The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (43 page)

“Oh?”

“I told him you and I were friends. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Myron said.

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.”

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.

Until Duane finally stepped away.

Duane had given the woman one more brief hug. There had been muffled voices, but Myron couldn’t make out any specific words. Duane looked left, then right, then moved away. The woman was already starting to close the door, but she glanced out one last time. And that was when Myron saw her.

The woman was Deanna Yeller.

26

The morning.

Myron had not confronted Duane. He’d stumbled to Jessica’s in something of a daze. He’d opened the door with his key and said, “I’m sorry. I had to—”

Jessica shushed him with a kiss. Then a bigger kiss. Hungrier kiss. Myron tried to fight off her advances, though some might call his struggle less than valiant.

He rolled over in the bed. Jessica was gently padding across the room. Naked. She slipped into a silk robe. He watched, as he always did, with utter fascination. “You’re so hot,” he said, “you make my teeth sweat.”

She smiled. There is something that happens to men when Jessica looks at them. Shallow breathing. Fluttering stomach. A cruel longing. But her smile raised all those symptoms to the tenth power.

“Good morning,” she said. She bent down and kissed him gently. “How are you feeling?”

“My ears are still popping from last night.”

“Nice to know I still have the touch,” she said.

The understatement of the millennium. “Tell me about your trip.”

“Tell me about your murder first.”

He did. Jess was a great listener. She never interrupted, except to ask the right question. She looked at him steadily without a lot of that phony head nodding or out-of-context smiling. Her eyes focused in on him as if he were the only person in the world. He felt light-headed and happy and scared.

“This Valerie got to you,” Jessica said when he finished.

“She had no one. Her life was in danger and she had no one.”

“She had you.”

“I only met her once. She wasn’t even signed yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. She knew what you were. If I were in trouble, you’d be the person I’d run to.” She tilted her head. “How did you know my room number and hotel?”

“Aaron. He was trying to be intimidating. He succeeded.”

“Aaron threatened to hurt me?”

“You, me, my mom, Esperanza.”

She hesitated, thinking. “Esperanza would be my choice. I mean, if it has to be one of us.”

“I’ll tell him.” He took her hand. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“No third degree?”

Myron shook his head.

“But I owe you an explanation.”

“I don’t want one,” he said. “I just want to be with you. I love you. I’ve always loved you. We are soul mates.”

“Soul mates?”

He nodded.

“When did you decide this?” she asked.

“A long time ago.”

“So why not tell me before now?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s more important to tell you how I feel.”

The room was still. “What am I supposed to say to that?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“I do love you, Myron. You know that.”

“I know.”

Silence. A long silence.

Jessica crossed the room. Naked. She was not self-conscious about her body. Then again, she had no reason to be. “It seems to me,” she began, “there are a lot of weird connections with this murder. But there is one overriding constant.”

Change of subjects. That was okay. Enough had been said for one day. “What?” Myron asked.

“Tennis,” she said. “Alexander Cross is killed at a tennis club. Valerie Simpson is murdered at the national tennis center. Valerie and Duane have an affair—both are professional tennis players. Those two kids who supposedly killed Alexander Cross—what’s their names?”

“Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller.”

“Swade and Yeller,” she repeated. “They were both up to no good at a tennis club. The Ache brothers and Aaron are connected to an agency who deals with tennis players. That leaves us with Deanna Yeller.”

“What about her?”

“Her sleeping with Duane. It can’t just be a coincidence.”

“So?”

“So how would she have met Duane?”

“I don’t know,” Myron said.

“Does she play tennis?”

“What if she does?”

“Keeps things constant.” She stopped. “I don’t know. I’m ranting. It’s just that everything circles back to tennis—except for Deanna Yeller.”

Myron thought about it a moment. Nothing clicked, but something did rumble somewhere in the back of his brain.

“Just a thought,” she said.

He sat up. “Before you said ‘supposedly’ killed Alexander Cross. What did you mean?”

“What real evidence do you have that Swade and Yeller murdered the Cross kid?” she asked. “They might have just been convenient scapegoats. Think about it a second. Yeller was conveniently killed by the police. Swade has conveniently fallen off the face of the earth. Who better to take the fall?”

“Then who do you think killed Alexander Cross?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Probably Swade and Yeller. But who knows for sure?”

More rumbling in the brain. But still nothing surfaced. Myron checked his watch. Seven-thirty.

“You in a rush?” she asked.

“A little.”

“I thought Duane Richwood doesn’t play until one,” she said.

“I’m trying to land a kid named Eddie Crane. He’s playing in the juniors at ten.”

“Can I come along?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“What are your chances of landing him?” she asked.

“I think they’re pretty good. His father might be a problem.”

“The father doesn’t like you?”

“I think he’d prefer a bigger agency,” Myron said.

“Should I smile sweetly at him?” she asked.

Myron thought a moment. “Flash a little cleavage. I’m not sure this guy’s into subtle.”

“Anything to get a client,” she said.

“Maybe you should practice a little first,” he said.

“Practice what?”

“Flashing cleavage. I’m told it’s something of an art.”

“I see. And on whom should I practice?”

Myron spread his hands. “I’m willing to volunteer my services.”

“The sacrifices you make for clients,” she said. “It’s heroic, really.”

“So what do you say?”

Jessica gave him a look.
The
look, actually. Myron felt it in his toes, to name one place. She leaned toward him. “No.”

“No?”

She put her lips to his ear. “Let’s try out my new oils first.”

One word: Yowzer.