One False Move - By Harlan Coben Page 0,65

her and silence her? Interesting thought. But at the same time, if Bradford had been secretly paying her off, as Myron had earlier theorized, he would know she was alive. At the very least he would know that she had run away instead of having met up with foul play.

So what was going on here?

"I think I've said enough," Myron said.

Bradford took a long pull on his lemonade glass, draining it. He stirred the pitcher and poured himself another. He gestured toward Myron's glass. Myron shook him off. Both men settled back.

"I would like to hire you," Bradford said.

Myron tried a smile. "As?"

"An adviser of sorts. Security, perhaps. I want to hire you to keep me up to date on your investigation. Hell, I have enough morons on the payroll in charge of damage control. Who better than the inside man? You'll be able to prepare me for a potential scandal. What do you say?"

"I think I'll pass."

"Don't be so hasty," Bradford said. "I will pledge my cooperation as well as that of my staff."

"Right. And if something bad turns up, you squash it."

"I won't deny that I'll be interested in making sure the facts are put in the proper light."

"Or shade."

He smiled. "You're not keeping your eyes on the prize, Myron. Your client is not interested in me or my political career. She is interested in finding her mother. I'd like to help."

"Sure you would. After all, helping people is why you got into politics in the first place."

Bradford shook his head. "I'm making you a serious offer, and you choose to be glib."

"It's not that." Time to shift the momentum again. Myron chose his words carefully. "Even if I wanted to," he said, "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I mentioned a second condition before."

Bradford put a finger to his lips. "So you did."

"I already work for Brenda Slaughter. She must remain my primary concern in this matter."

Bradford put his hand behind his neck. Relaxed. "Yes, of course."

"You read the papers. The police think she did it."

"Well, you'll have to admit," Bradford said, "she makes a good suspect."

"Maybe. But if they arrest her, I'll have to act in her best interest." Myron looked straight at him. "That means I'll have to toss out any information that will lead the police to look at other potential suspects."

Bradford smiled. He saw where this was going. "Including me."

Myron turned both palms up and shrugged. "What choice would I have? My client must come first." Slight hesitation. "But of course none of that will occur if Brenda Slaughter remains free."

Still the smile. "Ah," Bradford said.

Myron kept still.

Bradford sat up and put up both hands in stop position. "Say no more."

Myron didn't.

"It'll be dealt with." Bradford checked his watch. "Now I must get dressed. Campaign obligations."

They both rose. Bradford stuck out his hand. Myron shook it. Bradford had not come clean, but Myron had "not expected him to. They'd both learned a bit here. Myron was not sure who had gotten the better of the deal. But the first rule of any negotiation is not to be a pig. If you just keep taking, it will backfire in the long run.

Still he wondered.

"Good-bye," Bradford said, still shaking the hand. "I do hope you'll keep me up to date on your progress."

The two men released their grips. Myron looked at Bradford. He didn't want to, but he couldn't stop himself from asking:

"Do you know my father?"

Bradford angled his head and smiled. "Did he tell you that?"

"No. Your friend Sam mentioned it."

"Sam has worked for me a long time."

"I didn't ask about Sam. I asked about my father."

Mattius opened the door. Bradford motioned to it.

"Why don't you ask your father, Myron? Maybe it will help clarify the situation."
Chapter 23
As Mattius the Manservant led Myron back down the long corridor, the same two words kept rocking through Myron's bone-dry skull:

My father?

Myron searched for a memory, a casual mention of the Bradford name in the house, a political tete-a-tete surrounding Livingston's most prominent resident. Nothing came to him.

So how did Bradford know his father?

Big Guy Mario and Skinny Sam were in the foyer. Mario stamped back and forth as though the very floor had pissed him off. His arms and hands gestured with the subtlety of a Jerry Lewis flick. If he had been a cartoon character, smoke would have been power-shooting out of both ears.

Skinny Sam pulled on a Marlboro, leaning against the banister like Sinatra waiting for Dino. Sam had that ease. Like Win. Myron could engage in violence,