One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (19 page)

“Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not playing games.”

“Why did you want to see that file?”

“I told you. I’m not sure it was an accident.”

“What makes you unsure?”

“Nothing concrete. Why? What happened?”

Francine shook her head. “I want to know what’s going on,” she said. “The whole story.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“Right. Yesterday you woke up and you said to yourself, ‘Hey, that accidental death that occurred twenty years ago, I bet it wasn’t an accident at all. So I’ll go ask my old buddy Francine to get the police file for me.’ That what happened, Myron?”

“No.”

“So start talking.”

Myron hesitated a moment. “Let’s say that I’m right, that Elizabeth Bradford’s death was not an accident. And let’s say there is something in those files that proves it. That would mean the police covered it up, right?”

She shrugged, still not looking at him. “Maybe.”

“And maybe they would want it to stay buried.”

“Maybe.”

“So maybe they would want to know what I know. Maybe they would even send an old friend to make me talk.”

Francine’s head snapped around as if someone had pulled a string. “You accusing me of something, Myron?”

“No,” he said. “But if there’s a cover-up going on, how do I know I can trust you?”

She rehugged her knees. “Because there is no cover-up,” she said. “I saw the file. A little thin, but nothing unusual. Elizabeth Bradford fell. There were no signs of a struggle.”

“They did an autopsy?”

“Yep. She landed on her head. The impact crushed her skull.”

“Tox screen?”

“They didn’t run one.”

“Why not?”

“She died from a fall, not an overdose.”

“But a tox screen would have shown if she’d been drugged,” Myron said.

“So?”

“There were no signs of a struggle, okay, but what would have prevented someone from drugging her and then dumping her over the side?”

Francine made a face. “And maybe little green men pushed her.”

“Hey, if this was a poor couple and the wife had accidentally fallen off her fire escape—”

“But this wasn’t a poor couple, Myron. It was the Bradfords. Did they get preferential treatment? Probably. But even if Elizabeth Bradford had been drugged, it still doesn’t add up to murder. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Now it was Myron’s turn to look confused. “How do you figure?”

“The fall was only three stories,” Francine said. “A short three stories.”

“So?”

“So a murderer who pushed her off that terrace could not have counted on that low a fall killing her. More likely she would have just broken a leg or something.”

Myron stopped. He had not thought of that. But it made sense. Pushing someone off a third-floor balcony with the hopes that she would land on her head and die was risky at best. Arthur Bradford did not hit Myron as a man who took risks.

So what did that mean?

“Maybe she was hit over the head beforehand,” Myron tried.

Francine shook her head. “The autopsy didn’t show any signs of an earlier blow. And they also checked the rest of the house. There was no blood anywhere. They
might have cleaned it up, of course, but I doubt we’ll ever know.”

“So there’s absolutely nothing suspicious in the report?”

“Nothing,” she said.

Myron raised his hands. “So why are we out here? Trying to recapture our lost youth?”

Francine looked at him. “Somebody broke into my house.”

“What?”

“After I read the file. It was supposed to look like a burglary, but it was a search. A thorough one. The place is trashed. Then right after that Roy Pomeranz calls me. Remember him?”

“No.”

“He was Wickner’s old partner.”

“Oh, right,” Myron said, “an early musclehead?”

“That’s him. He’s chief of detectives now. So yesterday he calls me into his office, something he’s never done before. He wants to know why I was looking at the old Bradford file.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I made up some bullshit story about studying old police techniques.”

Myron made a face. “And Pomeranz bought that?”

“No, he didn’t buy it,” Francine snapped. “He wanted to slam me against a wall and shake the truth out of me. But he was afraid. He was pretending like his questions were just routine, no big deal, but you should have seen his face. He looked maybe half an egg sandwich away from a coronary. He claimed that he was worried about the implications of what I was doing
because it was an election year. I nodded a lot and apologized and bought his story about as much as he bought mine. When I drove home, I spotted a tail. I shook it this morning, and here we are.”

“And they trashed your place?”

“Yup. The work of professionals.” Francine stood now and moved closer to him. “So now that I’ve stepped into a pail of snakes for you, you want to tell me why I’m taking all these bites?”

Myron considered his options, but there weren’t any. He had indeed gotten her into this mess. She had a right to know.

“You read this morning’s paper?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You see the story on the murder of Horace Slaughter?”

“Yes.” Then she held a hand out as though to silence him. “There was a Slaughter in the file. But it was a woman. A maid or something. She found the body.”

“Anita Slaughter. The victim’s wife.”

Her face lost a little color. “Oh, Christ, I don’t like the sound of this. Go on.”

So he did. He told her the whole story. When he finished, Francine looked down below them at the patch of grass where she had captained the field hockey team. She chewed on her lower lip.

“One thing,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s important or not. But Anita Slaughter had been assaulted before Elizabeth Bradford’s death.”

Myron took a step back. “What do you mean, assaulted?”

“In the report. Wickner wrote that the witness,
Anita Slaughter, still displayed abrasions from the earlier assault.”

“What assault? When?”

“I don’t know. That’s all it said.”

“So how do we find out?”

“There might be a police report on it in the basement,” she said. “But—”

“Right, you can’t risk it.”

Francine checked her watch. She moved toward him. “I got some errands to run before I start my shift.”

“Be careful,” he said. “Assume your phone is tapped and your house bugged. Assume at all times you’re being followed. If you spot a tail, call me on the cell phone.”

Francine Neagly nodded. Then she looked down at the field again. “High school,” she said softly. “Ever miss it?”

Myron looked at her.

She smiled. “Yeah, me neither.”

On the ride back to his house the cell phone rang. Myron picked it up.

“I got the information on Slaughter’s credit card.” Win. Another one who loved to exchange pleasantries. It was still before eight in the morning.

Myron said, “You’re awake?”

“My God, man.” Win waited a beat. “What gave it away?”

“No, I mean, you usually sleep late.”

“I haven’t gone to bed yet.”

“Oh.” Myron almost asked what he’d been doing, but he knew better. When it came to Win and the night, ignorance was quite often bliss.

“Only one charge in the past two weeks,” Win said. “A week ago Thursday Horace used his Discover card at the Holiday Inn in Livingston.”

Myron shook his head. Livingston. Again. The day before Horace vanished. “How much?”

“Twenty-six dollars even.”

Curious amount. “Thanks.”

Click.

Livingston. Horace Slaughter had been in Livingston. Myron replayed the theory that had been rumbling in his head since last night. It was looking better and better.

By the time he got back to his house, Brenda was showered and dressed. The cornrows in her hair cascaded down her shoulders in a wondrous dark wave. The
café con leche
skin was luminous. She gave him a smile that corkscrewed right through his heart.

He wanted very much to hold her.

“I called Aunt Mabel,” Brenda said. “People are gathering at her house.”

“I’ll drop you off.”

They said good-bye to Mom. Mom warned them sternly not to talk to the police without an attorney present. And to wear seat belts.

When they got in the car, Brenda said, “Your parents are great.”

“Yeah, I guess they are.”

“You’re lucky.”

He nodded.

Silence. Then Brenda said, “I keep waiting for one of us to say, ‘About last night.’”

Myron smiled. “Me too.”

“I don’t want to forget it.”

Myron swallowed. “Neither do I.”

“So what do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Decisiveness,” she said. “I love that in a man.”

He smiled again and turned right on Hobart Gap Road.

Brenda said, “I thought West Orange was the other way.”

“I want to make a quick stop, if you don’t mind.”

“Where?”

“The Holiday Inn. According to your father’s charge cards, he was there a week ago Thursday. It was the last time he used any of his cards. I think he met someone for a meal or drinks.”

“How do you know he didn’t stay overnight?”

“The charge was for twenty-six dollars even. That’s too low for a room yet too high for a meal for one. It’s also a straight twenty-six dollars. No cents. When people tip, they often round off. Best guess is that he met someone there for lunch.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Myron gave a half shrug. “I have the photograph of Horace from the paper. I’m going to show it around and see what happens.”

On Route 10 he made a left and pulled into the Holiday Inn lot. They were less than two miles from Myron’s house. The Holiday Inn was a typical two-level highway motel. Myron had last been here four years ago. An old high school buddy’s bachelor party. Someone had hired a black hooker aptly named Danger. Danger put on a supposed “sex show” far closer to freaky than erotic. She also handed out business cards. They read:
“FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL DANGER.”
Original.
And now that Myron thought about it, he bet that Danger was not even her real name.

“You want to wait in the car?” he asked.

Brenda shook her head. “I’ll walk around a little.”

The lobby had prints of flowers on the wall. The carpet was pale green. The reception desk was on the right. A plastic sculpture that looked like two fish tails stuck together was on the left. Serious ugly.

Breakfast was still being served. Buffet-style. Dozens of people jockeyed about the spread, moving as though choreographed—step forward, spoon food onto plate, step back, step right, step forward again. Nobody bumped into anyone else. Hands and mouths were a blur. The whole thing looked a bit like a Discovery Channel special on the anthill.

A perky hostess stepped up to him. “How many?”

Myron put on his best cop face, adding just a hint of a smile. From his Peter Jennings line—professional yet accessible. He cleared his throat and asked, “Have you seen this man?” Just like that. No preamble.

He held up the photograph from the newspaper. The perky hostess studied it. She did not ask who he was; as he had hoped, his demeanor made her assume that he was someone official.

“I’m not the one to ask,” the hostess said. “You should speak to Caroline.”

“Caroline?” Myron Bolitar, Parrot Investigator.

“Caroline Gundeck. She was the one who had lunch with him.”

Every once in a while you just get lucky.

“Would that have been last Thursday?” he asked.

The hostess thought about it a moment. “I think so, yeah.”

“Where can I find Miss Gundeck?”

“Her office is on level B. Down at the end of the corridor.”

“Caroline Gundeck works here?” He’d been told that Caroline Gundeck has an office on level B, and just like that he’d deduced that she worked here. Sherlock reincarnated.

“Caroline’s worked here forever,” the hostess said with a friendly eye roll.

“What’s her title?”

“Food and beverage manager.”

Hmm. Her occupation was not enlightening—unless Horace had been planning to throw a party before his murder. Doubtful. Nonetheless, this was a solid clue. He took the steps down to the basement and quickly found her office. But his luck did not hold. A secretary informed him that Miss Gundeck was not in today. Was she expected? The secretary would not say. Could he get her home number? The secretary frowned. Myron did not push it. Caroline Gundeck had to live in the area. Getting her phone number and address would be no problem.

Back in the corridor Myron dialed information. He asked for Gundeck in Livingston. Nothing. He asked for Gundeck in East Hanover or the area. Bingo. There was a C Gundeck in Whippany. Myron dialed the number. After four rings a machine picked up. Myron left a message.

When he came back up to the lobby, he found Brenda standing alone in a corner. Her face looked
drained, her eyes wide as though someone had just poked her hard in the solar plexus. She did not move or even glance his way as he approached.

“What is it?” he asked.

Brenda gulped some air and turned to him. “I think I’ve been here before,” she said.