Harlan Coben - Deal Breaker

He nodded. “Gary Grady placed two calls after we left. One was to Fred Nickler’s office at Hot Desire Press. The other was someplace in the city. There was no answer when we called it. We got the information kind of late in the day.”

“And the handwriting analyst?”

Best to dive right in. “The handwriting matches. It’s either Kathy’s or a very good forger.”

That slowed her chopsticks. “My God.”

“Yes.”

“Then she’s alive?”

“It’s still just a possibility. Nothing more. That envelope could have been written before she died. Or like I said, it could be a clever forgery.”

“You’re reaching.”

“I’m not so sure,” he said. “If she’s alive, where is she? Why is she doing all this?”

“Maybe she’s been kidnapped. Maybe she’s being forced to.”

“Forced to address envelopes? Now who’s reaching?”

“Do you have a better explanation?” she asked.

“Not yet. But I’m working on it.” He started looking through the file again. “You ever hear of a guy named Otto Burke?”

“The big record company magnate who owns the Titans?”

“Right. He also knew about the magazine.” Myron quickly summarized his visit to Titans Stadium.

“So you think Otto Burke might be behind it?” she asked.

“Otto has a motive: knocking down Christian’s asking price. He certainly has the resources: lots of money. And it would also explain why Christian got a copy in the mail.”

“He was sending Christian a message,” she added.

“Right.”

“But how would Burke forge my sister’s handwriting?”

“He could have hired an expert.”

“Where did he get a writing sample?”

“Who knows? It can’t be that difficult.”

Her eyes glazed over. “So this was all a hoax? This was all some plot to gain leverage in a negotiation?”

“It’s possible. But I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Something just doesn’t mesh. Why would Burke go through all that trouble? He could have blackmailed us with just the photo. He didn’t have to put it in a magazine. The photo was enough.”

“She grasped on to his hope as if it were a life preserver. “Good point,” she said.

“The question then becomes,” he continued, “how did Otto get a copy of the magazine?”

“Maybe someone in his organization picked up a copy at a newsstand.”

“Very unlikely. Nips ”-the word felt grungy again, good-“has a very low circulation rate. The chances that someone in the Titans organization bought that particular magazine, had time to read it carefully, somehow spotted Kathy’s picture in the bottom row on a page of ads in the back-it’s fairly remote at best.”

Jessica snapped her fingers. “Someone mailed it to him too.”

He nodded. “Why should Christian have been the only one? For all we know, dozens of people were sent that magazine.”

“How do we find out?”

“I’m working on it.”

He managed to salvage a sliver of crispy duck before it was sucked into the black hole. It was delicious. He turned his attention back to Kathy’s files. Her bad grades continued during her first semester at Reston. By second semester, her grades had picked up considerably. He asked Jessica about this.

“She settled into college life, I guess,” she said. “She joined the drama group, became a cheerleader, started dating Christian. She went through culture shock in her first semester. It’s not uncommon.”

“No. I guess not.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

He shrugged. Myron Bolitar, Señor Skepticalo.

Kathy’s recommendation letters were next. Three of them. Her high school guidance counselor called her “unusually gifted.” Her tenth-grade history teacher said, “Her enthusiasm for life is contagious.” Her twelfth-grade English teacher said, “Kathy Culver is bright, witty, and fun-spirited. She will be a welcome addition to any institution of learning.” Nice comments. He scanned down to the bottom of the page.

“Uh-oh,” he said.

“What is it?”

He handed her the glowing recommendation letter from Kathy’s twelfth-grade English teacher at Ridgewood High School. A Mr. Grady.

A Mr. Gary, aka “Jerry” Grady.

Myron was startled awake by the telephone. He’d been dreaming about Jessica. He tried to remember specifics, but the details disintegrated into small pieces and blew away, leaving behind only a few frustrating snippets. The clock on his nightstand read seven o’clock. Someone was calling him at home at seven o’clock in the morning. Myron had a pretty good idea who it was.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Myron. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Myron recognized the voice. He smiled and asked, “Who is this?”

“It’s Roy O’Connor.”

“ The Roy O’Connor?”

“Uh, yes, I guess so. Roy O’Connor, the agent.”

“The superagent,” Myron corrected. “To what do I owe this honor, Roy?”

“Would it be possible for us to meet this morning?” The voice had a discernible quake to it.

“Sure thing, Roy. My office, okay?”

“Uh, no.”

“Your office, Roy?”

“Uh, no.”

Myron sat up. “Should I keep guessing places and you can say hotter or colder?”

“You know Reilly’s Pub on Fourteenth Street?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be in the booth in the back right-hand corner. One o’clock. We’ll have lunch. If that’s okay with you.”

“Peachy, Roy. Want me to wear anything special?”

“Uh, no.”

Myron hung up, smiled. A night visit from Win, usually while sleeping soundly in your bedroom, your innermost sanctuary. Worked every time.

He got out of bed. He heard his mother in the kitchen above him, his father in the den watching television. Early morning at the Bolitar house. The basement door opened.

“Are you awake, Myron?” his mother shouted.

Myron. What a goddamn awful name. He hated it with a passion. The way he looked at it, he’d been born with all his fingers and toes, he didn’t have a harelip or a cauliflower ear or a limp of any kind-so to compensate for his lack of ill fortune, his parents had christened him Myron.

“I’m awake,” he answered.

“Daddy bought some fresh bagels. They’re on the table.”

“Thanks.”

He got out of bed and climbed the steps. With one hand he felt the rough beard he’d have to shave; with the other he picked the yellow sleep-buggers out of the corner of his eyes. His father was sprawled on the den couch like a wet sock, wearing an Adidas sweatsuit and eating a bagel oozing with whitefish spread. As he did every morning, Myron’s father was watching a videocassette of people exercising. Getting in shape through osmosis.

“Good morning, Myron. There’re some bagels on the table.”

“Uh, thanks.” It was like one parent never heard the other.

He entered the kitchen. His mom was nearly sixty, but she looked much younger. Say, forty-five. She acted much younger too. Say, sixteen.

“You came in late last night,” she said.

Myron made a grunting noise.

“What time did you finally get home?”

“Really late. It was almost ten.” Myron Bolitar, the late-night scream machine.

“So,” Mom began, struggling to look and sound casual, “who were you out with?” Mistress of the Subtle.

“Nobody,” he said.

“Nobody? You were out all night with nobody?”

Myron looked left and right. “When are you going to bring in the hot lights and jumper cables?”

“Fine, Myron. If you don’t want to tell me-”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“Fine. Was it a girl?”

“Mom…”