Харлан Кобен - Win

Patricia begins to pace the parlor. “Let’s step back and try to look at this rationally.”

I wait, let her gather herself.

“When exactly was the painting stolen?”

I tell her September eighteenth and the year.

“That’s, what, seven months before...” She still paces. “Before Dad was murdered.”

“Closer to eight.”

I had done the math on the helicopter.

She stops pacing and throws up her hands. “What the hell, Win?”

I shrug.

“Are you saying the same guys who stole the paintings came back, murdered Dad, and kidnapped me?”

I shrug again. I shrug a lot, but I shrug with a certain panache.

“Win?”

“Walk me through it,” I say.

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“I don’t want to,” Patricia says in a small voice that is so unlike her. “I’ve spent the last twenty-four years avoiding it.”

I say nothing.

“Do you understand?”

I still say nothing.

“Don’t give me the silent man-of-mystery act, okay?”

“The FBI will want to see whether you can identify the murdered hoarder.”

“I can’t. I told you. And what’s the difference now? He’s dead, right? Let’s say he was this old bald guy. He’s gone. It’s over.”

“How many men broke in, the night of your abduction?” I ask.

She closes her eyes. “Two.”

When Patricia opens her eyes again, I offer up another shrug.

“Shit,” she says.

We decide to do nothing for the moment. In truth, Cousin Patricia decides — it is her life that will be turned upside down, not mine — but I concur. She wants to think about it and see what else we can learn first. Once we open this particular door, there is no way to close it again.

I look in on my father, but he is still resting. I don’t disturb him. Most days he is lucid. Some he is not. I climb back into the helicopter and leave Lockwood. I set up a rendezvous with a woman on my app. We decide to meet at nine p.m. She uses the code name Amanda. I use the code name Myron because he finds this app so repulsive. I asked him to explain why. Myron started with the deeper meaning of love, of connection, of being as one, of waking up and making someone else a part of your life.

My eyes glazed over.

Myron shook his head. “Explaining romantic love to you is like teaching a lion to read: It isn’t going to happen, and someone might get hurt.”

I like that.

You don’t have this app, by the way. You can’t get this app.

An hour later, I enter my office. Kabir, my assistant, is there. Kabir is a twenty-eight-year-old Sikh American. He has a long beard. He wears a turban. I probably should not mention any of this because he was born in this country and acts more like a stereotypical American than anyone I know, but as Kabir puts it, “The turban. You always gotta explain the turban.”

“Messages?” I ask him.

“A ton.”

“Any pressing?”

“Yes.”

“Give me an hour then.”

Kabir nods and hands me a water bottle. It is a cold beverage with the latest NAD molecules, which help slow down aging. I am provided the latest compound from a longevity doctor at Harvard. The elevator takes me down to the private workout room in the basement. There are free weights, a boxing heavy bag, a speed bag, a grappling dummy, wooden practice swords (bokkens), rubber handguns, a Wing Chun dummy with hardwood arms and legs, you get the idea.

I train every day.

I have worked with some of the best fighting instructors in the world. I have practiced all the fighting techniques you know — karate, kung fu, taekwondo, krav maga, jujitsu of various stripes — and many you don’t. I spent a year in Siem Reap studying the Khmer fighting technique of Bokator, which roughly though aptly translated means “pounding a lion.” I spent two college summers outside of Jinhae in South Korea with a reclusive Soo Bahk Do master. I study strikes, takedowns, submissions, joint locks (though I don’t like them), pressure points (not really useful in a true battle), one-on-one combat, group attacks, weaponry of all kinds. I am an expert marksman with a handgun (I am proficient with a rifle, but I rarely find a need for it). I’ve worked with knives, swords, and blades of all sorts, and while I greatly admire the Filipino form of Kali Eskrima, I’ve learned more from our Delta Force’s elite blend of styles.

I am alone in my gym, so I take off everything but my underwear — a boxer-brief hybrid for those who must know — and start running through a few traditional katas. I move fast. Between sets, I work three-minute rounds with the punching bag. Best cardio conditioner in the world. In my youth, I trained five hours a day. Now I still go a minimum of an hour. Most days, I work with an instructor because I still thirst to learn. Today, obviously, I do not.

Money, of course, makes all this possible. I can travel anywhere — or I can fly in any expert for any length of time. Money gives you time, access, cutting-edge technology and equipment.

Don’t I sound a bit like Batman?

If you think about it, Bruce Wayne’s only superpower was tremendous wealth.

Mine too. And yes, it’s good to be me.

Sweat coats my skin. I feel the rush of that. I push harder. I’ve always pushed myself. I’ve never needed to be pushed by anything external. The only training partner I ever worked with was Myron, but that was because he needed to learn, not because I needed motivation.

I do this for survival. I do it to keep fit. I do it because I enjoy it. Not all of it, mind you. I enjoy the physical. I don’t enjoy the obsequious “yes, sensei” patriarchal nonsense that certain martial arts thrust upon their students, because I bow to no man. Respect, yes. Bow, no. I also don’t use these techniques, per the platitude, “only for self-defense,” an obvious untruth on the level of “the check is in the mail” or “don’t worry, I’ll pull out.” I use what I learn to defeat my enemies, no matter who the aggressor happens to be (usually: me).

I like violence.

I like it a lot. I don’t condone it for others. I condone it for me. I don’t fight as a last resort. I fight whenever I can. I don’t try to avoid trouble. I actively seek it out.

After I finish with the bag, I bench-press, powerlift, squat. When I was younger, I’d have various lifting days — arm days, chest days, leg days. When I reached my forties, I found it paid to lift less often and with more variety.

I hit the steam room, sauna, and then, when my body temperature is raised, I jump into a freezing cold shower. Putting the body through certain controlled stresses like this activates dormant hormones. It’s good for you. When I exit the shower, three suits wait for me. I choose the solid blue one and head back to my office.

Kabir holds up his phone. “The story’s hit Twitter.”

“What are they saying?”

“Just that the Vermeer was found at a murder scene. I’m also getting a ton of calls from the press interested in a quote.”

“Any porn magazines?” I ask.

Kabir frowns. “What’s a porn magazine?”

Today’s youth.

I close the door. My office has an enviable view and oak wood paneling. There is an antique wooden globe and a painting of a fox hunt. I look at the painting and wonder how the Vermeer might look there instead. My mobile rings. I look at the number.

I should be surprised — I haven’t heard from him in a decade, not since he told me he was retiring — but I’m not.

I put the phone to my ear. “Articulate.”

“I can’t believe you still answer the phone that way.”

“Times change,” I say. “I do not.”

“You change,” he says. “I bet you don’t ‘night tour’ anymore, do you?”