'What?'
'Access. Whoever killed Jack and cut off Chad's finger had access to the Coldren house. Barring a break-in, who could have gotten hold of the gun and the stationery supplies?'
Esperanza barely hesitated. 'Linda Coldren, Jack Coldren, maybe the Squires kid, since he liked to crawl in through the window.' She paused. 'I guess that's it.'
'Okay, good. Now let's move on a little. Who knew that Chad Coldren was at the Court Manor Inn? I mean, whoever kidnapped him had to know where he was, right?'
'Right. Okay, Jack again, Esme Fong, Norm Zuckerman, Matthew Squires again. Boy, Myron, this is really helping.'
'So what names show up on both lists?'
'Jack and Matthew Squires. And I think we can leave Jack's name off-his being the victim and all.'
But Myron stopped for a moment. He thought about his conversation with Win. About the naked desire to win How far would Jack go to guarantee victory? Win had said that he would stop at nothing. Was he right?
Esperanza snapped her fingers in his face. 'Yo, Myron?'
'What?'
'l said, we can eliminate Jack Coldren. Dead people rarely bury murder weapons in nearby woods.'
That made sense. 'So that leaves Matthew Squires,'
Myron said, 'and I don't think he's our boy.'
'Neither do I,' Esperanza said. 'But we're forgetting someone someone who knew where Chad Coldren was and had complete access to the gun and stationery supplies.'
'Who?'
'Chad Coldren.'
'You think he cut off his own finger?'
Esperanza shrugged. 'What about your old theory?
The one where the kidnapping was a hoax that went out of control. Think about it. Maybe he and Tito had a fallingout. Maybe it was Chad who killed Tito.'
Myron considered the possibility. He thought about Jack. He thought about Esme. He thought about Lloyd Rennart. Then he shook his head. 'This is getting us nowhere. Sherlock Holmes warned that you should never theorize without all the facts because then you twist facts to suit theories rather than theories to suit facts.'
'That never stopped us before,' Esperanza said.
'Good point.' Myron checked his watch. 'I gotta go see Francine Rennart.'
'The caddie's wife.'
'Yup.'
Esperanza went sniff sniff 'What?' Myron asked.
One more big sniff 'l smell a complete waste of time she said.
She smelled wrong.
Chapter 39
Victoria Wilson called on the car phone. What, Myron wondered, did people do before the car phone, before the cell phone, before the beeper?
Probably had a lot more fun.
'The police found the body of your neo Nazi friend,' '
she said. 'His last name is Marshall.'
'Tito Marshall?' Myron frowned. 'Please tell me you're joking.'
'I don't joke, Myron.'
Of that he had little doubt. 'Do the police have any idea he's tied into this?' Myron asked.
'None whatsoever.'
'And I assume he died of a gunshot wound.'
'That's the preliminary finding, yes. Mr. Marshall was shot twice in the head at close range with a thirtyeight.'
'A thirty-eight? But Jack was killed with a twentytwo.'
'Yes, Myron, I know.'
'So different guns killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall.'
Victoria did the bored thing again. 'Hard to believe you're not a professional ballistics expert.'
Everyone's a smart-ass. But this new development threw a whole bunch of scenarios out of whack. If two different guns had killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall, did that mean there were two different killers? Or was the killer smart enough to use different weapons? Or had the killer disposed of the thirty-eight after killing Tito and was thus forced to use the twenty-two on Jack? And what kind of warped mind names a kid Tito Marshall? Bad enough to go through life with a moniker like Myron. But Tito Marshall? No wonder the kid had turned out as a neo-Nazi. Probably started out as a virulent anti-Communist.
Victoria interrupted his thoughts. ' 'I called for another reason, Myron.'
'Oh?'
'Did you pass on the message to Win?'
'You set that up, didn't you? You told her I'd be there.'
'Please answer the question.'
'Yes, I delivered the message.'
'What did Win say?'
'I delivered the message,' Myron said. 'But that doesn't mean I'm giving out reports on my friend's reaction.'
'She's getting worse, Myron.'
'I'm sorry.'
Silence.
'Where are you right now?' she asked.
'I just hit the New Jersey Turnpike. I'm on my way to Lloyd Rennart's house.'
'I thought I told you to leave that path alone.'
'So you did.'
More silence.
'Good-bye, Myron.'
She hung up. Myron sighed. He suddenly longed for the days before the car phone, the cell phone, the beeper.
Reaching out and touching someone was getting to be a real pain in the ass.
An hour later, Myron parked again in front of the Rennarts' modest home. He knocked on the door. Mrs.
Rennart opened it immediately. She studied his face for a few long seconds. Neither of them spoke. Not even a greeting or salutation.
'You look tired,' she said at last.
'I am.'
'Did Lloyd really send that postcard?'
'Yes.'
The answer had been automatic. But now he wondered had Lloyd Rennart sent a postcard? For all he knew, Linda was simply sizing him for the title role in Big Sap:
The Musical. Take the missing taped phone call, for example.
If indeed the kidnapper had called Jack before his death, where was the tape of the call? Maybe the call had never occurred. Maybe Linda had lied about it. Maybe she was lying about the postcard too. Maybe she was lying about everything. Maybe Myron was simply being semi seduced, like the hormone-driven male in one of those cheesy, unrated, direct to-video, Body Heat rip-offs co-starring women with names like Shannon or Tawny.
Not a pleasant thought.
Francine Rennart silently led him into a dark basement. When they hit bottom, she reached up and switched on one of those swinging lightbulbs like something out of Psycho. The room was pure cement. There was a water heater, a gas heater, a washer and dryer, and storage containers of various sizes, shapes, and material. Four boxes lay on the floor in front of him.
