Back Spin by Harlan Coben

  "It'll take a few days," Victoria said, "and it'll probably be negative."

  "You had her scrub her hands?"

  "And treat them, yes."

  "Then you think she did it."

  Her tone remained unruffled. "Please don't say that."

  She was right. But it was starting to look bad. "Is there more?" he asked.

  "The police found your tape machine still hooked up to the phone. They were obviously curious as to why the Coldrens found it necessary to tape all incoming calls."

  "Did they find any tapes of the conversations with the kidnapper?"

  "Just the one where the kidnapper refers to the Fong woman as a "chink bitch" and demands one hundred grand. And to answer your next two questions, no, we did not elaborate on the kidnapping and yes, they are pissed off."

  Myron pondered that for a moment. Something was not right. "That was the only tape they found?"

  "That's it."

  He frowned. "But if the machine was still hooked up, it should have taped the last call the kidnapper made to Jack. The one that got him to storm out of the house and head to Merion."

  Victoria Wilson looked at him steadily. "The police found no other tapes. Not in the house. Not on Jack's body. Nowhere."

  Again the ice in the veins. The implication was obvious: The most reasonable explanation for there being no tape was that there was no call. Linda Coldren had made it up. The lack of a tape would have been viewed as a major contradiction if she had said anything to the cops. Fortunately for Linda, Victoria Wilson had never let her tell her story in the first place.

  The woman was good.

  "Can you get me a copy of the tape the police found?" he asked.

  Victoria Wilson nodded. "There is still more," she said.

  Myron was almost afraid to hear it.

  "Let's take the severed finger for a moment," she continued as though ordering it as an appetizer. "You found it in Linda's car in a manila envelope."

  Myron nodded.

  "The envelope is the type sold only at Staples--their brand, the number ten size. The writing was done by a red Flair pen, medium-point. Three weeks ago, Linda Coldren visited Staples. According to the receipt found at her house yesterday, she purchased numerous office supplies, including a box of Staples' number ten manila envelopes and a red Flair medium-point pen."

  Myron could not believe what he was hearing.

  "On the positive side, their handwriting analyst could not tell if the writing on the envelope came from Linda."

  But something else was dawning on Myron. Linda had waited around for him at Merion. The two of them had gone to the car together. They had found the finger together. The district attorney would pounce upon that story. Why had she waited for Myron? The answer, the DA would claim, was obvious: She needed a witness. She had planted the finger in her own car--she could certainly do that without drawing suspicion--and she needed a hapless dupe to be with her when she found it.

  Enter Myron Bolitar, the dupe du jour.

  But of course, Victoria Wilson had neatly arranged it so that the DA would never hear that story. Myron was Linda's attorney. He could not tell. No one would ever know.

  Yep, the woman was good--except for one thing.

  "The severed finger," Myron said. "That has to be the kicker, Victoria. Who is going to believe that a mother would cut off her own son's finger?"

  Victoria looked at her watch. "Let's go talk to Linda."

  "No, hold up here. That's the second time you blew this off. What aren't you telling me?"

  She slung her purse over her shoulder. "Come on."

  "Hey, I'm getting a little tired of getting jerked around here."

  Victoria Wilson nodded slowly, but she did not speak or stop walking. Myron followed her into a holding room. Linda Coldren was already there. She was decked out in a bright orange prison jumpsuit. Her hands were still manacled. She looked up at Myron through hollow eyes. There were no hellos or hugs or even pleasantries.

  Without preamble, Victoria said, "Myron wants to know why I don't think the severed finger helps us."

  Linda faced him. There was a sad smile on her face. "I guess that's understandable."

  "What the hell is going on here?" Myron said. "I know you didn't cut off your own son's finger."

  The sad smile remained. "I didn't do it," Linda said. "That part is true."

  "What do you mean, that part?"

  "You said I didn't cut off my son's finger," she continued. "But Chad is not my son."

  36

  Something in Myron's head clicked again.

  "I'm infertile," Linda explained. She said the words with great ease, but the pain in her eyes was so raw and naked that Myron almost flinched. "I have this condition where my ovaries cannot produce eggs. But Jack still wanted a biological child."

  Myron spoke softly. "You hired a surrogate?"

  Linda looked toward Victoria. "Yes," she said. "Though it was not quite so aboveboard."

  "It was all done to the letter of the law," Victoria interjected.

  "You handled it for them?" Myron asked.

  "I did the paperwork, yes. The adoption was completely legal."

  "We wanted to keep it a secret," Linda said. "That's why I took off from the tour so early. I went into seclusion. The birth mother was never even supposed to know who we were."

  Something else in his head went click. "But she found out."

  "Yes."

  Another click. "It's Diane Hoffman, isn't it?"

  Linda was too exhausted to look surprised. "How did you know?"

  "Just an educated guess." Why else would Jack hire Diane Hoffman as his caddie? Why else would she have gotten upset at the way they were handling the kidnapping? "How did she find you?"

  Victoria answered that one. "As I said, it was all done legally. With all the new disclosure laws, it wasn't that hard to do."

  Another click. "That's why you couldn't divorce Jack. He was the biological parent. He'd have the upper hand in a custody battle."

  Linda slumped her shoulders and nodded.

  "Does Chad know about all this?"

  "No," Linda said.

  "At least, not to your knowledge," Myron said. "What?"

  "You don't know for sure. Maybe he found out. Maybe Jack told him. Or Diane. Maybe that's how this whole thing got started."

  Victoria crossed her arms. "I don't see it, Myron. Suppose Chad did find out. How would that have led to his own kidnapping and his father's murder?"

  Myron shook his head. It was a good question. "I don't know yet. I need time to think it through. Do the police know all this?"

  "About the adoption? Yes."

  It was beginning to make sense now. "This gives the DA their motive. They'll say that Jack's suing for divorce worried Linda. That she killed him to keep her son."

  Victoria Wilson nodded. "And the fact that Linda is not the biological mother could play one of two ways: either she loved her son so much that she killed Jack to keep him--or because Chad was not her own flesh and blood, she could indeed be driven to cut off his finger."

  "Either way, finding the finger doesn't help us."

  Victoria nodded. She did not say "I told you so," but she might as well have.

  "Can I say something?" It was Linda. They turned and looked at her.

  "I didn't love Jack anymore. I told you that straight out, Myron. I doubt I would have, if I'd been planning on killing him."

  Myron nodded. Made sense.

  "But I do love my son--my son--more than life itself. The fact that it's more believable that I'd maim him because I'm an adoptive mother rather than a biological one is sick and grotesque in the extreme. I love Chad as much as any mother could love a child."

  She stopped, her chest heaving. "I want you both to know that."

  "We know," Victoria said. Then: "Let's all sit down."

  When they were settled in their seats, Victoria continued to take charge. "I know it's early, but I want to start thinking abo
ut reasonable doubt. Their case will have holes. I'll be sure to exploit them. But I'd like to hear some alternative theories on what happened."

  "In other words," Myron said, "some other suspects."

  Victoria caught something in his tone. "That's exactly what I mean."

  "Well, you already have one ace in the hole, don't you?"

  Victoria nodded coolly. "I do."

  "Tad Crispin, right?"

  This time, Linda did indeed look surprised. Victoria remained unfazed. "Yes, he's a suspect."

  "The kid hired me last night," Myron said. "Talking about him would be a conflict of interest."

  "Then we won't talk about him."

  "I'm not sure that's good enough."

  "Then you'll have to dump him as a client," Victoria said. "Linda hired you first. Your obligation must be to her. If you feel that there is a conflict, then you'll have to call Mr. Crispin and tell him that you cannot represent him."

  Trapped. And she knew it.

  "Let's talk about other suspects," Myron said.

  Victoria nodded. Battle won. "Go ahead."

  "First off, Esme Fong." Myron filled them in on all the reasons that she made a good suspect. Again Victoria looked sleepy; Linda looked semi-homicidal.

  "She seduced my son?" Linda shouted. "The bitch came into my house and seduced my son?"

  "Apparently so."

  "I can't believe it. That's why Chad was at that sleazy motel?"

  "Yup--"

  "Okay," Victoria interrupted. "I like it. This Esme Fong has motive. She has means. She was one of the few people who knew where Chad was."

  "She also has an alibi for the killing," Myron added.

  "But not a great one. There must be other ways in and out of that hotel. She could have worn a disguise. She could have sneaked out when Miguel took a bathroom break. I like her. Who else?"

  "Lloyd Rennart."

  "Who?"

  "Jack's former caddie," Myron explained. "The one who helped throw the Open."

  Victoria frowned. "Why him?"

  "Look at the timing. Jack returns to the site of his greatest failure and suddenly all this happens. It can't be a coincidence. Firing Rennart ruined his life. He became a drunk. He killed his own wife in a car crash."

  "What?" It was Linda.

  "Not long after the Open, Lloyd totaled his car while DWI. His wife was killed."

  Victoria asked, "Did you know her?"

  Linda shook her head. "We never met his family. In fact, I don't think I ever saw Lloyd outside of our home or the golf course."

  Victoria crossed her arms and leaned back. "I still do not see what makes him a viable suspect."

  "Rennart wanted vengeance. He waited twenty-three years to get it."

  Victoria frowned again.

  "I admit that it's a bit of a stretch."

  "A bit? It's ridiculous. Do you know where Lloyd Rennart is now?"

  "That's a little complicated."

  "Oh?"

  "He may have committed suicide."

  Victoria looked at Linda, then at Myron. "Would you please elaborate?"

  "The body was never found," Myron said. "But everyone thinks he jumped off a cliff in Peru."

  Linda groaned. "Oh, no ..."

  "What is it?" Victoria asked.

  "We got a postcard from Peru."

  "Who did?"

  "It was addressed to Jack, but it was unsigned. It arrived last fall or winter."

  Myron's pulse raced. Last fall or winter. About the time Lloyd allegedly jumped. "What did it say?"

  "It only had two words on it," Linda said. " 'Forgive me.' " Silence.

  Victoria broke it. "That doesn't sound like the words of a man out for revenge."

  "No," Myron agreed. He remembered what Esperanza had learned about the money Rennart had used to buy his house and bar. This postcard now confirmed what he had already suspected: Jack had been sabotaged. "But it also means that what happened twenty-three years ago was no accident."

  "So what good does that do us?" Victoria asked.

  "Someone paid Rennart off to throw the U.S. Open. Whoever did that would have motive."

  "To kill Rennart maybe," Victoria countered. "But not Jack."

  Good point. Or was it? Somebody had hated Jack enough twenty-three years ago to destroy his chances of winning the Open. Maybe that hatred had not died. Or maybe Jack had learned the truth and thus had to be quieted. Either way, it was worth looking into.

  "I do not want to go digging into the past," Victoria said. "It could make things very messy."

  "I thought you liked messy. Messy is fertile land for reasonable doubt."

  "Reasonable doubt, I like," she said. "But the unknown, I don't. Look into Esme Fong. Look into the Squires family. Look into whatever. But stay away from the past, Myron. You never know what you might find back there."

  37

  On the car phone: "Mrs. Rennart? This is Myron Bolitar."

  "Yes, Mr. Bolitar."

  "I promised that I'd call you periodically. To keep you updated."

  "Have you learned something new?"

  How to proceed? "Not about your husband. So far, there is no evidence that suggests Lloyd's death was anything other than a suicide."

  "I see."

  Silence.

  "So why are you calling me, Mr. Bolitar?"

  "Have you heard about Jack Coldren's murder?"

  "Of course," Francine Rennart said. "It's on every station." Then: "You don't suspect Lloyd--"

  "No," Myron said quickly. "But according to Jack's wife, Lloyd sent Jack a postcard from Peru. Right before his death."

  "I see," she said again. "What did it say?"

  "It had only two words on it: 'Forgive me.' He didn't sign it."

  There was a brief pause and then she said, "Lloyd is dead, Mr. Bolitar. So is Jack Coldren. Let it lie."

  "I'm not out to damage your husband's reputation. But it is becoming clear that somebody either forced Lloyd to sabotage Jack or paid him to do it."

  "And you want me to help you prove that?"

  "Whoever it was may have murdered Jack and maimed his son. Your husband sent Jack a postcard asking for forgiveness. With all due respect, Mrs. Rennart, don't you think Lloyd would want you to help?"

  More silence.

  "What do you want from me, Mr. Bolitar? I don't know anything about what happened."

  "I realize that. But do you have any old papers of Lloyd's? Did he keep a journal or a diary? Anything that might give us a clue?"

  "He didn't keep a journal or a diary."

  "But there might be something else." Gently, fair Myron. Tread gently. "If Lloyd did receive compensation"--a nice way of saying a bribe--"there may be bank receipts or letters or something."

  "There are boxes in the basement," she said. "Old photos, some papers maybe. I don't think there are any bank statements." Francine Rennart stopped talking for a moment. Myron kept the receiver pushed against his ear. "Lloyd always did have a lot of cash," she said softly. "I never really asked where it came from."

  Myron licked his lips. "Mrs. Rennart, can I look through those boxes?"

  "Tonight," she said. "You can come by tonight."

  Esperanza was not back at the cottage yet. But Myron had barely sat down when the intercom buzzed.

  "Yes?"

  The guard manning the front gate spoke with perfect diction. "Sir, a gentleman and a young lady are here to see you. They claim that they are not with the media."

  "Did they give a name?"

  "The gentleman said his name is Carl."

  "Let them in."

  Myron stepped outside and watched the canary-yellow Audi climb the drive. Carl pulled to a stop and got out. His flat hair looked freshly pressed, like he'd just gotten it "martinized," whatever that was. A young black woman who couldn't have been twenty years old came out of the passenger door. She looked around with eyes the size of satellite dishes.

  Carl turned to the stables and cupped his big hand ov
er his eyes. A female rider decked out in full gear was steering a horse through some sort of obstacle course.

  "That what they call steeplechasing?" Carl asked.

  "Got me," Myron said.

  Carl continued to watch. The rider got off the horse. She unstrapped her black hat and patted the horse. Carl said, "You don't see a lot of brothers dressed like that."

  "What about lawn jockeys?"

  Carl laughed. "Not bad," he said. "Not great, but not bad."

  Hard to argue. "You here to take riding lessons?"

  "Not likely," Carl said. "This is Kiana. I think she may be of help to us."

  "Us?"

  "You and me together, bro." Carl smiled. "I get to play your likable black partner."

  Myron shook his head. "No."

  "Excuse me?"

  "The likable black partner always ends up dead. Usually early on, too."

  That stopped Carl a second. "Damn, I forgot about that."

  Myron shrugged a what-can-you-do. "So who is she?"

  "Kiana works as a maid at the Court Manor Inn."

  Myron looked at her. She was still out of earshot. "How old is she?"

  "Why?"

  Myron shrugged. "Just asking. She looks young."

  "She's sixteen. And guess what, Myron? She's not an unwed mother, she's not on welfare, and she's not a junkie."

  "I never said she was."

  "Uh-huh. Guess none of that racist shit ever seeps into your color-blind cranium."

  "Hey Carl, do me a favor. Save the racial-sensitivity seminar for a less active day. What does she know?"

  Carl beckoned her forward with a tight nod. Kiana approached, all long limbs and big eyes. "I showed her this photo"--he handed Myron a snapshot of Jack Coldren--"and she remembered seeing him at the Court Manor."

  Myron glanced at the photograph, and then at Kiana. "You saw this man at the motel?"

  "Yes." Her voice was firm and strong and belied her years. Sixteen. She was the same age as Chad. Hard to imagine.

  "Do you remember when?"

  "Last week. I saw him there twice." Twice?

  "Yes."

  "Would that have been Thursday or Friday?"

  "No." Kiana kept up with the poise. No ringing hands or happy feet or darting eyes. "It was Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest."

  Myron tried to process this tidbit. Jack had been at the Court Manor twice before his son. Why? The reason was fairly obvious: If the marriage was dead for Linda, it was probably dead for Jack. He, too, would be engaging in extramarital liaisons. Maybe that was what Matthew Squires witnessed. Maybe Jack had pulled in for his own affair and spotted his son's car. It kinda made sense....