One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel by Harlan Coben Read Free Book Online

was shaking his head.
    “Is her old man still her manager?” Frank asked.
    “I don’t know, Frank. Why don’t you ask her?”
    “You were with her yesterday,” Frank said.
    “So?”
    “So what were you two doing?”
    Myron stretched out his legs, crossing the ankles. “Tell me something, Frank. What’s your interest in all this?”
    Frank’s eyes widened. He looked at Roy, then at FJ; then he pointed a meaty finger at Myron. “Pardon my fucking French,” he said, “but do I look like I’m here to answer your fucking questions?”
    “The whole new you,” Myron said. “Friendly, changed.”
    FJ leaned forward and looked in Myron’s eyes. Myron looked back. There was nothing there. If the eyes were indeed the window to the soul, these read NO VACANCY. “Mr. Bolitar?” FJ’s voice was soft and willowy.
    “Yes?”
    “Fuck you.”
    He whispered the words with the strangest smile on his face. He did not lean back after he said it. Myron felt something cold scramble up his back, but he did not look away.
    The phone on the desk buzzed. Frank hit a button. “Yeah?”
    “Mr. Bolitar’s associate on the line,” a female voice said. “He wanted to speak with you.”
    “With me?” Frank said.
    “Yes, Mr. Ache.”
    Frank looked confused. He shrugged his shoulders and hit a button.
    “Yeah,” he said.
    “Hello, Francis.”
    The room became still as a photograph.
    Frank cleared his throat. “Hello, Win.”
    “I trust that I am not interrupting,” Win said.
    Silence.
    “How is your brother, Francis?”
    “He’s good, Win.”
    “I must give Herman a call. We haven’t hit the links together in ages.”
    “Yeah,” Frank said, “I’ll tell him you asked for him.”
    “Fine, Francis, fine. Well, I must be going. Please give my best to Roy and your charming son. How rude of me not to have said hello earlier.”
    Silence.
    “Hey, Win?”
    “Yes, Francis.”
    “I don’t like this cryptic shit, you hear?”
    “I hear everything, Francis.”
    Click.
    Frank Ache gave Myron a hard glare. “Get out.”
    “Why are you so interested in Brenda Slaughter?”
    Frank lifted himself out of the chair. “Win’s scary,” he said. “But he ain’t bulletproof. Say one more word, and I’ll tie you to a chair and set your dick on fire.”
    Myron did not bother with good-byes.
    Myron took the elevator down. Win—real name Windsor Home Lockwood III—stood in the lobby. He was dressed this morning in Late American Prep. Blue blazer, light khakis, white button-down Oxford shirt, loud Lilly Pulitzer tie, the kind with more colors than a gallery at a golf course. His blond hair was parted by the gods, his jaw jutting in that way of his, his cheekbones high and pretty and porcelain, his eyes the blue of ice. To look at Win’s face, Myron knew, was to hate him, was to think elitism, class-consciousness, snobbery, anti-Semitism, racism, old-world money earned from the sweat of other men’s brows, all that. People who judged Windsor Home Lockwood III solely byappearance were always mistaken. Often dangerously so.
    Win did not glance in Myron’s direction. He looked out as though posing for a park statue. “I was just thinking,” Win said.
    “What?”
    “If you clone yourself, and then have sex with yourself, is it incest or masturbation?”
    Win.
    “Good to see you’re not wasting your time,” Myron said.
    Win looked at him. “If we were still at Duke,” he said, “we’d probably discuss the dilemma for hours.”
    “That’s because we’d be drunk.”
    Win nodded. “There’s that.”
    They both switched off their cellular phones and started heading down Fifth Avenue. It was a relatively new trick that Myron and Win used with great effect. As soon as the Hormonal He-Men pulled up, Myron had switched on the phone and hit the programmed button for Win’s cellular. Win had thus heard every word. That was why Myron had commented out loud on where they were heading. That was how Win knew exactly where he