Harlan Coben - Live Wire

The lock was a spring latch, probably not new. Myron wasn’t an expert on breaking in, but the truth is, “loiding” an old spring-latch lock was pretty easy. Myron made sure no one was looking. Years ago, Win had taught him how to break in with a thinner-than-credit-card card. The card had sat dormant in his wallet, always there but unused, like an adolescent carrying a condom but without the hope. He took it out now, made sure no one was looking, and slid the card into the door frame, getting between the latch tongue to depress it and thus unlock the door. If the trailer door had a dead bolt or a dead latch or even a dead locking plunger, this would all be for naught. Luckily the lock was cheap and flimsy.

The door swung open.

Myron quickly stepped inside and closed it behind him. The lights were out and with the shades all pulled down, the room held a ghastly glow.

“Hello?”

No reply.

He flipped the light switch. The bulbs sputtered their way to illumination. The room was pretty much what one might expect from a trailer rental. There was one of those ninety-nine-dollar, too-much-assembly-required grid “entertainment centers” with a handful of paperbacks, a small television, and a beat-up laptop computer. There was a coffee table in front of a sleeper couch that had not seen a coaster since the first moon landing. Myron could tell the couch was a sleeper because there was a pillow and folded blankets on it. Mickey probably slept here, his mother taking the bedroom.

Myron spotted a photograph on the end table. He flicked on the lamp and lifted it into view. Mickey was in a basketball uniform, his hair messed, the ringlets in front pasted to his forehead by the sweat. Brad stood next to him, his arm draped around his son’s neck as though he was about to put him in a loving headlock. Father and son sported enormous smiles. Brad gazed at his son with such obvious love, the moment so intimate Myron almost felt like turning away. Brad’s nose, Myron could see, had a definite bend now. But more than that, Brad looked older, his hair starting to recede from the forehead, and something about that, about the passage of time and all they’d missed, made Myron’s heart break anew.

From behind him, Myron heard a noise. He spun quickly. The sound had come from the bedroom. He moved to the door and peered inside. The main room was neat and tidy. The bedroom looked like a tornado had ripped through it, and there, in the eye of the storm, asleep (or worse) on her back, was Kitty.

“Hello?”

She didn’t move. Her breath came in short, raspy pants. The room smelled of old cigarettes and what might have been beer sweat. He moved closer to the bed. Myron decided to do a little poking around before he woke her. The disposable cell was on her bedside table. He checked it. He recognized the calls from Suzze and Joel “Crush” Fishman. There were three or four other calls, some with what looked like an overseas number. He punched them into his BlackBerry and e-mailed them to Esperanza. He searched Kitty’s pocketbook and found her and Mickey’s passports. There were dozens of stamps for countries on every continent. Myron tore through it, trying to figure out the timeline. A lot of the stamps were smeared. Still it looked as though Kitty had entered the United States eight months ago from Peru.

He put the passports back in the purse and rifled through it. There were no surprises at first, but then he started to feel along the lining and-hello-he felt the hard lump. He reached in, slid the seam open with his fingers, and pulled out a plastic bag with a small amount of brown powder in it.

Heroin.

Anger almost got the better of him. He was about to wake her up with a kick to the bed when he spotted something on the floor. For a moment he just blinked in disbelief. It was there, on the floor near Kitty’s head, where you might toss a book or magazine if you were falling asleep. Myron bent down to get a closer look. He didn’t want to touch it, didn’t want to get fingerprints on it.

It was a gun.

He looked around, found a T-shirt on the floor, and used it to lift the gun into view. A.38. Same as the one sitting in Myron’s waistband, courtesy of Win. What the hell was going on here? He was half tempted to report her to family services and leave it at that.

“Kitty?”

His voice was louder now, harsher. No movement. This wasn’t sleep. She was passed out. He kicked the bed. Nothing. He debated throwing water on her face. Instead he tried to gently slap her face. He leaned over her and smelled the stale breath. He traveled back again, to when she was that adorable teenager dominating center court, and his favorite Yiddish expression came back to him in a rush: Man plans, God laughs.

This was not a kind laugh.

“Kitty?” he said again, a little harsher now.

Her eyes suddenly opened wide. She rolled quickly, startling Myron back, and then he realized what she was doing.

She was going for the gun.

“Looking for this?”

He held up the gun. She cupped her hands though there was barely any light in there and blinked at him. “Myron?”

Why the hell do you have a loaded gun?”

Kitty hopped out of bed and looked under a closed window shade. “How did you find me?” Her eyes bulged. “My God, were you followed?”

“What? No.”

“Are you sure?” Total panic. She ran over and checked another window. “How did you find me?”

“Just calm down.”

“I won’t calm down. Where’s Mickey?”

“I saw him go off to work.”

“Already? What time is it?”

“One in the afternoon.” Myron tried to plow through it. “Did you see Suzze yesterday?”

“Is that how you found me? She promised she wouldn’t tell.”

“Wouldn’t tell what?”

“Anything. But especially where I am. I explained it to her.”

Just ride it, Myron thought. “Explained what?”

“The danger. But she already understood.”

“Kitty, talk to me here. What kind of danger are you in?”

She shook her head. “I can’t believe Suzze sold me out.”

“She didn’t. I found you from her GPS and phone records.”

“What? How?”

He wasn’t about to head down that road. “How long have you been sleeping?”

“I don’t know. I went out last night.”

“Where?”

“None of your business.”

“Getting high?”

“Get out!”

Myron took a step back, raised his hands as though to show he meant no harm. He had to stop attacking. Why do we always screw up when it comes to family? “Do you know about Suzze?”

“She told me everything.”

“What did she tell you?”

“It’s confidential. I promised her. And she promised me.”

“Kitty, Suzze is dead.”

For a moment Myron thought that maybe she hadn’t heard him. Kitty just stared, her eyes clear for the first time. Then she started shaking her head.

“A drug overdose,” Myron said. “Last night.”

More headshake. “No.”

“Where do you think she got the drugs, Kitty?”

“She wouldn’t. She was pregnant.”

“Did you give them to her?”

“Me? My God, what kind of person do you think I am?”

To himself: One who keeps a gun next to her bed. One who had drugs hidden in her purse. One who goes down on strange guys at a club to score. Out loud, he said, “She came by here yesterday, right?”

Kitty didn’t reply.

“Why?”

“She called me,” Kitty said.

“How did she get your number?”

“She e-mailed my Facebook account. Like you did. She said it was urgent. She said she had things she needed to tell me.”

“So you e-mailed her your cell phone number.”

Kitty nodded.