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

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    “Dad wasn’t great with laundry,” Brenda said.
    Or with throwing away garbage, from the looks of things. The entire locker resembled a condensed frat house. There were dirty clothes and empty cans of beer and old newspapers and even a pizza box. Brenda brought over the carton, and they began to load stuff in. Myron started with a pair of uniform pants. He wondered if Horace owned them or if they belonged to the hospital, and then he wondered why he was wondering about something so irrelevant. He searched through the pockets and pulled out a crumpled ball of paper.
    Myron smoothed it out. An envelope. He plucked out a sheet of paper and began to read.
    “What is it?” Brenda asked.
    “A letter from an attorney,” Myron said.
    He handed it to her:
    Dear Mr. Slaughter:
    We are in receipt of your letters and are aware of your constant communications with this office. As explained to you in person, the matter you are asking about is confidential. We ask you to kindly stop contacting us. Your behavior is fast approaching harassment.
    Sincerely,
Thomas Kincaid
    “Do you know what he’s talking about?” Myron asked.
    She hesitated. “No,” she said slowly. “But thatname—Thomas Kincaid—it rings a bell. I just can’t place it.”
    “Maybe he did work for your dad before.”
    Brenda shook her head. “I don’t think so. I can’t remember my father ever hiring a lawyer. And if he had, I doubt he would have gone to Morristown.”
    Myron took out his cellular phone and dialed the office. Big Cyndi answered and transferred the call to Esperanza.
    “What?” Esperanza said. Always with the pleasantries.
    “Did Lisa fax over Horace Slaughter’s phone bill?”
    “It’s right in front of me,” Esperanza said. “I was just working on it.”
    Scary as it might sound, getting a list of someone’s long-distance calls had always been fairly easy. Almost every private investigator has a source at the phone company. All it takes is a little grease.
    Myron signaled that he wanted the letter back. Brenda handed it to him. Then she knelt and extracted a plastic bag from the back of the locker. Myron looked at the phone number for Kincaid’s office on the letter.
    “Is five-five-five-one-nine-zero-eight on there?” he asked.
    “Yeah. Eight times. All less than five minutes.”
    “Anything else?”
    “I’m still tracking down all the numbers.”
    “Anything stick out?”
    “Maybe,” Esperanza said. “For some reason he called Arthur Bradford’s gubernatorial headquarters a couple of times.”
    Myron felt a familiar, not unpleasant jolt. The Bradfordname rears its ugly head yet again. Arthur Bradford, one of two prodigal sons, was running for governor in November. “Okay, good. Anything else?”
    “Not yet. And I found nothing—I mean,
nada
—on Anita Slaughter.”
    No surprise there. “Okay, thanks.”
    He hung up.
    “What?” Brenda asked.
    “Your father has been calling this Kincaid guy a lot. He’s also called Arthur Bradford’s campaign headquarters.”
    She looked confused. “So what does that mean?”
    “I don’t know. Was your dad political at all?”
    “No.”
    “Did he know Arthur Bradford or anybody connected with the campaign?”
    “Not that I’m aware of.” Brenda opened the garbage bag and peered inside. Her face went slack. “Oh Christ.”
    Myron dropped down next to her. Brenda spread open the top of the bag so he could see the contents. A referee’s shirt, black and white striped. On the right breast pocket was a patch reading “New Jersey Basketball Referee Association.” On the left breast was a big crimson stain.
    A bloodstain.

“We should call the police,” Myron said.
    “And tell them what?”
    Myron was not sure. The bloody shirt didn’t have a hole in it—there were no rips or tears visible—and the stain was a concentrated fan shape over the left breast. How had it gotten there? Good question. Not wanting to contaminate any possible clues, Myron gave