One False Move - By Harlan Coben Page 0,6

Buchanan."

They both forced out a laugh. Myron tried again. "Tell me about the threats."

Brenda stared out the window. They passed a place that sold hubcaps. Hundreds, if not thousands, of hubcaps gleamed in the sun. Weird business when you thought about it. The only time people need a new hubcap is when one of theirs is stolen. The stolen ones end up in a place like this. A mini fiscal cycle.

"I get calls," she began. "At night mostly. One time they said they were going to hurt me if they didn't find my father. Another time they told me I better keep Dad as my manager or else." She stopped.

"Any idea who they are?"

"No."

"Any idea why someone would want to find your father?"

"No."

"Or why your father would disappear?"

She shook her head.

"Norm said something about a car following you."

"I don't know anything about that," she said.

"The voice on the phone," Myron said. "Is it the same one every time?"

"I don't think so."

"Male, female?"

"Male. And white. Or least, he sounds white."

Myron nodded. "Does Horace gamble?"

"Never. My grandfather gambled. Lost everything he had, which wasn't much. Dad would never go near it."

"Did he borrow money?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Even with financial aid, your schooling had to cost."

"I've been on scholarship since I was twelve."

Myron nodded. Up ahead a man stumbled about the sidewalk. He was wearing Calvin Klein underwear, two different ski boots, and one of those big Russian hats like Dr. Zhivago. Nothing else. No shirt, no pants. His fist gripped the top of a brown paper bag like he was helping it cross the street.

"When did the calls start?" Myron asked.

"A week ago."

"When your dad disappeared?"

Brenda nodded. She had more to say. Myron could see it in the way she stared off. He kept silent and waited her out.

"The first time," she said quietly, "the voice told me to call my mother."

Myron waited for her to say more. When it was apparent she wouldn't, he said, "Did you?"

She smiled sadly. "No."

"Where does your mother live?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen her since I was five years old."

"When you say "haven't seen her"-"

"I mean just that. She abandoned us twenty years ago." Brenda finally turned toward him. "You look surprised."

"I guess I am."

"Why? You know how many of those boys back there had their fathers abandon them? You think a mother can't do the same thing?"

She had a point, but it sounded more like hollow rationalization than true conviction. "So you haven't seen her since you were five?"

"That's right."

"Do you know where she lives? A city or state or anything?"

"No idea." She tried hard to sound indifferent.

"You've had no contact with her?"

"Just a couple of letters."

"Any return address?"

Brenda shook her head. "They were postmarked in New York City. That's all I know."

"Would Horace know where she lives?"

"No. He's never so much as spoken her name in the past twenty years."

"At least not to you."

She nodded.

"Maybe the voice on the phone didn't mean your mother," Myron said. "Do you have a stepmother? Did your father remarry or live with someone-"

"No. Since my mother there has been no one."

Silence.

"So why would someone be asking about your mother after twenty years?" Myron asked.

"I don't know."

"Any ideas?"

"None. For twenty years she's been a ghost to me." She pointed up ahead. "Make a left."

"Do you mind if I get a trace put on your phone? In case they call again?"

She shook her head.

He steered the car per her instructions. "Tell me about your relationship with Horace," he said.

"No."

"I'm not asking to be nosy-"

"It's irrelevant, Myron. If I loved him or hated him, you still need to find him."

"You got a restraining order to keep him away from you, right?"

She said nothing for a moment. Then: "Do you remember how he was on the court?"

Myron nodded. "A madman. And maybe the best teacher I ever had."

"And the most intense?"

"Yes," Myron said. "He taught me not to play with so much finesse. That wasn't always an easy lesson."

"Right, and you were just some kid he took a liking to. But imagine being his own child. Now imagine that on-court intensity mixed with his fear that he would lose me. That I would run away and leave him."

"Like your mother."

"Right."

"It would be," Myron said, "stifling."

"Try suffocating," she corrected. "Three weeks ago we were playing a promotional scrimmage at East Orange High School. You know it?"

"Sure."

"A couple of guys in the crowd were getting rowdy. Two high school kids. They were on the basketball team. They were drunk or high, or maybe