Free One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel by Harlan Coben Page B

products would love you too. Restaurant chains.”
    “Why?” she asked. “Because I’m big?”
    “Because you’re not waiflike,” Myron corrected. “You’re real. Sponsors like real—especially when it comes in an exotic package. They want someone attractive yet accessible—a contradiction, but there you go. And you have it. Cosmetic companies will want to get in on this too. We could also pick up a lot of local deals, but I would advise against it in the beginning. Try to stick with the national markets where we can. It doesn’t pay to go after every dime out there. But that will be up to you. I’ll present them to you. The final decision is always yours.”
    “Okay,” she said. “Give me prong two.”
    “Prong two is what you do with your money after you earn it. You’ve heard of Lock-Horne Securities?”
    “Sure.”
    “All of my clients are required to set up a long-term financial plan with their top man, Windsor Home Lockwood the Third.”
    “Nice name.”
    “Wait till you meet him. But ask around. Win is considered one of the best financial advisers in the country. I insist that every client meet with him quarterly—not by fax or phone but in person—to go over their portfolios. Too many athletes get taken advantage of. That won’t happen here, not because Win or I am watching your money but because you are.”
    “Impressive. Prong three?”
    “Esperanza Diaz. She is my right hand and handles everything else. I mentioned before that I’m not the best with ass kissing. That’s true. But the reality of this business means I have to wear a lot of hats—travel agent, marriage counselor, limo driver, whatever.”
    “And this Esperanza helps out with all that?”
    “She’s crucial.”
    Brenda nodded. “Sounds like you give her the shit detail.”
    “Esperanza just graduated law school, as a matter of fact.” He tried not to sound too defensive, but her words had struck bone. “She takes on more responsibility every day.”
    “Okay, one question.”
    “What?” Myron asked.
    “What aren’t you telling me about your visit to Mabel?”
    Myron said nothing for a moment.
    “It’s about my mother, isn’t it?”
    “Not really. It’s just …” He let his voice drift off before starting up again. “Are you sure you want me to find her, Brenda?”
    She crossed her arms and slowly shook her head. “Cut it out.”
    “What?”
    “I know you think protecting me is sweet and noble. But it’s not. It’s annoying and insulting. So stop it. Now. If your mother ran away when you were five, wouldn’t you want to know what happened?”
    Myron thought about it, nodded. “Point taken. I won’t do it again.”
    “Fine. So what did Mabel say?”
    He recounted his conversation with her aunt. Brenda stayed still. She reacted only when he mentioned the phone calls Mabel and perhaps her father had received from her mother.
    “They never told me,” she said. “I suspected as much, but”—she looked at Myron—“looks like you weren’t the only one who thought I couldn’t handle the truth.”
    They fell into silence and continued the drive. Before making the left off Northfield Avenue, Myron noticed a gray Honda Accord in the rearview mirror. At least it looked like a Honda Accord. All cars pretty much looked the same to Myron, and there was no vehicle more unassuming than a gray Honda Accord. No way to tell for sure, but Myron thought that maybe they were being followed. He slowed down, memorized the license plate. New Jersey plate. 890UB3. When he entered the St. Barnabas Medical Center lot, the car drove on. Didn’t mean anything. If the guy doing the tailing was good, he’d never pull in behind him.
    St. Barnabas was bigger than when he was a kid, but what hospital wasn’t? His dad had taken Myron here several times when he was a kid, for sprains and stitchesand X rays and even one ten-day stint for rheumatic fever when he was twelve.
    “Let me talk to this guy alone,” Myron