Harlan Coben - Home

Myron didn’t like that.

Myron stared at the chief until finally Taylor felt his eyes, turned, and looked Myron’s way. The two men glared at each other another second or two.

If you got a problem, you glare at me, Myron tried to say with his eyes, not my nephew.

Dad said, “Ignore him. Eddie has always been what the kids today call an ‘ass waffle.’”

Myron laughed out loud. “Ass waffle?”

“Yep.”

“Who taught you that?”

“Ema,” Dad said. “I like her, don’t you?”

“Very much,” Myron agreed.

“Is it true?” Dad asked.

“What?”

“That Ema’s mother is Angelica Wyatt?”

It was supposed to be a secret. Angelica Wyatt was one of the most popular actresses in the world. To protect her only child and her own privacy, they had moved to a large estate on a hill here in New Jersey.

“It’s true.”

“And you know her?”

Myron nodded. “A bit.”

“Who’s her father?”

“I don’t know.”

Dad started craning his neck. “I’m surprised Ema’s not here.”

They settled back as the game began. Myron loved every second of it. Sitting with his dad in a gym, watching his nephew dominate the game Myron so loved-it was simple and primitive and blissful. There were no pangs anymore. He missed it, sure, but it was way past his time, and man oh man, did he love watching his young nephew reveling in the experience.

It made Myron a little teary.

At one point, after Mickey made a turnaround jumper, Dad shook his head and said, “He’s really good.”

“He is.”

“He plays like you.”

“He’s better.”

Dad considered that. “Different eras. He may not go as far as you.”

“Hmm,” Myron said. “What makes you say that?”

“How to put this…?” Dad began. “For you, basketball was everything.”

“Mickey is pretty dedicated too.”

“No question. But it’s not everything. There’s a difference. Let me ask you a question.”

“Okay.”

“When you look back at how competitive you were, what do you think?”

Mickey made a steal. A cheer rose from the crowd. Myron couldn’t help but smile. “I guess I was a little crazy.”

“It was important to you.”

“Ridiculously important,” Myron agreed.

Dad arched an eyebrow. “Too important?”

“Probably, yeah.”

“But that’s one of the things that separated you from the other talented players. That… ‘desire’ is almost too tame a word. That need to win. That single-minded focus. That’s what made you the best.”

Win had often said something similar of Myron’s playing days at Duke: “When you’re competing, you’re barely sane…”

“But now,” Dad continued, “you have perspective. You’ve experienced tragedies and joys that have taught you that there are more important things in life than basketball. And Mickey-don’t take this the wrong way-Mickey had to grow up young. He’s already suffered more than his share of tragedy.”

Myron nodded. “He already has perspective.”

“Exactly.”

The horn blew, ending the first quarter. Mickey’s team was up by six.

“Who knows,” Myron said. “Maybe his wisdom will make him a better player. Maybe perspective is as good as single-minded focus.”

Dad liked that. “Maybe you’re right.”

They watched Mickey’s teammates break the huddle and take the ball out of bounds to start the second quarter.

“I loathe sports metaphors,” Dad said, “but there is one important thing both of you learned on the court and do in real life.”

“What’s that?”

Dad nodded to the court. Mickey drove through the lane, drew a defender, dished a pass to a teammate, who scored an easy bucket.

“You make those around you better.”

Myron said nothing. His nephew had that look on his face, the one Myron knew so well. There is a Zen to being on the court, a calm in the storm, a purity, a concentration, the ability to slow down time. Then Myron saw Mickey’s eyes flick to the left. He pulled up for a second. Myron followed Mickey’s gaze to see what had drawn that reaction.

Ema had walked into the gym.

She narrowed her eyes and scanned the stands. Myron gave a small wave. She nodded that she saw him and started toward him. Myron rose and met her halfway.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“It’s about Patrick,” Ema said. “You better come with me.”

Ema didn’t take him far, just to the head custodian’s office in the high school’s main building. She opened the door and held it for him. Myron stepped inside and recognized the kid at the desk.

“Hello, Mr. Bolitar!”

They called the kid Spoon. Mickey had given him the nickname, though Myron wasn’t sure of the origins. Spoon’s father was the head custodian at the high school, which explained why Spoon had access to this space. The office was small and tidy and loaded with perfectly pruned plants.

“I told you to call me Myron.”

The kid swiveled his chair so that he was facing Myron. Spoon wasn’t wearing a pocket protector, but he had the look of a kid who should have been. Using one finger, Spoon pushed his Harry Potter glasses up his nose.

Spoon gave Myron a crooked grin. “You know those stickers that supermarkets put on fruit?”

Ema sighed. “Not now, Spoon.”

“Sure I know them,” Myron said.

“Do you peel them off your fruit before you eat it?”

“I do.”

“Did you know,” Spoon continued, “that those stickers are edible?”

“I did not.”

“You don’t have to peel them off, if you don’t want to. Even the glue is food grade.”

“Good info. Is that why I’m here?”

“Of course not,” Spoon said. “You’re here because I think Patrick Moore is about to leave his house.”

Myron stepped toward the desk. “What makes you say that?”

“He just finished Skyping with someone on his laptop.” Spoon leaned back in his chair. “Are you aware, Myron, that Skype’s headquarters are located in Luxembourg?”

Ema rolled her eyes.

“Who did Patrick Skype with?” Myron asked.

“That I can’t say.”

“What did they talk about?”

“That I can’t say either. The keylogger planted by my lovely associate”-he gestured toward Ema, who looked like she wanted to kick him-“does just that. It records-or logs, if you prefer-the keys struck on a keyboard. So I can see Patrick Moore signed into Skype. I can’t, of course, see what they said.”

“So what makes you think he’s leaving the house?” Myron asked.

“A simple deduction, my friend. Immediately after turning off Skype, Patrick Moore-or whoever is using his computer-visited the New Jersey Transit website. From what I can gather, he was searching for bus routes into New York City.”

Myron checked his watch. “How long ago was this?”

Spoon checked the elaborate watch on his wrist. “Fourteen minutes and eleven, twelve, thirteen seconds ago.”

For reasons Myron could never fathom, Big Cyndi was great at tailing people. Perhaps it was that she was so obvious, so in your face, so out there, that you never really saw her or suspected a woman who wore a clingy purple Batgirl costume to be following you. Her costume, a somewhat larger replica of the one Yvonne Craig wore on the old Batman TV show, was snug to the point where it might be mistaken for sausage casing.

Today, however, the outfit did blend in a very particular way. Myron spotted Big Cyndi the moment he entered Times Square. Think of every cliché you can about Times Square, mush them together, stack cliché upon cliché, the ones about the kinetic waves of humanity and the traffic and the ginormous billboards and moving screens and neon lights. Then take what you’re imagining and raise it to the tenth power.