The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (11 page)

In something of a trance, Jessica thanked Myron and hung up the phone. She half-stumbled into the kitchen and sat down. Her mother and her younger brother Edward looked up.

“Honey,” Carol Culver began, “are you okay?”

“Fine,” she managed.

“Who was on the phone?”

“Myron.”

Silence.

“We were talking about Kathy,” she continued.

“What about her?” Edward asked.

Her brother had always been Edward, not Ed or Eddie or Ted. He was only a year out of college and already he owned a successful computer business, IMCS (Interactive Management Computer Systems), which developed software systems for several prestigious corporations. Edward wore only jeans, even in the office, and obnoxious T-shirts, the kind with chintzy iron-on decals that say stuff like “Keep on Truckin’.” He didn’t own a tie. He had a wide, almost-feminine face with delicate porcelain features. Women would kill for his eyelashes. Only the buzz-cut hair—and the pithy phrase on his T-shirt—hinted at what Edward was proud to be:
COMPUTER WEENIES HAVE THE BEST HARDWARE
.

Jessica took a deep breath. She could not be concerned with delicacies or feelings anymore. She opened her purse and pulled out a copy of
Nips.
“This magazine hit the stands a few days ago,” she said.

She tossed it on the table, cover up. A cross between puzzlement and disgust blanketed her mother’s face.

Edward remained stoic. “What the hell is this?” he asked.

Jessica flipped to the page in the back. “There,” she said simply, pointing to the picture of Kathy in the bottom row.

It took a few moments for them to comprehend what they were seeing, as though the information had been waylaid somewhere between the eye and brain. Then Carol Culver let out a groan. Her hand flew to her mouth, smothering a scream. Edward’s eyes narrowed into thin slits.

Jessica did not give her time to recover. “There’s more,” she said.

Her mother looked up at her with hollow, haunted eyes. There was no life behind them anymore, as though a final cold gust had put out a flickering flame.

“A handwriting expert checked the envelope it came in. The writing matches Kathy’s.”

Edward inhaled sharply. Carol’s legs finally gave out, folding at the knees. She landed hard in her chair and crossed herself. Tears came to her eyes.

“She’s alive?” Carol managed.

“I don’t know.”

“But there’s a chance?” Edward followed up.

Jessica nodded. “There’s always been a chance.”

Stunned silence.

“But I need some information,” Jessica continued. “I need to know what happened to Kathy. What made her change.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed again. “What do you mean?”

“Kathy had an affair with her high school English teacher. Senior year.”

More silence. Jessica was not so sure it was stunned.

“The teacher, a maggot named Gary Grady, has admitted it.”

“No,” her mother said weakly. She lowered her head, her crucifix dangling like a pendulum. She began to weep. “Sweet Jesus, not my baby …”

Edward stood. “That’s enough, Jess.”

“It’s not enough.”

Edward grabbed his jacket. “I’m out of here.”

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“Good-bye.”

“We need to talk this out.”

“The hell we do.”

“Edward—”

He ran out the back door, slamming it behind him.

Jessica turned back to her mother. Her sobs were gut-wrenching. Jessica watched for a minute or two. Then she turned and left the kitchen.

    Roy O’Connor was already in the back booth when Myron arrived. His glass was empty, and he was sucking on an ice cube. He sounded like an aardvark near an anthill.

“Hey, Roy.”

O’Connor nodded to the seat across the table, not bothering to stand. He wore gold rings that disappeared under the folds of flesh in his chubby unstained hands. His fingernails were manicured. He was somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five years old, but it was impossible to tell where. He was balding, wearing the ever-desirable swept-over look, parting his hair just below the armpit.

“Nice place, Roy,” Myron said. “A table in the back, low lights, soft romantic music. If I didn’t know better—”

O’Connor shook his head. “Look, Bolitar, I know you think you’re a regular Buddy Hackett, but give it a rest, okay?”

“I guess flowers are out, then.” Pause. Then: “Buddy Hackett?”

“We need to talk.”

“I’m all ears.”

A waitress came over. “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

“Another,” Roy said, pointing to his glass.

“And for you?”

“Do you have Yoo-Hoo?” Myron asked.

“I think so.”

“Great. I’ll have one.”

She left. Roy shook his head. “A fucking Yoo-Hoo,” he mumbled.

“Did you say something?”

“Your goon visited me last night.”

“Your goons visited me first,” Myron said.

“I had nothing to do with that.”

Myron gave him his best “come off it” look of pure skepticism. The waitress put down the drinks Roy scooped up his martini as if it held a life-saving antidote. Myron, by contrast, sipped his Yoo-Hoo daintily. Ever the gentleman.

“Look, Myron,” O’Connor continued, “it’s like this. I signed Landreaux. I gave him money up front. I gave him money every month. I kept my part of the bargain.”

“You signed him illegally.”

“I’m not the first guy to do it,” he said.

“Nor the last. What’s your point, Roy?”

“Look, you know me. You know how I operate.”

Myron nodded. “You’re a chicken-shitted crook.”

“I might have threatened the kid. Fine. I’ve done that before. But that’s it. I’d never really hurt anybody.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Word would get out to the athletes. I’d be ruined.”

“Damn shame that would be.”

“Bolitar, you’re not making this any easier.”

“I’m not trying to.”

O’Connor grabbed the drink again. He finished it and signaled to the waitress for another. “I’ve gotten involved with the wrong people,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I worked up some big-time gambling debts. Debts I couldn’t pay off.”

“So they took a piece of your business.”

Roy nodded. “They control me now. Your—your friend from last night.” A Geiger counter could have
registered the quake in his voice when he mentioned Win. “I want to do just what he said, but I don’t have the power anymore.”

Myron took another sip of his Yoo-Hoo, hoping he wasn’t getting one of those chocolate mustaches. “My friend won’t be pleased to hear that.”

“You have to tell him it’s not me.”

“Then who is it?”

Roy sat back, shaking his head. “I can’t say. But I can tell you they play for keeps. And they don’t understand a thing about this business. They think they can just scare everyone into compliance. They want to make an example out of someone.”

“And Landreaux is the example?”

“Landreaux. And you. They want to hurt Landreaux. They want to kill you. They’re putting out a contract on your head.”

Another cool sip. Myron said nothing.

“You don’t seem very worried,” Roy said.

“I laugh in the face of death,” Myron replied. “Well, maybe not laugh. More like a snicker. A quiet snicker.”

“Jesus, you’re a lunatic.”

“And I wouldn’t do it directly in death’s face. So it’s more like a quiet snicker behind his back.”

“Bolitar, this isn’t funny.”

“No,” Myron agreed. “It’s not. I strongly suggest you call them off.”

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? I got no control here.”

“If something happens to me, my friend will be very upset. He’ll take it out on you.”

Roy swallowed. “But I’m powerless. You have to believe that.”

“Then tell me who’s calling the shots.”

“I can’t.”

Myron shrugged. “Maybe we can be buried next to one another. One of those romantic tragedy things.”

“They’ll kill me if I say anything.”

“What do you think my friend will do to you?”

Roy shuddered. He sucked on the ice again, trying to salvage the last remnants of the whiskey. “Where is that damn bimbo with my drink?”

“Who’s calling the shots, Roy?”

“You didn’t hear it from me, right?”

“Right.”

“You won’t tell them?”

“Mum’s the word.”

One more ice suck. Then Roy said, “Ache.”

“Herman Ache?” Myron asked, surprised. “Herman Ache is behind this?”

Roy shook his head. “His younger brother. Frank. He’s out of control. I don’t know what the psycho will do next.”

Frank Ache. It made sense. Herman Ache was one of New York’s leading mobsters, responsible for countless misery. But next to his younger brother Frank, Herman was an Alan Alda clone. Aaron would enjoy working for someone like Frank.

This was not good news. Myron toyed with the idea of dropping the snicker altogether. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“No. I just don’t want anyone hurt.”

“You’re some guy, Roy. So selfless.”

O’Connor stood. “I got nothing more to say.”

“I thought we were going to have lunch.”

“Have it by yourself,” O’Connor said. “It’s on my tab.”

“Won’t be the same without your company.”

“Yet somehow you’ll muddle through.”

Myron picked up the menu. “I’ll try.”

Who else to call?

The answer, Jessica realized, was obvious.

Nancy Serat. Kathy’s roommate and closest friend.

Jessica sat at her father’s desk. The lights were turned off, the shades were pulled down, but the sunlight was still strong enough to sneak through and cast shadows.

Adam Culver had done everything he could to make his home office radically different from the cement, institutional, macabre feel of the county morgue. The results were mixed. The converted bedroom had bright yellow walls, plenty of windows, silk flowers, white Formica desk. Teddy bears encircled the room. William Shakesbear. Rhett Beartler with Scarlett O’Beara. Bear Ruth. Bearlock Holmes. Humphrey Beargart with Lauren Bearcall. The whole atmosphere was cheerful, albeit a forced cheerful, like a clown you laugh at but find a little scary.

She took her phone book from her purse. Nancy had sent the family a card a few weeks ago. She had won some fellowship and was staying on campus to work in admissions. Jessica looked up her number and dialed.

On the third ring the answering machine picked up. Jessica left a message and hung up. She was about to start going through the drawers when a voice stopped her.

“Jessica.”

She looked up. Her mother stood in the doorway. Her
eyes were sunken, her face a skeletal death mask. Her body swayed as though she were about to topple over.

“What are you doing in here?” Carol asked.

“Just looking around,” she said.

Carol nodded, her head bobbing on the string that was her neck. “Find anything?”

“Not yet.”

Carol sat down. She stared straight ahead, her eyes unfocused. “She was always such a happy child,” she said slowly. Her fingers fiddled with prayer beads, her gaze still far off. “Kathy never stopped smiling. She had such a wonderful, happy smile. It lit up any room she entered. You and Edward, well, you were both more brooding. But Kathy—she had a smile for everyone and everything. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” Jessica said. “I remember.”

“Your father used to joke that she had the personality of a born-again cheerleader,” Carol added, chuckling at the memory. “Nothing ever brought her down.” She stopped, the chuckle fading away. “Except, I guess, me.”

“Kathy loved you, Mom.”

She sighed deeply, her chest heaving as though even a sigh took great effort. “I was a strict mother with you girls. Too strict, I guess. I was old-fashioned.”

Jessica did not reply.

“I just didn’t want you or your sister to …” She lowered her head.

“To what?”

She shook her head. Her fingers moved across the beads at a more fervid pace. For a long time neither of them spoke. Then Carol said, “You were right before, Jessica. Kathy changed.”

“When?”

“Her senior year.”

“What happened?”

Tears sprang to Carol’s eyes. Her mouth tried to form words, her hands moving in gestures of helplessness. “The smile,” she replied with something like a shrug. “One day it was gone.”

“Why?”

Her mother wiped her eyes. Her lower lip quivered. Jessica’s heart reached out to her, but for some reason the rest of her couldn’t. She sat and watched her suffering, strangely uninvolved, as if she were watching a late-night tearjerker on cable.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Jessica said. “I just want to find Kathy.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“I think,” Jessica continued, “that whatever changed Kathy is connected to her disappearance.”

Her mother’s shoulders sagged. “Merciful God.”

“I know it hurts,” Jessica said. “But if we can find Kathy, if we can find who killed Dad—”

Carol’s head shot up. “Your father was killed in a robbery.”

“I don’t think so. I think it’s all connected. Kathy’s disappearance, Dad’s murder, everything.”

“But—how?”

“I don’t know yet. Myron is helping me find out.”

The doorbell rang.

“That’ll be Uncle Paul,” her mother said, heading for the door.

“Mom?”

Carol stopped but did not turn around.

“What’s going on? What are you afraid to tell me?”

The doorbell rang again.

“I better get that,” Carol said. She hurried down the stairs.

“So,” Win began, “Frank Ache wants to kill you.”

Myron nodded. “Seems so.”

“A shame.”

“If he’d only get to know me. The real me.”

They sat in the front row at Titans Stadium. Out of the goodness of his heart, Otto had agreed to let Christian practice. That, and the fact that veteran quarterback Neil Decker was beyond horrendous.

The morning session had been a lot of wind sprints and walking through plays. The afternoon session, however, was a bit of a surprise. The players were in full gear, almost unheard of this early on in the year.

“Frank Ache is not a kind fellow,” Win said.

“He likes torturing animals.”

“Excuse me?”

“A friend of mine knew him growing up,” Myron explained. “Frank Ache’s favorite hobby was to chase down cats and dogs and bash in their heads with a baseball bat.”

“I bet that impressed the girls,” Win said.

Myron nodded.

“I assume, then, that you will be in need of my unique services.”

“For a few days, anyway,” Myron replied.

“Goodie. May I also assume that you have a plan?”

“I’m working on it. Feverishly.”

Christian jogged out on the field. He moved in that effortless way great athletes do. He got into the huddle, broke it, and approached the line of scrimmage.

“Full contact!” a coach yelled out.

Myron looked at Win. “I don’t like this.”

“What?”

“Full contact on the first day.”

Christian started calling out numbers. Then he gave a
few hut-huts before the ball was snapped to him. He faded back to pass.

“Oh, shit,” Myron said.

Tommy Lawrence, the Titans’ All-Pro linebacker, charged forward unblocked. Christian saw him too late. Tommy placed his helmet into Christian’s sternum and slammed him to the ground—the kind of tackle that hurts like hell but doesn’t do any permanent damage. Two other defenders piled on.

Christian got up, wincing and holding his chest. Nobody helped him.

Myron stood.

Win stopped him with a shake of his head. “Sit down, Myron.”

Otto Burke came down the stairs, entourage in tow.

Myron glared at him. Otto smiled brightly. He made a tsk-tsk noise. “I traded a lot of popular veterans to get him,” he said. “It looks like some of the guys aren’t too thrilled.”

“Sit down, Myron,” Win repeated.

Myron hesitated, then complied.

Christian limped back to the huddle. He called the next play and again approached the line of scrimmage. He surveyed the defense, yelled out numbers and hut-huts, then took the snap from the center. He stepped back. Tommy Lawrence blitzed again over left guard, completely untouched. Christian froze. Tommy bore down on him. He leaped like a panther, his arms stretched out for a bone-crushing tackle. Christian moved at the very last moment. Not a big move. Just a slight shift, actually. Tommy flew by him and landed on the ground. Christian pumped and threw a bomb.

Complete pass.

Myron turned around, grinning. “Hey, Otto?”

“What?”

“Kiss my grits.”

Otto’s smile did not falter. Myron wondered how he did that, if his mouth was frozen that way, like the threat a little kid hears from his mom when he’s making faces. Otto nodded and walked away. His entourage followed in a row, like a family of mallard ducks.

Win looked at Myron “Kiss my grits?”

Shrug. “Paying homage to Flo on
Alice
.”

“You watch too much television.”

“Listen, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh?”

“About Gary Grady,” Myron said.

“What about him?”

“He has an affair with a student. She vanishes a year or so later. Time passes and her picture ends up in a porno ad he runs.”

“Your point being?”

“It’s crazy.”

“So is everything about this case.”

Myron shook his head. “Think about it. Grady admits having an affair with Kathy, right? So what would be the last thing he’d want to do?”

“Publicize it.”

“Yet her picture ends up in his ad.”

“Ah.” Win nodded. “You believe someone is setting him up.”

“Exactly.”

“Who?”

“Fred Nickler would be my bet,” Myron said.

“Hmm. He did hand over Grady’s p.o. box without much debate.”

“And he has the power to switch photos in his own magazine.”

“So what do you suggest?” Win asked.

“I’d like you to check out Mr. Fred Nickler very
thoroughly Maybe talk to him again.
Talk
,” Myron repeated. “Not visit.”

On the field Christian was fading back again. For the third straight time Tommy Lawrence blitzed over left guard untouched. In fact, the left guard stood with his hands on his hips and watched.

“Christian’s own lineman is setting him up,” Myron said.

Christian side-stepped Tommy Lawrence, cocked his arms, and whipped the ball with unearthly velocity directly into his left guard’s groin. There was a short
oomph
sound. The left guard collapsed like a folding chair.

“Ouch,” Win said.

Myron almost clapped. “
The Longest Yard
revisited.”

The left guard was, of course, wearing a cup. But a cup was far from full protection against a speeding missile. He rolled on the ground, back curved fetal-like, eyes wide. Every man in the general vicinity gave a collective, sympathetic “Ooo.”

Christian walked over to his left guard—a man weighing in excess of 275 pounds—and offered him a hand. The left guard took it. He limped back to the huddle.

“Christian has balls,” Myron said.

Win nodded. “But can the same be said of the left guard?”