Myron remembered Linda’s call on the cell phone. Undeniably the police had already questioned her. Had she told them about the kidnapping? Probably not. Either way, it was not his place to mention it. He didn’t know where things stood. Speaking out of turn could jeopardize Chad’s safety. Best to get out of here pronto.

“I’d like to see Mrs. Coldren.”

“Why?”

“To make sure she’s okay.”

“That’s sweet, Mr. Bolitar. And very noble. But I’d like you to answer my question.”

“I’d like to see Mrs. Coldren first.”

Corbett gave him the narrow cop-eyes. “Are you refusing to answer my questions?”

“No. But right now my priority is my potential client’s welfare.”

“Client?”

“Mrs. Coldren and I have been discussing the possibility of her signing on with MB SportsReps.”

“I see,” Corbett said, rubbing his chin. “So that explains your sitting together in the tent.”

“I’ll answer your questions later, Detective. Right now I’d like to check up on Mrs. Coldren.”

“She’s fine, Mr. Bolitar.”

“I’d like to see for myself.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that. But if I am going to be her agent, then I must be at her disposal first and foremost.”

Corbett shook his head and raised his eyebrows. “That’s some crock of shit you’re peddling, Bolitar.”

“May I go now?”

Corbett gave the big hand spread again. “You’re not under arrest. In fact”—he turned to the two officers—“please escort Mr. Bolitar to the Coldren residence. Make sure nobody bothers him on the way.”

Myron smiled. “Thank you, Detective.”

“Think nothing of it.” As Myron began to walk away, Corbett called out, “Oh, one more thing.” The man had definitely watched too much Columbo. “That call you got in the squad car just now. Was that from Mrs. Coldren?”

Myron said nothing.

“No matter. We can check the phone records.” He gave the Columbo wave. “Have a special day.”

26

There were four more cop cars outside the Coldren house. Myron walked to the door on his own and knocked. A black woman Myron did not recognize opened it.

Her eyes flicked at the top of his head. “Nice hat,” she said without inflection. “Come on in.”

The woman was about fifty years old and wore a nicely tailored suit. Her coffee skin looked leathery and worn. Her face was kind of sleepy, her eyes half-closed, her expression perpetually bored. “I’m Victoria Wilson,” she said.

“Myron Bolitar.”

“Yes, I know.” Bored voice too.

“Is anybody else here?”

“Just Linda.”

“Can I see her?”

Victoria Wilson nodded slowly; Myron half expected her to stifle a yawn. “Maybe we should talk first.”

“Are you with the police?” Myron asked.

“The opposite,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Coldren’s attorney.”

“That was fast.”

“Let me put this plainly,” she ho-hummed, sounding like a diner waitress reading off the specials in the last hour of a double shift. “The police believe that Mrs. Coldren killed her husband. They also think that you’re involved in some way.”

Myron looked at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

The same sleepy expression. “Do I look like a prankster, Mr. Bolitar?”

Rhetorical question.

“Linda does not have a solid alibi for late last night,” she went on, still with the flat tone. “Do you?”

“Not really.”

“Well, let me tell you what the police already know.” The woman took blasé and raised it to an art form. “First”—raising a finger in the air seemed to take great effort—“they have a witness, a groundskeeper, who saw Jack Coldren enter Merion at approximately one in the morning. The same witness also saw Linda Coldren do likewise thirty minutes later. He also saw Linda Coldren leave the grounds not long after that. He never saw Jack Coldren leave.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Second”—another finger in the air, making a peace sign—“the police received a report last night at approximately two in the morning that your car, Mr. Bolitar, was parked on Golf House Road. The police will want to know what you were doing parking in such a strange spot at such a strange time.”

“How do you know all this?” Myron asked.

“I have good connections with the police,” she said. Again bored. “May I continue?”

“Please.”

“Third”—yep, another finger—“Jack Coldren had been seeing a divorce attorney. He had, in fact, begun the process of filing papers.”

“Did Linda know this?”

“No. But one of the allegations Mr. Coldren made concerned his wife’s recent infidelity.”

Myron put both hands to his chest. “Don’t look at me.”

“Mr. Bolitar?”

“What?”

“I am just stating facts. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt. Fourth”—final finger—“on Saturday at the U.S. Open golf tournament, several witnesses described you and Mrs. Coldren as being a bit more than chummy.”

Myron waited. Victoria Wilson lowered the hand, never showing the thumb.

“Is that it?” Myron asked.

“No. But that’s all we’ll discuss for now.”

“I met Linda for the first time on Friday.”

“And you can prove that?”

“Bucky can testify to it. He introduced us.”

Another big sigh. “Linda Coldren’s father. What a perfect, unbiased witness.”

“I live in New York.”

“Which is less than two hours by Amtrak from Philadelphia. Go on.”

“I have a girlfriend. Jessica Culver. I live with her.”

“And no man has ever cheated on his girlfriend before. Stunning testimony.”

Myron shook his head. “So you’re suggesting—”

“Nothing,” Victoria Wilson interrupted him with the monotone. “I am suggesting absolutely nothing. I am telling you what the police believe—that Linda killed Jack. The reason why there are so many police officers surrounding this house is because they want to make sure that we do not remove anything before a search warrant is issued. They have made it crystal clear that they want no Kardashians on this one.”