The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (96 page)

“Oh,” Bucky said softly, moving in closer.

Myron turned the channel to Three and hit the
PLAY
button. All eyes were on the screen. Myron had already seen the tape. He studied their faces instead, watching for reactions.

On the television, a black-and-white image appeared. The bank’s driveway. The view was from up high and a bit distorted, a concave fish-eye effect to capture as much space as possible. There was no sound. Myron had the tape all cued up on the right spot. Almost immediately a car pulled into view. The camera was on the driver’s side.

“It’s Chad’s car,” Jack Coldren announced.

They watched in rapt silence as the car window lowered. The
angle was a bit odd—above the car and from the machine’s point of view—but there was no doubt. Chad Coldren was the driver. He leaned out the window and put his card in the ATM machine slot. His fingers tripped across the buttons like an experienced stenographer’s.

Young Chad Coldren’s smile was bright and happy.

When his fingers finished their little rumba, Chad settled back into the car to wait. He turned away from the camera for a moment. To the passenger seat. Someone was sitting next to Chad. Again Myron watched for a reaction. Linda, Jack, and Bucky all squinted, all trying to make out a face, but it was impossible. When Chad finally turned back to the camera, he was laughing. He pulled the money out, grabbed his card, leaned back into the car, closed the window, and drove off.

Myron switched off the VCR and waited. Silence flooded the room. Linda Coldren slowly lifted her head. She kept her expression steady, but her jaw trembled from being so set.

“There was another person in the car,” Linda offered. “He could have had a gun on Chad or—”

“Stop it!” Jack shouted. “Look at his face, Linda! For crying out loud, just look at his goddamn smirking face!”

“I know my son. He wouldn’t do this.”

“You don’t know him,” Jack countered. “Face it, Linda. Neither one of us knows him.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Linda insisted, speaking more to herself than anyone in the room.

“No?” Jack gestured at the television, his face reddening. “Then how the hell do you explain what we just saw? Huh? He was laughing, Linda. He’s having the time of his life at our expense.” He stopped, struggled with something. “At my expense,” he corrected himself.

Linda gave him a long look. “Go play, Jack.”

“That’s exactly what I am going to do.”

He lifted his bag. His eyes met Bucky’s. Bucky remained silent. A tear slid down the older man’s cheek. Jack tore his gaze away and started for the door.

Myron called out, “Jack?”

Coldren stopped.

“It still might not be what it looks like,” Myron said.

Again with the eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I traced the call you got last night,” Myron explained. “It was made from a mall pay phone.” He briefly filled them in on his visit to the Grand Mercado Mall and the Crusty Nazi. Linda’s face kept slipping from hope to heartbreak and mostly confusion. Myron understood. She wanted her son to be safe. But at the same time, she did not want this to be some cruel joke. Tough mix.

“He is in trouble,” Linda said as soon as he’d finished. “That proves it.”

“That proves nothing,” Jack replied in tired exasperation. “Rich kids hang out at malls and dress like punks too. He’s probably a friend of Chad’s.”

Again Linda looked at her husband hard. Again she said in a measured tone, “Go play, Jack.”

Jack opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. He shook his head, adjusted the bag on his shoulder, and left. Bucky crossed the room. He tried to hold his daughter, but she stiffened at his touch. She moved away, studying Myron’s face.

“You think he’s faking too,” she said.

“Jack’s explanation makes sense.”

“So you’re going to stop looking?”

“I don’t know,” Myron said.

She straightened her back. “Stay with it,” she began, “and I promise to sign with you.”

“Linda …”

“That’s why you’re here in the first place, right? You want my business. Well, here’s the deal. You stay with me and I’ll sign whatever you want. Hoax or no hoax. It’ll be quite a coup, no? Signing the number one–ranked female golfer in the world?”

“Yes,” Myron admitted. “It would be.”

“So there you go.” She stuck out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Myron kept his hands by his side. “Let me ask you something.”

“What?”

“Why are you so sure it’s not a hoax, Linda?”

“You think I’m being naive?”

“Not really,” he said. “I just want to know what makes you so certain.”

She lowered her hand and turned away from him. “Dad?”

Bucky seemed to snap out of a daze. “Hmm?”

“Would you mind leaving us alone for a minute?”

“Oh,” Bucky said. Neck crane. Then another. Two of them back-to-back. Good thing he wasn’t a giraffe. “Yes, well, I wanted to get to Merion anyway.”

“You go ahead, Dad. I’ll meet you there.”

When they were alone, Linda Coldren began to pace the room. Myron was again awed by her looks—the paradoxical combination of beauty, strength, and now delicacy. The strong, toned arms, yet the long, slender neck. The harsh, pointed features, yet the soft indigo eyes. Myron had heard beauty described as “seamless”; hers was quite the opposite.

“I’m not big on”—Linda Coldren made quote marks in the air with her fingers—“woman’s intuition or any of that mother-knows-her-boy-best crap. But I know that my son is in danger. He wouldn’t just disappear like this. No matter how it looks, that’s not what happened.”

Myron remained silent.

“I don’t like asking for help. It’s not my way—to depend on someone else. But this is a situation.… I’m scared. I’ve never felt fear like this in all of my life. It’s all-consuming. It’s suffocating. My son is in trouble and I can’t do anything to help him. You want proof that this is not a hoax. I can’t provide that. I just know. And I’m asking you to please help me.”

Myron wasn’t sure how to respond. Her argument came straight from the heart,
sans
facts or evidence. But that didn’t make her suffering any less real. “I’ll check out Matthew’s house,” he said finally. “Let’s see what happens after that.”

In the light of day, Green Acres Road was even more imposing. Both sides of the street were lined with ten-foot-high shrubs so thick that Myron couldn’t tell how thick. He parked his car outside a wrought iron gate and approached an intercom. He pressed a button and waited. There were several surveillance cameras. Some remained steady. Some whirred slowly from side to side. Myron spotted motion detectors, barbed wire, Dobermans. A rather elaborate fortress, he thought.

A voice as impenetrable as the shrubs came through the speaker. “May I help you?”

“Good morning,” Myron said, offering up a friendly-but-not-a-salesman smile to the nearest camera. Talking to a camera. He felt like he was on
Nightline
. “I’m looking for Matthew Squires.”

Pause. “Your name, sir?”

“Myron Bolitar.”

“Is Master Squires expecting you?”

“No.”
Master
Squires?

“Then you do not have an appointment?”

An appointment to see a sixteen-year-old? Who is this kid, Doogie Howser? “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“May I ask the purpose of your visit?”

“To speak to Matthew Squires.” Mr. Vague.

“I am afraid that will not be possible at this time,” the voice said.

“Will you tell him it involves Chad Coldren?”

Another pause. Cameras pirouetted. Myron looked around. All the lenses were aiming down from up high, glaring at him like hostile space aliens or lunchroom monitors.

“In what way does it involve Master Coldren?” the voice asked.

Myron squinted into a camera. “May I ask with whom I am speaking?”

No reply.

Myron waited a beat, then said, “You’re supposed to say, ‘I am the great and powerful Oz.’ ”

“I am sorry, sir. No one is admitted without an appointment. Please have a nice day.”

“Wait a second. Hello? Hello?” Myron pressed the button again. No reply. He leaned on it for several seconds. Still nothing. He looked up into the camera and gave his best caring-homespun-family-guy smile. Very Tom Brokaw. He tried a small wave. Nothing. He took a small step backward and gave a great big Jack Kemp fake-throwing-a-football wave. Nada.

He stood there for another minute. This was indeed odd. A sixteen-year-old with this kind of security? Something was not quite kosher. He pressed the button one more time. When no one responded he looked into the camera, put a thumb in either ear, wiggled his fingers and stuck out his tongue.

When in doubt, be mature.

Back at his car, Myron picked up the car phone and dialed his friend.

Sheriff Jake Courter.

“Sheriff’s office.”

“Hey, Jake. It’s Myron.”

“Fuck. I knew I shouldn’t have come in on Saturday.”

“Ooo, I’m wounded. Seriously, Jake, do they still call you the Henny Youngman of law enforcement?”

Heavy sigh. “What the fuck do you want, Myron? I just came in to get a little paperwork done.”

“No rest for those vigilantly pursuing peace and justice for the common man.”

“Right,” Jake said.

“This week, I went out on a whole twelve calls. Guess how many of them were for false burglar alarms?”

“Thirteen.”

“Pretty close.”

For more than twenty years, Jake Courter had been a cop in several of the country’s meanest cities. He’d hated it and craved a quieter life. So Jake, a rather large black man, resigned from the force and moved to the picturesque (read: lily-white) town of Reston, New Jersey. Looking for a cushy job, he ran for sheriff. Reston was a college (read: liberal) town, and thus Jake played up his—as he put it—“blackness” and won easily. The white man’s guilt, Jake had told Myron. The best vote-getter this side of Willie Horton.

“Miss the excitement of the big city?” Myron asked.

“Like a case of herpes,” Jake countered. “Okay, Myron, you’ve done the charm thing on me. I’m like Play-Doh in your paws now. What do you want?”

“I’m in Philly for the U.S. Open.”

“That’s golf, right?”

“Yeah, golf. And I wanted to know if you’ve heard of a guy named Squires.”

Pause. Then: “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“What the fuck are you involved in now?”

“Nothing. It’s just that he’s got all this weird security around his house—”

“What the fuck are you doing by his house?”

“Nothing.”

“Right,” Jake said. “Guess you were just strolling by.”

“Something like that.”

“Nothing like that.” Jake sighed. Then: “Ah what the hell, it ain’t on my beat anymore. Squires. Reginald Squires aka Big Blue.”

Myron made a face. “Big Blue?”

“Hey, all gangsters need a nickname. Squires is known as Big Blue. Blue, as in blue blood.”

“Those gangsters,” Myron said. “Pity they don’t channel their creativity into honest marketing.”

“ ‘Honest marketing,’ ” Jake repeated. “Talk about your basic oxymoron. Anyway Squires got a kiloton of family dough and all this blue-blood breeding and schooling and shit.”

“So what’s he doing keeping such bad company?”

“You want the simple answer? The son of a bitch is a serious wacko. Gets his jollies hurting people. Kinda like Win.”

“Win doesn’t get his jollies hurting people.”

“If you say so.”

“If Win hurts someone, there’s a reason. To prevent them from doing it again or to punish or something.”

“Sure, whatever,” Jake said. “Kinda touchy though, aren’t we, Myron?”

“It’s been a long day.”

“It’s only nine in the morning.”

Myron said, “For what breeds time but two hands on a clock?”

“Who said that?”

“No one. I just made it up.”

“You should consider writing greeting cards.”

“So what is Squires into, Jake?”

“Want to hear something funny? I’m not sure. Nobody is. Drugs and prostitution. Shit like that. But very upscale. Nothing very well organized or anything. It’s more like he plays at it, you know? Like he gets involved in whatever he thinks will give him a thrill, then dumps it.”

“How about kidnapping?”

Brief pause. “Oh shit, you are involved in something again, aren’t you?”

“I just asked you if Squires was into kidnapping.”

“Oh. Right. Like it’s a hypothetical question. Kinda like, ‘If a bear shits in the forest and no one is around, does it still reek’?”

“Precisely. Does kidnapping reek like his kind of thing?”

“Hell if I know. The guy is a major league loon, no question. He
blends right into all that snobbish bullshit—the boring parties, the shitty food, the laughing at jokes that aren’t remotely funny, the talking with the same boring people about the same boring worthless bullshit—”

“It sounds like you really admire them.”

“Just my point, my friend. They got it all, right? On the outside. Money, big homes, fancy clubs. But they’re all so fucking boring—shit, I’d kill myself. Makes me wonder if maybe Squires feels that way too, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Myron said. “And Win is the scary one here, right?”

Jake laughed. “Touché. But to answer your question, I don’t know if Squires would be into kidnapping. Wouldn’t surprise me though.”

Myron thanked him and hung up. He looked up. At least a dozen security cameras lined the top of the shrubs like tiny sentinels.

What now?

For all he knew, Chad Coldren was laughing his ass off, watching him on one of those security cameras. This whole thing could be an exercise in pure futility. Of course, Linda Coldren had promised to be a client. Much as he didn’t want to admit it to himself, the idea was not wholly unpleasant. He considered the possibility and started to smile. If he could also somehow land Tad Crispin …

Yo, Myron, a kid may be in serious trouble
.

Or, more likely, a spoiled brat or neglected adolescent—take your pick—is playing hooky and having some fun at his parents’ expense.

So the question remained: What now?

He thought again about the videotape of Chad at the ATM machine. He didn’t go into details with the Coldrens, but it bothered him. Why there? Why that particular ATM machine? If the kid was running away or hiding out, he might have to pick up money. Fine and dandy, that made sense.