One False Move - By Harlan Coben Page 0,60

like Betty Friedan."

Pomeranz looked confused. Probably didn't know who Betty Friedan was. Maybe he should have said Gloria Steinem. To his credit, Pomeranz took his time. He fought for recovery, offering up an almost sweet smile.

"Okay," he said, "so it's the cold war all over again. I can nuke you, you can nuke me. It's a stalemate."

"Wrong, Roy. You're the one with the job, the family, the rep, and maybe a looming jail term. Me, I got nothing to lose."

"You can't be serious. You're dealing with the most powerful family in New Jersey. Do you really think you've got nothing to lose?"

Myron shrugged. "I'm also crazy," he said. "Or to put it another way, my mind works in a distorted fashion."

Pomeranz looked over at Wickner. Wickner looked back. There was a crack of the bat. The crowd got to its feet. The ball hit the fence. "Go, Billy!" Billy rounded second and slid into third.

Pomeranz walked away without another word.

Myron looked at Wickner for a long time. "Are you a total sham, Detective?"

Wickner said nothing.

"When I was eleven, you spoke to my fifth-grade class and we all thought you were the coolest guy we'd ever seen. I used to look for you at games. I used to want your approval. But you're just a lie."

Wickner kept his eyes on the field. "Let it go, Myron."

"I can't."

"Davison is a scum. He's not worth it."

"I'm not working for Davison. I'm working for Anita Slaughter's daughter."

Wickner kept his eyes on the field. His mouth was set, but Myron could see the tremor starting back up in the corner of his mouth. "All you're going to do is hurt a lot of people."

"What happened to Elizabeth Bradford?"

"She fell," he said. "That's all."

"I'm not going to stop digging," Myron said.

Wickner adjusted his cap again and began to walk away. "Then more people are going to die."

There was no threat in his tone, just the stilted, pained timber of inevitability.
Chapter 21
When Myron headed back to his car, the two goons from Bradford Farms were waiting for him. The big one and the skinny, older guy. The skinny guy wore long sleeves so Myron could not see if there was a snake tattoo, but the two looked right from Mabel Edwards's description.

Myron felt something inside him start to simmer.

The big guy was show. Probably a wrestler in high school. Maybe a bouncer at a local bar. He thought he was tough; Myron knew that he would be no problem. The skinny, older guy was hardly a formidable physical specimen. He looked like an aged version of the puny guy who gets the sand kicked on him in the old Charles Atlas cartoon. But the face was so ferretlike, the eyes so beady that he made you pause. Myron knew better than to judge on appearance, but this guy's face was simply too thin and too pointed and too cruel.

Myron spoke to the Skinny Ferret. "Can I see your tattoo?" Direct approach.

The big guy looked confused, but Skinny Ferret took it all in stride.

"I'm not used to guys using that line on me," Skinny said.

"Guys," Myron repeated. "But with your looks, the chicks must be asking all the time."

If Skinny was offended by the crack, he was laughing his way through it. "So you really want to see the snake?"

Myron shook his head. The snake. The question had been answered. These were the right guys. The big one had punched Mabel Edwards in the eye.

The simmer flicked up a notch.

"So what can I do for you fellas?" Myron said. "You collecting donations for the Kiwanis Club?"

"Yeah," the big guy said. "Blood donations."

Myron looked at him. "I'm not a grandmother, tough guy."

Big said, "Huh?"

Skinny cleared his throat. "Governor-to-be Bradford would like to see you."

"Governor-to-be?"

The Skinny Ferret shrugged. "Confidence."

"Nice to see. So why doesn't he call me?"

"The next governor thought it would be best if we accompanied you."

"I think I can manage to drive the mile by myself." Myron looked at the big guy again and spoke slowly. "After all, I'm not a grandmother."

The big guy sniffed and rolled his neck. "I can still beat you like one."

"Beat me as you would a grandmother," Myron said. "Gee, what a guy."

Myron had read recently about self-help gurus who taught their students to picture themselves successful. Visualize it, and it will happen or some such credo. Myron was not sure, but he knew that it worked in combat. If the chance presents itself, picture how you will attack. Imagine what countermoves your