Back Spin (Myron Bolitar 4)

“Who’s that with him?” Myron asked.

“Diane Hoffman,” Bucky said. “Jack’s caddie.”

Myron knew that female caddies were not uncommon on the men’s pro tour. Some players even hired their wives. Saves money. “Does she know what’s going on?”

“Yes. Diane was there when the call came in. They’re pretty close.”

“Have you told Linda?”

Bucky nodded. “I called her right away. Do you mind introducing yourself? I’d like to go back to the house and check up on her.”

“No problem.”

“How will I reach you if something comes up?”

“Call my cellular.”

Bucky nearly gasped. “Cellular phones are forbidden at Merion.” Like it was a papal command.

“I walk on the wild side,” Myron said. “Just call.”

Myron approached them. Diane Hoffman stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, her arms folded, her face intent on Coldren’s backswing. A cigarette dangled from her lips almost vertically. She didn’t even glance at Myron. Jack Coldren coiled his body and then let go, snapping like a released spring. The ball rocketed over the distant hills.

Jack Coldren turned, looked at Myron, smiled tightly, nodded a hello. “You’re Myron Bolitar, right?”

“Right.”

He shook Myron’s hand. Diane Hoffman continued to study her player’s every move, frowning as if she’d spotted a flaw in his hand-shaking technique. “I appreciate your helping us out,” he said.

Face-to-face now—no more than a few feet away—Myron could see the devastation on the man’s face. The jubilant glow after nailing the putt on eighteen had been snuffed out by something more pasty and sickly. His eyes had the surprised, uncomprehending look of a man who’d just been sucker punched in the stomach.

“You tried making a comeback recently,” Jack said. “With New Jersey.”

Myron nodded.

“I saw you on the news. Gutsy move, after all these years.”

Stalling. Not sure how to begin. Myron decided to help. “Tell me about the call.”

Jack Coldren’s eyes swerved over the expanse of green. “Are you sure it’s safe?” he asked. “The guy on the phone told me no police. To just act normal.”

“I’m an agent seeking clients,” Myron said. “Talking to me is about as normal as it gets.”

Coldren thought about that for a moment then nodded. He still hadn’t introduced Diane Hoffman. Hoffman didn’t seem to mind. She remained about ten feet away, rock-still. Her eyes remained narrow and suspicious, her face weathered and pinched. The cigarette ash was incredibly long now, almost defying gravity. She wore a cap and one of those caddie vests that looked like a jogger’s night reflector.

“The club president came up to me and whispered that there was an emergency call from my son. So I went inside the clubhouse and picked it up.”

He stopped suddenly and blinked several times. His breathing became heavier. He was wearing a tad-too-tight, yellow V-necked golf shirt. You could see his body expand against the cotton blend with each inhale. Myron waited.

“It was Chad,” he finally spat out. “All he could say was ‘Dad,’ before someone grabbed the phone away from him. Then a man with a deep voice came on the line.”

“How deep?” Myron asked.

“Pardon?”

“How deep was the voice?”

“Very.”

“Did it sound funny to you? A little robotic?”

“Now that you mention it, yes, it did.”

Electronic altering, Myron guessed. Those machines could make Barry White sound like a four-year-old girl. Or vice versa. They weren’t hard to get. Even Radio Shack sold them now. The kidnapper or kidnappers could be any sex. Linda and Jack Coldren’s description of a “male voice” was irrelevant. “What did he say?”

“That he had my son. He told me that if I called the police or anybody like that, Chad would pay. He told me that someone would be watching me all the time.” Jack Coldren accentuated the point by looking around again. No one suspicious lurked about, though Greg Norman waved and gave them a smiling thumbs-up. G’day, mate.

“What else?” Myron asked.

“He said he wanted money,” Coldren said.

“How much?”

“He just said a lot. He wasn’t sure yet how much, but he wanted me to get it ready. He said he’d call back.”

Myron made a face. “But he didn’t tell you how much?”

“No. Just that it would be a lot.”

“And that you should get it ready.”

“Right.”

This made no sense. A kidnapper who wasn’t sure how much ransom to extort? “May I be blunt, Jack?”

Coldren stood a little taller, tucked in his shirt. He was what some would call boyishly and disarmingly handsome. His face was big and unthreatening with cottony, malleable features. “Don’t sugarcoat anything for me,” he said. “I want the truth.”

“Could this be a hoax?”

Jack shot a quick glance at Diane Hoffman. She moved slightly. Might have been a nod. He turned back to Myron. “What do you mean?”

“Could Chad be behind this?”

The longer flyaway hairs got caught up in a cross-breeze and fell down into his eyes. He pushed them away with his fingers. Something came across his face. Rumination, maybe? Unlike Linda Coldren, the idea had not snapped him into a defensive stance. He was pondering the possibility, or perhaps merely grasping at an option that meant safety for his son.

“There were two different voices,” Coldren said. “On the phone.”

“It could be a voice changer.” Myron explained what that was.

More rumination. Coldren’s face scrunched up. “I really don’t know.”

“Is it something you can imagine Chad doing?”

“No,” Coldren replied. “But who can imagine anyone’s kid doing something like this? I’m trying to remain objective here, hard as that is. Do I think my boy could do something like this? Of course not. But then again, I wouldn’t be the first parent to be wrong about my kid; now, would I?”

Fair enough, Myron thought. “Has Chad ever run away?”

“No.”

“Any trouble in the family? Anything that might make him want to do something like this?”

“Something like fake his own kidnapping?”