Drop Shot (1996) (21 page)

"But instead?" Myron tried.

"We split up. She asked me to cover the outside courts while she searched the Food Court and the stadium area. We were going to meet back by the Perrier booth every fifteen minutes. I took off and began my search. I was anxious. Finding you would have proved my undying love "

"Yeah, I got that part." This guy must have been gobs of fun for ol' Rolly to interrogate. "What happened next?"

"I heard a gunshot," Quincy continued. "Then I heard screams. I ran back toward the Food Court. By the time I got there a crowd had formed. You were running toward the body. She was on the ground. So still. You bent down and cradled her body. My dreams. My life. My happiness. Dead. I knew what the police would think. They tormented me for courting her. Called me names. Heck, they threatened to put me in jail for asking her out what were they going to think now? They never understood the bond between us. The attraction."

"So you ran," Myron said.

"Yes. I went to my place and packed a bag. Then I took out the maximum amount on my MAC card. I saw on TV once how the police tracked a guy down by where he used his credit cards, so I wanted to make sure I had enough cash. Smart, huh?"

"Ingenious," Myron agreed. But he felt his heart sink. Valerie Simpson had had no one. She'd been alone. When danger struck she turned to Myron, a man she barely knew. And someone had murdered her. A painful pang consumed him.

"I stayed in crummy motels and used fake names," Quincy rambled. "But someone must have recognized me. Well, you know the rest. When they caught me, I asked for you. I thought you'd be able to explain to them what really happened." Quincy leaned forward, whispered conspiratorially. "That Detective Dimonte can be rather hostile."

"Uh-huh."

"The only time he smiled was when I mentioned your name."

"Oh?"

"I told him you and I were friends. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Myron said.

Chapter
24

Myron faced Dimonte and sidekick Krinsky in the adjoining interrogation room. It was identical to the other one in every way. Dimonte was still gleeful.

"Would you care for an attorney?" he asked sweetly.

Myron looked at him. "Your face is positively beaming, Rolly. New moisturizer?"

The smile stayed. "I'll take that as a no."

"Am I under arrest?"

"Of course not. Have a seat. Care for a drink?"

"Sure."

"What would you like?" Quite the host, that Rolly. "Coke? Coffee? Orange juice?"

"Got any Yoo-Hoo?"

Dimonte looked at Krinsky. Krinsky shrugged and went to check. Dimonte folded his hands and put them on the table. "Myron, why did Roger Quincy ask for you?"

"He wanted to speak to me."

Dimonte smiled. Mr. Patience. "Yes, but why you?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that."

"Can't," Dimonte said. "Or won't?"

"Can't."

"Why can't you?"

"I think it falls under attorney-client privilege. I have to check."

"Check with who?"

"With whom," Myron said.

"What?"

"Check with whom. Not who, whom. Prepositional phrase."

Dimonte nodded. "So it's going to be like that, is it?"

"Like what?"

His voice was a little rougher now. "You're a suspect, Bolitar. No, check that. You're the suspect."

"What about Roger?"

"He's the trigger man. I'm sure of that. But he's too much of a nut job to have done it on his own. Way we figure it, you set the whole thing up. Had him do the dirty work."

"Uh-huh. And my motive?"

"Valerie Simpson was having an affair with Duane Richwood. That's why his phone number was in her book. A white girl with a black guy. How would the sponsors have reacted to that?"

"It's the nineties, Rolly. There's even a mixed marriage on the Supreme Court."

Dimonte put a boot up on a chair and leaned on the raised knee. "Times may change, Bolitar, but sponsors still don't like black boys boffing white chicks." He tickled his chin with two fingers. "Let me run this by you, see how it sounds: Duane is a bit of a coonhound. He sniffs out white meat. He nails Valerie Simpson, but she doesn't fancy the idea of being a one-nighter. We know she's a bit of a fruitcake, spent time in an asylum. Probably a bunny burner to boot."

"Bunny burner?"

"You seen Fatal Attraction?"

Myron nodded. "Oh. Bunny burner. Right."

"So like I said, Valerie Simpson is crazy. Her elevator don't stop at every floor. But now she's also pissed off. So she calls up Duane just like it says in her little diary and threatens to go to the press. Duane is scared. Like he was yesterday when I came by. So who does he call? You. That's when you hatch your little scheme."

Myron nodded. "That'll hold up in court."

"What? Greed isn't a good motive?"

"I might as well confess right here."

"Fine, smart-guy. You play it that way."

Krinsky returned. He shook his head. No Yoo-Hoo.

"You want to tell me why Quincy called you first?" Dimonte continued.

"Nope."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you've hurt my feelings."

"Don't fuck with me, Bolitar. I'll throw your ass into a holding cell with twenty psychos and tell them you're a child molester." He smiled. "He'll like that, won't he, Krinsky?"

"Yeah," Krinsky said, mirroring Dimonte's smile.

Myron nodded. "Right. Okay, now I say, what do you mean? Then you say, a tasty morsel like you will be popular in the slammer. Then I say, please don't. Then you say, don't bend over to pick up the soap. Then you both give me a cop snicker."

"What the fuck you talking about?"

"Don't waste my time, Rolly."

"You think I won't throw your ass in jail?"

Myron stood. "I know you won't. If you thought you could I'd be handcuffed by now."

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

"Arrest me or get out of my way. I got places to go, people to see."

"I know you're dirty, Bolitar. That whacko didn't ask for you by accident. He thought you could save him. That's why you've been playing cop with us. Pretending to investigate on your own. You just wanted to stay close, find out what we knew."

"You got it all figured out, Rolly."

"We'll grill him and grill him and grill him until he gives you up."

"No, you won't. As his attorney I am forbidding any interrogation of my client."

"You can't represent him. Ever heard of conflict of interest?"

"Until I find him someone else I'm still his attorney of record."

Myron opened the door and stepped into the corridor. He was surprised to see Esperanza. So were the cops. Every one of them up and down the corridor stared at her hungrily. Probably just being careful, Myron mused, afraid maybe Esperanza had a concealed weapon in her tight jeans. Yeah, that was probably it.

"Win called," she said. "He's looking for you."

"What's up?"

"He followed Duane. There's something he thinks you should see."

Chapter
25

Esperanza and Myron shared a yellow cab to the Chelsea Hotel on Twenty-third Street between Seventh and Eighth. The cab smelled like a Turkish whorehouse, which was an improvement over most.

"Win will be seated in a red chair near the house phones," she told him when they stopped. "It's to the right of the concierge's desk. He'll be reading a newspaper. If he's not reading a newspaper, the coast isn't clear. Ignore him and walk out. He'll meet you at the Billiards Club."

"Win said that?"

"Yes."

"Even that part about the coast not being clear?"

"Yes."

Myron shook his head. "You want to come?"

"Can't. I still have studying to do."

"Thanks for finding me."

She nodded.

Win was seated where advertised. He was reading the Wall Street Journal so the coast was clear. Oooo. Win looked exactly like himself, except a black wig covered the blond locks. Dr. Disguise. Myron sat next to him and whispered, "The white rabbit turns yellow when the black dog urinates on him."

Win continued to read. "You said to contact you if Duane did anything unusual."

"Yep."

"He arrived here about two hours ago. He took the elevator to the third floor and knocked on the door to room 322. A woman answered. They embraced. He entered. The door closed."

"That's not good," Myron said.

Win turned the page. Bored.

"Do you know who the woman is?" Myron asked.

He shook his head. "Black. Five-seven, five-eight. Slim. I took the liberty of booking room 323. The peephole has a view of Duane's door."

Myron thought of Jessica waiting for him. In a warm tub. With those exotic oils.

Damn.

"I'll stay if you want," Win said.

"No. I'll handle this."

"Fine." Win stood. "I'll see you at the match tomorrow, if our boy isn't too tired to play."

Myron took the stairs to the third floor. He peered out into the corridor. No one. With key in hand he hurried down to room 323 and went inside. Win, as usual, was right. From the keyhole he had a good, albeit convex, view of the door to room 322. Now he had to wait.

But wait for what?

What the hell was he doing here? Jessica was waiting for him in a bathtub filled with exotic oils the thought made his body both sing and ache and here he was, playing Peeping Tom over'

Over what?

What was he after anyway? Duane had explained his connection to Valerie Simpson. They'd briefly been lovers. What was so weird about that? They were both attractive, both in their early twenties, both tennis players. So what was the big deal? The racial thing? Nothing unusual about that anymore. Hadn't he just pointed that out to Dimonte?

So what was Myron doing with his eye pressed against a peephole? Duane was a client, for chrissake, an important client. What right did Myron have to invade his privacy like this? And for what reason because his girlfriend didn't like the fact that Duane was having affairs? So what? That wasn't Myron's concern. Myron wasn't Duane's social worker, parole officer, priest, shrink he was his agent. His job was to get the maximum return for his client, not make morality judgments.

On the other hand, what the hell was Duane doing here? Maybe he liked to play the field, fine and dandy, no problem. But tonight of all nights? It's crazy. Tomorrow was the biggest day of Duane's career. Nationally televised match. His first U. S. Open quarterfinal. His first match against a seeded player. The launching of the Nike spots. Kind of a strange night for a romantic tryst in a hotel room.

Duane Richwood, the Wilt Chamberlain of professional tennis.

Myron didn't like it.

Duane had always been a bit of a mystery. In reality Myron knew nothing about his past. He'd been a runaway, or so Duane said, but who knew for sure? Why had he run in the first place? Where was his family now? Myron had created a spin on the facts portraying Duane as the poor street kid struggling to escape the shackles of poverty. But was that the truth? Duane seemed like a good kid intelligent, well-spoken, well-mannered but could that all be an act? The young man Myron had known would not be spending such an important night screwing in a strange hotel room which, of course, circled Myron back to the question: So what?

Myron was his agent. Period. The kid had talent to burn and a terrific court sense. He was good-looking and could make a lot of money in endorsements. In the end, that was all that mattered to an agent Not a player's love life. The kid was a dream on the court. Who cared what he was like off it? Myron was getting too close to this. He had no perspective anymore. He had a business to run, and spying on one of his biggest clients, invading that client's privacy, was not good business sense.

He should leave. He should go to Jessica and talk to her about it, see what she thought.

Ten more minutes.

He needed only two. He switched eyes just as the door to room 322 opened. Duane appeared, or at least the back of him. Myron saw a woman's arms go around his neck, pulling him down. They embraced. He couldn't see the woman's face, just the arms. Myron thought about Wanda's intuition. She had been so sure of herself, so blind to this possibility. Myron understood. He'd been there. Love has a way of putting on the blinders.

"Putting on the blinders," Myron muttered to himself. "Unbelievable."

After the hug broke, Duane straightened up. The woman's arms dropped out of sight. Duane looked ready to leave. Myron pushed his eye closer to the peephole. Duane spun and looked directly at Myron's door. Myron almost jumped back. For a second it was like Duane was looking right at Myron, like he knew Myron was there.

Once again Myron wondered how he had ended up here. If his job included checking on the promiscuity of every athlete he represented, he would spend his life peering through peepholes. Duane was a kid. Twenty-one years old. He wasn't even married or officially engaged. Nothing Myron was seeing was connected in any way with Valerie Simpson's murder.