Harlan Coben - The Final Detail

He looked at Win. “The charm,” Win whispered.

Myron turned back toward Hester. “Esperanza is my friend,” he said.

“So?”

“So I want to help.”

“Great. I'll start sending you the bills. This case is going to cost a bundle. I'm very expensive, you know. You can't believe the upkeep of this building. And now the doormen want new uniforms. Something in mauve, I think.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Oh?”

“I'd like to know what's going on with the case.”

She scrunched up her face. “Where have you been the last few weeks?”

“ Away.”

“Where away?”

“The Caribbean.”

She nodded. “Nice tan.”

“Thanks.”

“But you could have gotten it at a tanning booth. You look like the kind of guy who hangs out at tanning booths.”

Myron looked at Win again. “The charm, Luke,” Win whispered, doing his best Alec Guinness as Obi-Wan Ke-nobi. “Remember the charm.”

“Ms. Crimstein-”

“Anyone who can verify your whereabouts in the Caribbean, Myron?”

“Pardon me?”

“Hearing problems? I asked if anyone can verify your whereabouts at the time of the alleged murder.”

Alleged murder. The guy is shot three times in his home, but the murder is only “alleged.” Lawyers. “Why do you want to know that?”

Hester Crimstein shrugged. “The alleged murder weapon was allegedly found at the offices of one MB SportsReps. That's your company, is it not?”

“It is.”

“And you use the company car where the alleged blood and alleged fibers were allegedly found.”

Win said, “The key word here is alleged.”

Hester Crimstein looked at Win. “It speaks.”

Win smiled.

Myron said, “You think I'm a suspect?”

“Sure, why not? It's called reasonable doubt, sweet buns. I'm a defense attorney. We're big on reasonable doubt.”

“Much as I'd like to help, there was a witness to my whereabouts.”

“Who?”

“Don't worry about it.”

Another shrug. “You're the one who said you wanted to help. Good night.” She looked at Win. “By the way, you're the perfect man-good-looking and nearly mute.”

“Careful,” Win said to her.

“Why?”

Win pointed at Myron with his thumb. “Any minute now he's going to turn on the charm and reduce your willpower to rubble.”

She looked at Myron and burst out laughing.

Myron tried again. “So what happened?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I'm her friend.”

“Yeah, I think you already said that.”

“I'm her best friend. I care about her.”

“Fine. Tomorrow I'll pass her a note during study hall, find out if she likes you too. Then you can meet at Pop's and share a soda.”

“That's not what I-” Myron stopped, gave her the slow, slightly put-out-but-here-to-help smile. Smile 18: the Michael Landon model, except he couldn't crinkle the eyebrow. “I'd just like to know what happened. You can appreciate that.”

Her face softened, and she nodded. “You went to law school, right?”

“Yes.”

“At Harvard no less.”

“Yes.”

“So maybe you were absent the day they went over a little something we call attorney-client privilege. I can recommend some wonderful books on the subject, if you'd like. Or maybe you can watch any episode of Law & Order. They usually talk about it right before the old DA grouses to Sam Waterston that he's got no case and should cut a deal.”

So much for charm. “You're just covering your ass,” Myron said.

She looked behind her and down. Then she frowned. “No easy task, I assure you.”

“I thought you were supposed to be a hotshot attorney.”

She sighed, crossed her arms. “Okay, Myron, let's hear it. Why am I covering my ass? Why am I not the hotshot attorney you thought I was?”

“Because they didn't let Esperanza surrender. Because they dragged her in in cuffs. Because they're holding her overnight instead of getting her through the system in the same day. Why?”

She dropped her hands to her sides. “Good question, Myron. Why do you think?”

“Because someone there doesn't like her high-profile attorney. Someone in the DA's office probably has a hard-on for you and is taking it out on your client.”

She nodded. “Good possibility. But I have another one.”

“What?”

“Maybe they don't like her employer.”

“Me?”

She started for the door. “Do us all a favor, Myron. Stay out of this. Just keep away. And maybe get yourself a lawyer.”

Hester Crimstein spun around and disappeared inside then. Myron turned toward Win. Win was bent at the waist, squinting at Myron's crotch. “What the hell are you doing?”

Still squinting. “I wanted to see if she left you with even a sliver of a testicle.”

“Very funny. What do you think she meant about them not liking her employer?”

“Not a clue,” Win said. Then: “You mustn't blame yourself.”

“What?”

“For your charm's seemingly lackluster performance. You forgot a crucial component in all this.”

“That being?”

“Ms. Crimstein had an affair with Esperanza.”

Myron saw where he was going with this. “Of course. She must be a lesbian.”

“Precisely. It's the only rational explanation for her ability to resist you.”

“That, or a really bizarre paranormal event.”

Win nodded. They started walking down Central Park West.

“This is also further proof of a very frightening adage,” Win said.

“What's that?”

“Most women you encounter are lesbians.”

Myron nodded. “Almost every one.”

They walked the two blocks to Win's place, watched a little television, went to bed. Myron lay in the dark exhausted, but sleep remained elusive. He thought about Jessica. Then he tried to think about Brenda, but the automatic defense mechanism deflected that one. Still too raw. And he thought about Terese. She was alone on that island tonight for the first time. During the day the island's solitude was peaceful and quiet and welcome; at night the solitude felt more like dark isolation, the island's black walls closing in, silent and cloying as a buried coffin. He and Terese had always slept wrapped in each other's arms. Now he pictured her lying in that deep blackness alone. And he worried about her.

He woke up the next morning at seven. Win was already gone, but he'd scribbled a note that he'd meet up with Myron at the courthouse at nine. Myron grabbed a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, discerned with a digging left hand that Win had already extracted the free toy inside, showered, dressed, checked his watch. Eight o'clock. Plenty of time to reach the courthouse in time.

He took the elevator down and crossed the famed Dakota courtyard. He had just reached the corner of Seventy-second Street and Central Park West when he spotted the three familiar figures. Myron felt his pulse quicken. FJ, short for Frank Junior, was bookended by two huge guys. The two huge guys looked like lab experiments gone very wrong, as if someone had potently mixed genetic glandular excess with anabolic steroids. They wore tank tops and those drawstring weightlifting pants that looked suspiciously like ugly pajama' bottoms.

Young FJ silently smiled at Myron with thin lips. He sported a purple-blue suit so shiny it looked like someone had sprayed it with a sealant. FJ didn't move, didn't say anything, just smiled at Myron with unblinking eyes and those thin lips.

Today's word, boys and girls, is reptilian.

FJ finally took a step forward. “Heard you were back in town, Myron.”

Myron bit back a rejoinder-it wasn't a very cutting one, something about the nice welcoming party-and kept his mouth shut.