DARKEST FEAR (11 page)

“Sure,” Myron said.

“When?”

“You name it.”

“When are you free?”

“You name it,” Myron said.

“I’m in Detroit right now.”

“I’ll catch the next plane out.”

“Just like that?” Lamar said.

“Yup.”

“Shouldn’t you pretend you’re really busy?”

“We going to date, Lamar?”

Lamar chuckled. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Then I’ll skip the playing-hard-to-get stage. Esperanza and I want you to sign up with MB Sports-Reps. We’ll do a good job. We’ll make you a priority. And we won’t play mind games with you.”

Myron smiled at Esperanza. Was he good or what?

Lamar said he was going to be in Manhattan later in the week and would like to meet then. They set up a time. Myron hung up. He and Esperanza sat there and smiled at each other.

“We have a chance,” she said.

“Yep.”

“So what’s our strategy?”

“I thought I’d impress him with my nimble mind,” he said.

“Hmm,” Esperanza said. “Maybe I should wear something low cut.”

“I was kinda counting on that.”

“Hit him with brains and beauty.”

“Yes,” Myron said. “But which one of us is which?”

When Myron got back to the Dakota, Win was heading out with his leather gym bag and Terese was gone.

“She left a note,” Win said, handing it to Myron.

Myron read the note again. It didn’t change. He folded it up and put it away.

“You going to Master Kwon’s?” Myron asked. Master Kwon was their martial arts instructor.

Win nodded. “He’s been asking for you.”

“What did you tell him?” Myron asked.

“That you wigged out.”

“Thanks.”

Win gave a slight bow and lifted his gym bag. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Shoot.”

“You haven’t been to the
dojang
in a long while.”

“I know.”

“You have a great deal of stress in your life,” Win said. “You need an outlet. You need some focus. Some balance. Some structure.”

“You’re not going to make me snatch a pebble from your hand, are you?”

“Not today, no. But come with me.”

Myron shrugged. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

They were halfway out the door when Esperanza called. He told her they were just on their way out.

“Where?” she asked.

“Master Kwon’s.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“I got some information on Davis Taylor.”

“And?”

“And it’s more than a little strange. Is Win going with you?”

“Yes.”

“Ask him if he knows anything about Raymond Lex’s family.”

Silence. “Raymond Lex is dead, Esperanza.”

“Duh, Myron. I said
family
.”

“This has something to do with Davis Taylor?”

“It’ll be easier to explain in person. I’ll see you down there in an hour.”

She hung up.

One of the doormen had already fetched Win’s Jag. It sat waiting for them on Central Park West. The rich. Myron settled into the lush leather. Win hit the
accelerator pad. He was big with the accelerator pad; he had a bit more trouble when it came to the brake.

“Do you know Raymond Lex’s family?”

“They used to be clients,” Win said.

“You’re kidding?”

“Oh yes, I’m a regular Red Buttons.”

“Were you directly involved in this inheritance squabble?”

“Calling this a squabble would be similar to calling nuclear Armageddon a campfire.”

“Hard to divide up billions, huh?”

“Indeed. So why are we discussing the Lex clan?”

“Esperanza is going to meet us down at the
dojang.
She has some information on Davis Taylor. Somehow the Lex family is connected.”

Win arched his eyebrow. “The plot doth thicken.”

“So tell me a little about them.”

“Most of it was in the media. Raymond Lex writes a controversial bestseller called
Midnight Confessions.
Said bestseller becomes an Oscar-winning blockbuster. Suddenly he goes from obscure junior-college instructor to millionaire. Unlike most of his artistic brethren, he understands business. He invests and amasses private holdings with a substantial yet confidential net worth.”

“The papers place it in the billions.”

“I won’t argue.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“The way you word things,” Win said. “It’s like Proust.”

“He never wrote another book?”

“No.”

“Odd.”

“Not really,” Win said. “Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell never wrote another book. And at least Lex kept busy. It’s hard to build one of the largest privately held corporations and do book signings.”

“So now that he’s dead, his family is—how to say it?—nuclear Armageddoning?”

“Close enough.”

Master Kwon had moved his headquarters and main
dojang
into the second floor of a building on Twenty-third Street near Broadway. Five rooms—studios really—with hardwood floors, mirrored walls, high-tech sound system, sleek and shiny Nautilus equipment—oh, and some of those rice-paper Oriental scroll-posters. Gave the place a real Old World Asia feel.

Myron and Win slipped into their
dobok
, a white uniform, and tied their black belts. Myron had been studying tae kwon do and
hapkido
since Win had first introduced him to them in college, but he hadn’t been to a
dojang
more than five times in the past three years. Win, on the other hand, remained devoutly lethal. Don’t tug on Superman’s cape, don’t spit in the wind, don’t pull the mask off the ol’ Lone Ranger, and you don’t mess around with Win. Bah, bah, dee, dee, dee, dee, dee.

Master Kwon was in his mid-seventies but could easily pass for two decades younger. Win had met him during his Asian travels when he was fifteen. As near as Myron could tell, Master Kwon had been a high priest or some such thing at a small Buddhist monastery straight out of a Hong Kong revenge flick. When Master Kwon emigrated to the United States, he spoke very little English. Now, some twenty years later, he spoke almost none. As soon as the wise master hit our shores, he opened up a chain of state-of-the-art tae kwon do schools—with Win’s financial backing, of course. Once he saw the
Karate Kid
movies, Master Kwon started playing the old wise man to the hilt. His English disappeared. He started dressing like the Dalai Lama and began every sentence with the words “Confucius say,” ignoring the small fact that he was Korean and Confucius was Chinese.

Win and Myron headed to Master Kwon’s office. At the entrance, both men bowed deeply.

“Please in,” Master Kwon said.

The desk was fine oak, the chair rich leather and orthopedic looking. Master Kwon was standing near a corner. He held a putter in his hands and wore a splendidly tailored suit. His face brightened when he saw Myron, and the two men embraced.

When they broke apart, Master Kwon said, “You better?”

“Better,” Myron agreed.

The old man smiled and grabbed his own lapel. “Armani,” he said.

“I thought so,” Myron said.

“You like?”

“Very nice.”

Satisfied, Master Kwon said, “Go.”

Win and Myron bowed deeply. Once in the
dojang
, they fell into their customary roles: Win led and Myron followed. They started with meditation. Win loved meditating, as we already graphically witnessed. He sat in the lotus position, palms tilted up, hands resting on knees, back straight, tongue folded against the upper teeth. He breathed in through his nose, forcing the air down, letting his abdomen do all the work. Myron tried to duplicate—had been trying for years—but he had never quite gotten the hang of it. His mind, even during less chaotic times, wandered. His bad knee tightened. He got fidgety.

They cut down the stretching to only ten minutes. Again Win was effortless, executing splits and toe touches and deep bends with ease, his bones and joints as flexible as a politician’s voting record. Myron had never been a naturally limber guy. When he was training seriously, he could touch his toes and complete a hurdle stretch with little problem. But just then, that felt like a long time ago.

“I’m already sore,” Myron said through a grunt.

Win tilted his head. “Odd.”

“What?”

“That’s precisely what my date said last night.”

“You weren’t kidding before,” Myron said. “You really are another Red Buttons.”

They did a little sparring, and Myron immediately realized how out of shape he was. Sparring is the most tiring activity in the world. Don’t believe it? Find a punching bag and pretend-box with it for one three-minute round. Just a bag that can’t fight back. Try it, just one round. You’ll see.

When Esperanza came in, the sparring mercifully ceased and Myron grabbed his knees, sucking wind. He bowed to Win, threw a towel over his shoulder, grabbed some Evian. Esperanza folded her arms and waited. A group of students walked past the door, saw Esperanza, did a double take.

Esperanza handed Myron a sheet of paper. “The birth certificate of Davis Taylor né Dennis Lex.”

“Lex,” Myron repeated. “As in …?”

“Yep.”

Myron scanned the photocopy. According to the document, Dennis Lex would be thirty-seven years old. His father was listed as one Raymond Lex, his mother as Maureen Lehman Lex. Born in East Hampton, New York.

Myron handed it to Win.

“They had another child?”

“Apparently so,” Esperanza said.

Myron looked at Win. Win shrugged.

“He must have died young,” Win said.

“If he did,” Esperanza said, “I can’t find it anywhere. There’s no death certificate.”

“No one in the family ever mentioned another child?” Myron asked Win.

“No one,” Win said.

He turned back to Esperanza. “What else you got?”

“Not much. Dennis Lex changed his name to Davis Taylor eight months ago. I also found this.” She handed him a photocopy of a news clipping. A small birth
announcement from the
Hampton Gazette
dated thirty-seven years ago:

Myron shook his head. “How could no one know about this?”

“It’s not all that surprising,” Win said.

“How do you figure?”

“None of the Lex family holdings are public. They are fiercely protective of their privacy. Security around them is around-the-clock and the best money can buy. Everyone who works with them must sign confidentiality agreements.”

“Even you?”

“I don’t do confidentiality agreements,” Win said. “No matter how much money is involved.”

“So they never asked you to sign one?”

“They asked. I refused. We parted ways.”

“You gave them up as clients?”

“Yes.”

“Why? I mean, what would have been the big deal? You keep everything confidential anyway.”

“Exactly. Clients hire me not only because of my brilliance in the ways of finance but because I am the very model of discretion.”

“Don’t overlook your startling modesty,” Myron added.

“I don’t need to sign a contract saying I won’t reveal anything. It should be a given. It’s the equivalent of signing a document saying that I won’t burn down their house.”

Myron nodded. “Nice analogy,” he said.

“Yes, thank you, but I’m trying to illustrate how far
this family will go to maintain their privacy. Until this inheritance feud erupted, the media had no idea how extensive Raymond Lex’s holdings were.”

“But come on, Win. This is Raymond Lex’s son. You’d know about a son.”

Win pointed to the top of the clipping. “Notice when the child was born—
before
Raymond Lex’s book came out, when Lex was just a typical small-town professor. It wouldn’t make news.”

“You really buy that?”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

“So where is the kid now? How can the son of one of America’s wealthiest families have no paperwork? No credit cards, no driver’s license, no IRS filings, no trail at all? Why did he change his name?”

“The last one is easy,” Win said.

“Oh?”

“He’s hiding.”

“From?”

“His siblings perhaps,” Win said. “As I said before, this inheritance battle is rather nasty.”

“That might make sense—and I stress the word ‘might’—if he’d been around before. But how can there be no paperwork on him? What is he hiding from? And why on earth would he put his name in the bone marrow registry?”

“Good questions,” Win said.

“Very good,” Esperanza added.

Myron reread the article and looked at his two friends. “Nice to have a consensus,” he said.

T
he mobile phone blew him out of his sleep like a shotgun blast. Myron’s hand reached up blindly, his fingers bouncing along the night table until they located the phone.

“Hello?” he croaked.

“Is this Myron Bolitar?”

The voice was a whisper.

“Who is this?” Myron asked.

“You called me.”

Still whispering, the sound like leaves skittering across pavement.

Myron sat upright, his heartbeat picking up a little steam. “Davis Taylor?”

“Sow the seeds. Keep sowing. And open the shades. Let the truth come in. Let the secrets finally wither in the daylight.”

Ooookay. “I need your help, Mr. Taylor.”

“Sow the seeds.”

“Yes, of course, we’ll sow away.” Myron flicked on the light. 2:17
A.M.
He checked the LCD display on the
phone. The Caller ID was blocked. Damn. “But we have to meet.”

“Sow the seeds. It’s the only way.”

“I understand, Mr. Taylor. Can we meet?”

“Someone must sow the seeds. And someone must unlock the chains.”

“I’ll bring a key. Just tell me where you are.”

“Why do you wish to see me?”

What to say? “It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Whenever you sow the seeds, it’s a matter of life and death.”

“You donated blood for a bone marrow drive. You’re a match. A young boy will die if you don’t help.”