Harlan Coben - Live Wire

“How’s that?”

“See, one of us-me or Herman-had to go down. You know how RICO is. They needed a scapegoat.”

Scapegoat, Win thought. The man has no idea how many people he personally murdered, including one for seeing him cry. But he’s a scapegoat.

“So it was either me or Herman. Crisp worked for Herman. Suddenly Herman’s witnesses vanish or recant. Mine didn’t. The end.”

“So you went down for the crimes?”

Frank leaned forward again. “I got thrown under the bus.”

“Meanwhile, Herman lives on, happy and legit,” Win said.

“Yep,” Frank said.

Their eyes met for a moment. Frank gave Win the smallest nod.

“Evan Crisp,” Win said, “is now working for Gabriel Wire. Do you know who that is?”

“Wire? Sure. His music is pure, one hundred percent, grade-A crap. Does Myron rep him?”

“No, his partner.”

“Lex something, right? Another no-talent.”

“Any clue why Crisp might be working for Gabriel Wire?”

Frank smiled with small teeth that looked like Tic Tacs. “In the old days, Gabriel Wire did it all. Blow, whores-but mostly gambling.”

Win arched an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“The favor?”

“Done.”

Nothing else said on that. Nothing else needed.

“Wire owed Herman big,” Frank said. “At one point-now I’m going back before he started the Howard Hughes act, what, fifteen, twenty years-his tab was more than half a million.”

Win considered that for a moment. “There are rumors that someone messed up Wire’s face.”

“Not Herman,” Frank said with a headshake. “He ain’t that stupid. Wire can’t sing a lick, but his smile could unsnap a bra from thirty paces. So no, Herman wouldn’t mess with the breadwinner.”

Outside the room and down the hall, a man screamed. The guard by the door did not move. Neither did Frank. The screaming continued, grew louder, and then it was cut off as though with a switch.

Win asked, “Do you have any thoughts on why Crisp would be working for Wire?”

“Oh, I doubt he’s working for Wire,” Frank said. “My bet? Crisp is there for Herman. He’s probably on the scene making sure Mr. Rock ’n’ Roll pays up.”

Win sat back, crossed his legs. “So you believe that your brother is still involved with Gabriel Wire then?”

“Why else would Crisp be watching him?”

“We thought that perhaps Evan Crisp had gone legit. Perhaps he took a cushy security job for a recluse.”

Frank smiled again. “Yeah, I can see how you might think that.”

“But I’m wrong?”

“We never go legit, Win. We just become bigger hypocrites. The world is dog-eat-dog. Some get eaten, some don’t. All of us, even your buddy Myron, would kill a million strangers to protect the few he cares about-and anyone who tells you different is a liar. We do it every day in one way or another. You can either buy that nice pair of shoes or you can use that money to save some starving kids in Africa-and yet you always buy the shoes. That’s life. We all kill if we feel justified. A man has a starving family. If he kills another man, he can steal his loaf of bread and save his kids. If he doesn’t kill the man, he doesn’t get the bread and his family dies. So he kills the man. Every single time. But see, the rich man doesn’t need to kill to get a loaf of bread. So he says, ‘Oh, it’s wrong to kill’ and makes up rules so no one hurts him or takes the million loaves he’s saving for him and his fat family. You hear what I’m saying?”

“Morality is subjective,” Win said, making a production of stifling a yawn. “What a philosophical insight, Frank.”

Frank chuckled at that. “I don’t get many visitors. I’m enjoying this.”

“Wonderful. So, pray tell, what are Crisp and your brother up to?”

“Truth? I don’t know. But it might explain where a lot of Herman’s money came from. When the RICO guys came crashing down, they froze all our assets. Herman had a cash cow somewhere paying for the lawyer and, hell, for Crisp. It could have been Gabriel Wire, why not?”

“Could you ask?”

“Ask Herman?” Frank shook his head. “He don’t visit much.”

“Ah, how sad. You two used to be so close.”

That was when Win felt his cell phone double-vibrate. The double-vibrate was a specific setting for emergencies only. He took out the cell phone, read the text, and closed his eyes.

Frank Ache looked at him. “Bad news.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have to go?”

Win rose. “Yes.”

“Hey, Win? Come back, okay? It’s good to talk like this.”

But they both know that he wouldn’t. Pathetic. Twenty-three hours in a cell alone. You shouldn’t do that to a man, Win thought, even the worst. You should take him out in the back, put a gun behind his head, and fire two bullets into his skull. Before you pulled the trigger, the man, even one as broken as Frank, would beg for his life. That was how it worked. The survival instinct always kicked in-men, all men, begged for their lives when faced with death. Still, putting down the animal was cost-effective, wiser, and in the end, more humane.

Win nodded to the guard and hurried back toward his plane.

Myron watched Kitty walk tentatively through the mall, afraid the ground might give way. Her face was pale. Her once-defining freckles had faded away, but not in a healthy way. She kept cringing and blinking, as though someone had raised a hand and she was bracing for the strike.

For a moment, Myron just stood there, the tinny mall acoustics roaring in his ears, flashing back to those early tennis days, when Kitty was so confident, so sure of herself, you just knew that she was destined for greatness. Myron remembered taking Suzze and Kitty to a mall like this one when they had downtime before a tournament in Albany. The two budding tennis greats strolled the mall like, well, two teenage girls, dropping the adult pretenses for a while, using “like” and “you know” in every sentence, talking too loudly, laughing about the dumbest things, just as two teenage girls should.

Would it be too hackneyed to wonder where it all went so wrong?

Kitty’s eyes darted left and right. Her right leg started to shake. Myron needed to make a decision. Should he make a gradual approach? Should he just wait and follow her back to her car? Should he try direct confrontation or something subtler?

When her back was turned, Myron started walking toward her. He hurried his step, afraid she’d turn, see him, and bolt. He angled himself to block any such quick getaway, heading toward a corner between Macy’s and Wetzel’s Pretzels. He was two steps from Kitty when he felt his BlackBerry vibrate. As though sensing his approach, Kitty began to turn toward him.

“Good to see you again, Kitty.”

“Myron?” She recoiled as though slapped. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

Her mouth dropped open. “What… how did you find me?”

“Where’s Brad?”

“Wait, how did you know I’d be here? I don’t understand.”

He spoke quickly, wanting to get past this. “I found Crush. I told him to call you and set this up. Where’s Brad?”

“I have to go.” Kitty started past him. Myron stepped in her way. She moved to her right. Myron grabbed her arm.

“Let go of me.”

“Where is my brother?”

“Why do you want to know?”

The question made him pull up. He was unsure how to answer. “I just want to talk to him.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? He’s my brother.”

“And he’s my husband,” she said, suddenly standing her ground. “What do you want with him?”

“I told you. I just want to talk to him.”