Home by Harlan Coben Page B

no idea who stabbed a twenty-six-year-old man with a long rap sheet of trouble named Scott Taylor in the throat, killing him. No, he didn’t know anything about three men killed near King’s Crossstation days before. He was, after all, in New York City at that time.
    No sign of Fat Gandhi. No sign of Rhys.
    There was only so long the cops could hold him. They had no evidence of any serious wrongdoing. Someone (Win) had sent a young lawyer named Mark Wells to represent Myron. Wells helped.
    So they reluctantly cut Myron loose. Now it was noon and he was back at the Crown pub cooling his heels on the same stool. Win came in and took the stool next to him. The barman dropped down two ales.
    “Mr. Lockwood,” he said. “It’s been months. Wonderful to see you again.”
    “And you too, Nigel.”
    Myron looked at the barman, then at Win, then arched an eyebrow to indicate a question.
    “I just flew in from the United States today when I heard the news,” Win said.
    The barman stared at Myron. Myron stared at the barman, then at Win, and then said, “Ah.”
    The barman moved away.
    “Won’t customs have you entering the country before today?”
    Win smiled.
    “Of course not,” Myron said. “By the way, thanks for sending that lawyer, Wells.”
    “Solicitor.”
    “What?”
    “In Great Britain, you call him a solicitor. In America, you call him a lawyer.”
    “In Great Britain, I call you anal. In the United States, I call you an assh—”
    “Yes, quite, I see your point. Speaking of solicitors, mine is currently with the police. He will explain that it was indeed I who retained your services and that you, as my other solicitor, were protecting my interests.”
    Myron said, “I did tell them attorney-client privilege.”
    “So I will back that up. We will also turn over the anonymous email sent to me that started this. Perhaps Scotland Yard will have better luck tracking down the sender than I did.”
    “You think?”
    “No chance. I was feigning modesty.”
    “It doesn’t wear well on you,” Myron said. “So how did you do it?”
    “I told you that we cased the arcade. But not just inside.”
    Myron nodded. “So you figured out where that safe room was.”
    “Yes. Then we hooked up a Fox MJ listening device. If you press it to any wall, you can hear everything. We waited until you called out the safe word.”
    “And then?”
    “It was an RPG-29.”
    “Very subtle.”
    “My forte.”
    “Thank you,” Myron said.
    Win pretended not to hear.
    “So how’s Patrick?” Myron asked. “The cops wouldn’t tell me anything. I saw in the papers that his parents flew over, but no one will even confirm if it’s him.”
    “Wait.”
    “What?”
    “We will soon get some additional information on all that from a better source.”
    “Who?”
    Win shook him off. “You may be wondering why the police didn’t question you more about the throat stabbing.”
    “Not really,” Myron said.
    “No?”
    “In the confusion, no one saw it. I figured that you probably took the knife with you, so they had nothing to tie me to it.”
    “Not exactly. For one thing, the police have confiscated your clothing.”
    “I liked those pants.”
    “Yes, they were very slimming. But they’ll test the blood on them. It will be a match with the victim’s, of course.”
    Myron finally gave in and took a sip. “Will that be a problem?”
    “I don’t think so. Do you remember your black friend with the machete?”
    “Black friend?”
    “Oh yes, let’s be politically correct right this very moment. Is he Anglo-African? I must consult the handbook.”
    “My bad. What about him?”
    “His name is Lester Connor.”
    “Okay.”
    “When the police arrived on the scene, Lester was unconscious and—surprise, surprise—had the bloody knife in his hand. Naturally he said the knife had been planted.”
    “Naturally.”
    “But you could say that you saw Lester stab Scott Taylor in the throat.”
    “I could