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

she said gently. “You look at that picture and you can’t accept it. You can’t believe a mother would abandon that sweet little child. I know. It’s hard. But she did it.”
    “The note could have been a forgery,” Myron tried. “To throw Horace off the track.”
    She shook her head. “No.”
    “You can’t be sure—”
    “Anita calls me.”
    Myron froze. “What?”
    “Not often. Maybe once every two years. She’d ask about Brenda. I’d beg her to come back. She’d hang up.”
    “Do you have any idea where she was calling from?”
    Mabel shook her head. “In the beginning it sounded like long distance. There’d be static. I always figured she was overseas.”
    “When was the last time she called you?”
    There was
no
hesitation. “Three years ago. I told her about Brenda getting accepted to medical school.”
    “Nothing since?”
    “Not a word.”
    “And you’re sure it was her?” Myron realized that he was reaching.
    “Yes,” she said. “It was Anita.”
    “Did Horace know about the calls?”
    “At first I told him. But it was like ripping at a wound that wasn’t closing anyhow. So I stopped. But I think maybe she called him too.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “He said something about it once when he had too much to drink. When I asked him about it later, he denied it, and I didn’t push him. You have to understand, Myron. We never talked about Anita. But she was always right there. In the room with us. You know what I’m saying?”
    The silence moved in like a cloud covering. Myron waited for it to disperse, but it hung there, thick and heavy.
    “I’m very tired, Myron. Can we talk more about this another time?”
    “Of course.” He rose. “If your brother calls again—”
    “He won’t. He thinks maybe they bugged the phone. I haven’t heard from him in almost a week.”
    “Do you know where he is, Mrs. Edwards?”
    “No. Horace said it’d be safer that way.”
    Myron took a business card and a pen. He jotted down the number of his cellular phone. “I can be reached at this number twenty-four hours a day.”
    She nodded, drained, the simple act of reaching for the card suddenly a chore.

“I wasn’t totally honest with you yesterday.”
    Norm Zuckerman and Myron sat alone in the top row of the stands. Below them the New York Dolphins scrimmaged five-on-five. Myron was impressed. The women moved with finesse and strength. Being something of the semisexist Brenda had described, he had expected their movements to be more awkward, more the old stereotype of “throwing like a girl.”
    “You want to hear something funny?” Norm asked. “I hate sports. Me, owner of Zoom, the sports apparel king, detests anything to do with a ball or a bat or a hoop or any of that. Know why?”
    Myron shook his head.
    “I was always bad at them. A major spaz, as the kids say today. My older brother, Herschel, now he was an athlete.” He looked off. When he started speaking again, his voice was throaty. “So gifted, sweet Heshy.You remind me of him, Myron. I’m not just saying that. I still miss him. Dead at fifteen.”
    Myron did not need to ask how. Norm’s entire family had been slaughtered in Auschwitz. They all went in; only Norm came out. Today was warm, and Norm was wearing short sleeves. Myron could see his concentration camp tattoo and no matter how many times he saw one, he always fell into a respectful hush.
    “This league”—Norm motioned toward the court—“it’s a long shot. I understood that from the start. It’s why I link so much of the league promotion with the clothing. If the WPBA goes down the tubes, well, at least Zoom athletic wear would have gotten a ton of exposure out of it. You understand what I’m saying?”
    “Yes.”
    “And let’s face it: without Brenda Slaughter, the investment is shot. The league, the endorsements, the tie-in with the clothing, the whole thing goes kaput. If you wanted to destroy this enterprise, you would go through