Free The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle by Harlan Coben Page B

mold—split-levels on three-quarters of an acre. Sometimes the house was backward, the kitchen on the right instead of the left. Most had aluminum siding. The street reeked of middle class.
    Myron knocked. The thin man opened the door.
    “Jerry?”
    Slim’s face registered confusion. Up close he was better looking, his face more brooding than freakish. Give him a cigarette and a black turtleneck, and he could be reading poetry in a village café. “May I help you?”
    “Jerry, I’m—”
    “You must have the wrong house. My name isn’t Jerry.”
    “You look like Jerry.”
    Something dark crossed his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, closing the door. “I really don’t have time right now.”
    “Sure about that, Jer?”
    “I already told you—”
    “Do you know Kathy Culver?”
    It was a sneak attack. And it drew blood. “Wha—what’s this all about?” he snapped.
    “I think you know.”
    “Who are you?”
    “My name is Myron Bolitar.”
    “Am I supposed to know you?”
    “Well, if you’re a big basketball fan … actually, no. But I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    “I have nothing to say.”
    Ace of spades time. Myron pulled out the magazine. “Sure about that, Jerry?”
    The whites of Slim’s eyes grew tenfold, looking like Wedgwood china on the elongated face. “You have me mixed up with someone else. Good-bye.”
    He slammed the door.
    Myron shrugged, headed back to the car.
    “Well?” Jessica asked.
    “We shook him,” Myron said. “Let’s see what falls out.”
        The neighborhood newsstand.
    Win remembered a time when the phrase conjured up nostalgia and Rockwellian images of real America. No more. Any street, any corner, any hickville town was the same. Candy, newspapers, greeting cards—and porno mags. Kids could pick up a Snickers bar and get an eyeful, all in one. Porno had become a staple of American life. Hardcore porn. The kind of porn that made
Penthouse
look like
Highlights
magazine.
    Win approached the man behind the lottery ticket dispenser. “Pardon me,” Win said.
    “Yeah?”
    “Would you be able to tell me if you have the most recent issues of
Climaxx, Jiz, Orgasm Today, Licks, Quim
, and
Nips
?”
    An elderly woman gasped and gave him an icy stare. Win smiled at her. “Let me guess,” he said. “Playmate of the Month, June 1926?”
    She made a harumph noise and turned away.
    “Check over there,” the man said. “Between the comic books and Disney videos.”
    “Thank you.”
    Win found three of them—
Climaxx, Orgasm Today
, and
Quim
. He tried three other newsstands and was able to pick up
Lick
, but there was no sign of
Jiz
or
Nips.
He finally found copies of them at a hardcore shop on Forty-second Street called King David’s Smut Palace. They had a big sign out front that said OPEN 24 HOURS . How very convenient. Win considered himself fairly worldly,but the items and photographs in the “palace” proved that both his life experiences and his imagination had at best been limited.
    It was almost noon when he exited the palace. A productive and quasi-educational morning.
    With a total of six magazines lodged under his arm, Win caught a taxi to midtown. He skimmed through a few in the backseat.
    “So far so good,” he said out loud.
    The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, shrugged, looked back to the road.
    When Win arrived at his office, he spread the magazines across the vast breadth of his desk. He studied them closely, comparing them. Incredible. His suspicion had been sound. It was just as he thought.
    Five minutes later, Win put the magazines in his desk drawer. Then he buzzed Esperanza.
    “Kindly send Myron to my office as soon as he comes in.”

Chapter 9
    “I have a confession,” Jessica said.
    They were coming out of the Kinney garage on Fifty-second Street, the smell of fumes and urine dissipating as they hit the relatively fresh air on the sidewalk. They turned down Fifth Avenue. The line for passports stretched