Think Twice

Book 0: Myron Bolitar

by Harlan Coben

Genres: Private Investigators; Domestic Thrillers

Synopsis

How can a man who’s already dead be wanted for murder?
 
Three years ago, sports agent Myron Bolitar gave a eulogy at the funeral of his client, renowned basketball coach Greg Downing. Myron and Greg had history: initially as deeply personal rivals, and later as unexpected business associates. Myron made peace and moved on – until now, when twofederal agents walked into his office, demanding to know where Greg Downing is.

According to the agents, Greg is still alive—and has been placed at the scene of a double homicide, making him their main suspect. Shocked, Myron needs answers.

Myron and Win, longtime friends and colleagues, set out to find the truth, but the more they discover about Greg, the more dangerous their world becomes. Secrets, lies, and a murderous conspiracy that stretches back into the past churn at the heart of Harlan Coben's blistering new novel.
 

Release date: May 14, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Reader says this book is...: action-packed (1) entertaining story (1) unexpected twists (1) unputdownable (1)

Sample

Myron Bolitar was on the phone with his eighty-year-old father when the two FBI agents arrived to question him about the murder.

“Your mother and I,” his dad said from his retirement condo in Boca Raton, “have discovered edibles.”

Myron blinked. “Wait, what now?”

He was in his new penthouse office atop Win’s skyscraper on the corner of 47th Street and Park Avenue. He swiveled his chair to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a pretty bitching view of the Big Apple.

“Cannabis gummies, Myron. Your Aunt Miriam and Uncle Irv swore by them—Irv said it helps with his gout—so your mother and I figured, look, why not, let’s give them a shot. What’s the harm, right? You ever try edibles?”

“No.”

“That’s his problem.” That was Myron’s mother, squawk-shouting in the background. This was how they always operated—one parent on the phone, the other shouting color commentary. “Give me the phone, Al.” Then: “Myron?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“You should get high.”

“If you say so.”

“Try the stevia strain.”

Dad: “Sativa.”

“What?”

“It’s called sativa. Stevia is an artificial sweetener.”

“Ooo, look at your father Mr. Hippie showing off his pot expertise all of a sudden.” Then back to Myron: “I meant sativa. Try that.”

“Okay,” Myron said.

“The indica strain makes you sleepy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You know how I remember which is which?” Mom asked.

“I bet you’ll tell me.”

“Indica, in-da-couch. That’s the sleepy one. Get it?”

“Gotten.”

“Don’t be such a square. Your father and I like them. They make us feel more, I don’t know, smiley maybe. Alert. Zen even. And Myron?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Don’t ask what they’ve done for our sex life.”

“I won’t,” Myron said. “Ever.”

“Me, I get giddy. But your father becomes a giant hornball.”

“Not asking, remember?” Myron could now see the two FBI agents scowling at him from behind the glass wall. “Gotta go, Mom.”

“I mean, the man can’t keep his hands off me.”

“Still not asking. Bye now.”

Myron hung up as Big Cyndi, his longtime receptionist, silently ushered the two federal officers into the conference room. The two agents stared up, way up, at Big Cyndi. She was used to it. Myron was used to it. Big Cyndi got your attention fast. The agents flashed badges and made quick intros. Special Agent Monica Hawes, the lead, was a Black woman in her midfifties. Her sullen junior partner was a pasty-faced youngster with a forehead so prominent he resembled a beluga whale. He gave his name, but Myron was too distracted by the forehead to absorb it.

“Please,” Myron said, gesturing for them to sit in the chairs that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows and said pretty bitching view.

The agents sat, but they did not look happy about it.

Big Cyndi put on a fake British accent and said, “Will that be all, Mr. Bolitar? Perhaps a spot of tea?”

Myron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “No, I think we’re good, thanks.”

Big Cyndi bowed and left.

Myron also sat and waited for the agents to speak. The only thing he knew about this visit was that the FBI wanted to talk to both him and Win about the high-profile Callister murders. He had no idea why—neither he nor Win knew anything about the Callisters or the case other than what they’d seen on the news—but they’d been assured that they were not suspects or persons of interest.

“Where’s Mr. Lockwood?” Agent Hawes asked.

“Present,” Win said in that haughty prep-school tone as he—to quote the opening lines of the Carly Simon song Win’s entire being emanated—walked into the party like he was walking onto a yacht. Win—aka the aforementioned Mr. Lockwood—was the dictionary definition of natty as he glided around Myron’s new conference table and took the seat next to him.

Myron spread his hands and offered up his most cooperative smile. “I understand you have questions for us?”

“We do,” Hawes said. And then without preamble, she dropped the bomb: “Where is Greg Downing?”

The question was a stunner. No other way around it. A stunner. Myron’s jaw dropped. He turned to Win. Win’s face, as usual, gave away nothing. Win was good at that, showing nothing.

The reason for Myron’s surprise was simple.

Greg Downing had been dead for three years.

“I thought you were here about the Callister murders,” Myron said.

“We are,” Special Agent Hawes countered. Then repeated the question. “Where is Greg Downing?”

“Are you joking?” Myron asked.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

She did not. She looked, in fact, like she never ever joked.

Myron glanced at Win to gauge his reaction. Win looked a little bored.

“Greg Downing,” Myron said, “is dead.”

“Is that your story?”

Myron frowned. “My story?”

The young agent who looked like a beluga whale leaned forward a little and glared at Win. He spoke for the first time, his voice deeper than Myron expected. Or maybe Myron had expected a high-pitched whale call. “Is that your story too?”

Win almost yawned. “No comment.”

“You’re Greg Downing’s financial advisor,” Young Beluga continued, still trying to stare down Win; he would have had a better chance of staring down a duvet cover. “Is that correct?”

“No comment.”

“We can subpoena your records.”

“Gasp, now I’m terrified. Let me think on that one.” Win steepled his fingers and lowered his head as though in deep thought. Then: “Say it with me this time: No comment.”

Hawes and Young Beluga scowled some more. “And you.” Hawes swiveled back on Myron with a snarl. Myron guessed that Hawes had him, Young Beluga had Win. “You’re Downing’s, what, agent? Manager?”

“Correction,” Myron said. “I was his agent and manager.”

“When did you stop?”

“Three years ago. When Greg, you know, died.”

“You both attended his memorial service.”

Win stayed mum, so Myron said, “We did.”

“You even spoke, Mr. Bolitar. After all the bad blood between you two, I hear you gave a beautiful eulogy.”

Myron glanced at Win again. “Uh, thanks.”

“And you’re sticking with your story?”

Again with the story. Myron threw up his hands. “What are you talking about, story?”

Young Beluga shook his massive white head as though Myron’s answer was a total disappointment to him, which, he guessed, it was.

“Where do you think he is right now?” Hawes asked.

“Greg?”

“Stop jerking us around, jerkoff,” Young Beluga snapped. “Where is he?”

Myron was getting a little fed up with this. “In a mausoleum at Cedar Lawn Cemetery in Paterson.”

“That’s a lie,” Hawes countered. “Did you help him?”

Myron sat back. Their tone was growing increasingly hostile, but there was also the unmistakable whiff of desperation and thus truth in the air. Myron didn’t know what was going on here, and when that happened he had a habit of talking too much. Better to take a deep breath before continuing.

“I don’t understand,” Myron began. “What does Greg Downing have to do with the Callister murders? Didn’t the cops already arrest the husband?”

Now it was the two agents who exchanged a glance. “They released Mr. Himble this morning.”

“Why?”

No reply.

Here was what Myron knew about the murders: Cecelia Callister, age fifty-two, a semi-supermodel from the 1990s, and her thirty-year-old son, Clay, were found murdered in the mansion where they resided with Cecelia’s fourth husband, Lou Himble. Himble had recently been indicted on fraud charges related to his cryptocurrency startup.

“I thought the case was open and shut,” Myron continued. “The husband was having an affair, she found out, was going to turn state’s evidence on him, he had to silence her, the son walked in on them. Something like that.”

Special Agent Monica Hawes and Special Agent Young Beluga Whale exchanged another glance. Then Hawes repeated in a careful voice, “Something like that.”

“So?”

Myron waited. Win waited.

“We have reason to believe,” Hawes said, still using the careful voice, “that Greg Downing is still alive. We have reason to believe your former client is involved in the murders.”

The two feds leaned forward to gauge the reaction. Myron did not disappoint. Even though this accusation should have seemed inevitable by now, Myron went slack-jawed when he heard it out loud.

Greg. Alive.

How did he process that? After all the years—their on-court rivalry, Greg stealing Myron’s first love, Myron’s awful payback for that, Greg’s even worse payback, the years of reconciliation—and Jeremy, dear sweet, wonderful Jeremy…

It made no sense. Every part of his face registered complete and utter bafflement.

And Win’s reaction? He was checking the time on his vintage Blancpain watch.

“Please excuse me,” Win said. “I have a pressing engagement. My, what a delight to have met you both.”

Win rose.

“Sit down,” Hawes demanded.

“I don’t think I will.”

“We aren’t finished.”

“You aren’t, are you?” Win gave them both his most winning smile. It was a good smile, even better than Myron’s cooperative one. “I, however, am. Have a most pleasant afternoon.”

Without so much as a backward glance, Win sauntered out of the office. Everyone, including Myron, stared at the door as Win vanished from sight.

Win’s full name is Windsor Horne Lockwood III. The skyscraper they currently sat atop was called the Lock-Horne Building. The italics are here to emphasize that the building was named for Win’s family and thus big bucks are involved. For many years, Myron’s sports agency MB Reps (the M for Myron, the B for Bolitar, the Reps because they represented people—Myron came up with that name on his own but remained humble) had been housed on the building’s fourth floor. A few years back, Myron stupidly sold his agency and moved out and now a law firm resided in that space. When Myron decided to come back two months ago, the top floor was the only available space.

Not that Myron was complaining. The pretty bitching view impressed clients, if not FBI agents.

Over the past two months, Myron had been working hard to woo back some of his old clients. He had overlooked Greg Downing for the simple reason that, well, the whole dead thing. Dead men make poor earning clients. Bad business.

The two agents were still staring at the door. When they finally realized that Win was not returning, Hawes turned her focus back on Myron. “Did you hear what I said, Mr. Bolitar?”

Myron nodded, got his bearings. “You claim a man who died of a heart attack—a man who had an obituary and a funeral and who, as you pointed out, I eulogized—is, in fact, still alive.”

“Yes.”

Myron looked back at the door where Win had just up and left. Yes, Win loved to play the aloof, elite, above-it-all snob because that was what he was, but Myron still found it hard to believe that Win would just walk out without reason. That made Myron pull up and try to take a more cautious route.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Myron asked.

Young Beluga did not like that one. “What are you, a shrink?”

“Good one.”

“What?”

“The shrink line,” Myron said. “It’s very funny.”

Young Beluga’s narrow eyes narrowed even more. “You being a wiseass with me?”

Myron did not reply right away. Thoughts about Greg’s family swirled in Myron’s head. He fought hard to keep them at bay. Greg’s wife, Emily. Greg’s… man, it was hard to even think about it… his son, Jeremy. So much past. So much history. So much misery and joy. There are people we stumble across who change things forever. Some are obvious—family and partners—but in the end, when Myron looked at his own life’s journey and trajectory, nobody altered Myron’s more than Greg Downing.

For the better or the worse?

“You hear me, wiseass?”

“Loud and clear,” Myron said, fighting to keep focus. “Can you prove what you’re saying is true?”

“About?”

“About Greg being alive. Can you prove it?”

The two agents hesitated, exchanged yet another glance. Then Hawes said, “Greg Downing’s DNA was found at the Callister murder scene.”

“What sort of DNA?”

Young Beluga took that one with a side of relish: “Skin cells,” he said. “Your, uh, ‘dead’ client? His DNA was found under the victim’s fingernails.” He sat up a little straighter and lowered his voice à la a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, like when a helpless victim is desperately scratching and clawing to save their own life? Like that.”

Myron’s head reeled. This made no sense. Young Beluga smiled with teeth too small for his mouth, thus adding to his overall beluga appearance.

“Under which victim’s nails?” Myron asked.

“None of your business.” It was Hawes this time. “You and Greg Downing go way back, don’t you? Basketball rivals. High school. College. Both of you were drafted in the NBA’s first round. Downing had a great pro career. Became a beloved coach after he retired.” Hawes put on a sarcastic pity pout. “You, on the other hand…”

“… have a cool-ass office with a pretty bitching view?”

Quick backstory: Not long after the draft, during Myron’s first preseason game as a twenty-one-year-old Boston Celtics rookie, an opposing player named Big Burt Wesson slammed into Myron, twisting his knee in a way no joint should ever be twisted.

Bye-bye, basketball.

Hawes and Beluga thought this still bothered Myron, that it would be a good way to needle him and get under his skin.

They were two decades late for that.

Hawes’s gaze met Myron’s. “Let’s stop with the games, Mr. Bolitar. Where is Greg Downing?”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”

“You don’t want to cooperate?”

“If you’re telling me the truth—”

“We are.”

“If you’re telling me the truth,” Myron started again, “if Greg is alive—I can’t talk.”

“Why not?”

“Attorney-client privilege.”

“I thought you were his agent.”

“That too.”

“I’m not following.”

When young Myron realized that his knee would never heal properly, when he realized his playing days were over, he doubled down on “moving on.” He had been a good student at Duke. He channeled his basketball focus into studying for the LSAT, aced it, got accepted to Harvard Law School, graduated with honors. After he passed the bar, he opened MB Reps (then called MB SportsReps because—try to follow with help from the italics—at first, he only represented athletes or people in sports). By being a true bar-associated attorney, Myron was able to offer his clients the fullest protection under the law.

It helped, especially when a client had a legal issue.

Like now, he guessed.

“We were told you’d cooperate, Mr. Bolitar.”

“That was before I knew what this was about,” Myron said. “Please leave. Now.”

They both took their time standing up.

“One more thing,” Myron said. “If you find Mr. Downing, I don’t want him questioned without my presence.”

Young Beluga’s reply was a scoffing sound. Hawes stayed silent.

Myron sat there as they started to circle around the table. Greg. Alive. Forget the murders for a moment. How the hell can Greg be alive?

Young Beluga stopped and bent down over Myron. “This isn’t over, asshole.”

He had no idea how right he was.

Win’s office was one floor below Myron’s.

When Myron got off the elevator, he still auto-braced for the hustle and bustle and pure volume of screaming traders shouting out buy-sell orders for stocks and bonds and investments, and, uh, financial stuff like that. Myron wasn’t good with monetary instruments and the like, and he was okay with that. Win handled all money matters for the clients. Myron handled the agenting work—negotiating with owners and executives, soliciting endorsement deals, increasing a client’s social-media compensation, branding, upping appearance fees, taking care of life’s mundanities, whatever.

In short: maximizing earning potential.

Myron’s job involved bringing in the money; Win’s job was to invest and grow it.

The lack of workplace cacophony had something to do with how trades were made online or via computers nowadays. There was still the occasional shout across the room, but for the most part, every head was down, every eye was on a screen. It was creepy.

Win’s private corner office was, not surprisingly, the largest. It faced both Park Avenue and uptown. There was the pretty bitching view, but there was also dark wood paneling and period art and the feel of a nineteenth-century men’s club in central London.

“You know something,” Myron said.

“I know lots of somethings.”

“You’re being coy. You’re never coy.”

“Sometimes I’m coy with the ladies,” Win said. Then: “No, wait, I mean coquettish.”

“Did you know Greg was alive?”

Win considered that. He spun toward the windows and looked out at his view. This too was something he almost never did. Then Win said, “A columbarium.”

“What now?”

“You told the agents that Greg Downing was in a mausoleum.”

“Right.”

“A mausoleum is designed to hold a corpse,” Win said. “A columbarium houses cremated remains.”

“I stand corrected. Thanks for the vocabulary seminar.”

Win spread his hands. “I give and I give.”

“You do. Your point is, Greg was cremated.”

“Correct.”

“And, what, that makes it easier to fake a death?”

“Let’s run the timeline, shall we?”

Myron nodded for Win to continue.

“Five years ago, Greg Downing was fired as head coach of the Milwaukee Bucks. At the time, Greg was immensely popular with a winning record for three different NBA franchises. It would be fair to say he was still very much in demand, correct?”

Myron nodded. “The Knicks and Heat both wanted to talk to him.”

“But instead of fielding those offers, Greg, who was still a young man—”

“Our age,” Myron added.

“Very young then.” Win gave a small smile. “He instead pled burnout and claimed that he wanted out of the rat race. Did you buy that?”

Myron shrugged. “I’ve seen it before.”

“Now who’s being coy?”

“It was out of character,” Myron conceded. “Greg had always been hypercompetitive.”

“Game knows game,” Win said.

“Meaning?”

“You were rivals for so long because you are both hypercompetitive. It led to great battles on the court. It led to great catastrophes off it.”

Myron had no reply to that one.

“Did you and Greg discuss his decision?” Win asked.

“No. You know this.”

“Just reviewing the facts. Greg simply took off. Ran away. Disappeared. He sent you an email.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what the email said?”

“I can find it if you want, but it just said something about needing a change in his life, looking to start his next chapter. He said he wanted to travel alone and find himself.”

“Find himself,” Win repeated with a disgusted shake of the head. “God, I hope he didn’t use that wording.”

“He did,” Myron said. “Anyway, he started off in a monastery in Laos.”

“And we know that how?”

“He told me.” Myron considered that. “Why would he lie?”

Win didn’t answer. “When did you next hear from Greg?”

“I don’t know. I figured he needed to recharge the battery. That he’d be back pretty soon. But a week became a month then two months. He texted every once in a while. He said he was in Laos, then Thailand or Nepal, I don’t remember exactly. Then…”

“Two years pass, and we get word he’s dead.”

“Yes,” Myron said. Then: “What aren’t you telling me, Win?”

Win again ignored the question. “How hard would it have been to fake his own death? Let’s say you are Greg. You write your own obituary and put it in a newspaper. You say you died of a heart attack. You ship ashes—they can be burnt anything, really—in an urn. There’s a memorial service. We go to it.” Win held his palms to the sky. “Voilà, you’re dead.”

Myron frowned. “And then what, you sneak back into the country and murder Cecelia Callister and her son?”

Win stared out the window some more. That was when Myron saw it.

“Greg would have needed money,” Myron said.

Win still stared.

“All those years away. No matter how frugal he was being. He would need to access his bank accounts. Did you meet with him?”

More staring.

“Win?”

“We have a dilemma.”

“That being?”

“Client confidentiality.”

“You’re not an attorney.”

“My word should mean nothing then?” Win turned away from the window. “If a client requests confidentiality, I should still speak freely?”

“No,” Myron said, searching for a way around the impasse, “but in the specific case of Greg Downing, I am his agent, his manager, and his lawyer. Whatever he told you can be shared with me.”

“Unless,” Win said, holding up a finger, “the client told me not to tell anyone, including and specifically you.”

Myron took a step back. “Wow.”

“Indeed.”

“Are you saying you knew Greg was alive?”

“I’m not saying anything of the sort.”

“I sense a ‘but.’”

“But if I were to review his financial decisions with this fresh perspective, I could perhaps conclude that this isn’t the total shock for me that it is for you.”

Win didn’t have to give the details—Myron got the gist.

“So hypothetically,” Myron said, “before Greg ran overseas to, uh, find himself, he may have made some money moves. Opened offshore accounts, transferred assets into less traceable instruments, that kind of thing.”

“If he did,” Win said, “that’s the kind of thing that would remain confidential.”

“So Greg planned this.”

“Perhaps.”

Silence.

Then Myron said, “Greg never fired us.”

Win closed his eyes.

“If he is alive, he’s still our client.”

Win rubbed the closed eyes.

“You know where I’m going with this?” Myron asked.

“It would be hard not to guess without some form of fresh brain trauma,” Win said. “You want to help him.”

“Want doesn’t matter,” Myron said. “If Greg’s alive, we are obligated to help him.”

“Is this the part where I say, ‘Even if he’s a murderer?’”

“And then I nod sagely and reply, ‘Even if.’ Or maybe ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.’”

“‘Even if’ is the less hackneyed line,” Win said with a sigh. “Do I need to remind you that this will open a lot of old emotional wounds for you?”

“Not really.”

“Or that you’re not good with handling old emotional wounds.”

“I’m aware.”

“Your destructive ex. Your career-ending injury. Your biological son.”

“I get it, Win.”

“No, my dear friend, you don’t. You never do.” Win sighed, shrugged, slapped his hands on the table. “Okay, fine, let’s do it. The Lone Ranger and Tonto ride again.”

“More like Batman and Robin.”

“Sherlock and Watson.”

“Green Hornet and Kato.”

“Starsky and Hutch.”

“Cagney and Lacey.”

“McMillan and Wife.”

“Scarecrow and Mrs. King.”

“Simon and Simon.”

“Turner and Hooch.”

Win gasped. “Don’t we wish?” Then he snapped his fingers. “Tango and Cash.”

“Ooo, good one.” Then: “Michael Knight and KITT.”

“KITT, the talking car?”

“Yes,” Myron said. “Plus, it has to be the Hoff playing Michael. None of these crappy reboots.”

“Michael and KITT,” Win repeated. “Which one of us is which?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does not,” Win said. “So first steps?”

“Follow the money trail from the offshore accounts.”

“Negative,” Win said.

“Why not?”

“We won’t be able to trace the money,” Win said. “I’m that good.”

“Then look at the Callister murders maybe.”

“On it already. And you? Where do you go?”

Myron thought about it. “To my destructive ex.”

Emily Downing, the destructive ex, answered the door of her apartment on Fifth Avenue with a wide smile. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the good one . . .