No one was outside. The proverbial coast was clear. Myron got in the car, wondering yet again about the Coldrens. What was going on with them right now? Had the kidnapper already called? Had he given them instructions? How did Tito’s death affect what was happening? Had Chad suffered more bloodshed or had he escaped? Maybe he’d gotten hold of the gun and shot someone.
Maybe. But doubtful. More likely, something had gone awry. Someone had lost control. Someone had gone nuts.
He stopped the car. He had to warn the Coldrens.
Yes, Linda Coldren had clearly instructed him to stay away. But that was before he’d found a dead body. How could he sit back now and leave them blind? Someone had chopped off their son’s finger. Someone had murdered one of the kidnappers. A “simple” kidnapping—if there is such a thing—had spun off its axis. Blood had been splattered about freely.
He had to warn them. He had to contact the Coldrens and let them know what he had learned.
But how?
He pulled onto Golf House Road. It was very late now, almost two in the morning. Nobody would be up. Myron flicked off his lights and cruised silently. He glided the car into a spot on the property line between two houses—if by some chance one of the occupants was awake and looked out the window, he or she might believe the car belonged to someone visiting a neighbor. He stepped out and slowly made his way on foot toward the Coldren house.
Keeping out of sight, Myron moved closer. He knew, of course, that there was no chance the Coldrens would be asleep. Jack might give it a token effort; Linda wouldn’t even sit down. But right now, that didn’t much matter.
How was he going to contact them?
He couldn’t call on the phone. He couldn’t walk up and knock on the door. And he couldn’t throw pebbles at the window, like some clumsy suitor in a bad romantic comedy. So where did that leave him?
Lost.
He moved from shrub to shrub. Some of the shrubs were familiar from his last sojourn into these parts. He said hello to them, chatted, offered up his best cocktail-party banter. One shrub gave him a stock tip. Myron ignored it. He circled closer to the Coldren house, slowly, still careful not to be seen. He had no idea what he was going to do, but when he got close enough to see a light on in the den, an idea came to him.
A note.
He would write a note, telling them of his discovery, warning them to be extra careful, offering up his services. How to get the note close to the house? Hmm. He could fold the note into a paper airplane and fly it in. Oh, sure, with Myron’s mechanical skills, that would work. Myron Bolitar, the Jewish Wright Brother. What else? Tie the note to a rock maybe? And then what? Smash a window?
As it happened, he didn’t have to do any of that.
He heard a noise to his right. Footsteps. On the street. At two in the morning.
Myron quickly dove back down behind a shrub. The footsteps were moving closer. Faster. Someone approaching. Running.
He kept down, his heart beating wildly in his chest. The footsteps grew louder and then suddenly stopped. Myron peeked around the side of the shrub. His view was blocked by still more hedges.
He held his breath. And waited.
The footsteps started up again. Slower this time. Unhurried. Casual. Taking a walk now. Myron craned his neck around the other side of the shrub. Nothing. He moved into a crouch now. Slowly he raised himself, inch by inch, his bad knee protesting. He fought through the pain. His eyes reached the top of the shrub. Myron looked out and finally saw who it was.
Linda Coldren.
She was dressed in a blue sweat suit with running sneakers. Out for a jog? Seemed like a very strange time for it. But you never know. Jack drove golf balls. Myron shot baskets. Maybe Linda was into late-night jogging.
He didn’t think so.
She neared the top of the driveway. Myron had to reach her. He clawed a rock out of the dirt and skimmed it toward her. Linda stopped and looked up sharply, like a deer interrupted while drinking. Myron threw another rock. She looked toward the bush. Myron waved a hand. 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 disappeared from sight.
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.”
Maybe. But doubtful. More likely, something had gone awry. Someone had lost control. Someone had gone nuts.
He stopped the car. He had to warn the Coldrens.
Yes, Linda Coldren had clearly instructed him to stay away. But that was before he’d found a dead body. How could he sit back now and leave them blind? Someone had chopped off their son’s finger. Someone had murdered one of the kidnappers. A “simple” kidnapping—if there is such a thing—had spun off its axis. Blood had been splattered about freely.
He had to warn them. He had to contact the Coldrens and let them know what he had learned.
But how?
He pulled onto Golf House Road. It was very late now, almost two in the morning. Nobody would be up. Myron flicked off his lights and cruised silently. He glided the car into a spot on the property line between two houses—if by some chance one of the occupants was awake and looked out the window, he or she might believe the car belonged to someone visiting a neighbor. He stepped out and slowly made his way on foot toward the Coldren house.
Keeping out of sight, Myron moved closer. He knew, of course, that there was no chance the Coldrens would be asleep. Jack might give it a token effort; Linda wouldn’t even sit down. But right now, that didn’t much matter.
How was he going to contact them?
He couldn’t call on the phone. He couldn’t walk up and knock on the door. And he couldn’t throw pebbles at the window, like some clumsy suitor in a bad romantic comedy. So where did that leave him?
Lost.
He moved from shrub to shrub. Some of the shrubs were familiar from his last sojourn into these parts. He said hello to them, chatted, offered up his best cocktail-party banter. One shrub gave him a stock tip. Myron ignored it. He circled closer to the Coldren house, slowly, still careful not to be seen. He had no idea what he was going to do, but when he got close enough to see a light on in the den, an idea came to him.
A note.
He would write a note, telling them of his discovery, warning them to be extra careful, offering up his services. How to get the note close to the house? Hmm. He could fold the note into a paper airplane and fly it in. Oh, sure, with Myron’s mechanical skills, that would work. Myron Bolitar, the Jewish Wright Brother. What else? Tie the note to a rock maybe? And then what? Smash a window?
As it happened, he didn’t have to do any of that.
He heard a noise to his right. Footsteps. On the street. At two in the morning.
Myron quickly dove back down behind a shrub. The footsteps were moving closer. Faster. Someone approaching. Running.
He kept down, his heart beating wildly in his chest. The footsteps grew louder and then suddenly stopped. Myron peeked around the side of the shrub. His view was blocked by still more hedges.
He held his breath. And waited.
The footsteps started up again. Slower this time. Unhurried. Casual. Taking a walk now. Myron craned his neck around the other side of the shrub. Nothing. He moved into a crouch now. Slowly he raised himself, inch by inch, his bad knee protesting. He fought through the pain. His eyes reached the top of the shrub. Myron looked out and finally saw who it was.
Linda Coldren.
She was dressed in a blue sweat suit with running sneakers. Out for a jog? Seemed like a very strange time for it. But you never know. Jack drove golf balls. Myron shot baskets. Maybe Linda was into late-night jogging.
He didn’t think so.
She neared the top of the driveway. Myron had to reach her. He clawed a rock out of the dirt and skimmed it toward her. Linda stopped and looked up sharply, like a deer interrupted while drinking. Myron threw another rock. She looked toward the bush. Myron waved a hand. 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 disappeared from sight.
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.”
