The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (72 page)

“It’s been a while. I don’t know. Five, six months maybe.”

“Nothing more recent?”

“Nothing.”

They talked a bit more. Esperanza, Big Cyndi, Camouflage, and Brick Wall came back into the room. Win and B Man changed the topic to martial art buddies they had in common. A few minutes later B Man and his entourage left. When the elevator door closed, Big Cyndi turned and smiled widely at Esperanza. Then she began to skip in a circle. The floor shook.

Myron looked a question at Esperanza.

“That big guy,” Esperanza said, “the one who was with us in the other room.”

“What about him?”

“He asked Cyndi for her phone number.”

Big Cyndi continued skipping with childlike abandon. The occupants of the floor beneath them were probably diving for cover like it was the last day of Pompeii. He turned to Win. “Did you catch the fact that Greg hadn’t paid anything in months?”

Win nodded. “Clearly the fifty thousand dollars he withdrew before his disappearance was not to pay off gambling debts.”

“So what was it for?”

“To run, I imagine.”

“So he knew at least four days before the fact that he was going to take off,” Myron said.

“It would appear so.”

Myron thought about that for a moment. “Then the timing of the murder can’t just be a coincidence. If Greg planned to disappear, it can’t be a coincidence that the day he takes off is the day Liz Gorman gets killed.”

“Doubtful,” Win agreed.

“You think Greg killed her?”

“The clues point in that direction,” Win said. “I mentioned to you that the money had come from an account handled by Marty Felder. Perhaps Mr. Felder has an answer.”

Myron wondered about that. Big Cyndi suddenly stopped skipping. She hugged Esperanza and made a la-la noise. Young love. “If Felder knew Greg was going into hiding,” Myron said, “why would he leave those messages on Greg’s machine?”

“Perhaps to throw us off. Or perhaps he did not know Greg’s intent.”

“I’ll call him,” Myron said. “See if I can make an appointment for tomorrow.”

“You have a game tonight, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Seven-thirty.” Myron checked his watch. “But I need to leave pretty soon if I want to talk to Clip first.”

“I’ll drive,” Win said. “I’d like to meet this Mr. Arnstein.”

After they left, Esperanza went through the messages on the voice mail. Then she straightened out her desk. Her two photographs—one of her bearded collie Chloe getting Best in Breed at the Westchester Dog Show; the other of her as Little Pocahontas and Big Cyndi as Big Chief Mama, holding up their FLOW (Fabulous Ladies Of Wrestling) tag-team title belts—had been knocked askew by Cyndi’s knees.

As she stared at the photographs, something Myron said kept needling her. He was worried about timing. The timing of the murder. The timing of Downing’s disappearance. But what about Liz Gorman’s timing? What about the timing of her arrival in New York City? The bank in Tucson was robbed two months ago; Liz Gorman also started working for the Parkview Diner two months ago. A criminal on the run would want to get far away from the crime scene, yes, but to a place as populated as New York City? Why?

The more Esperanza thought about it, the more she grew bewildered. There had to be a cause and effect at work here. There had to be something about the bank heist that made Liz Gorman come out this way. Esperanza chewed on this for another minute or two. Then she picked up the phone and called one of Myron and Win’s closest contacts at the Bureau.

“They need everything you got on the Raven Brigade bank heist in Tucson,” Esperanza said. “Can you send me a copy of the file?”

“You’ll have it by tomorrow morning.”

Chapter 24

Win and Myron shared a somewhat unusual passion for Broadway musicals. Right now, the stereo system in Win’s Jag was pumping out the sound track from
1776
. A Continental Congressman cried out, “Somebody better open up a window!” This led to a fierce argument over the merits of opening said window (it was “hot as hell in Philadelphia”) vs. keeping them closed (“too many flies”). Interspersed in this argument, people were telling John Adams to sit down. History.

“Who played the original Thomas Jefferson?” Win asked. He knew the answer. Life with Myron’s friends was a nonstop quiz show.

“Movie version or stage?”

Win frowned. “I don’t do movie versions.”

“Ken Howard,” Myron answered.

“Correct. What is Mr. Howard’s most famous role?”

“The coach on the
White Shadow
.”

“Correct again. The original John Adams?”

“William Daniels.”

“Best known as?”

“The obnoxious surgeon on
St. Elsewhere
.”

“The actress who portrayed Martha Jefferson?”

“Betty Buckley. Best known as Abby on
Eight Is Enough
.”

Win smiled. “You are good.”

Myron stared out the window, the buildings and cars blurring into one pulsating mass, and thought about Jessica. Moving in with her. There was no reason not to. He loved her. She loved him. More than that, she had made the first move—the first time he could remember such a thing. In most relationships, one partner has more control than the other. It was just the natural order of things. Perfect balance was a hard thing to find. In their case, Jessica currently had the upper hand. Myron knew that—if he hadn’t, Esperanza’s constant references to his being “whipped” would surely have made him aware. It didn’t mean he loved her more or Jessica loved him less. Or maybe it did. Myron wasn’t sure anymore. What he did know for sure was that moments where Jessica made the move—where she was the one exposing herself—were rare. Myron wanted to embrace it, encourage it. He had waited a long time for her to say such words to him. But something held him back. Like with TC, there were a lot of factors pushing and pulling at him.

His mind churned through the pros and cons, but no conclusions spewed forward. What he really wanted was to bounce his thoughts off someone. He deliberated best that way—by thinking out loud with a close friend. The problem was, who? Esperanza, his most dependable confidante, hated Jessica. Win … well, when it came to matters of the heart, Win was simply not your man; something in that nether region had shorted out a long time ago.

Still Myron heard himself say, “Jessica asked me to move in.”

For a moment Win said nothing. Then: “Do you get a full share of the playoff money?”

“What?”

“You joined the team late. Have you worked out what share of the playoff money you’ll be getting?”

“Don’t worry. It’s taken care of.”

Win nodded. His eyes remained on the road. The speedometer hovered around eighty, a swiftness Route 3 was not built to bear. Win swerved lanes constantly. Myron had gotten somewhat used to Win’s driving over the years, but he still kept his eyes averted from the front windshield.

“Are you staying for the game?” Myron asked.

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On if this Thumper will be there,” Win replied. “You said she was seeking employment. Perhaps I can interrogate her at the same time.”

“What will you say?”

“That,” Win said, “is a dilemma we both face. If you ask her about Downing’s call, you blow your cover. If I ask her, she’ll want to know the whys and wherefores. Either way, unless this Thumper is brain dead, she will be suspicious. Moreover, if she knows anything significant, she will most probably lie.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Win tilted his head as though in deep thought. “Perhaps I’ll bed her,” he concluded. “Then I can make her talk while lost in the throes of passion.”

“She only sleeps with men on the Giants or the Dragons,” Myron said. Then he frowned and added, “ ‘Bed her’?”

Win shrugged. “Just suggesting an alternative to whipping her with a rubber hose,” he said. “Unless, of course, she’s into that kind of thing.”

“Any other suggestions?”

“I’m working on it.” They took the exit to the Meadowlands in silence. On the CD player, Abigail Adams was telling John Adams that women in Massachusetts needed pins. Win hummed along with the music for a moment. Then he spoke. “As far as Jessica goes”—he took one hand off the wheel and sort of waved it—“I’m not one to ask about such things.”

“I know.”

“You were miserable the first time she left,” he added. “I don’t know why you would risk going through that again.”

Myron looked at him. “You really don’t, do you?”

Win said nothing.

“That’s sad, Win.”

“Yes,” he replied. “So very tragic.”

“I’m serious,” Myron said.

Win put a dramatic forearm to his brow. “Oh, what woe that I may never experience the depths of misery you plunged to when Jessica left. Pity this child.”

“You know there’s more to it than that.”

Win put down the arm, shook his head. “No, my friend, there is not. What was real was your pain. The rest of what you felt is the stuff of cruel delusion.”

“You really feel that way?”

“Yes.”

“About all relationships?”

Win shook his head. “I never said that.”

“How about our friendship? Is that a cruel delusion too?”

“This isn’t about us,” Win said.

“I’m just trying to understand—”

“There is nothing to understand,” Win interrupted. “Do what you believe is best. As I said, I am not the one with which to have this discussion.”

Silence. The arena loomed in front of them. For years, it had been called the Brendan Byrne Arena, named for the unpopular governor who had been in office when the complex had been built. Recently, however, the sports authority needed to raise funds, so the name had been changed to the Continental Airlines Arena—not exactly musical, but then again the old name didn’t exactly make you want to break out in song either. Brendan Byrne and his past lackeys cried foul over this affront. What a disgrace, they shouted with grave indignation. This was Governor Byrne’s legacy. How could they sell him out like this? But Myron didn’t have a problem with the name change. Which would you rather do—tax the people to collect twenty-seven million dollars or bruise a politician’s ego? No contest when you thought about it.

Myron glanced over at Win. Win’s eyes were on the road, his fingers tightly wrapped around the wheel. Myron’s mind flashed back to the morning after Jessica left five years ago. He’d been moping around his house alone when Win knocked on the door. Myron opened it.

Without preamble, Win said, “Come on. I’ll hire you a girl. You need to get laid.”

Myron shook his head.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Myron said.

“Do me a favor then.”

“What?”

“Don’t go out and get drunk,” Win said. “That would be such a cliché.”

“And what, getting laid isn’t?”

Win pursed his lips together. “But at least it’s a good cliché.”

Then Win turned around and left. That had been it. They had never broached the subject of his relationship with Jessica again. It’d been a mistake to have brought it up now. Myron should have known better.

There were reasons Win was the way he was. Myron looked now at his friend and truly did pity him. From Win’s vantage point, his life had been one long lesson in how to take care of himself. The results weren’t always pretty, but they were usually effective. Win had not severed off his feelings or anything that dramatic, nor was he as robotic as he sometimes wanted people to think. But Win had learned not to trust or depend on others very much. There were not many people he cared about, but those he did were cherished with an intensity few ever experienced. The rest of the world meant very little to him.

“I’ll get you a seat near Thumper’s,” Myron said softly.

Win nodded, pulled into a parking spot. Myron gave his name to Clip’s secretary and they were shown into his office. Calvin Johnson was already there, standing to Clip’s right. Clip was behind his desk. He looked older today. His cheeks were grayer; and the skin around his jowls seemed looser. When he stood, it seemed to take more effort.

Clip eyed Win for a moment. “This must be Mr. Lockwood.”

He even knew about Win—again well prepared. “Yes,” Myron said.

“He’s helping us with our problem?”

“Yes.”

Introductions were made. Hands were shaken. Rear ends were seated. As was his custom in such situations, Win remained silent. His eyes slid from one side of the room to the other, taking in everything. He liked to study people for a while before speaking to them, especially in their home environment.

“So,” Clip began, forcing up a tired smile, “what have we got?”

“When you first approached me,” Myron began, “you were afraid I’d uncover something unsavory. I’d like to know what that something was.”

Clip tried to look amused. “Nothing personal, Myron,” he began with a light chuckle, “but if I knew that, I wouldn’t have needed to hire you.”

Myron shook his head. “Not good enough.”

“What?”

“Greg has disappeared before.”

“So?”

“So you never suspected anything unsavory then,” Myron said. “Why now?”

“I told you. I have the owners’ vote coming up.”

“That’s your only concern?”

“Of course not,” Clip said. “I’m worried about Greg too.”

“But you never hired anyone to find him before. What are you afraid of?”

Clip shrugged. “Probably nothing. I’m just covering all my bases. Why? What have you found out?”

Myron shook his head. “You never cover all your bases, Clip. You’re a risk-taker. Always were. I’ve seen you trade popular, proven veterans for untested draft picks. I’ve seen you risk going for the steal rather than hoping your defense holds. You’ve never been afraid to lean over that edge, to risk it all.”

Clip smiled thinly. “The problem with that strategy,” he said, “is that you lose too. Sometimes you lose a lot.”

“What did you lose this time?” Myron asked.

“Nothing yet,” he said. “But if Greg doesn’t come back, it might cost my team a championship ring.”

“That’s not what I meant. There’s something more going on.”

“I’m sorry,” Clip said, spreading his hands. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I hired you because it was the logical thing to do. Greg vanished. Now true, he’s vanished before, but never this late in the season and never when we were so close to a championship. This simply isn’t like him.”

Myron glanced over at Win. Win appeared to be bored.

“Do you know a woman named Liz Gorman?” Myron tried.

In the corner of his eye, Myron saw Calvin sit up a bit.

“No,” Clip said. “Should I?”

“How about a woman named Carla or Sally?”

“What? You mean have I ever known a woman named—”

“Recently. Or any woman involved in some way with Greg Downing.”

Clip shook his head. “Calvin?” Calvin also shook his head, but the shake was a little too lingering. “Why do you ask?” Clip demanded.

“Because that’s whom Greg was with the night he vanished,” Myron said.

Clip sat up, his words coming scatter-gun. “Have you located her? Where is she now? Maybe they’re together.”

Myron looked at Win again. This time, Win nodded ever so slightly. He’d caught it too. “She’s dead,” Myron said.

Any traces of color on Clip’s face drained away. Calvin remained silent, but he crossed his legs. A big move for ol’ Frosty. “Dead?”

“Murdered, to be more specific.”

“Oh my God …” Clip’s eyes leapt from one face to another, as though seeking some sort of answer or solace there. He found none.

“Are you sure you don’t know the names Liz Gorman, Carla, or Sally?” Myron asked.

Clip opened his mouth, closed it. No sound came out. He tried again. “Murdered?”

“Yes.”

“And she was with Greg?”

“He’s the last known person to see her alive. His fingerprints are at the murder scene.”

“The murder scene?” His voice trembled, his eyes dazed. “My God, the blood you found in the basement,” he said. “The body was at Greg’s house?”

“No. She was killed in her apartment in New York.”

Clip looked puzzled. “But I thought you found blood in Greg’s basement. In the playroom.”

“Yes. But that blood is gone now.”

“Gone?” Clip sounded both confused and annoyed. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I mean somebody cleaned it up.” He looked straight at Clip. “I mean somebody entered Greg’s house in the past two days and tried to snuff out an unsavory scandal.”

Clip startled up at that one. Life came back into the eyes. “You think it was me?”

“You were the only one I told about the blood. You wanted to keep the discovery secret.”

“I left that up to you,” Clip countered. “I said I thought it was the wrong move, but I’d respect your decision. Of course, I would want to avoid a scandal. Who wouldn’t? But I would never do something like that. You know me better than that, Myron.”