Harlan Coben: Deal Breaker

He hesitated again. “It’s…” He stopped, took a deep breath, started again. “It’s about Kathy.”

Myron thought he’d heard wrong. “Kathy Culver?”

“You knew her,” Christian said. Myron couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question.

“A long time ago,” Myron replied.

“When you were with Jessica.”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe you’ll understand. I miss Kathy. More than anyone can ever know. She was very special.”

Myron nodded, encouraging. Very Phil Donahue.

Christian took a step back, nearly banging his head into a bookshelf. “Everybody sensationalized what happened to her,” he began. “They put it in tabloids, had stories about the disappearance on A Current Affair . It was like a game to everyone. A TV show. They kept calling us ‘idyllic,’ the ‘idyllic couple.’” He made quote marks in the air with his fingers. “As if idyllic meant unreal. Unfeeling. Everyone kept saying I was young, I’d get over it quickly. Kathy was just a pretty blonde, millions more like her for a guy like me. I was expected to get on with my life. She was gone. It was over and done with.”

Christian’s boyish quality-something that Myron thought would help make him the future endorsement king-had suddenly taken on a new dimension. Instead of the shy, gee-whiz, modest little Kansas boy, Myron saw reality: a scared child huddled in a corner, a child whose parents were dead, who had no real family, probably no real friends, just hero-worshipers and those who wanted a piece of him (like Myron himself?).

Myron shook his head. No way. Other agents, yes, but not him. Myron wasn’t like that. But still something akin to guilt stayed there, poking a sharp finger into his ribs.

“I never really believed Kathy was dead,” Christian continued. “That was part of the problem, I guess. The not-knowing gets to you after a while. Part of me-part of me almost hoped they’d find her body already, anything to end it. Is that an awful thing to say, Mr. Bolitar?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Christian looked at him solemnly. “I kept thinking about the panties. You know about that?”

Myron nodded. The lone clue in the mystery was Kathy’s ripped panties, found on top of a campus Dumpster. Rumor had it that they were covered with semen and blood. To the world at large, the panties had confirmed what had long been suspected: Kathy Culver was dead. It was a sad though not uncommon story. She had been raped and murdered by a random psychopath. Her body would probably never be found-or maybe some hunters would stumble across the skeletal remains in the woods one day, giving the press a great eleven o’clock commercial teaser, bringing the cameras back into the story with undying hopes of catching a grief-stricken relative on film.

“They made it seem like it was a dirty thing,” Christian continued. “‘Pink,’ they said. ‘Silk,’ they said. They never called them underwear or undergarments or even just plain panties. It was always pink silk panties. Like that was important. One TV station even interviewed a Victoria’s Secret model for her comment on them. Pink silk panties. Like that meant she was asking for it. Trashing Kathy like that…”

His voice sort of faded away then. Myron said nothing. Christian was working up to something. Myron only hoped it wasn’t a breakdown.

“I guess I should get to the point,” Christian finally said.

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I saw something today. I-” Christian stopped and swung his eyes toward Myron’s. They looked at him, pleading. “Kathy may still be alive.”

His words hit Myron like a wet slap. Whatever Myron had been preparing himself for, whatever he imagined Christian was leading up to, hearing Kathy Culver might still be alive was not a part of the equation.

“What?”

Christian reached behind him and opened his desk drawer. The desk too was something out of Leave It to Beaver . Completely uncluttered. Two cans, one with Bic pens, the other with sharpened number-two pencils. Gooseneck lamp. Desk blotter with calendar. Dictionary, thesaurus, and The Elements of Style all in a row between two globe bookends.

“This came in the mail today.”

He handed Myron a magazine. On the cover was a naked woman. Calling her well-endowed would be tantamount to calling World War II a skirmish. Most men are somewhat mammary obsessed, and Myron was not above having similar sentiments, but this was positively freakish. The woman’s face was far from pretty, kind of harsh looking. She was giving the camera a look that was supposed to be come-hither but looked more like constipation. Her tongue was licking her lips, her legs spread, her finger beckoning the reader to come closer.

Very subtle effect, Myron thought.

The magazine was called Nips . The lead story, according to the words emblazoned across her right breast: “How to Get Her to Shave Dat Thang.”

Myron looked up sharply. “What’s this all about?”

“The paper clip.”

“What?”

But Christian seemed too weak to repeat it. He just pointed. On the top of the magazine Myron spotted a glint of silver. A paper clip was being used as a bookmark.

“It came with that on there,” Christian said by way of explanation.

Myron fingered through the pages, catching quick glimpses of flesh, until he arrived at the page marked off by the paper clip. His eyes squinted in confusion. It was an ad page, though it had as many erotic photos as any other. The top of the page read:

Live Fantasy Phone-Pick Your Girl!

There were three rows, four girls in each row, all the way down the page. Myron’s eyes scanned down. He could not believe what he was seeing. “Oriental Girls Are Waiting!” “Wet and Juicy Lesbos!” “Spank Me, Please!” “Bitches in Heat!” “Tiny Titties!” (for those who didn’t like the cover shot, no doubt) “I Want You to Ride Me!” “Pick My Cherry!” “Make Me Beg for More!” “Wanted: Robocock.” “Mistress Savannah Demands You Call Now!” “Horny Housewife!” “Overweight Men Wanted.” Each with matching photo-provocative poses involving telephones.

There were some that were far more raunchy. Cross-dressers. Women with men’s equipment. There were some Myron could not even understand. Like unfathomable science experiments. The telephone numbers were what you’d expect. 1-800-888-SLUT. 1-900-46-TRAMP. 1-800-REAM-MEE. 1-900-BAD-GIRL.

Myron made a face. He wanted to wash his hands.

Then he saw it.

It was in the bottom row, second from the right. It read, “I’ll Do Anything!” The phone number was 1-900-344-LUST. $3.99 per minute. Discreetly billed to your telephone or charge card. Visa/MC accepted.

The woman in the picture was Kathy Culver.

Myron felt a coldness seep into him. He turned back to the cover and checked the date. It was the current issue.

“When did you get this?”

“It came in today’s mail,” Christian said, picking up an envelope. “In this.”

Myron’s head began to swim. He tried to fight the dizziness and get some kind of footing, but the picture of Kathy kept tipping him back over. The envelope was plain manila. There was no return address-that would have been too easy. It was not postmarked and had no stamps, merely reading:

CHRISTIAN STEELE

BOX 488

No city, no state. That meant it’d been mailed on campus. The address had been handwritten.

“You get lots of fan mail, right?” Myron asked.

Christian nodded. “But they go somewhere else. This was in my private box. The number is unlisted.”

Myron handled the envelope carefully, trying not to smudge any potential fingerprints. “It could be trick photography,” Myron added. “Someone might have superimposed her head on-”