Harlan Coben: Deal Breaker

“Still seeking the upper hand?”

“I guess so, yeah. Old habit.”

He shrugged but said nothing.

“I need your help,” she said.

He waited.

She took a breath and plunged. “The police say my father was killed in a robbery attempt. I don’t believe it.”

“What do you believe?” he asked.

“I think his murder has something to do with Kathy.”

Myron was not surprised. He leaned forward, his eyes never staying on hers for very long. “What makes you say that?”

“The police dismiss it as a coincidence,” she said simply. “I’m not big on coincidences.”

“What about your dad’s friend on the force, what’s-his-name?”

“Paul Duncan.”

“Right, him. Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

She began tapping her foot, an old, subconscious, annoying habit. She made herself stop. “Paul says it was a robbery too. He spews out all the facts about the crime scene, the missing wallet, the missing jewelry, that kind of thing. He is perfectly logical and objective, which is not his way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Paul Duncan is a passionate man. A hothead. Here his best friend has been murdered, and he seems almost blasé about it. It’s not like him.” She stopped, shifted in her chair. “Something isn’t right here, I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Myron rubbed his chin but kept quiet.

“Look, you know I was never very close to my father,” she continued. “He wasn’t an easy man to love. He was far better with his corpses than with breathing entities. He liked the ideal of family, the concept-it was the actual execution he found wearisome. But I still have to find out the truth For Kathy.”

“How did your father and Kathy get along?” Myron asked.

She thought about it a moment. “Better lately. When we were kids, they weren’t very close. Kathy was a mama’s girl, always hanging around my mom, wanting to be like her, the whole bit. But when she vanished, I’d venture to guess she was closer to my dad than my mom. He was crushed when she disappeared. He became obsessed. No, ‘obsessed’ isn’t strong enough. All of us were obsessed, of course. But not like my father. It consumed him entirely. Everything about him changed. He had always been the quiet county medical examiner, the man who made no waves. Now he was using his position to keep the pressure on twenty-four hours a day. He became paranoid, convinced the police weren’t doing all they could do to find her. He even started his own investigation.”

“Did he find anything?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

Myron looked away. At the far wall. A movie still of the Marx Brothers. A Night at the Opera . Groucho looked back but offered no answers.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing. Go on.”

“There isn’t much else. I can only tell you that my father was acting very strangely the past few weeks. He started calling me all the time when previously we’d only talked maybe three times a year, sounding a little teary. It was like he was play-acting the part of perfect Daddy with renewed vigor. I couldn’t tell if it was a serious change or just a phase.”

Myron nodded, looking off again. He said nothing. Jessica almost thought he’d completely drifted off when he finally spoke, his voice almost inaudibly soft. “What do you think happened to Kathy?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think she’s dead?”

“I-” She stopped. “I miss her. It’s… I don’t want to think she’s dead.”

He nodded again. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Look into it. Find out what’s going on.”

“Assuming something is going on.”

“Right.”

“Why me?”

She thought about it a moment. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I thought you’d believe me. I thought you’d help.”

“I’ll help,” he said. “But understand one thing: I have an important business interest in settling this whole thing.”

“Christian?”

“I’m his agent,” he continued. “I’m responsible for his well-being.”

“He still misses my sister,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Is he okay?”

Myron’s face remained set. “He’s fine.”

“He’s a good kid. I like him.”

Myron nodded.

Jessica rose and stepped toward the window. Myron averted his eyes. He did not like to look at her for too long at one time. She understood. It hurt her too. She looked down at Park Avenue, twelve stories below. A taxi driver with a turban was shaking his fist at an old woman with a cane. The old woman whacked him and ran. The driver fell. The turban did not even shift.

“Hiding your feelings from me has never been your forte,” she said, still staring out the window. “What don’t you want to tell me?”

He did not reply.

“Myron…”

Esperanza saved him, bursting through the door without knocking. “Larry Hanson is out of the office,” she said.

Win came in behind her. “I got something for us on that magazine…” His voice died out when he saw Jessica.

“Hi, Win,” she said.

“Hello, Jessica Culver.” They embraced. “My goodness, you look utterly fantastic. I read an article on you the other day, calling you the Literary Sex Symbol.”

“You shouldn’t read such trash.”

“It was in my dentist’s waiting room. Honest.”

An uncomfortable pause followed. Esperanza broke it by pointing at Jessica, making a gagging motion by sticking her finger in her mouth, and then storming out.

“Ever the enchantress,” Jessica muttered.

Myron stood. “Where are you staying?”

“At my mom’s.”

“Same number?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you later. Right now I’ve got to go with Win.”

Jessica looked toward Win. He grinned at her. His face, as always, gave away nothing. “I have a meeting with my editor this afternoon,” she said. “But I’ll be home all night.”

“Fine. I’ll call you then.”

An awkward impasse. No one knew exactly how to say good-bye. A wave? A handshake? A kiss?

“We’ve got to go,” Myron said. He sprinted past her, never getting too close. Win shrugged at her in a what-can-you-do fashion and followed. She watched them disappear around the corner. Batman and Robin heading to the Bat-poles.

She left then. She had seen Myron twice now, and they had not yet touched-not even brushed up against one another.

It was an odd thing to wonder about.

“What did you find out?” Myron asked.

Win whipped the wheel to the right. The Jag XJR responded with nary a squeal. They had been driving without speaking for the past ten minutes, Win’s CD player the only sound. Win favored show tunes. Man of La Mancha was on now. Don Quixote serenaded his beloved Dulcinea.

“ Nips magazine is published by HDP,” Win answered.

“HDP?”

“Hot Desire Press.” Another Bat-turn. The Jag accelerated past eighty.

“Speed limits,” Myron said. “Heard of them?”

Win ignored him. “Their editorial office is located in Fort Lee, New Jersey.”

“Editorial office?”

“Whatever. We have an appointment with Mr. Fred Nickler, managing editor.”

“His mother must be proud.”

“Moralizing,” Win mused. “Nice.”

“What did you tell Mr. Nickler?” Myron asked.

“Nothing. I called and asked if we could see him. He said yes. Seemed like a very pleasant fellow.”

“I’m sure he’s a prince.” Myron looked out the window. Buildings blurred. They fell back into silence. “You’re probably wondering what Jessica was doing in my office.”

Win gave a halfhearted shrug. It was not his way to pry.