Harlan Coben - Live Wire

“No, I’m not. You know why? Because I’m still the good guy here. I want to stay that way. So just tell me the truth and save us: What were you supposed to do when you found Kitty?”

And then, with sirens signaling the approach of police cars, Goatee gave Myron the answer he expected: “We were supposed to kill you both.”

Myron opened the trailer door. The sirens were louder now.

There was no time for Myron to get to his car. He ran left, away from the Glendale Estates entrance, as two police cars came into the trailer park. A powerful beacon of light from one of the cop cars hit him.

“Stop! Police!”

Myron didn’t listen. The cops gave chase-or at least Myron assumed they did. He never turned around, just kept running. People came out of their trailers to see what the commotion was about, but no one got in his way. Myron had tucked his gun back into his waistband. There was no way he’d take it out and give the cops an excuse to open fire. As long as he wasn’t a physical threat, they wouldn’t shoot.

Right?

The squad car’s loudspeaker came out with a crackle: “This is the police. Stop and put your hands in the air.”

For a moment he almost did it. He could explain. But it would take hours, maybe days, and he simply didn’t have that kind of time. Win had found a way to get them to Adiona Island. Somehow Myron knew that it was going to come back to that place, back to the reclusive Gabriel Wire, and he wasn’t about to give him the chance to slip away.

The trailer park dead-ended into a wooded brush. Myron found a path and started on it. The police called for him to stop again. He darted to the left and kept going. Behind him he could hear movement in the bush. The cops were giving chase into the woods. He picked up his speed, trying to gain some distance. He debated hiding against a boulder or tree while they ran by, but what good would that do him? He needed to get out and free and up to Teterboro Airport.

He heard more shouts, but they were farther back now. He risked a glance behind him. Someone had a flashlight, but they were pretty far away. Fine. Still moving, Myron managed to dig his Bluetooth out of his pocket and jam it into his ear.

He hit the speed dial for Win.

“Articulate.”

“I need a ride,” Myron said.

He quickly explained. Win listened without interrupting. Myron didn’t need to give his location. The GPS in his BlackBerry would help Win track him down. He just needed to stay out of sight until that happened. When he finished, Win said, “You’re about a hundred yards west of Highway One. Start north on the highway and you’ll run into a fair amount of retail. Find a place to hide or blend. I’ll hire a limousine service to pick you up and get you to the airport.”

Myron found an open Panera Bread. The rich smell of pastry reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in forever. He ordered a coffee and bear claw. He sat near a window by a side door in case he needed to make a quick exit. From this vantage point he could see any and all cars pulling into the lot. If one ended up being a squad car, he could get out and be off for the woods in no time flat. He sipped the coffee and inhaled the bear claw. He started thinking about his dad. His dad always ate too fast. On Saturday mornings way back when, Dad would take him and Brad to Seymour’s Luncheonette on Livingston Avenue for a milk shake, French fries, and maybe a pack of baseball cards. Myron and Brad would sit on stools and twirl them. Dad would stand next to them, always, as if that was what a man did. When the fries came, he’d lean against the counter and wolf them down. Dad was never fat, but he was always on the wrong side of the “healthy weight” line.

Was that part of this? What if Dad had eaten better? What if Dad had worked out more or had a less stressful job or had a son who didn’t get into jams that kept him up at night? What if his father hadn’t come flying out of the house to defend that same son?

Enough.

Myron put the Bluetooth back into his ear and called Chief County Investigator Loren Muse. When she answered, Myron said, “I got a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you have any sources in Edison, New Jersey?”

“It’s Middlesex County. I cover Essex and Hudson. But yes.”

“There was a shooting there tonight.”

“Is that a fact?”

“And theoretically I might have done the shooting in self-defense.”

“Theoretically?”

“I don’t want any of this used against me.”

“You lawyer types. Go on.”

As Myron filled her in, a black limousine slowly cruised by. The window placard read: DOM DELUISE. Win. Myron hurried out, still talking through the Bluetooth, and ducked into the back. The driver offered up a hello. Myron mouthed a hello and then pointed to the earpiece, indicating that he was both on the phone and a pretentious ass.

Loren Muse was not happy. “What exactly do you want me to do with this information?”

“Tell your source.”

“Tell my source what exactly? That the shooter called me and said he doesn’t want to turn himself in yet?”

“Something like that.”

“And when do you expect that you’ll have time to grace us with your presence?” Muse asked.

“Soon.”

“Well, that should satisfy him.”

“I’m just trying to save them some headache, Muse.”

“You can do that by coming in now.”

“I can’t.”

Silence. Then Muse asked: “Does this have something to do with Suzze’s overdose?”

“I think it does, yes.”

“Do you think these guys at the trailer were her drug dealers?”

“They could have been, maybe.”

“Do you still think Suzze’s death was murder?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“And finally, do you think you could just jerk my chain a little harder with all these specifics?”

Myron debated tossing Muse a bone, telling her about Suzze visiting Kitty, that the disposable cell phone Suzze called not long before her death had belonged to his sister-in-law. But then he realized where that would lead-more questions and maybe a visit to the Coddington Rehabilitation Institute-and decided against it.

Instead he tried answering a question with a question. “Do you have any new evidence to suggest it was anything other than an overdose?”

“Ah, I see,” Muse said. “If I give you something, you’ll continue to give me nothing. Quid pro nada.”

“I really don’t know anything yet.”

“You’re so full of crap, Myron. But at this point, what do I care? To answer your question, there is not a shred of evidence that points to foul play in the death of Suzze T. That help?”

Not really.

“So where are you right now?” Muse asked.

Myron frowned. “You serious?”

“Not going to tell me, eh?”

“Not going to tell you.”

“So you only trust me so far?”

“You have an obligation as an officer of the law to report anything I say,” Myron said. “But you can’t say what you don’t know.”

“How about telling me who lived in that trailer? I’m going to find out anyway.”

“No, but…” There was a bone he wanted to toss her, even though he had given his word he wouldn’t.

“But?”

“Get a warrant on a middle school teacher in Ridgewood named Joel Fishman. He’s a drug dealer.” Myron had promised ol’ Crush that he would not report him, but when you pull a gun on someone in a middle school, well, Joel never called “no crossies.”

When he finished giving her enough details to nail Fishman, Myron hit the end button. Cell phones were not allowed in the hospital so he called the administrative desk. They transferred him around until he found a nurse who was willing to go on the record and tell him there was nothing new to report on his father’s condition. Terrific.