Harlan Coben - One False Move

Myron turned to page A-9. There was a smaller photograph of Brenda and then, more interestingly, a photograph of Horace Slaughter’s nephew, Terence Edwards, candidate for state senate. According to the caption, the photograph had been taken at «a recent campaign stop.» Hmm. Terence Edwards looked pretty much as he had in the photographs at his mother’s house. With one important difference: in this picture Terence was standing next to Arthur Bradford.

Hello.

Myron showed Brenda the photograph. She looked at it a moment. «Arthur Bradford seems to pop up frequently,» she said.

«Yes.»

«But how does Terence fit into this? He was a kid when my mother ran off.»

Myron shrugged. He checked the kitchen clock. Time to meet Francine. «I have to run a quick errand,» he said vaguely. «I shouldn’t be long.»

«An errand?» Mom frowned. «What kind of errand?»

«I’ll be back soon.»

Mom magnified the frown, getting her eyebrows into the act. «But you don’t even live here anymore, Myron,» she went on. «And it’s only seven in the morning.» In the morning. In case he mistook it for being seven at night. «Nothing’s even open at seven in the morning.»

Mother Bolitar, Mossad Interrogation.

Myron stood through the grilling. Brenda and Mom weighed him with their eyes. He shrugged and said, «I’ll tell you about it when I come back.» He hurried off, showered, dressed in record time, and jumped into his car.

Francine Neagly had mentioned the Halloween scare. He surmised that this was a kind of code. When they were in high school, about a hundred of their classmates had gone to see the movie Halloween. It was a new movie then, just out, and it scared the piss out of everyone. The next day Myron and his friend Eric had dressed up like the murderous Michael Myers – i.e., in black and wearing a goalie mask – and hidden in the woods during the girls’ gym class. They never approached, just popping into sight every once in a while. A few of the kids freaked out and started screaming.

Hey, it was high school. Cut him some slack, okay?

Myron parked the Taurus near the Livingston football field. AstroTurf had replaced grass almost a decade earlier. AstroTurf at a high school. Was that necessary? He climbed through the woods. Sticky dew. His sneakers got wet. He quickly found the old path. Not far from this very spot Myron had made out – necked, to use his parents’ terminology – with Nancy Pettino. Sophomore year. Neither one of them liked the other very much, but all their friends had paired up, and they’d both been bored and figured what the hell.

Ah, young love.

Francine sat in full uniform on the same big rock the two fake Michael Myers had stood upon nearly two decades ago. Her back was to him. She did not bother to turn around when he approached. He stopped a few feet from her.

«Francine?»

She let out a deep breath and said, «What the hell is going on, Myron?»

In their high school days Francine had been something of a tomboy, the kind of fierce, spunky competitor you could not help envying. She tackled everything with energy and relish, her voice daunting and confident. Right now she was balled up on the rock, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth.

«Why don’t you tell me?» Myron said.

«Don’t play games with me.»

«I’m not playing games.»

«Why did you want to see that file?»

«I told you. I’m not sure it was an accident.»

«What makes you unsure?»

«Nothing concrete. Why? What happened?»

Francine shook her head. «I want to know what’s going on,» she said. «The whole story.»

«Nothing to tell.»

«Right. Yesterday you woke up and you said to yourself, "Hey, that accidental death that occurred twenty years ago, I bet it wasn’t an accident at all. So I’ll go ask my old buddy Francine to get the police file for me." That what happened, Myron?»

«No.»

«So start talking.»

Myron hesitated a moment. «Let’s say that I’m right, that Elizabeth Bradford’s death was not an accident. And let’s say there is something in those files that proves it. That would mean the police covered it up, right?»

She shrugged, still not looking at him. «Maybe.»

«And maybe they would want it to stay buried.»

«Maybe.»

«So maybe they would want to know what I know. Maybe they would even send an old friend to make me talk.»

Francine’s head snapped around as if someone had pulled a string. «You accusing me of something, Myron?»

«No,» he said. «But if there’s a cover-up going on, how do I know I can trust you?»

She rehugged her knees. «Because there is no cover-up,» she said. «I saw the file. A little thin, but nothing unusual. Elizabeth Bradford fell. There were no signs of a struggle.»

«They did an autopsy?»

«Yep. She landed on her head. The impact crushed her skull.»

«Tox screen?»

«They didn’t run one.»

«Why not?»

«She died from a fall, not an overdose.»

«But a tox screen would have shown if she’d been drugged,» Myron said.

«So?»

«There were no signs of a struggle, okay, but what would have prevented someone from drugging her and then dumping her over the side?»

Francine made a face. «And maybe little green men pushed her.»

«Hey, if this was a poor couple and the wife had accidentally fallen off her fire escape-»

«But this wasn’t a poor couple, Myron. It was the Bradfords. Did they get preferential treatment? Probably. But even if Elizabeth Bradford had been drugged, it still doesn’t add up to murder. Quite the opposite, in fact/

Now it was Myron’s turn to look confused. «How do you figure?»

«The fall was only three stories,» Francine said. «A short three stories.»

«So?»

«So a murderer who pushed her off that terrace could not have counted on that low a fall killing her. More likely she would have just broken a leg or something.»

Myron stopped. He had not thought of that. But it made sense. Pushing someone off a third-floor balcony with the hopes that she would land on her head and die was risky at best. Arthur Bradford did not strike Myron as a man who took risks.

So what did that mean?

«Maybe she was hit over the head beforehand,» Myron tried.

Francine shook her head. «The autopsy didn’t show any signs of an earlier blow. And they also checked the rest of the house. There was no blood anywhere. They might have cleaned it up, of course, but I doubt we’ll ever know.»

«So there’s absolutely nothing suspicious in the report?»

«Nothing,» she said.

Myron raised his hands. «So why are we out here? Trying to recapture our lost youth?»

Francine looked at him. «Somebody broke into my house.»

«What?»

«After I read the file. It was supposed to look like a burglary, but it was a search. A thorough one. The place is trashed. Then right after that Roy Pomeranz calls me. Remember him?»

«No.»

«He was Wickner’s old partner.»

«Oh, right,» Myron said, «an early musclehead?»

«That’s him. He’s chief of detectives now. So yesterday he calls me into his office, something he’s never done before. He wants to know why I was looking at the old Bradford file.»

«What did you tell him?»

T made up some bullshit story about studying old police techniques.»

Myron made a face. «And Pomeranz bought that?»

«No, he didn’t buy it,» Francine snapped. «He wanted to slam me against a wall and shake the truth out of me. But he was afraid. He was pretending like his questions were just routine, no big deal, but you should have seen his face. He looked maybe half an egg sandwich away from a coronary. He claimed that he was worried about the implications of what I was doing because it was an election year. I nodded a lot and apologized and bought his story about as much as he bought mine. When I drove home, I spotted a tail. I shook it this morning, and here we are.»