Harlan Coben - The Final Detail

He made the right at Nero's Restaurant and onto Hobart Gap Road. Not far now. He was in the land of his childhood-check that, his entire life. He had lived here with his parents until a year or so ago, when he finally severed the apron strings and moved in with Jessica. Psychologists and psychiatrists and the like, he knew, would have a field day with the fact that he had lived with his parents into his thirties, theorizing all kinds of unnatural preoccupations that kept him so close to Mom and Dad. Maybe they'd be right. But for Myron, the answer had been far simpler. He liked them. Yes, they could be pests-what parents weren't?-and they liked to pry. But most of the pestering and prying were over the incidentals. They had given him privacy yet made him feel cared for and wanted. Was that unhealthy? Maybe. But it seemed a damn sight better than his friends who thrived on blaming their parents for any unhappiness in their lives.

He turned onto his street. The old neighborhood was wholly unspectacular. There were thousands like it in New Jersey, hundreds of thousands throughout the US of A.This was suburbia, the backbone of this country, the battleground of the fabled American Dream. Corny to say, but Myron loved it here. Sure, there was unhappiness and dissatisfaction and fights and all that, but he still thought that this was the “ dealest” place he had ever been. He loved the basketball court in the driveway and the training wheels on the new two-wheelers and the routine and the walking to school and the, caring too much about the color of the grass. This was living. This was what it was all about.

In the end Myron guessed that he and Jessica had broken up for all the classic reasons, albeit with a gender twist. He wanted to settle down, buy a house in the 'burbs, raise a family; Jessica, fearing commitment, did not. He pulled into the driveway now, shaking his head. Too simple an explanation. Too pat. The commitment stuff had been an ongoing source of tension, no question, but there was more to it. There was the recent tragedy, for one thing.

There was Brenda.

Mom rushed out the door, sprinting toward him with her arms spread wide. She always greeted him like he was a recently released POW, but today was something extra special. She threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him over. Dad trailed behind, equally excited but playing it cool. Dad had always been about balance, the total love without the smothering, the caring without pushing. An amazing man, his father. When Dad reached him, there was no handshake. The two men hugged fiercely and without any hint of embarrassment. Myron kissed his father's cheek. The familiar feel of Dad's rough skin made him understand a bit what Mrs. Palms was trying to accomplish with the wallpapered images.

“Are you hungry?” Mom asked. Always her opening gambit.

“A little.”

“You want me to fix something?”

Everyone froze. Dad made a face. “You're going to cook?”

“What's the big deal?”

“Let me make sure I have the number of poison control.”

“Oh, Al, that's so funny. Ha-ha, I can't stop laughing. What a funny man your father is, Myron.”

“Actually, Ellen, go ahead and cook something. I need to drop a few pounds.”

“Wow, what a knee slapper, Al. You're killing me here.”

“Better than a fat farm.”

“Ho-ho.”

“Just the thought is better than an appetite suppressor.”

“It's like being married to Shecky Greene.” But she was smiling.

They were in the house now. Dad took Mom's hand. “Let me show you something, Ellen,” Dad said. “See that big metal box over there? That's called an oven. O-v-e-n. Oven. See that knob, the one with all the numbers on it? That's how you turn it on.”

“You're funnier than a sober Foster Brooks, Al.”

But they were all smiling now. Dad was speaking the truth. Mom didn't cook. Almost never did. Her culinary skills could cause a prison riot. When he was a kid, Myron's favorite home-cooked dinner was Dad's scrambled eggs. Mom was an early career woman. The kitchen was a place to read magazines.

“What do you want to eat, Myron?” Mom asked. “Chinese maybe. From Fong's?”

“Sure.”

“Al, call Fong's. Order something.”

“Okay.”

“Make sure you get shrimp with lobster sauce.”

“I know.”

“Myron loves Fong's tshrimp with lobster sauce.”

“I know, Ellen. I raised him too, remember?”

“You might forget.”

“We've been ordering from Fong's for twenty-three years. We always order shrimp with lobster sauce.”

“You might forget, Al. You're getting old. Didn't you forget to pick up my blouse at the laundry two days ago.”

“It was closed.”

“So you never picked up my blouse, am I right?”

“Of course not.”

“I rest my case.” She looked at her son. “Myron, sit. We need to talk. Al, call Fong's.”

The men obeyed her orders. As always. Myron and Mom sat at the kitchen table.

“Listen to me closely,” Mom said. “I know Esperanza is your friend. But Hester Crimstein is a fine lawyer. If she told Esperanza not to talk to you, it's the right thing.”

“How do you know-”

“I've known Hester for years.” Mom was a defense attorney, one of the best in the state. “We've worked cases together before. She called me. She said you're interfering.”

“I'm not interfering.”

“Actually she said you're bothering her and to butt out.”

“She talked to you about this?”

“Of course. She wants you to leave her client alone.”

“I can't.”

“Why can't you?”

Myron squirmed a bit. “I have some information that might be important.”

“Such as?”

“According to Clu's wife, he was having an affair.”

“And you think Hester doesn't know that? The DA thinks he was having an affair with Esperanza.”

“Wait a second.” It was Dad. “I thought Esperanza was a lesbian.”

“She's a bisexual, Al.”

“A what?”

“Bisexual. It means she likes both boys and girls.”

Dad thought about that. “I guess that's a good thing to be.”

“What?”

“I mean, it gives you the double the options of everyone else.”

“Great, Al, thanks for the insight.” She rolled her eyes and turned back to Myron. “So Hester already knows that. What else?”

“Clu was desperate to find me before he was killed,” Myron said.

“Most logically, bubbe, to say something incriminating about Esperanza.”

“Not necessarily. Clu came to the loft. He told Jessica that I was in danger.”

“And you think he meant it?”

“No, he was probably exaggerating. But shouldn't Hester Crimstein judge the significance?”

“She already has.”

“What?”

“Clu came here too, darling.” Her voice was suddenly soft. “He told your father and me the same thing he told Jessica.”

Myron didn't push it. If Clu had told his parents the same thing he told Jessica, if he had used all that death talk when Mom and Dad didn't know where Myron was…

As though reading his mind, Dad said, “I called Win. He said you were safe.”

“Did he tell you where I was?”

Mom took that one. “We didn't ask.”

Silence.

She reached over and put a hand on his arm. “You've been through a lot, Myron. Your father and I know that.”

They both looked at him with the deep-caring eyes. They knew part of what happened. About his breakup with Jessica. About Brenda. But they would never know it all.

“Hester Crimstein knows what's she doing,” Mom went on. “You have to let her do her job.”

More silence.

“Al?”

“What?”

“Hang up the phone,” she said. “Maybe we should go out to eat.”