The kid was twenty-three, good looking, quiet, engaged m an equally attractive, happy-just to-be here woman. He also did not yet have an agent. Myron tried not to salivate.

Hey, he was as human as the next guy. He was, after all, a sports agent. Cut him some slack.

"Where is Jack?" Myron asked.

"Down this way," Bucky said. "He wanted to hit alone."

"How did the kidnapper reach him?"

"He called the Merion switchboard and said it was an emergency?

' 'And that worked?"

"Yes," Bucky said slowly. "Actually, it was Chad on the phone. He identified himself as Jack's son."

Curious. "What time did the call come in?"

"Maybe ten minutes before I called you." Bucky stopped, gestured with his chin. "There."

Jack Coldren was a touch pudgy and soft in the middle, but he had forearms like Popeye's. His flyaway hair did just that in the breeze, revealing bald spots that had , started off the day better covered. He whacked the ball with a wood club and an uncommon fury. To some this might all seem very strange. You have just learned your son is missing and you go out and hit golf balls. But Myron understood. Hitting balls was comfort food. The more stress Myron was under, the more he wanted to go in his driveway and shoot baskets. We all have something.

Some drink. Some do drugs. Some like to take a long drive or play a computer game. When Win needed to unwind, he often watched videotapes of his own sexual exploits. But that was Win.

"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? l'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, snap+

ping 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. "l 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 muffed 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.