The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (71 page)

Chapter 22

When Myron got back to the office, Esperanza was at the reception desk.

“Where’s Big Cyndi?” Myron asked.

“Having lunch.”

The image of Fred Flintstone’s car tipping over from the weight of his Bronto-ribs flashed in front of Myron’s eyes.

“Win filled me in on what’s been going on,” Esperanza said. She wore an aqua-blue blouse open at the throat. A gold heart on a slender chain dangled proudly against the dark skin of her sternum. Her always-mussed hair was slightly entangled in big hoop earrings. She pushed the hair back with one finger. “So what happened at the house?”

He explained about the cleaned-up blood and the baseball bat. Esperanza usually liked to do other things while she listened. She wasn’t right now. She stared square into his eyes. When she looked at you like that, there was such intensity it was sometimes hard to look back.

“I’m not sure I understand,” she said. “You and Win found blood in the basement two days ago.”

“Right.”

“Since then, someone cleaned up that blood—but they left behind the murder weapon?”

“So it appears.”

Esperanza considered this for a moment. “Could it have been a maid?”

“The police already checked on that. She hasn’t been there in three weeks.”

“Do you have a thought?”

He nodded. “Someone is trying to frame Greg. It’s the only logical explanation.”

She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “By planting and then cleaning up blood?”

“No, let’s start from the beginning.” He grabbed the chair and sat in front of her. He had been going over it in his mind the whole ride back, and he wanted to talk it out. In the corner on his left, the fax machine sounded its digitally primordial screech. Myron waited for the sound to subside. “Okay,” he said, “first I’m going to assume that the killer knew Greg was with Liz Gorman that night—maybe he followed them, maybe he was waiting for them near her apartment. Whatever, he knows they were together.”

Esperanza nodded, stood. She walked over to the fax machine to check the incoming transmission.

“After Greg leaves, the killer murders Liz Gorman. Knowing that Downing would make a good fall guy, he takes some blood from the murder scene and plants it at Greg’s house. That will raise suspicion. To put the icing on the cake, the killer also takes the murder weapon and plants it behind the dryer.”

“But you just said the blood was cleaned up,” she interjected.

“Right. Here’s where it gets a little tricky. Suppose, for example, I wanted to protect Greg Downing. I go into his house and find the blood. Now remember, I want to protect Greg from a murder rap. So what would I do?”

She squinted at the fax coming through. “Clean up the blood.”

“Exactly.”

“Wow, thanks. Do I get a gold star? Get on with it already.”

“Just bear with me, okay? I would see the blood and clean it up. But—and here’s the important part—the first time I was in that house I
never
saw the bat. That’s not just in this example. That’s real life. Win and I only saw the blood in the basement. No baseball bat.”

“Hold on,” she said. “You’re saying someone cleaned up the blood to protect Greg from a murder rap but didn’t know about the bat?”

“Right.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

Esperanza shook her head. She moved back to her desk and hit some keys on her computer keyboard. “It doesn’t add up.”

“Why not?”

“Suppose I’m madly in love with Greg Downing,” she said, moving back to the fax machine. “I’m in his house. For some reason I can’t fathom, I’m in his kids’ playroom. Doesn’t matter where I am. Imagine I’m in my own apartment. Or I’m visiting your house. I could be anywhere.”

“Okay.”

“I see blood on the floor or on the walls or wherever.” She stopped, looked at him. “What conclusion would you logically expect me to draw?”

Myron shook his head. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Esperanza thought a moment. “Suppose you left here right now,” she began, “and went back to the bitch’s loft.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Whatever. Suppose when you walked in, you found blood on her walls. What would be your first reaction?”

Myron nodded slowly. Now he saw what she was getting at. “I’d be worried about Jessica.”

“And your second reaction? After you found out she was okay?”

“Curiosity, I guess. Whose blood is it? How did it get there? That sort of thing.”

“Right,” she said with a quick nod. “Would you think to yourself, ‘Gee, I better clean it up before the bitch gets accused of murdering somebody’?”

“Stop calling her that.”

Esperanza waved him off. “Would you think that or not?”

“Not in that circumstance, no,” Myron said. “So in order for my theory to hold water—”

“Your protector had to know about the murder,” she finished for him, back checking her computer for something. “He or she would also have to know that Greg was somehow involved.”

Myron’s head spun with possibilities. “You think Greg killed her,” he said. “You think he went back to his house after the murder and left behind some traces of the crime—like blood in the basement. Then he sent this protector back to the house to help cover his tracks.”

Esperanza made a face. “Where the hell did you come up with that?”

“I just—”

“That’s not what I think at all,” Esperanza said. She stapled the fax pages together. “If Greg sent someone to get rid of the evidence, the weapon would be gone too.”

“Right. So that leaves us where?”

Esperanza shrugged, circled something on the fax page with a red marker. “You’re the great detective. You figure it out.”

Myron thought about it a moment. Another answer—one he prayed was wrong—came to him all at once. “There’s another possibility,” he said.

“What?”

“Clip Arnstein.”

“What about him?”

“I told Clip about the blood in the basement,” Myron said.

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

“How did he react?”

“He freaked, pretty much,” Myron said. “He’s also got motive—any scandal will destroy his chances of keeping control of the Dragons. Hell, that’s why he hired me. To keep any trouble contained. Nobody else even knew about the blood in the basement.” Myron stopped. He leaned back and ran it through his mind again. “Of course I haven’t had a chance to tell Clip about Liz Gorman’s murder. He didn’t even know the blood wasn’t Greg’s. All he knew was that there was blood in the basement. Would he go that far just on that? Would he still risk covering it all up if he didn’t know anything about Liz Gorman?”

Esperanza gave him a small smile. “Maybe he knows more than you think,” she said.

“What makes you say that?”

She handed him the fax. “It’s the list of long distance calls made from the pay phone at the Parkview Diner,” she said. “I already cross-checked it with my computer Rolodex. Look at the number I circled.”

Myron saw it. A call lasting twelve minutes had been made from the Parkview Diner four days before Greg’s disappearance. The phone number was Clip’s.

Chapter 23

“Liz Gorman called Clip?” Myron looked up at Esperanza. “What the hell is going on?”

Esperanza shrugged. “Ask Clip.”

“I knew he was keeping something from me,” he went on, “but I don’t get it. How does Clip fit into this equation?”

“Uh huh.” She shuffled through some papers on her desk. “Look, we got a ton of work to do. I mean, sports agent work. You have a game tonight, right?”

He nodded.

“So ask Clip then. In the meantime, we’re just going around in circles here.”

Myron scanned the sheet. “Any other numbers jump out at you?”

“Not yet,” she said. “But I want to talk about something else for a minute.”

“What?”

“We have a problem with a client.”

“Who?”

“Jason Blair.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s pissed off,” she said. “He’s not happy with me handling his contract negotiations. He said he hired you, not some”—she made quote marks in the air with her fingers—“ ‘scantily clad wrestler with a nice ass.’ ”

“He said that?”

“Yep. Nice ass. Didn’t even notice my legs.” Esperanza shook her head.

Myron smiled. “So what happened?”

Behind them the elevator dinged. Only one hit this part of the floor. The elevator opened directly into the reception area of MB SportsReps. Classy, or so he had been told. When the doors opened, two men came out. Myron recognized them right away. Camouflage Pants and Brick Wall. They were both armed. They aimed their guns at Myron and Esperanza. B Man stepped out behind them like he’d just been introduced on the Leno show. Big smile, acknowledging-the-crowd wave.

“How’s the knee, Myron?” he asked.

“Better than your van.”

B Man laughed at that one. “That Win,” he mused. “The man is always a surprise. How did he know when to hit us?”

No reason not to tell. “We kept the cellular phones on.”

B Man shook his head. “Ingenious really. I’m very impressed.” He wore one of those suits that are just a tad too shiny and a pink tie. His shirt was french-cuffed and monogrammed with four letters:
B MAN
. Taking the nickname thing a little far. A thick, ropelike gold bracelet encircled his right wrist.

“How did you get up here?” Myron asked.

“Do you really think a few rent-a-cops are going to stop us?”

“I’d still like to hear,” Myron said.

B Man shrugged. “I called Lock-Horne Securities and told them I was looking for a new financial advisor for my millions. An anxious young peon told me to come right up. I hit the twelfth floor on the elevator instead of the fifteenth.” He spread his hands. “So here I am.” He smiled at Esperanza. What with the too-white teeth and the tan, it looked like he switched on a nightlight.

“And who is this fetching creature?” he asked with a wink.

“My,” Esperanza said, “what woman doesn’t love to be called a creature?”

B Man laughed again. “The little lady has gumption,” he said. “I like that. I really do.”

“Like I care,” Esperanza said.

More laughter. “May I indulge you a moment, Miss …?”

“Money Penny,” she finished for him. She said it with her best Sean Connery imitation. No Rich Little, but not bad either.

Another laugh from the B Man. The man was half-hyena. “Would you please call Win down here? On the speakerphone if you don’t mind. Tell him to come down unarmed.”

She looked at Myron. Myron nodded. She dialed. Over the speakerphone, Win offered up another, “Articulate.”

Esperanza said, “Some bottled blond with a bottled tan is down here to see you.”

“Ah, I’ve been expecting him,” Win said. “Hello, B Man.”

“Hello, Win.”

“I assume you are in well-armed company.”

“That I am, Win,” B Man said. “If you try anything, your friends won’t make it out alive.”

“ ‘Won’t make it out alive’?” Win repeated. “I expected better from you, B Man, really. I’ll be down in a second.”

“Come unarmed, Win.”

“Not a chance. But there will be no violence. That I promise you.” The phone clicked off. For several moments everyone looked at one another as if wondering who was going to take the lead.

“I don’t trust him,” B Man said. He pointed to Brick Wall. “Take the girl in the other room. Duck down behind a desk or something. You hear any shooting, you blow her head off.”

The Brick Wall nodded.

B Man directed his attention to Camouflage Pants. “Keep your gun on Bolitar.”

“Right.”

B Man took out his own weapon. When the elevator dinged, he squatted and aimed. The doors slid open, but it wasn’t Win. Big Cyndi emerged from the elevator, not unlike a dinosaur emerging from its egg.

“Jesus Christ!” Camouflage Pants said. “What the hell is that?”

Big Cyndi growled.

“Who is she, Bolitar?” B Man demanded.

“My new receptionist.”

“Tell her to wait in the other room.”

Myron nodded to her. “It’s okay. Esperanza’s in there.”

Cyndi growled again, but she listened. She walked past the B Man on her way to Myron’s office. His gun looked like a disposable lighter next to her. She opened the door, snarled one last time, and closed it.

Silence.

“Jesus Christ,” Camouflage Pants said again.

They waited approximately thirty seconds before the elevator dinged again. B Man got back into his squat and aimed. The doors slid open. Win stepped out. He looked mildly annoyed when he saw the weapon aimed his way. His voice was clipped. “I told you there would be no violence.”

“You have information we need,” B Man said.

“I’m well aware of that,” Win replied. “Now put that gun away and we’ll talk civilly.”

The B Man kept his weapon on Win. “You armed?”

“Of course.”

“Hand over your weapon.”

“No,” Win said. “And it’s not weapon. It’s weapons. Plural.”

“I said—”

“And I heard you, Orville.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Win sighed. “Fine,
B Man.
” He shook his head as he said it. “You are making this far more difficult than it has to be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that for an intelligent fellow, you too often forget that brute strength is not the only course. There are situations that call for restraint.”

Win lecturing on restraint, Myron thought. What next? Xaviera Hollander lecturing on monogamy?

“Think about what you’ve already done,” Win said. “First, you have Myron roughed up by a pair of amateurs—”

“Amateurs!” Camouflage Pants didn’t like that. “Who you calling—”

“Shut up, Tony,” B Man said.

“You hear what he called me? An amateur?”

“I said, shut up, Tony.”

But Tony The Pants wasn’t through yet. “Hey, I got feelings too, B Man.”

The B Man gave him hard eyes. “Your left femur, if you don’t shut up.”

Tony closed his mouth.

The B Man looked back to Win. “Sorry about the interruption.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Go on.”

“As I was saying,” Win continued, “first you try to rough Myron up. Then you try to kidnap and cripple him. All for naught.”

“Not for naught,” B Man countered. “We need to know where Downing is.”

“And what makes you think Myron knows?”

“You were both at his house. Then all of a sudden Bolitar is on Downing’s team. As a matter of fact, he takes his place on the roster.”

“So?”

“So I’m not stupid. You two know something.”

“And what if we do?” Win said, hands spread. “Why didn’t you just ask? Did you ever even consider that possibility? Did you ever think that maybe the best course of action would be simply to ask?”

“I did ask!” Camouflage Pants jumped in. He was defensive now. “On the street! I asked him where Greg was. He gave me lip.”

Win looked at him. “Were you ever in the military?” he asked.

Pants seemed confused. “No.”

“You are a worthless punk,” Win said in the same tone he might use when discussing a mixed stock report. “A pitiful ectoplasm such as yourself wearing army fatigues is an affront to any man or woman who has ever experienced real combat. If I ever happen across you again donning any similar garb, I will hurt you severely. Do I make myself clear?”

“Hey—”

“You don’t know this guy, Tony,” B Man interrupted. “Just nod and shut up.”

Camouflage Pants looked hurt but he did as he was told.

Win turned his attention back to the B Man. “We can help each other out in this situation,” he said.

“How?”

“It just so happens that we, too, are searching for the elusive Mr. Downing. That is why I wish to make a proposal.”

“I’m listening.”

“First,” Win said, “stop aiming the weapons at us.”

B Man gave him a funny look. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“If I wanted you dead,” Win answered, “I would have killed you last night.”

The B Man thought it over, nodded, lowered his weapon. He signaled Camouflage Pants, who then did likewise. “Why didn’t you?” B Man asked. “I probably would have killed you in the same situation.”

“That’s what I mean about brute force,” Win said. “About being wasteful. We need each other here. If I had killed you, I wouldn’t be able to make this proposal today.”

“Fair enough. The floor is yours.”

“I assume that Mr. Downing owes you a rather hefty sum.”

“Very hefty sum.”

“Fine,” Win said. “You tell us what you know. We find him, no cost to you. When we do find him, you promise not to hurt him if he pays up.”

“And if he doesn’t pay up?”

Win grinned and held his hands out, palms up. “Who are we to interfere with the way you conduct your business?”

B Man thought about it, but not for very long. “Okay, I can live with that,” he said. “But I don’t talk with the hired help around.” He turned to Camouflage. “Go sit in the other room.”

“Why?”

“Because if someone decides to torture you, you’ll know nothing.”

That answer seemed to make perfect sense to Camouflage. He went into Myron’s office without another word.

“Why don’t we sit?” Win suggested.

They did so. B Man crossed his legs and started right in. “Downing is your basic gamble-a-holic,” he began. “He had pretty good luck for a long time. That’s a bad thing when a man has the itch. When his luck changed—as it must in the long run—he kept thinking he could win it back. They all do. When they have the sort of money that Downing has, I let them go. Let them dig their own grave. It’s good for business. But at the same time, you have to keep an eye out. There is a fine line working here. You don’t want them to end up digging to China either.” He turned and looked at Myron. “You know what I’m saying?”

Myron nodded. “China.”

“Right. Anyway, Downing started losing big. I’m talking very big here. He was never a prompt payer, but he was always good for it. I sometimes let the tab run as high as two-fifty or even three.”

“Hundred thousand?” Myron asked.

“Yeah.” B Man smiled. “You don’t know any gamblers, do you?”

Myron kept silent. He wasn’t about to tell this slime bucket his life story.

“It’s as bad as alcohol or heroin,” B Man went on. “They can’t stop themselves. In some ways, it’s even worse. People drink and do drugs to escape despair. Gambling has that element, too, but it also offers you the friendly hand of hope. You always got hope when you gamble. You always believe that you’re just one bet away from turning it all around. It’s a catch-twenty-two. If you got hope, you keep on gambling. But with gambling, there’s always hope.”

“Very deep,” Win said. “Let’s get back to Greg Downing.”

“Simply put, Greg stops paying his tab. It runs up to half a million. I start putting some pressure on him. He tells me he’s flat broke, but I shouldn’t worry because he’s signing some big endorsement deal that will net him zillions.”

The Forte deal, Myron thought. Greg’s sudden change of heart about endorsement money made more sense now.

“I asked him when this endorsement money will be coming in. He tells me in about six months. Six months? On a half million dollar debt and growing? I told him that’s not good enough. He’d have to pay up now. He said he didn’t have the money. So I ask for a show of good faith.”

Myron knew where this was going. “He shaved points.”

“Wrong. He was
supposed
to shave points. The Dragons were favored by eight over Charlotte. Downing was going to see to it that the Dragons won by less than eight. No big deal.”

“He agreed?”

“Sure he did. The game was on Sunday. I dumped a ton on Charlotte. A ton.”

“And Greg never played,” Myron finished for him.

“You got it,” B Man said. “The Dragons won by twelve. Okay, I figure Greg got hurt. Like the papers say. A freak injury, that’s not his fault. Don’t get me wrong. He’s still responsible for what I lost. Why should I pay for his freak injury?” He paused to see if anyone was going to argue with his logic. No one bothered. “So I waited for Downing to call me, but he never did. I’m owed close to two million by now. Win, you know I can’t just sit back with that kind of thing, right?”

Win nodded.

“When was the last time Greg made a payment to you?” Myron asked.