Three Harlan Coben Novels by Harlan Coben Page B

The man had the craziest reputation Loren had ever seen. But again, that did not seem relevant to the case at hand.
    The point here was, Bolitar was probably staying at Lockwood’s apartment in Manhattan. He kept his car in a nearby lot. According to the night attendant, Bolitar had taken the car out sometime around 2:30 A . M .
    They had no proof yet, but Loren was fairly sure Bolitar had gone to midtown and picked up Aimee Biel. They were working on getting surveillance videos from the nearby businesses. Maybe Bolitar’s car would be on one. But for now, it seemed like a fairly likely conclusion.
    More from the time line:
3:11 A.M.: There was a credit card charge on Bolitar’s Visa account from an Exxon gas station on Route 4 in Fort Lee, New Jersey, right off the George Washington Bridge.
3:55 A.M.: the E-ZPass on Bolitar’s car showed himheading south on the Garden State Parkway, crossing the Bergen County tolls.
4:08 A.M.: the E-ZPass hit the Essex County tolls, showing that Bolitar was still traveling south.
    That was it on the tolls. He could have gotten off at Exit 145, which would lead him to his residence in Livingston. Loren drew the route out. It made no sense. You wouldn’t go up over the George Washington Bridge and then down the parkway. And even if you did, it wouldn’t take forty minutes to get to the Bergen toll. It would take at most, that time of night, twenty minutes.
    So where had Bolitar gone?
    She went back to her time line. There was a gap of more than three hours, but at 7:18 A . M ., Myron Bolitar placed a call to Aimee Biel’s cell phone. No answer. He tries twice more that morning. No answer. Yesterday he called the Biels’ home number. That was the only call that lasted more than a few seconds. Loren wondered if he talked to the parents.
    She picked up her phone and dialed Lance Banner.
    “What’s up?” he asked.
    “Did you tell Aimee’s parents about Bolitar?”
    “Not yet.”
    “I think,” Loren said, “that now might be the time.”
    Myron had a new morning routine. The first thing he did was grab the newspaper and check for war casualties. He looked at the names. All of them. He made sure that Jeremy Downing wasn’t listed. Then he went back and took the time to read every name again slowly. He read the rank and hometown and age. That was all they put. But Myron imagined that every dead kid listed was another Jeremy, was like that terrific nineteen-year-old kid who lives down your street, because, simple as it sounded, they were. For just a few minutes Myron imagined what that death meant, that this young, hopeful, dream-filled life was gone forever, what the parents must be thinking.
    He hoped that our leaders did something similar. But he doubted it.
    Myron’s cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It read SWEET CHEEKS . That was Win’s unlisted number. Myron clicked it on and said hello.
    Without preamble, Win said, “Your flight arrives at one p.m.”
    “You work for the airlines now?”
    “Work for the airlines,” Win repeated. “Good one.”
    “So what’s up?”
    “Work for the airlines,” Win said again. “Wait, just let me savor that line for a moment. Work for the airlines. Hilarious.”
    “You done?”
    “Hold on, let me get a pen so I can write that one down. Work. For. The. Airlines.”
    Win.
    “You done now?”
    “Let me try again: Your flight arrives at one p.m. I will meet you at the airport. I have two tickets to the Knicks game. We will sit courtside, probably next to Paris Hilton or Kevin Bacon. Personally, I’m pulling for Kevin.”
    “You don’t like the Knicks,” Myron said.
    “True.”
    “In fact, you don’t like going to basketball games. So why . . . ?” Myron saw it. “Damn.”
    Silence.
    “Since when do you read the Styles Section, Win?”
    “One o’clock. Newark Airport. See you then.”
    Click.
    Myron hung up the phone and couldn’t help but smile. That Win. What a guy.
    He headed into the kitchen. His father was