Back Spin (1997) (27 page)

Christ, this was subtle. But if she had felt safe enough to leave the house if the kidnapper had not minded her taking a little night stroll then walking toward a bush shouldn't cause a panic either. Bad rationale, but it was getting late.

If not out for a jog, why was Linda out so late?

Unless . . .

Unless she was paying off the ransom.

But no, it was still Sunday night. The banks wouldn't be open. She couldn't raise one hundred grand without going to a bank. She had made that clear, hadn't she?

Linda Coldren slowly approached the bush. Myron was almost tempted to light the bush on fire, deepen his voice, and say, "Come forward, Moses." More gallows humor. More not-funny.

When she was about ten feet away, Myron raised his head into view. Linda's eyes nearly leaped out of their sockets.

"Get out of here!" Linda whispered.

Myron wasted no time. Whispering back, he said, "I

found the guy from the pay phone dead. Shot twice in the head. Chad's ring was in his car. But no sign of Chad."

"Get out!"

"I just wanted to warn you. Be careful. They're playing for keeps."

Her eyes darted about the yard. She nodded and turned away.

"When's the drop-off'?" Myron tried. "And where's Jack? Make sure you see Chad with your own eyes before you hand over anything."

But if Linda heard him, she gave no indication. She hurried down the driveway, opened the door, and disappeard from sight.

Chapter
25

Win opened the bedroom door. "You have visitors."

Myron kept his head on the pillow. Friends not knocking hardly fazed him anymore. "Who is it?"

"Law enforcement officials," Win said.

"Cops?"

"Yes."

' 'Uniformed? ' '

"Yes."

"Any idea what it's about?"

"Oooo, sorry. That would be a no. Let's move on to Kitty Carlisle."

Myron picked the sleep out of his eyes and threw on some clothes. He slipped into a pair of Top-Siders without socks. Very Win-like. A quick brush of the teeth, for the sake of breath rather than long-term dental health. He opted for a baseball cap rather than taking the time to wet his hair. The baseball cap was red and said TRIX CEREAL in the front and SILLY RABBIT on the back. Jessica had bought it for him. Myron loved her for it.

The two uniforms waited with cop-patience in the living room. They were young and healthy-looking. The taller one said, "Mr. Bolitar?"

"Yes."

"We'd appreciate it if you would accompany us."

"Where?"

"Detective Corbett will explain when we arrive."

"How about a hint?"

Two faces of stone. "We'd rather not, sir."

Myron shrugged. "Let's go then."

Myron sat in the back of the squad car. The two uniforms sat in the front. They drove at a pretty good clip but kept their siren off, Myron's cell phone rang.

"Do you guys mind if I take a call?"

Taller said, "Of course not, sir."

"Polite of you." Myron hit the on switch. "Hello."

"Are you alone?" It was Linda Coldren.

"Nope."

"Don't tell anyone I'm calling. Can you please get here as soon as possible? It's urgent."

"What do you mean you can't deliver it until Thursday?"

Mr. Throw Them Off Track.

"I can't talk right now either. Just get here as soon as you can. And don't say anything until you do. Please.

Trust me on this."

She hung up.

"Fine, but then I better get free bagels. You hear me?"

Myron tumed off the cell phone. He looked out the window. The route the cops were taking was overly familiar.

Myron had taken the same one to Merion. When they reached the club entranceway on Ardmore Avenue, Myron saw a plethora of media vans and cop cars.

"Dang," the taller cop said.

"You knew it wouldn't stay quiet for long," Shorter added.

"Too big a story," Taller agreed.

"You fellas want to clue me in?"

The shorter cop twisted his head toward Myron. "No, sir." He turned back around.

"Okeydokey," Myron said. But he didn't have a good feeling about this.

The squad car drove steadily through the press gauntlet.

Reporters pushed against the windows, peering in.

Flashes popped in Myron's face. A policeman waved them through. The reporters slowly peeled off the car like dandruff flakes. They parked in the club lot. There were at least a dozen other police cars, both marked and unmarked, nearby.

"Please come along," Taller said.

Myron did so. They walked across the eighteenth fairway.

Lots of uniformed officers were walking with their heads down, picking up pieces of lord-knows-what and putting them in evidence bags.

This was definitely not good.

When they reached the top of the hill, Myron could see dozens of officers making a perfect circle in the famed stone quarry. Some were taking photos. Crime scene photos. Others were bent down. When one stood up, Myron saw him.

He felt his knees buckle. "Oh no . . ."

In the middle of the quarry sprawled in the famed hazard that had cost him the tournament twenty-three years ago lay the still, lifeless body of Jack Coldren.

The uniforms watched him, gauging his reaction. Myron showed them nothing. "What happened?" he managed.

"Please wait here, sir."

The taller cop walked down the hill; the shorter stayed with Myron. Taller spoke brieily to a man in plainclothes Myron suspected was Detective Corbett. Corbett glanced up at Myron as the man spoke. He nodded to the shorter cop.

"Please follow me, sir."

Still dazed, Myron trudged down the hill into the stone quarry. He kept his eye on the corpse. Coagulated blood coated Jack's head like one of those spray-on toupees.

The body was twisted into a position it was never supposed to achieve. Oh, Christ. Poor, sad bastard.

The plainclothes detective greeted him with an enthusiastic handshake. "Mr. Bolitar, thank you so much for coming. I'm Detective Corbett."

Myron nodded numbly. "What happened?"

"A groundskeeper found him this morning at six."

"Was he shot?"

Corbett smiled crookedly. He was around Myron's age and petite for a cop. Not just short. Plenty of cops were on the short side. But this guy was small-boned to the point of being almost sickly. Corbett covered up the small physique with a trench coat. Not a great summer look. Too many episodes of Columbo, Myron guessed.

"I don't want to be rude or anything," Corbett said, "but do you mind if I ask the questions?"

Myron glanced at the still body. He felt light-headed.

Jack dead. Why? How did it happen? And why had the police decided to question him? "Where is Mrs. Coldren?"

Myron asked. +

Corbett glanced at the two officers, then at Myron.

"Why would you want to know that?"

"I want to make sure she's safe."

"Well then," Corbett began, folding his arms under his chest, "if that's the case, you should have asked, 'How is Mrs. Coldren?' or 'ls Mrs. Coldren all right'?'

not 'Where is Mrs. Coldren'?' I mean, if you're really interested in how she is." +

Myron looked at Corbett for several seconds. "God YouAreGood."

"No reason for sarcasm, Mr. Bolitar. You just seem very concerned about her."

"I am."

"You a friend?"

"Yes."

"A close iriend?"

"Pardon me'?"

"Again, I don't want to appear rude or anything,"

Corbett said, spreading his hands, "but have you been you know porking her?"

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Is that a yes?"

Calm down, Myron. Corbett was trying to keep him off balance. Myron knew the game. Dumb to let it get to him. "The answer is no. We've had no sexual contact whatsoever." .

"Really? That's odd."

He wanted Myron to bite with a "What's odd?" Myron did not oblige him.

"You see, a couple of witnesses saw you two together several times over the past few days. At a tent in Corporate Row, mostly. You sat alone for several hours. Very snuggly. Are you sure you weren't playing a little kissyface?"

Myron said, "No."

"No, you weren't playing a little kissy-face, or no ' '

"No, we weren't playing kissy-face or anything like that."

"Uh-huh, I see." Corbett feigned chewing over this little tidbit. "Where were you last night, Mr. Bolitar?"

"Am I a suspect, Detective?"

"We're just chatting amicably, Mr. Bolitar. That's all."

"Do you have an estimated time of death?" Myron asked.

Corbett offered up another cop-polite smile. "Once again, far be it from me to be obtuse or rude, but I would rather concentrate on you right now." His voice gathered a little more muster. "Where were you last night?"

Myron remembered Linda's call on the cell phone.

Undeniably the police had already questioned her. Had she told them about the kidnapping? Probably not. Either way, it was not his place to mention it. He didn't know where things stood. Speaking out of turn could jeopardize Chad's safety. Best to get out of here pronto.

"I'd like to see Mrs. Coldren."

"To make sure she's okay."

"That's sweet, Mr. Bolitar. And very noble. But I'd like you to answer my question."

"I'd like to see Mrs. Coldren first."

Corbett gave him the narrow cop-eyes. "Are you refusing to answer my questions?"

"No. But right now my priority is my potential client's welfare."

"Client?"

"Mrs. Coldren and I have been discussing the possibility of her signing on with MB SportsReps."

"I see," Corbett said, rubbing his chin. "So that explains your sitting together in the tent."

"I'll answer your questions later, Detective. Right now I'd like to check up on Mrs. Coldren."

"She's fine, Mr. Bolitar." .

"I'd like to see for myself"

"You don't trust me?"

"It's not that. But if I am going to be her agent, then I

must be at her disposal first and foremost."

Corbett shook his head and raised his eyebrows.

"That's some crock of shit you're peddling, Bolitar."

"May I go now?"

Corbett gave the big hand spread again. "You're not under arrest. In fact" he turned to the two officers "please escort Mr. Bolitar to the Coldren residence.

Make sure nobody bothers him on the way."

Myron smiled. "Thank you, Detective."

"Think nothing of it." As Myron began to walk away, Corbett called out, "Oh, one more thing." The man had definitely watched too much Columbo. "That call you got in the squad car just now. Was that from Mrs. Coldren'?"

Myron said nothing.

"No matter. We can check the phone records." He gave the Columbo wave. "Have a special day."

Chapter
26

There were four more cop cars outside the Coldren house. Myron walked to the door on his own and knocked. A black woman Myron did not recognize opened it.

Her eyes flicked at the top of his head. "Nice hat,"

she said without inflection. "Come on in."

The woman was about fifty years old and wore a nicely tailored suit. Her coffee skin looked leathery and worn. Her face was kind of sleepy, her eyes half-closed, her expression perpetually bored. "I'm Victoria Wilson,"

she said.

"Myron Bolitar."

"Yes, I know." Bored voice too.

"Is anybody else here?"

"Just Linda."

"Can I see her?"

Victoria Wilson nodded slowly; Myron half expected her to stifle a yawn. "Maybe we should talk first."

"Are you with the police?" Myron asked.

"The opposite," she said. "I'm Mrs. Coldren's attorney."

"That was fast."

"Let me put this plainly," she ho-hummed, sounding like a diner waitress reading off the specials in the last hour of a double shift. "The police believe that Mrs. Coldren killed her husband. They also think that you're involved in some way." .

Myron looked at her. "You're kidding, right?"

The same sleepy expression. "Do I look like a prankster, Mr. Bolitar?"

Rhetorical question.

"Linda does not have a solid alibi for late last night,"

she went on, still with the Hat tone. "Do you?"

"Not really."