention his mother on only one occasion.

It had been during their junior year at Duke. They were college roommates, just back from a wild frat party. The beer had flowed. Myron was not what you’d call a good drinker. Two drinks and he’d usually end up trying to French-kiss a toaster. He blamed this on his ancestry—his people had never handled spirits well.

Win, on the other hand, seemed to have been weaned on schnapps. Liquor never really affected him much. But at this particular party, the grain alcohol–laced punch made even his steps wobble a bit. It took Win three tries to unlock their dorm room door.

Myron quickly collapsed on his bed. The ceiling spun counterclockwise at a seemingly death-defying speed. He closed his eyes. His hands gripped the bed and held on in terror. His face had no color. Nausea clamped down painfully on his stomach. Myron wondered when he would vomit and prayed it would be soon.

Ah, the glamour of college drinking.

For a while neither of them said anything. Myron wondered if Win had fallen asleep. Or maybe Win was gone. Vanished into the night. Maybe he hadn’t held on to his spinning bed tightly enough and the centrifugal force had hurled him out the window and into the great beyond.

Then Win’s voice cut through the darkness. “Take a look at this.”

A hand reached out and dropped something on Myron’s chest. Myron risked letting go of the bed with one hand. So far, so good. He fumbled for whatever it was, found it, lifted it into view. A streetlight from outside—campuses are lit up like Christmas trees—cast enough illumination to make out a photograph. The color was grainy and faded, but Myron could still make out what looked to be an expensive car.

“Is that a Rolls-Royce?” Myron asked. He knew nothing about cars.

“A Bentley S Three Continental Flying Spur,” Win corrected, “1962. A classic.”

“Is it yours?”

“Yes.”

The bed spun silently.

“How did you get it?” Myron asked.

“A man who was fucking my mother gave it to me.”

The end. Win had shut down after that. The wall he put up was not only impenetrable but unapproachable, filled with land mines and a moat and lots of high-voltage electric wires. Over the ensuing decade and a half, Win had never again mentioned his mother. Not when the packages came to the dorm room every semester. Not when the packages came to Win’s office on his birthday even now. Not even when they saw her in person ten years ago.

The plain dark wood sign merely read
MERION GOLF CLUB
. Nothing else. No “For Members Only.” No “We’re Elitist and We Don’t Want You.” No “Ethnics Use Service Entrance.” No need. It was just a given.

The last U.S. Open threesome had finished a while back and the crowd was mostly gone now. Merion could hold only seventeen thousand for a tournament—less than half the capacity of most courses—but parking was still a chore. Most spectators
were forced to park at nearby Haverford College. Shuttle buses ran constantly.

At the top of the driveway a guard signaled him to stop.

“I’m here to meet Windsor Lockwood,” Myron said.

Instant recognition. Instant wave-through.

Bucky ran over to him before he had the car in park. The rounded face was more jowly now, as if he were packing wet sand in his cheeks.

“Where is Jack?” Myron asked.

“The western course.”

“The what?”

“Merion has two courses,” the older man explained, stretching his neck again. “The east, which is the more famous one, and the west. During the Open, the western course is used as a driving range.”

“And your son-in-law is there?”

“Yes.”

“Driving balls?”

“Of course.” Bucky looked at him, surprised. “You always do that after a round. Every golfer on the tour knows that. You played basketball. Didn’t you used to practice your shot after a game?”

“No.”

“Well, as I told you earlier, golf is very special. Players need to review their play immediately after a round. Even if they’ve played well. They focus in on their good strokes, see if they can figure out what went wrong with the bad strokes. They recap the day.”

“Uh-huh,” Myron said. “So tell me about the kidnapper’s call.”

“I’ll take you to Jack,” he said. “This way.”

They walked across the eighteenth fairway and then down the sixteenth. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and pollen. It’d been a big year for pollen on the East Coast; nearby allergists swooned with greedy delight.

Bucky shook his head. “Look at these roughs,” he said. “Impossible.”

He pointed to long grass. Myron had no idea what he was talking about so he nodded and kept walking.

“Damn USGA wants this course to bring the golfers to their knees,” Bucky ranted on. “So they grow the rough way out. Like playing in a rice paddy, for chrissake. Then they cut the greens so close, the golfers might as well be putting on a hockey rink.”

Myron remained silent. The two men kept walking.

“This is one of the famed stone-quarry holes,” Bucky said, calmer now.

“Uh-huh.” The man was babbling. People do that when they’re nervous.

“When the original builders reached sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen,” Bucky continued, sounding not unlike a tour guide in the Sistine Chapel, “they ran across a stone quarry. Rather than giving up then and there, they plowed ahead, incorporating the quarry into the hole.”

“Gosh,” Myron said softly, “they were so brave back then.”

Some babble when nervous. Some grow sarcastic.

They reached the tee and made a right, walking along Golf House Road. Though the last group had finished playing more than an hour ago, there were still at least a dozen golfers hitting balls. The driving range. Yes, professional golfers hit balls here—practicing with a wide array of woods and irons and big clubs, nay, warheads, they called Bertha and Cathy and the like—but that was only part of what went on. Most touring pros used the range to work out strategies with their caddies, check on equipment with their sponsors, network, socialize with fellow golfers, smoke a cigarette (a surprising amount of pros chain-smoke), even talk to agents.

In golf circles, the driving range was called the office.

Myron recognized Greg Norman and Nick Faldo. He also spotted Tad Crispin, the new kid on the block, the latest next Jack Nicklaus—in a phrase, the dream client. The kid was twenty-three, good-looking, quiet, engaged to an equally attractive, happy-just-to-be-here woman. He also did not yet have an agent. Myron tried not to salivate. Hey, he was as human as the next guy. He was, after all, a sports agent. Cut him some slack.

“Where is Jack?” Myron asked.

“Down this way,” Bucky said. “He wanted to hit alone.”

“How did the kidnapper reach him?”

“He called the Merion switchboard and said it was an emergency.”

“And that worked?”

“Yes,” Bucky said slowly. “Actually it was Chad on the phone. He identified himself as Jack’s son.”

Curious. “What time did the call come in?”

“Maybe ten minutes before I called you.” Bucky stopped, gestured with his chin. “There.”

Jack Coldren was a touch pudgy and soft in the middle, but he had forearms like Popeye’s. His flyaway hair did just that in the breeze, revealing bald spots that had started off the day better covered. He whacked the ball with a wood club and an uncommon fury. To some this might all seem very strange. You have just learned your son is missing and you go out and hit golf balls. But Myron understood. Hitting balls was comfort food. The more stress Myron was under, the more he wanted to go in his driveway and shoot baskets. We all have something. Some drink. Some do drugs. Some like to take a long drive or play a computer game. When Win needed to unwind, he often watched videotapes of his own sexual exploits. But that was Win.

“Who’s that with him?” Myron asked.

“Diane Hoffman,” Bucky said. “Jack’s caddie.”

Myron knew that female caddies were not uncommon on the men’s pro tour. Some players even hired their wives. Saves money. “Does she know what’s going on?”

“Yes. Diane was there when the call came in. They’re pretty close.”

“Have you told Linda?”

Bucky nodded. “I called her right away. Do you mind introducing yourself? I’d like to go back to the house and check up on her.”

“No problem.”

“How will I reach you if something comes up?”

“Call my cellular.”

Bucky nearly gasped. “Cellular phones are forbidden at Merion.” Like it was a papal command.

“I walk on the wild side,” Myron said. “Just call.”

Myron approached them. Diane Hoffman stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, her arms folded, her face intent on Coldren’s backswing. A cigarette dangled from her lips almost vertically. She didn’t even glance at Myron. Jack Coldren coiled his body and then let go, snapping like a released spring. The ball rocketed over the distant hills.

Jack Coldren turned, looked at Myron, smiled tightly, nodded a hello. “You’re Myron Bolitar, right?”

“Right.”

He shook Myron’s hand. Diane Hoffman continued to study her player’s every move, frowning as if she’d spotted a flaw in his hand-shaking technique. “I appreciate your helping us out,” he said.

Face-to-face now—no more than a few feet away—Myron could see the devastation on the man’s face. The jubilant glow after nailing the putt on eighteen had been snuffed out by something more pasty and sickly. His eyes had the surprised, uncomprehending look of a man who’d just been sucker punched in the stomach.

“You tried making a comeback recently,” Jack said. “With New Jersey.”

Myron nodded.

“I saw you on the news. Gutsy move, after all these years.”

Stalling. Not sure how to begin. Myron decided to help. “Tell me about the call.”

Jack Coldren’s eyes swerved over the expanse of green. “Are you sure it’s safe?” he asked. “The guy on the phone told me no police. To just act normal.”

“I’m an agent seeking clients,” Myron said. “Talking to me is about as normal as it gets.”

Coldren thought about that for a moment then nodded. He still hadn’t introduced Diane Hoffman. Hoffman didn’t seem to mind. She remained about ten feet away, rock-still. Her eyes remained narrow and suspicious, her face weathered and pinched. The cigarette ash was incredibly long now, almost defying gravity. She wore a cap and one of those caddie vests that looked like a jogger’s night reflector.

“The club president came up to me and whispered that there was an emergency call from my son. So I went inside the clubhouse and picked it up.”

He stopped suddenly and blinked several times. His breathing became heavier. He was wearing a tad-too-tight, yellow V-necked golf shirt. You could see his body expand against the cotton blend with each inhale. Myron waited.

“It was Chad,” he finally spat out. “All he could say was ‘Dad,’ before someone grabbed the phone away from him. Then a man with a deep voice came on the line.”

“How deep?” Myron asked.

“Pardon?”

“How deep was the voice?”

“Very.”

“Did it sound funny to you? A little robotic?”

“Now that you mention it, yes, it did.”

Electronic altering, Myron guessed. Those machines could make Barry White sound like a four-year-old girl. Or vice versa. They weren’t hard to get. Even Radio Shack sold them now. The kidnapper or kidnappers could be any sex. Linda and Jack Coldren’s description of a “male voice” was irrelevant. “What did he say?”

“That he had my son. He told me that if I called the police or anybody like that, Chad would pay. He told me that someone would be watching me all the time.” Jack Coldren accentuated the point by looking around again. No one suspicious lurked about, though Greg Norman waved and gave them a smiling thumbs-up. G’day, mate.

“What else?” Myron asked.

“He said he wanted money,” Coldren said.

“How much?”

“He just said a lot. He wasn’t sure yet how much, but he wanted me to get it ready. He said he’d call back.”

Myron made a face. “But he didn’t tell you how much?”

“No. Just that it would be a lot.”

“And that you should get it ready.”

“Right.”

This made no sense. A kidnapper who wasn’t sure how much ransom to extort? “May I be blunt, Jack?”

Coldren stood a little taller, tucked in his shirt. He was what some would call boyishly and disarmingly handsome. His face was big and unthreatening with cottony, malleable features. “Don’t sugarcoat anything for me,” he said. “I want the truth.”

“Could this be a hoax?”

Jack shot a quick glance at Diane Hoffman. She moved slightly. Might have been a nod. He turned back to Myron. “What do you mean?”

“Could Chad be behind this?”

The longer flyaway hairs got caught up in a cross-breeze and fell down into his eyes. He pushed them away with his fingers. Something came across his face. Rumination, maybe? Unlike Linda Coldren, the idea had not snapped him into a defensive stance. He was pondering the possibility, or perhaps merely grasping at an option that meant safety for his son.