Harlan Coben - The Final Detail

Myron nodded. They stared at each other, the rain cascading down their faces. A bowl of laughter made both of them turn to the right and look at the fortresslike structure that contained the holding cells. Esperanza, the person closest to them both, was incarcerated in there. Myron stepped toward the limousine. Then he turned back around.

“Esperanza wouldn't kill anyone” he said.

He waited for Big Cyndi to agree or at least nod her head. But she didn't. She hunched the shoulders back up and disappeared within herself.

Myron slid back into the car. Win followed, handing Myron a towel. The driver started up.

“Hester Crimstein is her attorney.” Myron said.

“Ms. Court TV?”

“The same.”

“Ah,” Win said. “And what's the name of her show again?”

“Crimstein on Crime” Myron said.

Win frowned. “Cute.”

“She had a book with the same title.” Myron shook his head. “This is weird. Hester Crimstein doesn't take many cases anymore. So how did Esperanza land her?”

Win tapped his chin with his forefinger. “I'm not positive,” he said, “but I believe Esperanza had a fling with her a couple of months back.”

“You're kidding.”

“Well, yes, I am such a mirthful fellow. And wasn't that just the funniest line?”

Wiseass. But it made sense. Esperanza was as perfect a bisexual as you could find-perfect because everyone, no matter what his or her sex or preference, found her immensely attractive. If you're going to go all ways, might as well have universal appeal, right?

Myron mulled this over a few moments. “Do you know where Hester Crimstein lives?” he asked.

“Two buildings up from me on Central Park West.”

“So let's pay her a visit.”

Win frowned. “Why?”

“Maybe she can fill us in.”

“She won't talk to us.”

“Maybe she will.”

“What makes you say that?”

“For one thing,” Myron said, “I'm feeling particularly charming.”

“By God.” Win leaned forward. “Driver, step on the gas.”

Win lived at the Dakota, one of Manhattan's swankiest buildings. Hester Crimstein lived two blocks north at the San Remo, an equally swanky building. Occupants included Diane Keaton and Dustin Hoffman, but the San Remo was perhaps best known as the building that had rejected Madonna's application for residence.

There were two entranceways, both with doormen dressed like Brezhnev strolling Red Square. Brezhnev One announced in a clipped tone that Ms. Crimstein was “not present.” He actually used the word present too; people don't often do that in real life. He smiled for Win and looked down his nose at Myron. This was no easy task-Myron was at least six inches taller-and required Brezhnev to tilt his head way back so that his nostrils looked like the westbound entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. Why, Myron wondered, do servants of the rich and famous act snootier than their masters? Was it simple resentment? Was it because they were looked down upon all day and thus needed on occasion to be the one doing the looking down? Or-more simply-were people attracted to such jobs insecure asswipes?

Life's little mysteries.

“Are you expecting Ms. Crimstein back tonight?” Win asked.

Brezhnev opened his mouth, stopped, cast a wary eye as if he feared Myron might defecate on the Persian rug. Win read his face and led him to the side, away from the lowly member of the unwashed.

“She should be back soon, Mr. Lockwood.” Ah, so Brezhnev had recognized Win. No wonder. “Ms. Crimstein's aerobics class concludes at eleven.”

Exercising at eleven o'clock at night. Welcome to the nineties, where leisure time is sucked away like something undergoing liposuction.

There were no waiting or sitting areas at the San Remo -most of your finer buildings did not encourage even approved guests to loiter-so they moved outside to the street. Central Park was across the roadway. Myron could see, well, trees and a stone wall, and that was about it. Lots of taxis sped north. Win's stretch limousine had been dismissed-they both figured they could walk the two blocks to Win's place-but there were four other stretch limousines sitting in a no parking zone. A fifth pulled up. A silver stretch Mercedes. Brezhnev rushed to the car door like he really had to pee and there was a bathroom inside.

An old man, bald except for a white crown of hair, stumbled out, his mouth twisted poststroke. A woman resembling a prune followed. Both were expensively dressed and maybe a hundred years old. Something about them troubled Myron. They looked wizened, yes. Old, certainly. But there was more to it, Myron sensed. People talk about sweet little old people, but these two were so blatantly the opposite, their eyes beady, their movements shifty and angry and fearful. Life had sapped them, sucked out all the goodness and hope of youth, leaving them with a vitality based on something ugly and hateful. Bitterness was the only thing left. Whether the bitterness was directed at God or at their fellowman, Myron could not say.

Win nudged him. He looked to his right and saw a figure he recognized from TV as Hester Crimstein coming toward them. She was on the husky side, at least by today's warped Kate Mossian standards, and her face was fleshy and cherubic. She wore Reebok white sneakers, white socks, green stretch pants that would probably make Kate snicker, a sweatshirt, a knit hat with frosted blond hair sticking out the back. The old man stopped when he saw the attorney, grabbed the prune lady's hand, hurried inside.

“Bitch!” the old man managed through the good side of his face.

“Up yours too, Lou,” Hester called out after him.

The old man stopped, looked like he wanted to say something more, limped off.

Myron and Win exchanged a glance and approached.

“Old adversary,” she said in way of explanation. “You ever hear the old adage that only the good die young?”

“Uh, sure.”

Hester Crimstein gestured with both hands at the old couple like Carol Merrill showing off a brand-new car. “There's your proof. Couple years back I helped his children sue the son of a bitch. You never saw anything like it.” She tilted her head. “Ever notice how some people are like jackals?”

“Pardon?”

“They eat their young. That's Lou. And don't even get me started on that shriveled-up witch he lives with. Five-dollar whore who hit the jackpot. Hard to believe looking at her now.”

“I see,” Myron said, though he didn't. He tried to push ahead. “Ms. Crimstein, my name is-”

“Myron Bolitar,” she interrupted. “By the way, that's a horrid name. Myron. What were your parents thinking?”

A very good question. “If you know who I am, then you know why I'm here.”

“Yes and no,” Hester said.

“Yes and no?”

“Well, I know who you are because I'm a sports nut. I used to watch you play. That NCAA championship game against Indiana was a frigging classic. I know the Celtics drafted you in the first round, what, eleven, twelve years ago?”

“Something like that.”

“But frankly-and I mean no offense here-I'm not sure you had the speed to be a great pro, Myron. The shot, sure. You could always shoot. You could be physical. But what are you, six-five?”

“About that.”

“You would have had a tough time in the NBA. One woman's opinion. But of course the fates took care of that by blowing out your knee. Only an alternate universe knows the truth.” She smiled. “Nice chatting with you.” She looked over at Win. “You too, gabby boy. Good night.”

“Wait a second,” Myron said. “I'm here about Esper-anza Diaz.”

She faked a gasp of surprise. “Really? And here I thought you just wanted to reminisce about your athletic career.”