One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (24 page)

“Yes,” Myron said. “For the third time in the past hour someone is threatening me.”

“You don’t appear too frightened.”

“I don’t scare easily.” Half truth. Showing fear was unhealthy; you show fear, you’re dead. “So let’s cut the crap. There are questions here. I can ask them. Or the press can.”

Bradford took his time again. The man was nothing if not careful. “I still don’t understand,” he said. “What’s your interest in this?”

Still stalling with questions. “I told you. The daughter.”

“And when you came here the first time, you were looking for her father?”

“Yes.”

“And you came to me because this Horace Slaughter had called my office?”

Myron nodded. Slowly.

Bradford threw on the baffled face again. “Then why on God’s green earth did you ask about my wife? If indeed you were solely interested in Horace Slaughter, why were you so preoccupied with Anita Slaughter and what happened twenty years ago?”

The room fell silent, save for the gentle whisper of the pool waves. Light reflected off the water, bouncing to and fro like an erratic screen saver. They were at the crux of it now, and both men knew it. Myron thought about it a moment. He kept his eyes on Bradford’s and wondered how much to say and how he could use it. Negotiating. Life was like being a sports agent, a series of negotiations.

“Because I wasn’t just looking for Horace Slaughter,” Myron said slowly. “I was looking for Anita Slaughter.”

Bradford wrestled to maintain control over his facial expressions and body language. But Myron’s words still caused a sharp intake of air. His complexion lost a bit of color. He was good, no doubt about it, but there was something there.

Bradford spoke slowly. “Anita Slaughter disappeared twenty years ago, did she not?”

“Yes.”

“And you think she’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

To get information, you had to give it. Myron knew
that. You had to prime the pump. But Myron was flooding it now. Time to stop and reverse the flow. “Why would you care?”

“I don’t.” Bradford hardly sounded convincing. “But I assumed that she was dead.”

“Why?”

“She seemed like a decent woman. Why would she have run off and abandoned her child like that?”

“Maybe she was afraid,” Myron said.

“Of her husband?”

“Of you.”

That froze him. “Why would she be afraid of me?”

“You tell me, Arthur.”

“I have no idea.”

Myron nodded. “And your wife accidentally slipped off that terrace twenty years ago, right?”

Bradford did not reply.

“Anita Slaughter just came to work one morning and found your wife dead from a fall,” Myron continued. “She’d slipped off her own balcony in the rainy dark and no one noticed. Not you. Not your brother. No one. Anita just happened by her dead body. Isn’t that what happened?”

Bradford wasn’t cracking, but Myron could sense some fault lines starting to open a touch. “You don’t know anything.”

“Then tell me.”

“I loved my wife. I loved her with everything I had.”

“So what happened to her?”

Bradford took a few breaths, tried to regain control. “She fell,” he said. Then, thinking further, he asked,
“Why would you think that my wife’s death has anything to do with Anita’s disappearance?” His voice was stronger now, the timbre coming back. “In fact, if I recall correctly, Anita stayed on after the accident. She left our employ well after Elizabeth’s tragedy.”

True enough. And a point that kept irritating Myron like a grain of sand in the retina.

“So why do you keep harping on my wife’s death?” Bradford pressed.

Myron had no answer, so he parried with a couple of questions. “Why is everyone so concerned about that police file? Why are the cops so worried?”

“The same reason I am,” he said. “It’s an election year. Looking into old files is suspicious behavior. That’s all there is to it. My wife died in an accident. End of story.” His voice was growing stronger still. Negotiation can have more momentum shifts than a basketball game. If so, the Big Mo’ was back on Bradford’s side. “Now you answer a question for me: Why do you think Anita Slaughter is still alive? I mean, if the family hasn’t heard from her in twenty years?”

“Who says they haven’t heard from her?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying they have?”

Myron shrugged. He had to be oh-so-careful here. If Anita Slaughter were indeed hiding from this guy—and if Bradford did indeed believe she was dead—how would he react to evidence that she was still alive? Wouldn’t he logically try to find her and silence her? Interesting thought. But at the same time, if Bradford had been secretly paying her off, as Myron had earlier theorized, he would know she was alive. At the very
least he would know that she had run away instead of having met up with foul play.

So what was going on here?

“I think I’ve said enough,” Myron said.

Bradford took a long pull on his lemonade glass, draining it. He stirred the pitcher and poured himself another. He gestured toward Myron’s glass. Myron shook him off. Both men settled back.

“I would like to hire you,” Bradford said.

Myron tried a smile. “As?”

“An adviser of sorts. Security, perhaps. I want to hire you to keep me up-to-date on your investigation. Hell, I have enough morons on the payroll in charge of damage control. Who better than the inside man? You’ll be able to prepare me for a potential scandal. What do you say?”

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Don’t be so hasty,” Bradford said. “I will pledge my cooperation as well as that of my staff’s.”

“Right. And if something bad turns up, you squash it.”

“I won’t deny that I’ll be interested in making sure the facts are put in the proper light.”

“Or shade.”

He smiled. “You’re not keeping your eyes on the prize, Myron. Your client is not interested in me or my political career. She is interested in finding her mother. I’d like to help.”

“Sure, you would. After all, helping people is why you got into politics in the first place.”

Bradford shook his head. “I’m making you a serious offer, and you choose to be glib.”

“It’s not that.” Time to shift the momentum again. Myron chose his words carefully. “Even if I wanted to,” he said, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I mentioned a second condition before.”

Bradford put a finger to his lips. “So you did.”

“I already work for Brenda Slaughter. She must remain my primary concern in this matter.”

Bradford put his hand behind his neck. Relaxed. “Yes, of course.”

“You read the papers. The police think she did it.”

“Well, you’ll have to admit,” Bradford said, “she makes a good suspect.”

“Maybe. But if they arrest her, I’ll have to act in her best interest.” Myron looked straight at him. “That means I’ll have to toss out any information that will lead the police to look at other potential suspects.”

Bradford smiled. He saw where this was going. “Including me.”

Myron turned both palms up and shrugged. “What choice would I have? My client must come first.” Slight hesitation. “But of course none of that will occur if Brenda Slaughter remains free.”

Still the smile. “Ah,” Bradford said.

Myron kept still.

Bradford sat up and put up both hands in stop position. “Say no more.”

Myron didn’t.

“It’ll be dealt with.” Bradford checked his watch. “Now I must get dressed. Campaign obligations.”

They both rose. Bradford stuck out his hand. Myron shook it. Bradford had not come clean, but Myron had
not expected him to. They’d both learned a bit here. Myron was not sure who had gotten the better of the deal. But the first rule of any negotiation is not to be a pig. If you just keep taking, it will backfire in the long run.

Still he wondered.

“Good-bye,” Bradford said, still shaking the hand. “I do hope you’ll keep me up-to-date on your progress.”

The two men released their grips. Myron looked at Bradford. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking:

“Do you know my father?”

Bradford angled his head and smiled. “Did he tell you that?”

“No. Your friend Sam mentioned it.”

“Sam has worked for me a long time.”

“I didn’t ask about Sam. I asked about my father.”

Mattius opened the door. Bradford motioned to it.

“Why don’t you ask your father, Myron? Maybe it will help clarify the situation.”

As Mattius the Manservant led Myron back down the long corridor, the same two words kept rocking through Myron’s bone-dry skull:

My father?

Myron searched for a memory, a casual mention of the Bradford name in the house, a political tête-à-tête surrounding Livingston’s most prominent resident. Nothing came to him.

So how did Bradford know his father?

Big Guy Mario and Skinny Sam were in the foyer. Mario stamped back and forth as though the very floor had pissed him off. His arms and hands gestured with the subtlety of a Jerry Lewis flick. If he had been a cartoon character, smoke would have been power-shooting out of both ears.

Skinny Sam pulled on a Marlboro, leaning against the banister like Sinatra waiting for Dino. Sam had that
ease. Like Win. Myron could engage in violence, and he was good at it, but there were adrenal spikes and tingling legs and postcombat cold sweats when he did so. That was normal, of course. Only a rare few had the ability to disconnect, to remain calm in the eye, to view the outbursts in slow motion.

Big Guy Mario stormed toward Myron. His fists were clenched at his sides. His face was contorted like it’d been pressed up against a glass door. “You’re dead, asshole. You hear me? Dead. Dead and buried. I’m gonna take you outside and—”

Myron snapped up the knee again. And again it found its target. Big Dope Mario landed hard on the cool marble and thrashed around like a dying fish.

“Today’s friendly tip,” Myron said. “A protective cup is a worthwhile investment, though not as a drinking receptacle.”

Myron looked over at Sam. Sam still rested on the banister. He took another drag of the cigarette and let the smoke ease out of his nostrils.

“New guy,” Sam said in way of explanation.

Myron nodded.

“Sometimes you just want to scare stupid people,” Sam said. “Stupid people are scared by big muscles.” Another drag. “But don’t let his incompetence get you cocky.”

Myron looked down. He was about to crack wise, but he stopped himself and shook his head. Cocky, a knee in the balls.

Too easy.

Win waited by Myron’s car. He was bent slightly at the waist, practicing his golf swing. He did not have a club or a ball, of course. Remember blasting rock music and jumping on your bed and playing air guitar? Golfers do the same thing. They hear some internal sounds of nature, step on imaginary first tees, and swing air clubs. Air woods usually. Sometimes, when they want more control, they take air irons out of their air bags. And like teens with air guitars, golfers like to watch themselves in mirrors. Win, for example, often checks out his reflection in store windows. He stops on the sidewalk, makes sure his grip is right, checks his backswing, recocks his wrists, whatever.

“Win?”

“A moment.”

Win had repositioned Myron’s passenger side mirror for a better full-body view. He stopped mid-swing, spotted something in the reflection, frowned.

“Remember,” Myron said, “Objects in the mirror may appear smaller than they are.”

Win ignored him. He readdressed the, uh, ball, selected an air sand wedge, and tried a little air chip. From the look on Win’s face the, uh, ball landed on the green and rolled within three feet of the cup. Win smiled and put up a hand to acknowledge the, uh, appreciative crowd.

Golfers.

“How did you get here so fast?” Myron asked.

“Batcopter.”

Lock-Horne Securities had a helicopter and a landing pad on the roof. Win had probably flown to a nearby field and jogged over.

“So you heard everything?”

Win nodded.

“What do you think?”

“Wasteful,” Win said.

“Right, I should have shot him in the knee.”

“Well, yes, there is that. But in this instance I am referring to the entire matter.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that Arthur Bradford may be on to something. You are not keeping your eyes on the prize.”

“And what is the prize?”

Win smiled. “Exactly.”

Myron nodded. “Yet again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He unlocked the car doors, and the two men slid into their seats. The Leatherette was hot from the sun. The air conditioner sputtered out something close to warm spit.

“On occasion,” Win said, “we have performed extracurricular duties for one reason or another. But there was, for the most part, a purpose. A goal, if you will. We knew what we were trying to accomplish.”

“And you don’t think that’s the case here?”

“Correct.”

“I’ll give you three goals then,” Myron said. “One, I’m trying to find Anita Slaughter. Two, I’m trying to find Horace Slaughter’s killer. Three, I’m trying to protect Brenda.”