Harlan Coben - One False Move

Myron thought a moment. «I don’t want to tip them off yet. Let them follow us.»

«Where to, O wise one?»

Myron checked his watch. «What’s your schedule look like?»

«I need to get back to the office by two.»

«Can you drop me off at Brenda’s practice? I’ll get a ride back.»

Win nodded. «I live to chauffeur.»

They took Route 280 to the New Jersey Turnpike. Win turned on the radio. A commercial voice-over sternly warned people not to buy a mattress over the phone but, rather, to go to Sleepy’s and «consult your mattress professional.» Mattress professional. Myron wondered if that was a master’s program or what.

«Are you armed?» Win asked.

«I left my gun in my car.»

«Open the glove compartment.»

Myron did. There were three guns and several boxes of ammunition. He frowned. «Expecting an armed invasion?»

«My, what a clever quip,» Win said. He gestured to a weapon. «Take the thirty-eight. It’s loaded. There’s a holster under the car seat.»

Myron feigned reluctance, but the truth was, he should have been carrying all along.

Win said, «You realize, of course, that young FJ will not back down.»

«Yeah, I know.»

«We have to kill him. There is no choice.»

«Kill Frank Ache’s son? Not even you could survive that.»

Win sort of smiled. «Is that a challenge?»

«No,» Myron said quickly. «Just don’t do anything yet. Please. I’ll come up with something.»

Win shrugged.

They paid a toll and drove past the Vince Lombardi rest stop. In the distance Myron could still see the Meadowlands Sports Complex. Giant Stadium and the Continental Arena floated above the vast swampland that was East Rutherford, New Jersey. Myron stared off at the arena for a moment, silent, remembering his recent shot at playing pro basketball again. It hadn’t worked out, but Myron was over that now. He had been robbed of playing the game he loved, but he’d accepted it, come to terms with reality. He’d put it behind him, had moved on, had let go of his anger.

So what if he still thought about it every day?

«I’ve done a bit of digging,» Win said. «When young FJ was at Princeton, a geology professor accused him of cheating on an exam.»

«And?»

«Na, na, na. Na, na, na. Hey, hey, hey. Good-bye.»

Myron looked at him. «You’re kidding, right?»

«Never found the body,» Win said. «The tongue, yes. It was sent to another professor, who’d been considering leveling the same charges.»

Myron felt something flitter in his throat. «Might have been Frank, not FJ.»

Win shook his head. «Frank is psychotic but not wasteful. If Frank had handled it, he would have used a few colorful threats perhaps punctuated by a few well-placed blows. But this kind of overkill – it’s not his style.»

Myron thought about it. «Maybe we can talk to Herman or Frank,» he said. «Get him off our back.»

Win shrugged. «Easier to kill him.»

«Please don’t.»

Another shrug. They kept driving. Win took the Grand Avenue exit. On the right was an enormous complex of town houses. During the mid-eighties, approximately two zillion such complexes had mushroomed across New Jersey. This particular one looked like a staid amusement park or the housing development in Poltergeist.

«I don’t want to sound maudlin,» Myron said, «but if FJ does manage to kill me-»

«I’ll spend several fun-filled weeks spreading slivers of his genitalia throughout New England,» Win said. «After that, I’ll probably kill him.»

Myron actually smiled. «Why New England?»

«I like New England,» Win said. Then he added, «And I would be lonely in New York without you.»

Win pushed the mode button, and the CD player spun to life. The music from Rent. The lovely Mimi was asking Roger to light her candle. Great stuff. Myron looked at his friend. Win said nothing more. To most people, Win seemed about as sentimental as a meat locker. But the fact was, Win just cared for very few people. With those select few, he was surprisingly open; much like his lethal hands, Win struck deep and hard and then backed off, ready to elude.

«Horace Slaughter only had two credit cards,» Myron said. «Could you check them out?»

«No ATM?»

«Only off his Visa.»

Win nodded, took the card numbers. He dropped Myron off at Englewood High School. The Dolphins were running through a one-on-one defensive drill. One player dribbled in a zigzag formation up the court while the defender bent low and worked on containment. Good drill. Tiring as all hell, but it worked the quads like no other.

There were about a half dozen people in the stands now. Myron took a seat in the front row. Within seconds the coach bee-lined toward him. She was husky with neatly trimmed black hair, a knit shirt with the New York Dolphins logo on the breast, gray sweatpants, a whistle, and Nike high-tops.

«You Bolitar?» the coach barked.

Her spine was a titanium bar, her face as unyielding as a meter maid’s.

«Yes.»

«Name’s Podich. Jean Podich.» She spoke like a drill sergeant. She put her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels a bit. «Used to watch you play, Bolitar. Friggin’ awesome.»

«Thank you.» He almost added sir.

«Still play at all?»

«Just pickup games.»

«Good. Had a player go down with a twisted ankle. Need someone to fill in for the scrimmage.»

«Pardon me?» Coach Podich was not big on using pronouns.

«Got nine players here, Bolitar. Nine. Need a tenth. Plenty of gym clothes in the equipment room. Sneakers too. Go suit up.»

This was not a request.

«I need my knee brace,» Myron said.

«Got that too, Bolitar. Got it all. The trainer will wrap you up good and tight. Now hustle, man.»

She clapped her hands at him, turned, walked away. Myron stayed still for a second. Great. This was just what he needed.

Podich blew her whistle hard enough to squeeze out an internal organ. The players stopped. «Shoot foul shots, take ten,» she said. «Then scrimmage.»

The players drifted off. Brenda jogged toward him.

«Where you going?» she asked.

«I have to suit up.»

Brenda stifled a smile.

«What?» he said.

«The equipment room,» Brenda said. «All they have is yellow Lycra shorts.»

Myron shook his head. «Then somebody should warn her.»

«Who?»

«Your coach. I put on tight yellow shorts, no way anybody’s going to concentrate on basketball.»

Brenda laughed. «I’ll try to maintain a professional demeanor. But if you post me down low, I may be forced to pinch your butt.»

«I’m not just a plaything,» Myron said, «here for your amusement.»

«Too bad.» She followed him into the equipment room. «Oh, that lawyer who wrote to my dad,» she said. «Thomas Kincaid.»

«Yes.»

«I remember where I heard his name before. My first scholarship. When I was twelve years old. He was the lawyer in charge.»

«What do you mean, in charge?»

«He signed my checks.»

Myron stopped. «You received checks from a scholarship?»

«Sure. The scholarship covered everything. Tuition, board, schoolbooks. I wrote out my expenses, and Kincaid signed the checks.»

«What was the name of the scholarship?»

«That one? I don’t remember. Outreach Education or something like that.»

«How long did Kincaid administer the scholarship?»

«It covered through my high school years. I got an athletic scholarship to college, so basketball paid the freight.»

«What about medical school?»

«I got another scholarship.»

«Same deal?»

«It’s a different scholarship, if that’s what you mean.»

«Does it pay for the same stuff? Tuition, board, the works?»