Harlan Coben - Live Wire

“Wait,” Win said, starting his mime act. “Before you start, let me tune up my air violin.”

“What exactly did you do to him anyway?”

“Did they find the Taser?” Win asked.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“What do you mean, where? Next to his body.”

“ Next to it?” Win said. “Oh. Well. He must have been able to help himself a little bit at least.”

Silence. Myron reached into the fridge and grabbed a Yoo-hoo. The television screen had the Blu-ray Disc logo bouncing across it.

“How did Kyle put it?” Win said, twirling the cognac in its snifter, his cheeks flushed red. “He will be pissing blood for a while. Maybe he broke a bone or two. But in the end he’ll recover.”

“But he won’t talk.”

“Oh no. He won’t ever talk.”

Myron sat. “You’re a scary dude.”

“Well, I don’t like to brag,” Win said.

“Still this was not a wise move.”

“Wrong. It was a very wise move.”

“How so?”

“There are three things you must remember. One”-Win lifted a finger-“I never hurt innocents, only those most deserving. Kyle fit that category. Two”-another finger-“I do this to protect us. The more fear I instill in people, the safer we are.”

Myron almost smiled. “That’s why you let yourself get caught on that street video,” he said. “You wanted everyone to know it was you.”

“Again I don’t like to brag, but, well, yes. Three,” Win said, holding up the third finger, “I always do it for reasons other than vengeance.”

“Like justice?”

“Like getting information.” Win picked up the remote and pointed it at the television. “Kyle was kind enough to provide me with all the surveillance tapes from last night. I’ve spent most of the day looking through them for both Kitty and Brad Bolitar.”

Whoa. Myron turned toward the screen. “And?”

“I’m still going through them,” Win said, “but so far, it isn’t good.”

“Explain.”

“Why explain when I can show?” Win poured a second snifter of cognac and showed it to Myron. Myron shook it off. Win shrugged, put the snifter down next to him, and pressed the play button on the remote. The screen’s bouncing logo vanished. A woman appeared. Win hit pause. “This is the best view of her face.”

Myron leaned forward. One of the fascinating things about surveillance videos was that they were shot from cameras set up high, so that you rarely got a great look at the face. This seemed counterintuitive, but perhaps there was no better alternative. This particular shot was a touch blurry, a close-up, and Myron imagined that someone had cropped and zoomed in on her face. Either way it ended any doubt about identity.

“Okay, so we know it’s Kitty,” Myron said. “What about Brad?”

“No sign of him.”

“So what-to use your vernacular-isn’t good?”

Win thought about that. “Well, perhaps ‘isn’t good’ was an ineffective way for me to have put it,” he said.

“How should you have put it?”

Win tapped his chin with his index finger. “Really, really bad.”

Myron felt the chill and turned back toward the screen. Win pressed another button on the remote. The camera zoomed out. “Kitty entered the club at ten thirty-three P.M. with approximately ten other people. Lex’s entourage, if you will.”

There she was, turquoise blouse, her face pale. The video was one of those that took pictures every two or three seconds so that the effect was jerky, like one of those flip books or old footage of Babe Ruth running the bases.

“This was taken in a small chamber off the VIP room at ten forty-seven P.M.”

Not long before he and Esperanza arrived, Myron thought. Win hit a skip button and reached a frozen image. Again the camera angle was from above. It was hard to see Kitty’s face. She was with another woman and a guy with long hair tied into a ponytail. Myron did not recognize them. The guy with the ponytail had something in his hand. A rope maybe. Win hit the play button and the actors in this little drama came to life. Kitty put out her arm. Ponytail leaned closer to her and wrapped the… nope, not rope… around her bicep and tied it off. Then he tapped her arm with two fingers and took out a hypodermic needle. Myron felt his heart sink as Ponytail put the needle in Kitty’s arm with a seemingly practiced hand, pushed the plunger, and untied the cord around her bicep.

“Wow,” Myron said. “That’s new, even for her.”

“Yes,” Win said. “She’s stepped up from cokehead to heroin addict. Impressive.”

Myron shook his head. He should have been shocked, but pitifully he wasn’t. He thought about the Facebook photographs, the big smiles, the family trips. He’d been wrong before. It wasn’t a life. It was a lie. Take “life” and remove the f . One big fat ol’ lie. Classic Kitty.

“Myron?”

“Yep.”

“This isn’t the worst part,” Win said.

Myron just looked at his old friend.

“This won’t be easy to watch.”

Win was not one for hyperbole. Myron turned back to the TV and waited for Win to hit the play button. Without looking away from the screen, Myron put the Yoo-hoo on a coaster and put out his hand. Win had the previously poured snifter of the cognac at the ready. Myron accepted it now, took a sip, closed his eyes, let it sting his throat.

“I’m skipping ahead fourteen minutes,” Win said. “In short, this picks up a few minutes before you spotted her entering the VIP room.”

Win finally pressed the play button. The view was the same-that small chamber room from above. But this time there were only two people in the room: Kitty-and the man with the long ponytail. They were talking. Myron risked a quick glance at Win. Win’s face, as always, showed nothing. On the screen, Ponytail started twisting his fingers in Kitty’s hair. Myron just stared. Kitty began to kiss the man’s neck, moving down to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt as she went, until her head disappeared from the frame. The man let his head fall back. There was a smile on his face.

“Turn it off,” Myron said.

Win pressed the remote. The screen went dark. Myron closed his eyes. Utter sadness and deep rage coursed through him in equal measure. His temples started pounding. He dropped his head into his hands. Win was there now, standing over him, his hand on his shoulder. Win did not say anything. He just waited. A few moments later, Myron opened his eyes and sat upright.

“We find her,” Myron said. “Whatever it takes, we find her now.”

“Still no sign of Lex,” Esperanza said.

After another night of limited sleep, Myron sat behind his desk. His body ached. His head pounded. Esperanza sat across from him. Big Cyndi leaned against the door frame, smiling in a way someone with vision trouble might call demure. She was packed in a shimmering purple Batgirl costume, a somewhat bigger-sized replica of the one Yvonne Craig made famous on the old TV show. The fabric looked strained at the seams. Big Cyndi had a pen stuck behind one cat ear, a Bluetooth in the other.

“No hits on his credit card,” Esperanza said. “No cell phone use. In fact, I even got our old friend PT to run a GPS on his smartphone. It’s turned off.”

“Okay.”

“We also got a pretty good close-up of the ponytailed guy who was, uh, friendly with Kitty at Three Downing. Big Cyndi is going to head down to the club in a few hours with the still frame and question the staff.”

Myron looked over at Big Cyndi. Big Cyndi batted her eyes at him. Picture two tarantulas on their backs baking in the desert sun.

“We also checked on your brother and Kitty,” Esperanza continued. “Nothing in the United States. No credit cards, no driver’s license, no property, no liens, no tax returns, no parking tickets, no marriage or divorces listed, nothing.”