Live Wire by Harlan Coben Page A

gifted friend here. They talk for a few moments and then they both go back into the club.” Dimonte stopped, looked off. “Odd.”
    “What?”
    “Win is usually much more careful. Guess he’s slipping as he gets older.”
    Not likely, Myron thought. “What about the surveillance tapes inside the club?”
    “What about them?”
    “You said Win and Kyle here walked back into the club. So what do the interior tapes show?”
    Dimonte spit into the can again, trying hard to cover up his obvious body language. “We’re still working on it.”
    “Uh, let’s pretend for a brief moment that I’m not a mentally dehydrated numb nut.”
    “They’re gone, okay? Kyle says the guys who jumped him must have taken them.”
    “Sounds logical.”
    “Take a look at him, Bolitar.”
    Myron did. Kyle’s eyes were still on the ceiling. His eyes were wet.
    “When we found him last night, that Taser he nailed you with was lying on the floor next to him. The battery was empty from overuse. He was shaking, nearly catatonic. He’d crapped his pants. For twelve hours he couldn’t form words. I showed him a picture of Win, and he started sobbing to the point where the doctor had to sedate him.”
    Myron looked back at Kyle. He thought about the Taser, thought about the gleam in Kyle’s eyes as he held down the trigger, thought about how close he, Myron, had come to ending up in a bed like that. Then Myron turned and looked at Dimonte. His voice was pure monotone. “Wow. I. Feel. Just. Terrible. For. Him.”
    Dimonte just shook his head.
    Myron said, “Can I go now?”
    “You heading back to your place at the Dakota?”
    “Yes.”
    “We got a man waiting there for Win. When he arrives, I want to have a little chat with him.”
     
     
    “Good evening, Mr. Bolitar.”
    “Good evening, Vladimir,” Myron said as he breezed by the Dakota doorman and passed through the famed wrought-iron gate. There was a cop car sitting out front, sent by Dimonte. When Myron arrived at Win’s apartment, the lights were low.
    Win sat in his leather club chair with a snifter of cognac. Myron was not surprised to see him. Like most old buildings with a storied past, the Dakota held secret underground passageways. There was one Win had shown him that started in the basement of a high-rise near Columbus Avenue, another from a spot a block uptown bordering Central Park. Vladimir, Myron was sure, knew Win was here, but he wouldn’t say anything. The cops didn’t give Vladimir his Christmas bonus.
    Myron said, “And here I thought you went out last night in search of casual sex. Now I found out it was to beat up Kyle.”
    Win smiled. “Who said I couldn’t do both?”
    “It wasn’t necessary.”
    “The sex? Well, it never is, but that never stops a man, does it?”
    “Funny.”
    Win steepled his hands. “Do you think you’re the first guy Kyle dragged to that maroon room—or just the first to escape without a hospital visit?”
    “He’s a bad guy, so what?”
    “He’s a very bad guy. Three assault beefs in the past year—in all cases, witnesses from the club helped clear him.”
    “So you took care of it?”
    “It’s what I do.”
    “Not your job.”
    “But I so enjoy it.”
    No point in getting into this now. “Dimonte wants to talk to you.”
    “As I’m aware. But I don’t want to talk to him. So my attorney will contact him in about half an hour and tell him that unless he has an arrest warrant, we will not be chatting. End of story.”
    “Would it help if I told you that you shouldn’t have done it?”
    “Wait,” Win said, starting his mime act. “Before you start, let me tune up my air violin.”
    “What exactly did you do to him anyway?”
    “Did they find the Taser?” Win asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Where?”
    “What do you mean, where? Next to his body.”
    “ Next to it?” Win said. “Oh. Well. He must have been able to help himself a little bit at least.”
    Silence. Myron reached into the fridge and grabbed a