Live Wire by Harlan Coben

Jaguar?”
    “Don’t be a wise guy.”
    Not long ago, before running off to Angola and under very different circumstances, Terese had made this exact same argument to him. Nature over nurture, she insisted. Her argument was both a comfort and a chill, but in this case, with his father sitting on the deck with him, Myron wasn’t really buying it.
    “Brad wasn’t meant to stay at home or settle down,” his father said. “He was always itching to escape. He was meant to wander. A nomad, like his ancestors, I guess. So your mother and I let him go. When you were kids, you were both amazing athletes. You thrived on competition. Brad didn’t. He hated it. That doesn’t make him less or more, just different. God, I’m tired. Enough. I assume you have a very good reason for trying to find your brother after all these years?”
    “I do.”
    “Good. Because despite what I said, you two falling out has been one of the biggest heartaches of my life. So it would be nice to see you reconcile.”
    Silence. It was broken when Myron’s cell phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID and was surprised to see that the call was coming from Roland Dimonte, the NYPD cop who’d helped out in Three Downing last night. Dimonte was a friend/adversary from way back. “I need to take this,” Myron said.
    His father signaled for him to go ahead.
    “Hello?”
    “Bolitar?” Dimonte barked. “I thought he stopped pulling this crap.”
    “Who?”
    “You know who. Where the hell is the psycho Win?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Well, you better find him.”
    “Why, what’s up?”
    “We got a big freaking problem, that’s what. Find him now.”

9
    M yron looked through the metal-meshed window in the emergency room. Roland Dimonte stood to his left. Dimonte reeked of both chewing tobacco and what might have been a rancid bottle of Hai Karate. Despite being born and raised in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen, Dimonte liked to go with the urban cowboy look, sporting right now a tight shiny shirt with snap buttons and boots so garish that he might have stolen them off a San Diego Charger cheerleader. His hair was a reformed mullet by way of a retired hockey player who now did color commentary on a local television station. Myron could feel Dimonte’s eyes on him.
    Lying on his back in the bed, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling, tubes coming out of at least three locations, was Kleavage Kyle, head bouncer from Three Downing.
    “What’s wrong with him?” Myron asked.
    “Lots of stuff,” Dimonte said. “But the main thing is a ruptured kidney. The doctor says it was caused by—and I quote—‘precise and severe abdominal trauma.’ Ironic, don’t you think?”
    “Ironic how?”
    “Well, our friend here will be pissing blood for quite some time. Maybe you remember earlier last evening. That’s exactly what our victim told you would happen to you.” Dimonte crossed his arms for effect.
    “So, what, you think I did this?”
    Dimonte frowned. “Let’s pretend for a brief moment that I’m not a mentally dehydrated numb nut, okay?” He had an empty can of Coke in his hands. He spit tobacco juice into it. “No, I don’t think you did this. We both know who did it.”
    Myron gestured with his chin toward the bed. “What did Kyle say?”
    “He said he was mugged. A bunch of guys broke into the club and jumped him. He never saw their faces, can’t identify them, doesn’t want to press charges anyway.”
    “Maybe that’s true.”
    “And maybe one of my ex-wives will tell me that she no longer wants her alimony check.”
    “What do you want me to say here, Rolly?”
    “I thought you had him under control.”
    “You don’t know it was Win.”
    “We both know it was Win.”
    Myron took a step away from the window. “Let me put it another way. You don’t have any evidence it was Win.”
    “Sure I do. There was a surveillance video for a bank outside the club. Gets the whole area. It shows Win approaching our pectorally