He lifted his bag. His eyes met Bucky's. Bucky remained silent. A tear slid down the older man's cheek. Jack tore his gaze away and started for the door.
Myron called out, "Jack?"
Coldren stopped.
"It still might not be what it looks like," Myron said.
Again with the eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"I traced the call you got last night," Myron explained. "It was made from a mall pay phone." He briefly filled them in on his visit to the Grand Mercado Mall and the Crusty Nazi. Linda's face kept slipping from hope to heartbreak and mostly confusion. Myron understood. She wanted her son to be safe. But at the same time, she did not want this to be some cruel joke. Tough mix.
"He is in trouble," Linda said as soon as he'd finished. "That proves it."
"That proves nothing," Jack replied in tired exasperation. "Rich kids hang out at malls and dress like punks too. He's probably a friend of Chad's."
Again Linda looked at her husband hard. Again she said in a measured tone, "Go play, Jack."
Jack opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. He shook his head, adjusted the bag on his shoulder, and left. Bucky crossed the room. He tried to hold his daughter, but she stiffened at his touch. She moved away, studying Myron's face.
"You think he's faking too," she said.
"Jack's explanation makes sense."
"So you're going to stop looking?"
"I don't know," Myron said.
She straightened her back. "Stay with it," she began, "and I promise to sign with you."
"Linda ..."
"That's why you're here in the first place, right? You want my business. Well, here's the deal. You stay with me and I'll sign whatever you want. Hoax or no hoax. It'll be quite a coup, no? Signing the number one-ranked female golfer in the world?"
"Yes," Myron admitted. "It would be."
"So there you go." She stuck out her hand. "Do we have a deal?"
Myron kept his hands by his side. "Let me ask you something."
"What?"
"Why are you so sure it's not a hoax, Linda?"
"You think I'm being naive?"
"Not really," he said. "I just want to know what makes you so certain."
She lowered her hand and turned away from him. "Dad?"
Bucky seemed to snap out of a daze. "Hmm?"
"Would you mind leaving us alone for a minute?"
"Oh," Bucky said. Neck crane. Then another. Two of them back-to-back. Good thing he wasn't a giraffe. "Yes, well, I wanted to get to Merion anyway."
"You go ahead, Dad. I'll meet you there."
When they were alone, Linda Coldren began to pace the room. Myron was again awed by her looks--the paradoxical combination of beauty, strength, and now delicacy. The strong, toned arms, yet the long, slender neck. The harsh, pointed features, yet the soft indigo eyes. Myron had heard beauty described as "seamless"; hers was quite the opposite.
"I'm not big on"--Linda Coldren made quote marks in the air with her fingers--"woman's intuition or any of that mother-knows-her-boy-best crap. But I know that my son is in danger. He wouldn't just disappear like this. No matter how it looks, that's not what happened."
Myron remained silent.
"I don't like asking for help. It's not my way--to depend on someone else. But this is a situation.... I'm scared. I've never felt fear like this in all of my life. It's all-consuming. It's suffocating. My son is in trouble and I can't do anything to help him. You want proof that this is not a hoax. I can't provide that. I just know. And I'm asking you to please help me."
Myron wasn't sure how to respond. Her argument came straight from the heart, sans facts or evidence. But that didn't make her suffering any less real. "I'll check out Matthew's house," he said finally. "Let's see what happens after that."
13
In the light of day, Green Acres Road was even more imposing. Both sides of the street were lined with ten-foot-high shrubs so thick that Myron couldn't tell how thick. He parked his car outside a wrought iron gate and approached an intercom. He pressed a button and waited. There were several surveillance cameras. Some remained steady. Some whirred slowly from side to side. Myron spotted motion detectors, barbed wire, Dobermans. A rather elaborate fortress, he thought.
A voice as impenetrable as the shrubs came through the speaker. "May I help you?"
"Good morning," Myron said, offering up a friendly-but-not-a-salesman smile to the nearest camera. Talking to a camera. He felt like he was on Nightline. "I'm looking for Matthew Squires."
Pause. "Your name, sir?"
"Myron Bolitar."
"Is Master Squires expecting you?"
"No." Master Squires?
"Then you do not have an appointment?"
An appointment to see a sixteen-year-old? Who is this kid, Doogie Howser? "No, I'm afraid I don't."
"May I ask the purpose of your visit?"
"To speak to Matthew Squires." Mr. Vague.
"I am afraid that will not be possible at this time," the voice said.
"Will you tell him it involves Chad Coldren?"
Another pause. Cameras pirouetted. Myron looked around. All the lenses were aiming down from up high, glaring at him like hostile space aliens or lunchroom monitors.
"In what way does it involve Master Coldren?" the voice asked.
Myron squinted into a camera. "May I ask with whom I am speaking?"
No reply.
Myron waited a beat, then said, "You're supposed to say, 'I am the great and powerful Oz.' "
"I am sorry, sir. No one is admitted without an appointment. Please have a nice day."
"Wait a second. Hello? Hello?" Myron pressed the button again. No reply. He leaned on it for several seconds. Still nothing. He looked up into the camera and gave his best caring-homespun-family-guy smile. Very Tom Brokaw. He tried a small wave. Nothing. He took a small step backward and gave a great big Jack Kemp fake-throwing-a-football wave. Nada.
He stood there for another minute. This was indeed odd. A sixteen-year-old with this kind of security? Something was not quite kosher. He pressed the button one more time. When no one responded he looked into the camera, put a thumb in either ear, wiggled his fingers and stuck out his tongue.
When in doubt, be mature.
Back at his car, Myron picked up the car phone and dialed his friend.
Sheriff Jake Courter.
"Sheriff's office."
"Hey, Jake. It's Myron."
"Fuck. I knew I shouldn't have come in on Saturday."
"Ooo, I'm wounded. Seriously, Jake, do they still call you the Henny Youngman of law enforcement?"
Heavy sigh. "What the fuck do you want, Myron? I just came in to get a little paperwork done."
"No rest for those vigilantly pursuing peace and justice for the common man."
"Right," Jake said.
"This week, I went out on a whole twelve calls. Guess how many of them were for false burglar alarms?"
"Thirteen."
"Pretty close."
For more than twenty years, Jake Courter had been a cop in several of the country's meanest cities. He'd hated it and craved a quieter life. So Jake, a rather large black man, resigned from the force and moved to the picturesque (read: lily-white) town of Reston, New Jersey. Looking for a cushy job, he ran for sheriff. Reston was a college (read: liberal) town, and thus Jake played up his--as he put it--"blackness" and won easily. The white man's guilt, Jake had told Myron. The best vote-getter this side of Willie Horton.
"Miss the excitement of the big city?" Myron asked.
"Like a case of herpes," Jake countered. "Okay, Myron, you've done the charm thing on me. I'm like Play-Doh in your paws now. What do you want?"
"I'm in Philly for the U.S. Open."
"That's golf, right?"
"Yeah, golf. And I wanted to know if you've heard of a guy named Squires."
Pause. Then: "Oh, shit."
"What?"
"What the fuck are you involved in now?"
/>
"Nothing. It's just that he's got all this weird security around his house--"
"What the fuck are you doing by his house?"
"Nothing."
"Right," Jake said. "Guess you were just strolling by."
"Something like that."
"Nothing like that." Jake sighed. Then: "Ah what the hell, it ain't on my beat anymore. Squires. Reginald Squires aka Big Blue."
Myron made a face. "Big Blue?"
"Hey, all gangsters need a nickname. Squires is known as Big Blue. Blue, as in blue blood."
"Those gangsters," Myron said. "Pity they don't channel their creativity into honest marketing."
" 'Honest marketing,' " Jake repeated. "Talk about your basic oxymoron. Anyway Squires got a kiloton of family dough and all this blue-blood breeding and schooling and shit."
"So what's he doing keeping such bad company?"
"You want the simple answer? The son of a bitch is a serious wacko. Gets his jollies hurting people. Kinda like Win."
"Win doesn't get his jollies hurting people."
"If you say so."
"If Win hurts someone, there's a reason. To prevent them from doing it again or to punish or something."
"Sure, whatever," Jake said. "Kinda touchy though, aren't we, Myron?"
"It's been a long day."
"It's only nine in the morning."
Myron said, "For what breeds time but two hands on a clock?"
"Who said that?"
"No one. I just made it up."
"You should consider writing greeting cards."
"So what is Squires into, Jake?"
"Want to hear something funny? I'm not sure. Nobody is. Drugs and prostitution. Shit like that. But very upscale. Nothing very well organized or anything. It's more like he plays at it, you know? Like he gets involved in whatever he thinks will give him a thrill, then dumps it."
"How about kidnapping?"
Brief pause. "Oh shit, you are involved in something again, aren't you?"
"I just asked you if Squires was into kidnapping."
"Oh. Right. Like it's a hypothetical question. Kinda like, 'If a bear shits in the forest and no one is around, does it still reek'?"
"Precisely. Does kidnapping reek like his kind of thing?"
"Hell if I know. The guy is a major league loon, no question. He blends right into all that snobbish bullshit--the boring parties, the shitty food, the laughing at jokes that aren't remotely funny, the talking with the same boring people about the same boring worthless bullshit--"
"It sounds like you really admire them."
"Just my point, my friend. They got it all, right? On the outside. Money, big homes, fancy clubs. But they're all so fucking boring--shit, I'd kill myself. Makes me wonder if maybe Squires feels that way too, you know?"
"Uh-huh," Myron said. "And Win is the scary one here, right?"
Jake laughed. "Touche. But to answer your question, I don't know if Squires would be into kidnapping. Wouldn't surprise me though."
Myron thanked him and hung up. He looked up. At least a dozen security cameras lined the top of the shrubs like tiny sentinels.
What now?
For all he knew, Chad Coldren was laughing his ass off, watching him on one of those security cameras. This whole thing could be an exercise in pure futility. Of course, Linda Coldren had promised to be a client. Much as he didn't want to admit it to himself, the idea was not wholly unpleasant. He considered the possibility and started to smile. If he could also somehow land Tad Crispin ...
Yo, Myron, a kid may be in serious trouble.
Or, more likely, a spoiled brat or neglected adolescent--take your pick--is playing hooky and having some fun at his parents' expense.
So the question remained: What now?
He thought again about the videotape of Chad at the ATM machine. He didn't go into details with the Coldrens, but it bothered him. Why there? Why that particular ATM machine? If the kid was running away or hiding out, he might have to pick up money. Fine and dandy, that made sense.
But why would he do it at Porter Street?
Why not do it at a bank closer to home? And equally important, what was Chad Coldren doing in that area in the first place? There was nothing there. It wasn't a stop between highways or anything like that. The only thing in that neighborhood that would require cash was the Court Manor Inn. Myron again remembered motelier extraordinaire Stuart Lipwitz's attitude and wondered.
He started the car. It might be something. Worth looking into, at any rate.
Of course, Stuart Lipwitz had made it abundantly clear that he would not talk. But Myron thought he had just the tool to make him change his mind.
14
Smile!"
The man did not smile. He quickly shifted the car in reverse and backed out. Myron shrugged and lowered the camera. It was on a neck strap and bounced lightly against his chest. Another car approached. Myron lifted the camera again.
"Smile!" Myron repeated.
Another man. Another no smile. This guy managed to duck down before shifting his car into reverse.
"Camera shy" Myron called out to him. "Nice to see in this age of paparazzi overkill."
It didn't take long. Myron had been on the sidewalk in front of the Court Manor Inn for less than five minutes when he spotted Stuart Lipwitz sprinting toward him. Big Stu was in full custom--gray tails, wide tie, a concierge key pin in the suit's lapel. Gray tails at a no-tell motel. Like a maitre d' at Burger King. Watching Stu move closer, a Pink Floyd song came to mind: Hello, hello, hello, is there anybody out there? David Bowie joined in: Ground control to Major Tom.
Ah, the seventies.
"You there," he called out.
"Hi, Stu."
No smile this time. "This is private property," Stuart Lipwitz said, a little out of breath. "I must ask you to remove yourself immediately."
"I hate to disagree with you, Stu, but I am on a public sidewalk. I got every right to be here."
Stuart Lipwitz stammered, then flapped his arms in frustration. With the tails, the movement kind of reminded Myron of a bat. "But you can't just stand there and take pictures of my clientele," he semi-whined.
" 'Clientele,' " Myron repeated. "Is that a new euphemism for john?"
"I'll call the police."
"Ooooo. Stop scaring me like that."
"You are interfering with my business."
"And you are interfering with mine."
Stuart Lipwitz put his hands on his hips and tried to look threatening. "This is the last time I'll ask you nicely. Leave the premises."
"That wasn't nice."
"Excuse me?"
"You said it was the last time you'd ask me nicely," Myron explained. "Then you said, 'Leave the premises.' You didn't say please. You didn't say, 'Kindly leave the premises.' Where's the nice in that?"
"I see," Lipwitz said. Beads of sweat dotted his face. It was hot and the man was, after all, in tails. "Please kindly leave the premises."
"Nope. But now, at least, you're a man of your word."
Stuart Lipwitz took several deep breaths. "You want to know about the boy, don't you? The one in the picture."
"You bet."
"And if I tell you if he was here, will you leave?"
"Much as it would pain me to leave this quaint locale, I would somehow tear myself away."
"That, sir, is blackmail."
Myron looked at him. "I would say 'blackmail is such an ugly word,' but that would be too cliche. So instead I'll just say 'Yup.' "
"But"--Lipwitz started stammering--"that's against the law!"
"As opposed to, say, prostitution and drug dealing and whatever other sleazy activity goes on in this fleabag?"
Stuart Lipwitz's eyes widened. "Fleabag? This is the Court Manor Inn, sir. We are a respectable--"
"Stuff it, Stu. I got pictures to take." Another car pulled up. Gray Volvo station wagon. Nice family car. A man about fifty years old was neatly attired in a business suit. The youn
g girl in the passenger seat must have shopped--as the mall girls had recently taught him--at Sluts "R" Us.
Myron smiled and leaned toward the window. "Whoa, sir, vacationing with your daughter?"
The man splashed on a classic deer-caught-in-the-headlights look. The young prostitute whooped with laughter. "Hey, Mel, he thinks I'm your daughter!" She whooped again.
Myron raised the camera. Stuart Lipwitz tried to step in his way, but Myron swept him away with his free hand. "It's Souvenir Day at the Court Manor," Myron said. "I can put the picture on a coffee mug if you'd like. Or maybe a decorative plate?"
The man in the business suit reversed the car. They were gone several seconds later.
Stuart Lipwitz's face reddened. He made two fists. Myron looked at him. "Now Stuart ..."
"I have powerful friends," he said.
"Ooooo. I'm getting scared again."
"Fine. Be that way." Stuart turned away and stormed up the drive. Myron smiled. The kid was a tougher nut to crack than he'd anticipated, and he really didn't want to do this all day. But let's face it: There were no other leads and besides, playing with Big Stu was fun.
Myron waited for more customers. He wondered what Stu was up to. Something frantic, no doubt. Ten minutes later, a canary yellow Audi pulled up and a large black man slid out. The black man was maybe an inch shorter than Myron, but he was built. His chest could double as a jai alai wall and his legs resembled the trunks of redwoods. He glided when he moved--not the bulky moves one usually associated with the overmuscled.
Myron did not like that.
The black man had sunglasses on and wore a red Hawaiian shirt with blue jean shorts. His most noticeable feature was his hair. The kinks had been slicked straight and parted on the side, like old photographs of Nat King Cole.
Myron pointed at the top of the man's head. "Is that hard to do?" he asked.
"What?" the black man said. "You mean the hair?"
Myron nodded. "Keeping it straight like that."
"Nah, not really. Once a week I go to a guy named Ray. In an old-fashioned barbershop, as a matter of fact. The kind with the pole in front and everything." His smile was almost wistful. "Ray takes care of it for me. Also gives me a great shave. With hot towels and everything." The man stroked his face for emphasis.
"Looks smooth," Myron said.
"Hey, thanks. Nice of you to say. I find it relaxing, you know? Doing something just for me. I think it's important. To relieve the stress."
Myron nodded. "I hear you."
"Maybe I'll give you Ray's number. You could stop by and check it out."
"Ray," Myron repeated. "I'd like that."