3
" How long’s the ride?” I asked. Berleand looked at his wristwatch. “About thirty seconds.” He may have overestimated. I had, in fact, seen the building before—the “bold and stark” sandstone fortress sitting across the river. The mansard roofs were gray slate, as were the cone-capped towers scattered through the sprawl. We could have easily walked. I squinted as we approached. “You recognize it?” Berleand said. No wonder it had grabbed my eye before. Two armed guards moved to the side as our squad car pulled through the imposing archway. The portal looked like a mouth swallowing us whole. On the other side was a large courtyard. We were surrounded now on all sides by the imposing edifice. Fortress, yeah, that did fit. You felt a bit like a prisoner of war in the eighteenth century. “Well?” I did recognize it, mostly from books by Georges Simenon and because, well, I just knew it because in law-enforcement circles it was legendary. I had entered the courtyard of 36 quai des Orfèvres—the renowned French police headquarters. Think Scotland Yard. Think Quantico. “Soooo,” I said, stretching the word out, gazing through the window, “whatever this is, it’s big.” Berleand turned both palms up. “We don’t process traffic violations here.” Count "
― Harlan Coben , Long Lost (Myron Bolitar, #9)
12
" A father from Kasselton was whooping it up. He laughed, cupped his hands into a flesh megaphone, and shouted, “Pass it to the big kid on the other team! He’s our best weapon!” Win tapped the man on the shoulder. “You will shut up right now.” The father turned to Win, saw the effete wear and the blond hair and the porcelain features. He was about to smirk and snap a comeback, but something—probably something survival basic and reptilian brained—made him think better of it. His eyes met Win’s ice blues and then he lowered them and said, “Yeah, sorry, that was out of line.” I "
― Harlan Coben , Long Lost (Myron Bolitar, #9)
17
" Coach Bobby put his finger in my face. I debated biting it off—that always gets a man’s attention. “You’re a dead man, Bolitar. You hear me? A dead man.” “A deaf man?” I said. “A dead man.” “Oh, good, because if I were a deaf man, I wouldn’t be able to hear you. Come to think of it, if I were a dead man, I wouldn’t be able to either.” The horn sounded. Assistant Coach Pat said, “Come on, Bobby.” “Dead man,” he said one more time. I cupped my hand to my ear, hard-of-hearing style, and shouted, “What?” but he had already spun away. I watched him. He had that confident, slow swagger, shoulders back, arms swaying a tad too much. I was going to yell out something stupid when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned. It was Ali, Jack’s mother. "
― Harlan Coben , Long Lost (Myron Bolitar, #9)
19
" From inside the Contuzzi apartment I heard the phone ring. Once, twice, three times. “Bolitar?” It stopped after six rings. “We know you’re still in London. Where are you?” I hung up and looked at Mario’s door. The ringing phone—ringing like a phone used to, not like some ringtone on a cell—had sounded very much like a landline. Hmm. I put my hand on the door. Thick and sturdy. I pressed my ear against the cool surface, hit Mario’s cell phone number, watched the LCD display on my mobile. It took a moment or two before the connection went through. When I heard the faint chime of Mario’s cell phone through the door—the landline had been loud; this was not—dread flooded my chest. True, it may be nothing, but most people nowadays do not travel even the shortest of distances, including bathroom visits, without the ubiquitous cell phone clipped or carried upon their person. You can bemoan this fact, but the chances that a guy working in television news would leave his cell phone behind while heading to his office seemed remote. “Mario?” I shouted. I started pounding on the door. “Mario?” I didn’t expect him to answer, of course. I pressed my ear against the door again, listening for I’m not sure what—a groan maybe. A grunt. Calling out. Something. No sound. I wondered about my options. Not many. I reared back, lifted my heel, and kicked the door. It didn’t budge. “Steel-enforced, mate. You’ll never kick it down.” I turned toward the voice. The man wore a black leather vest without any sort of shirt underneath, and sadly, he didn’t have the build to pull it off. His physique, on too clear a display, managed to be both scrawny and soft. He had a cattle-ring piercing in his nose. He was balding but the little hair he had left was done up in what might be called a comb-over Mohawk. I placed his age at early fifties. It looked like he had gone out to a gay bar in 1979 and had just gotten home. “Do you know the Contuzzis?” I asked. The man smiled. I expected another dental nightmare, but while the rest of him might be in various stages of decay, his teeth were gleaming. “Ah,” he said. “You’re an American.” “Yes.” “Friends with Mario, are we?” No reason to go into a long answer here: “Yes.” “Well, what can I tell you, mate? Normally they’re a quiet couple, but you know what they say—when the wife’s away, the mouse will play. "
― Harlan Coben , Long Lost (Myron Bolitar, #9)
