Free Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) by Harlan Coben

hour—man, I wanted that coveted time period. I couldn’t pass that up, now could I? Even if Miriam was asleep. Career, right? So I called a good friend—Miriam’s godmother actually—and asked if I could drop her off for a few hours. She said no problem. I woke Miriam up, and I stuck her in the back of the car. The clock was ticking and I needed to be in makeup. So I drove too fast. The roads were wet. Still, we were almost there—quarter of a mile away at the most. They say you don’t remember a big accident, especially when you lose consciousness. But I remember it all. I remember seeing the headlights. I spun the wheel to the left. Maybe it would have been better if I had just gone headfirst. Killed me and spared her. But, no, it was side impact. Her side. I even remember her scream. It was short, more like an intake. The last sound she ever made. I was in a coma for two weeks, but because God has a sick sense of humor, he let me live. Miriam died on impact.”
    Nothing.
    I was afraid to move now. The room was still, as though even the walls and furniture were holding their breath. I didn’t mean to, but I took a step toward her. I wonder if that’s part of comforting—that it’s often selfish, that the comforter often needs as much, if not more, than the comfortee.
    “Don’t,” she said.
    I stopped.
    “Please leave me alone,” she said. “Just for a little while, okay?”
    I nodded but she wasn’t looking at me. “Sure,” I said, “whatever you need.”
    She didn’t respond, but then again she had made her wishes pretty clear. So I moved to the door and let myself out.

9

     
     
     
    I walked back out onto the Rue Dauphine, numb.
    I turned left and found a spot where five streets met and sat at yet another outdoor café called Le Buci. Normally I liked to people-watch, but it was hard to concentrate. I thought about Terese’s life. I got it now. Rebuild your life so it looks like . . . what exactly?
    I took out my cell, and because I knew it would distract me, I called my office. Big Cyndi picked it up on the second ring.
    “MB Reps.”
    The M stands for Myron. The B stands for Bolitar. The Reps is because we represent people. I came up with this name on my own and yet I managed to remain modest about my marketing skills. When we repped athletes only, I called the agency MB SportsReps. Now it is MB Reps. I will pause until the applause dies down.
    “Hmm,” I said. “Modern Madonna, complete with that British accent?”
    “Bingo.”
    Big Cyndi could vocally impersonate nearly anyone or any accent. I say “vocally” because when a woman is north of six five and three hundred pounds, it is hard to get away with your killer Goldie Hawn impression in person.
    “Esperanza in?”
    “Please hold.”
    Esperanza Diaz, still best known by her professional wrestling moniker Little Pocahontas, was my business partner. Esperanza picked up the phone and said, “You getting any?”
    “No.”
    “Then you better have a damn good reason for being there. You had meetings lined up for today.”
    “Yeah, sorry about that. Look, I need you to dig up all you can on Rick Collins.”
    “Who is he?”
    “Terese’s ex.”
    “Man, you have the weirdest romantic rendezvous.”
    I told her what had happened. Esperanza went quiet and I knew why. She worries about me. Win is the rock. Esperanza is the heart. When I finished explaining, she said, “So right now Terese isn’t a suspect?”
    “I don’t know for sure.”
    “But it looks like a murder and a kidnapping or something?”
    “I guess.”
    “So I’m not sure why you need to be involved. It isn’t connected to her.”
    “Of course it’s connected.”
    “How?”
    “Rick Collins called her. He said it was urgent and it would change everything and now he’s dead?”
    “So what exactly do you plan on doing here? Hunt down his killer? Let that French cop do it. Either get some—or get home.”
    “Just do a little digging. That’s all. Find out