One False Move - By Harlan Coben Page 0,48

the past three years, the bedside clock blinked 12:00 A.M. Myron checked his watch. Almost seven in the morning.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

It took Myron a moment to place the voice. Officer Francine Neagly, his old high school buddy.

"Home," he croaked.

"Remember the Halloween scare?"

"Yeah."

"Meet me there in a half hour," she said.

"Did you get the file?"

Click.

Myron hung up the phone. He took a few deep breaths. Great. Now what?

Through the vents he heard the muffled voices again. They were coming from the kitchen. Years down here had given him the ability to tell by the echo in what room of the house a certain sound originated - not unlike the Indian brave in an old western who puts his ear to the ground to calculate the distance of incoming hoofbeats.

Myron swung his legs out of the bed. He massaged his face with his palms. He threw on a velour bathrobe circa 1978, gave the teeth a quick brush, the hair a quick pat, and headed to the kitchen.

Brenda and Mom sipped coffee at the kitchen table. Instant coffee, Myron knew. Muy watery. Mom wasn't big on better coffees. The wondrous smell of fresh bagels, however, jump-started his stomach. A bowlful of them along with an assortment of spreads and several newspapers adorned the tabletop. A typical Sunday morning at the Bolitar homestead.

"Good morning," Mom said.

"Morning."

"Want a cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks." New Starbucks in Livingston. He'd check it out on the way to Francine.

Myron looked at Brenda. She looked back steadily. No embarrassment. He was glad.

"Good morning," he said to her. Sparkling morning-after repartee was Myron's forte.

She nodded a good morning back.

"There are bagels," Mom said, in case both his eyes and olfactory nerves had shorted out. "Your father picked them up this morning. From Livingston Bagels, Myron. Remember? The one on Northfield Avenue? Near Two Gondoliers Pizzeria?"

Myron nodded. His dad had bought bagels from the same store for thirty years, yet his mother still felt a constant need to entice him with this tidbit. He joined them at the table.

Mom folded her hands in front of her. "Brenda was filling me in on her situation," she said. Her voice was different now, more lawyerly, less maternal. She pushed a newspaper in front of Myron. The murder of Horace Slaughter had made page one, left-hand column, the spot usually reserved for whatever teen had thrown her newborn out with the morning trash.

"I'd represent her myself," Mom continued, "but with your involvement, it might look like a conflict of interest. I was thinking of Aunt Clara."

Clara was not really his aunt, just an old friend of the family and, like Mom, an awesome attorney.

"Good idea," Myron said.

He picked up the paper and scanned the article. Nothing surprising. The article mentioned the fact that Brenda had recently gotten a restraining order against her father, that she had accused him of assaulting her, and that she was wanted for further questioning but could not be reached. Detective Maureen McLaughlin gave the standard spiel about its being "too early to rule anybody in or out". Right. The police were controlling the story, leaking just enough to incriminate and put pressure on one person: Brenda Slaughter.

There was a photograph of Horace and Brenda. She was wearing her college basketball uniform, and he had his arm around her. Both were smiling, but the smiles looked more of the "say cheese" variety than anything approaching genuine joy. The caption read something about the father and daughter during "a happier time". Media melodrama.

Myron turned to page A-9. There was a smaller photograph of Brenda and then, more interestingly, a photograph of Horace Slaughter's nephew, Terence Edwards, candidate for state senate. According to the caption, the photograph had been taken at "a recent campaign stop." Hmm. Terence Edwards looked pretty much as he had in the photographs at his mother's house. With one important difference: in this picture Terence was standing next to Arthur Bradford.

Hello.

Myron showed Brenda the photograph. She looked at it a moment. "Arthur Bradford seems to pop up frequently," she said.

"Yes."

"But how does Terence fit into this? He was a kid when my mother ran off."

Myron shrugged. He checked the kitchen clock. Time to meet Francine. "I have to run a quick errand," he said vaguely. "I shouldn't be long."

"An errand?" Mom frowned. "What kind of errand?"

"I'll be back soon."

Mom magnified the frown, getting her eyebrows into the act. "But you don't even live here anymore, Myron," she went on. "And it's only seven in the morning."