Harlan Coben - Drop Shot

Fishnet said nothing. Win gave the nose a quick squeeze. The small bones grated against one another, making a sound like rain on a skylight Fishnet bucked in agony. Win stifled his scream with his free hand.

"Enough," Myron said.

"He hasn't said anything yet."

"We're the good guys, remember?"

Win made a face. "You sound like an ACLU lawyer."

"He doesn't have to say anything."

"What?"

"He's a two-bit scum. He'd sell out his mother for a nickel."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he's more terrified of opening his mouth than the pain."

Win smiled. "I can change him."

Myron held up one of the parking lot stubs. "This lot is at Fifty-fourth and Madison. It's under TruPro's building. Our pal here is working for the Ache brothers. They're the only ones who could put that kind of scare into a guy." Fishnet's face was pure white.

"Or Aaron," Win said.

Aaron.

"What about him?" Myron asked.

"The Aches could be using Aaron. He could put that kind of scare into a guy."

Aaron.

"He isn't working for Frank Ache anymore," Myron said. "At least, that's what I heard."

Win looked down at Fishnet. "The name Aaron mean anything to you?"

"No," he shouted. Quickly. Too quickly.

Myron lowered his head toward Fishnet. "Start talking or I'll tell Frank Ache you told us all about it."

"I didn't say nothing about no Frank Ache!"

"Triple negative," Win said. "Very impressive."

There were two Ache brothers. Herman and Frank. Herman, the elder, was the boss, a sociopath responsible for countless murders and misery. But next to his whacked-out brother Frank, Herman Ache was Mary Poppins. Unfortunately, Frank ran TruPro.

"I didn't say nothing," Fishnet repeated. He was petting his nose like it was an abused dog. "Not a goddamn word."

"But how's Frank to know?" Myron asked. "You see, I'll tell Frank you sang like the tastiest of stool pigeons. And you know what? He'll believe me. How else would I know Frank hired you?"

Fishnet's face went from pale-white to a sort of seaweed-green.

"But if you cooperate," Myron said, "we'll all pretend this never happened. That I never spotted your tail. You'll be safe. Frank will never have to know about your little screwup."

Fishnet didn't have to think too long. "What do you want?"

"One of Ache's men hired you?"

"Yeah."

"Aaron?"

"No. Just some guy."

"What were you hired to do?"

"Follow you. Report wherever you went."

"For what reason?"

"I don't know."

"When did you get hired?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"What time?"

"I don't remember. Two, three o'clock. I was told you were at the tennis match and to get over there right away."

That would have been almost immediately after Valerie's murder.

"That's all I know. I swear to God. That's it."

"Bull," Win said. But Myron waved him off. Fishnet knew nothing more of any real significance.

"Let him go," Myron said.

Myron woke up early. He grabbed some cold cereal from the pantry. Something called Nutri-Grain. Yummy name. He read on the back of the box about the importance of fiber. Snore.

Myron longed for his childhood cereals: Cap'n Crunch, Froot Loops, Quisp. Quisp cereal. Who could forget Quisp, the cute alien who competed on TV commercials with some coal-miner loser named Quake? Quisp vs. Quake. Extraterrestrial vs. Mr. Blue-collar. Interesting concept. What happened to those two rivals? Has even lovable Quisp gone the way of the Motels?

Myron sighed. He was far too young for such bouts of nostalgia.

Esperanza had managed to track down an address for Curtis Yeller's mother. Deanna Yeller lived alone in a recently purchased house in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, a suburb outside Philadelphia. Myron made his way to his car. If he started out now, there would be time to drive to Cherry Hill, meet with Deanna Yeller, and get back to New York in time for Duane's match.

But would Deanna Yeller be home? Best to make sure.

Myron picked up the car phone and dialed. A woman's voice – probably Deanna Yeller – answered. "Hello?"

"Is Orson there?" Myron asked.

Warning: Clever deductive technique coming up. Those desiring professional pointers should pay strict attention.

"Who?" the woman asked.

"Orson."

"You have the wrong number."

"I'm sorry." Myron hung up.

Deduction: Deanna Yeller was home.

He pulled up to a modest but modern home on a classic New Jersey suburban street. Every house was more or less the same. Different colors maybe. The kitchen might be on the right instead of the left. But genetically they were clones. Nice. A sprinkling of kids on the street. A sprinkling of multicolored bicycles. Couple of squirrels. A far cry from west Philadelphia. It made him wonder.

Myron walked up the little brick walk and knocked on the door. A very attractive black woman answered, a pleasant smile at the ready. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, emphasizing the high cheekbones. Age lines around the eyes and mouth, but nothing drastic. She was well dressed, kind of conservative. Anne Klein II. Her jewelry was noticeable but not too flashy. The overall impression: classy.

Her smile seemed to fade when she saw him. "Can I help you?"

"Mrs. Yeller?"

She nodded slowly, as though not sure.

"My name is Myron Bolitar. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

The smile fled completely. "What about?" Her diction was different now. Less suburban civil. More street suspicious.

"Your son."

"I ain't got a son."

"Curtis," Myron said.

Her eyes narrowed. "You a cop?"

"No."

"I ain't got the time. I'm on my way out."

"It won't take long."

She put her hands on her hips. "What's in it for me?"

"Pardon me?"

"Curtis is dead."

"I realize that."

"So what good is talking about it gonna do? He still gonna be dead, right?"

"Please, Mrs. Yeller, if I could just come in for a moment."

She thought about it a second or two, glanced around, then shrugged in tired surrender. She checked her watch. Piaget, Myron noticed. Could be a fake, but he doubted it

The decor was basic. Lot of white. Lot of pinewood. Torchère lamps. Very Ikea. There were no photographs on the shelves or coffee table. Nothing personal at all. Deanna Yeller didn't sit. She didn't invite Myron to either.

Myron offered up his warmest, most trustworthy smile. One part Harry Smith, two parts John Tesh.

She crossed her arms. "What the hell you grinning at?"

Yep, another minute and she'd be curled up in his lap.

"I want to ask you about the night Curtis died," Myron said.

"Why? What's this got to do with you?"

"I'm investigating."

"Investigating what?"

"What really happened the night your son died."

"You a private eye?"

"No. Not really."

Silence.

"You got two minutes," she said. "That's it."

"According to the police your son drew a gun on a police officer."

"So they say."

"Did he?"

She shrugged. "Guess so."

"Did Curtis own a gun?"

Another shrug. "Guess he did."

"Did you see it that night?"

"I don't know."

"Did you ever see it before that night?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

Boy, was this helpful. "Why would your son and Errol break into the Old Oaks Club?"

She made a face. "You serious?"

"Yes."

"Why you think? To rob the place."

"Did Curtis do that a lot?"

"Do what?"

"Rob places."

Another shrug. "Places, people, whatever." Her tone was matter-of-fact No shame, no embarrassment, no surprise, no revulsion.

"Curtis didn't have a record," Myron said.

Yet another shrug. Her shoulders would tire soon. "Guess I raised a smart boy," she said. "Until that night, anyhow." She made a show of looking at her watch again. "I gotta go now."