Harlan Coben - One False Move

«Whatever it takes.»

«About Anita too.»

Mabel’s eyes stayed on him. «You still think she’s connected with all this?»

«Yes. I’d also like to send a man around to check your phone.»

«Why?»

«I think it’s tapped.»

Mabel looked confused. «But who would tap my phone?»

Better not to speculate right now. «I don’t know,» Myron said. «But when your brother called, did he mention the Holiday Inn in Livingston?»

Something happened to her eyes. «Why do you want to know that?»

«Evidently Horace had lunch with a manager there the day before he disappeared. It was the last charge on his credit card. And when we stopped by, Brenda thought she recognized it. That she may have been there with Anita.»

Mabel closed her eyes.

«What?» Myron asked.

More mourners entered the house, all carrying platters of food. Mabel accepted their words of sympathy with a kind smile and a firm hand grasp. Myron waited.

When there was a free second, Mabel said, «Horace never mentioned the Holiday Inn on the phone.»

«But there’s something else,» Myron said.

«Yes.»

«Did Anita ever take Brenda to the Holiday Inn?»

Brenda stepped back into the room and looked at them. Mabel put her hand on Myron’s arm. «Now is not the time for this,» Mabel said to him.

He nodded.

«Tonight maybe. Do you think you can come alone?»

«Yes.»

Mabel Edwards left him then to attend to Horace’s family and friends. Myron felt like an outsider again, but this time it had nothing to do with skin color.

He left quickly.

Once on. the road Myron switched his cellular phone back on. Two incoming calls. One was from Esperanza at the office, the other from Jessica in Los Angeles. He briefly debated what to do. No question really. He dialed Jessica’s hotel suite. Was it wimpy to call her right back? Maybe. But Myron looked at it as one of his more mature moments. Call him whipped, but engaging in head games had never been his style.

The hotel operator connected him, but there was no answer. He left a message. Then he dialed the office.

«We got a big problem,» Esperanza said.

«On Sunday?» Myron said.

«The Lord may take it off, but not team owners.»

«Did you hear about Horace Slaughter?» he asked.

«Yes,» she said. «I’m sorry about your friend, but we still got a business to run. And a problem.»

«What?»

«The Yankees are going to trade Lester Ellis. To Seattle. They’ve scheduled a news conference first thing tomorrow morning.»

Myron rubbed the bridge of his nose with his pointer and thumb. «How did you hear?»

«Devon Richards.»

Reliable source. Damn. «Does Lester know?»

«Nope.»

«He’ll have a fit.»

«Don’t I know it.»

«Suggestions?»

«Not a one,» Esperanza said. «A fringe benefit of being the underling.»

The call waiting clicked. «I’ll call you back.» He switched lines and said hello.

Francine Neagly said, «I’m being tailed.»

«Where are you?»

«The A and P off the circle.»

«What kind of car?»

«Blue Buick Skylark. Few years old. White top.»

«Got a plate?»

«New Jersey, four-seven-six-four-five TV

Myron thought a moment. «When do you start your shift?»

«Half an hour.»

«You working the car or the desk?»

«Desk.»

«Good, I’ll pick him up there.»

«Pick him up?»

«If you’re staying in the station, he’s not going to waste a beautiful Sunday hanging outside it. I’m going to follow him.»

«Tail the tailer?»

«Right. Take Mount Pleasant to Livingston Avenue. I’ll pick him up there.»

«Hey, Myron?»

«Yeah.»

«If something big goes down, I want in.»

«Sure.»

They hung up. Myron backtracked to Livingston. He parked along Memorial Circle near the turnoff to Livingston Avenue. Good view of the police station and easy access to all routes. Myron kept the car running and watched the townsfolk handle Memorial Circle’s half-mile perimeter. A tremendous variety of Living-stonites frequented «the circle». There were old ladies pacing slowly, usually in twos, some of the more adventurous swinging tiny barbells. There were couples in their fifties and sixties, many in matching sweat suits. Cute, sort of. Teenagers ambled, their mouths getting a far better workout than any extremity or cardiovascular muscle. Hard-core joggers raced past them all with nary a glance. They wore sleek sunglasses and firm faces and sported bare midriffs. Bare midriffs. Even the men. What was up with that?

He forced himself not to think about kissing Brenda. Or how it felt when she smiled at him across the picnic table. Or how her face flushed when she got excited. Or how animated she’d gotten when talking to people at the barbecue. Or how tender she’d been with Timmy when she put on that bandage.

Good thing he wasn’t thinking about her.

For a brief moment he wondered if Horace would approve. Strange thought, really. But there it was. Would his old mentor approve? He wondered. He wondered what it would be like to date a black woman. Was there attraction in the taboo? Repulsion? Concern for the future? He pictured the two of them living in the suburbs, the pediatrician and the sports agent, a mixed couple with similar dreams, and then he realized how dumb it was for a man in love with a woman in Los Angeles to think such nonsense about a woman he’d only known for two days.

Dumb. Yup.

A blonde hard-core jogger dressed in tight magenta shorts and a much-tested white sports bra jogged by his car. She looked inside and smiled at him. Myron smiled back. The bare midriff. You take the good with the bad.

Across the street Francine Neagly pulled into the police station driveway. Myron shifted into drive and kept his foot on the brake. The Buick Skylark passed the station without slowing down. Myron had tried to trace the license plate from his source at the Department of Motor Vehicles, but hey, it was Sunday, it was the DMV, you put it together.

He pulled onto Livingston Avenue and followed the Buick south. He kept four cars back and craned his neck. Nobody was pushing hard on the accelerator. Livingston took its time on Sunday. But that was okay. The Buick came to a stop at a traffic light at Northfield Avenue. On the right was a brick minimall of some sort. When Myron had been growing up, the same building had been Roosevelt Elementary School; twenty-some-odd years ago someone decided what New Jersey really needed were fewer schools and more malls. Foresight.

The Skylark turned right. Myron kept back and did likewise. They were heading toward Route 10 again, but before they had gone even half a mile, the Skylark made a left onto Crescent Road. Myron frowned. Small suburban street, mostly used to cut through to Hobart Gap Road. Hmm. It probably meant that Mr. Skylark knew the town fairly well and was not an outsider.

A quick right followed the left. Myron knew now where the Skylark was headed. There was only one thing nestled into this suburban landscape besides the split-level homes and a barely flowing brook. A Little League field.

Meadowbrook Little League field. Two fields actually. Sunday and sun meant the road and parking lot were packed with vehicles. So-called utility trucks and minivans had replaced the wood-paneled station wagons of Myron’s youth, but little else had changed. The lot was still unpaved gravel. The concession booth was still white cement with green trim and run by volunteer moms. The stands were still metal and rickety and filled with parents cheering a tad too loudly.

The Buick Skylark grabbed an illegal space near the backstop. Myron slowed the car and waited. When the door of the Skylark opened and Detective Wickner, the lead officer in the Elizabeth Bradford «accident», swept out of the car in grand style, Myron was not really surprised. The retired officer took off his sunglasses with a snap and tossed them back into the car. He put on a baseball cap, green with the letter S on it. You could almost see Wickner’s lined face slacken as though the field’s sunlight were the most gentle masseur. Wickner waved to some guys standing behind the backstop – the Eli Wickner Backstop, according to the sign. The guys waved back. Wickner bounded toward them.