One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (13 page)

They took Win’s Jaguar to the Bradford estate because, as Win explained, people like the Bradfords “don’t do Taurus.” Neither did Win.

Win dropped Brenda off at practice and headed down Route 80 to Passaic Avenue, which had finally completed a widening program that began when Myron was in high school. They finished up on Eisenhower Parkway, a beautiful four-lane highway that ran for maybe five miles. Ah, New Jersey.

A guard with enormous ears greeted them at the gate of, as the sign said, Bradford Farms. Right. Most farms are known for their electronic fences and security guards. Wouldn’t want anyone getting into the carrots and corn. Win leaned out the window, gave the guy the snooty smile, and was quickly waved through. A strange pang struck Myron as they drove through. How many times had he gone past the gate as a kid,
trying to peer through the thick shrubs for a glance at the proverbial greener grass, dreaming up scenarios for the lush, adventure-filled life that lay within these manicured grounds?

He knew better now, of course. Win’s familial estate, Lockwood Manor, made this place look like a railroad shanty, so Myron had seen up close how the superrich lived. It was indeed pretty, but pretty doesn’t mean happy. Wow. That was deep. Maybe next time Myron would conclude that money can’t buy happiness. Stay tuned.

Scattered cows and sheep helped keep the farm illusion—for the purpose of nostalgia or a tax write-off, Myron could not say, though he had his suspicions. They pulled up to a white farmhouse that had undergone more renovations than an aging movie queen.

An old black man wearing gray butler’s tails answered the door. He gave them a slight bow and asked them to follow him. In the corridor were two goons dressed like Secret Service men. Myron glanced at Win. Win nodded. Not Secret Service guys. Goons. The bigger of the two smiled at them like they were cocktail franks heading back to the kitchen. One big. One skinny. Myron remembered Mabel Edwards’s descriptions of her attackers. Not much to go on if he couldn’t check for a tattoo, but worth keeping in mind.

The butler or manservant or whatever led them into the library. Rounded walls of books climbed three stories high, topped by a glass cupola that let in the proper amount of fresh light. The room might have been a converted silo, or maybe it just looked that way. Hard to tell. The books were leather and in series and untouched.
Cherry mahogany dominated the scene. Paintings of old sailing vessels were framed under portrait lamps. There was a huge antique globe in the center of the room, not unlike the one Win had in his own office. Rich people like old globes, Myron surmised. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they are both expensive and utterly useless.

The chairs and couches were leather with gold buttons. The lamps were Tiffany. A book lay strategically open on a coffee table next to a bust of Shakespeare. Rex Harrison was not sitting in the corner wearing a smoking jacket, but he should have been.

As though on cue, a door on the other side of the room—a bookshelf actually—swung open. Myron half expected Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson to storm into the room calling for Alfred, maybe tilt back the head of Shakespeare, and turn a hidden knob. Instead it was Arthur Bradford, followed by his brother, Chance. Arthur was very tall, probably six-six, thin, and stooped a bit the way tall people over the age of fifty are. He was bald, his fringe hair trimmed short. Chance was under six feet with wavy brown hair and the kind of boyish good looks that made it impossible to tell his age, though Myron knew from the press clippings that he was forty-nine, three years younger than Arthur.

Playing the part of the perfect politician, Arthur beelined toward them, a fake smile at the ready, hand extended in such a way as either to shake hands or to imply that the extended hand hoped to touch more than just flesh.

“Windsor!” Arthur Bradford exclaimed, grasping
Win’s hand as if he’d been searching for it all his life. “How wonderful to see you.”

Chance headed toward Myron like it was a double date and he had gotten stuck with the ugly girl and was used to it.

Win flashed the vague smile. “Do you know Myron Bolitar?”

The brothers switched handshaking partners with the practiced proficiency of experienced square dancers. Shaking Arthur Bradford’s hand was like shaking hands with an old, unoiled baseball glove. Up close, Myron could see that Arthur Bradford was big-boned and rough-hewn and large-featured and red-faced. Still the farm boy under the suit and manicure.

“We’ve never met,” Arthur said through the big smile, “but everyone in Livingston—heck, all of New Jersey—knows Myron Bolitar.”

Myron made his aw-shucks face but refrained from batting his eyes.

“I’ve been watching you play ball since you were in high school,” Arthur continued with great earnestness. “I’m a big fan.”

Myron nodded, knowing that no Bradford had ever stepped foot in Livingston High School’s gymnasium. A politician who stretched the truth. What a shock.

“Please, gentlemen, sit down.”

Everyone grabbed smooth leather. Arthur Bradford offered coffee. Everyone accepted. A Latina woman opened the door. Arthur Bradford said to her,
“Café, por favor.”
Another linguist.

Win and Myron were on a couch. The brothers sat across from them in matching wingback chairs. Coffee
was wheeled in on something that could have doubled as a coach for a palace ball. The coffee was poured and milked and sugared. Then Arthur Bradford, the candidate himself, took over and actually handed Myron and Win their beverages. Regular guy. Man of the people.

Everyone settled back. The servant faded away. Myron raised the cup to his lips. The problem with his new coffee addiction was that he drank only coffee-bar coffee, the potent “gourmet” stuff that could eat through driveway sealant. The at-home brews tasted to his suddenly picky palate like something sucked through a sewer grate on a hot afternoon—this coming from a man who could not tell the difference between a perfectly aged Merlot and a recently stomped Manischewitz. But when Myron took a sip from the Bradfords’ fine china, well, the rich have their ways. The stuff was ambrosia.

Arthur Bradford put down his Wedgwood cup and saucer. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, his hands in a quiet clasp. “First, let me tell you how thrilled I am to have you both here. Your support means a great deal to me.”

Bradford turned toward Win. Win’s face was totally neutral, patient.

“I understand Lock-Horne Securities wants to expand its Florham Park office and open a new one in Bergen County,” Bradford went on. “If I can be of any help at all, Windsor, please let me know.”

Win gave a noncommittal nod.

“And if there are any state bonds Lock-Horne has any interest in underwriting, well, again I would be at your disposal.”

Arthur Bradford sat up on his haunches now, as though waiting for a scratch behind the ears. Win rewarded him with another noncommittal nod. Good doggie. Hadn’t taken Bradford long to start with the graft, had it? Bradford cleared his throat and turned his attention to Myron.

“I understand, Myron, that you own a sports representation company.”

He tried to imitate the Win nod, but he went too far. Not subtle enough. Must be something in the genes.

“If there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Can I sleep in the Lincoln bedroom?” Myron asked.

The brothers froze for a moment, looked at each other, then exploded into laughter. The laughs were about as genuine as a televangelist’s hair. Win looked over at Myron. The look said, go ahead.

“Actually, Mr. Bradford—”

Through his laugh he stuck up a hand the size of a throw pillow and said, “Please, Myron, call me Arthur.”

“Arthur, right. There is something you can do for us.”

Arthur and Chance’s laughter segued into chuckles before fading away like a song on the radio. Their faces grew harder now. Game time. They both leaned into the strike zone a bit, signaling to one and all that they were going to listen to Myron’s problem with four of the most sympathetic ears in existence.

“Do you remember a woman named Anita Slaughter?” Myron asked.

They were good, both of them thoroughbred politicians, but their bodies still jolted as if they’d been zapped with a stun gun. They recovered fast enough, busying themselves with the pretense of scouring for a recollection, but there was no doubt. A nerve had been jangled big time.

“I can’t place the name,” Arthur said, his face twisted as though he’d given this thought process an effort equal to childbirth. “Chance?”

“The name is not unfamiliar,” Chance said, “but …” He shook his head.

Not unfamiliar. You gotta love it when they speak politicianese.

“Anita Slaughter worked here,” Myron said. “Twenty years ago. She was a maid or house servant of some kind.”

Again the deep, probing thought. If Rodin were here, he’d break out the good bronze for these guys. Chance kept his eyes on his brother, waiting for his stage cue. Arthur Bradford held the pose for a few more seconds before he suddenly snapped his fingers.

“Of course,” he said. “Anita. Chance, you remember Anita.”

“Yes, of course,” Chance chimed in. “I guess I never knew her last name.”

They were both smiling now like morning anchors during a sweeps week.

“How long did she work for you?” Myron asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Arthur said. “A year or two, I guess. I really don’t remember. Chance and I weren’t
responsible for household help, of course. That was more Mother’s doing.”

Already with the “plausible deniability.” Interesting. “Do you remember why she left your family’s employ?”

Arthur Bradford’s smile stayed frozen, but something was happening to his eyes. His pupils were expanding, and for a moment it looked like he was having trouble focusing. He turned to Chance. They both looked uncertain now, not sure how to handle this sudden frontal assault, not wanting to answer but not wanting to lose the potentially massive Lock-Horne Securities support either.

Arthur took the lead. “No, I don’t remember.” When in doubt, evade. “Do you, Chance?”

Chance spread his hands and gave them the boyish smile. “So many people in and out.” He looked to Win as if to say, You know how it is. But Win’s eyes, as usual, offered no solace.

“Did she quit or was she fired?”

“Oh, I doubt she was fired,” Arthur said quickly. “My mother was very good to the help. She rarely, if ever, fired anyone. Not in her nature.”

The man was pure politician. The answer might be true or not—that was pretty much irrelevant to Arthur Bradford—but under any circumstances, a poor black woman fired as a servant by a wealthy family would not play well in the press. A politician innately sees this and calculates his response in a matter of seconds; reality and truth must always take a backseat to the gods of sound bite and perception.

Myron pressed on. “According to her family, Anita Slaughter worked here until the day she disappeared.”

They both were too smart to bite and say, “Disappeared?,” but Myron decided to wait them out anyway. People hate silence and often jump in just to break it. This was an old cop trick: Say nothing and let them dig their own graves with explanations. With politicians the results were always interesting: They were smart enough to know they should keep their mouths shut, yet genetically incapable of doing so.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur Bradford said at last. “As I explained earlier, Mother handled these matters.”

“Then maybe I should talk to her,” Myron said.

“Mother is not well, I’m afraid. She’s in her eighties, poor dear.”

“I’d still like to try.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

There was just a hint of steel in his voice now.

“I see,” Myron said. “Do you know who Horace Slaughter is?”

“No,” Arthur said. “I assume he’s a relative of Anita’s?”

“Her husband.” Myron looked over at Chance. “You know him?”

“Not that I recall,” Chance said. Not that I recall. Like he was on a witness stand, needing to leave himself the out.

“According to his phone records, he’s been calling your campaign headquarters a lot lately.”

“Many people call our campaign headquarters,” Arthur said. Then he added with a small chuckle, “At least I hope they do.”

Chance chuckled too. Real yucksters, these Bradford boys.

“Yeah, I guess.” Myron looked at Win. Win nodded. Both men stood up.

“Thank you for your time,” Win said. “We’ll show ourselves out.”

The two politicians tried not to look too stunned. Chance finally cracked a bit. “What the hell is this?” Arthur silenced him with a look. He rose to shake hands, but Myron and Win were already at the door.

Myron turned and did his best Columbo. “Funny.”

“What?” Arthur Bradford said.

“That you don’t remember Anita Slaughter better. I thought you would.”

Arthur turned his palms upward. “We’ve had lots of people work here over the years.”

“True,” Myron said, stepping through the portal. “But how many of them found your wife’s dead body?”

The two men turned to marble—still and smooth and cool. Myron did not wait for more. He released the door and followed Win out.