The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (80 page)

“I could only raise sixty thousand,” she corrected.

“Did she know that?”

“No. Look, I know this all sounds crazy, but you don’t understand how desperate I was. I would have done anything at this point.”

Myron understood. He had seen up-close how far mothers would go. Love twists; maternal love twists absolutely. “Go on,” he said.

“When I turned the corner, I saw Greg come out of the building,” Emily said. “I was stunned. He had his collar up, but I could still see his face.” She looked up at Myron. “I was married to him a long time, but I’ve never seen his face like this.”

“Like what?”

“So filled with terror,” she replied. “He practically sprinted toward Amsterdam Avenue. I waited until he turned the corner. Then I approached the door and pressed her apartment button. Nobody answered. I started pressing other buttons. Somebody finally buzzed me in. I went upstairs and knocked on her door for a while. Then I tried the knob. It was unlocked. So I opened the door.”

Emily stopped. A trembling hand brought the cup up to her lips. She took a sip.

“This is going to sound awful,” she went on, “but I didn’t see a dead human being lying there. I only saw my last hope of keeping my kids.”

“So you decided to plant evidence.”

Emily put down the cup and looked at him. Her eyes were clear. “Yes. And you were right about everything else too. I chose the playroom because I knew he’d never go down there. I figured that when Greg got back home—I didn’t know he’d run—the blood would be safe. Look, I know I went too far, but it’s not like I was lying. He killed her.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What?”

“He might have stumbled across the body the same way you did.”

“Are you serious?” Her tone was sharp now. “Of course Greg killed her. The blood on the floor was still fresh. He was the one who had everything to lose. He had motive, opportunity.”

“Just as you do,” Myron said.

“What motive?”

“You wanted to set him up for murder. You wanted to keep your children.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Do you have any proof your story is true?” Myron asked.

“Do I have what?”

“Proof. I don’t think the police are going to buy it.”

“Do you buy it?” she asked him.

“I’d like to see proof.”

“What do you mean, proof?” she snapped. “Like what? It’s not like I took pictures.”

“Any facts that back up your story?”

“Why would I kill her, Myron? What possible motive could I have? I needed her alive. She was my best chance of keeping my kids.”

“But let’s assume for a moment that this woman did indeed have something on Greg,” Myron said. “Something concrete. Like a letter he wrote or a videotape”—he watched for a reaction—“or something like that.”

“All right,” she said with a nod. “Go ahead.”

“And suppose she double-crossed you. Suppose she sold the incriminating evidence to Greg. You admit Greg was there before you. Maybe he paid her enough so that she’d back out of your agreement. Then you go into her apartment. You find out what she’s done. You realize your one chance at keeping your kids is gone. So you kill her and pin it on the man who had seemed to have the most to gain from her death: Greg.”

Emily shook her head. “That’s nuts.”

“You hated Greg enough,” Myron continued. “He played dirty with you; you’d play dirty back.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

Myron took another look at the robins, but they were gone. The yard looked barren now, stripped of any life. He waited a few seconds before he turned back toward her. “I know about the videotape of you and Thumper.”

A quick bolt of anger hit Emily’s eyes. Her fingers clutched the coffee mug. Myron half-expected her to throw it at him. “How the hell …?” Then her grip suddenly slackened. She backed away. She sort of shrugged into a slouch. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It must have made you furious,” he said.

She shook her head. A small sound like a chuckle escaped from her lips. “You just don’t get it, do you, Myron?”

“Don’t get what?”

“I wasn’t looking for revenge. The only thing that mattered was that the tape could take away my kids.”

“No, I do get it,” Myron countered. “You’d do anything to keep your kids.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

Myron shifted gears. “Tell me about you and Thumper,” he said.

Emily snorted a derisive laugh. “I didn’t think you were that type, Myron.”

“I’m not.”

She picked up her coffee mug and took a deep sip. “Did you watch the whole tape from beginning to end?” she asked in a tone somewhere between flirtatious and furious. “Did you hit the slow motion button a few times, Myron? Rewind and replay certain parts over and over? Drop your pants to your knees?”

“No to all of the above.”

“How much did you see?”

“Just enough to know what was going on.”

“Then you stopped?”

“Then I stopped.”

She regarded him from behind the mug. “You know something? I actually believe you. You’re that kind of Goody Two-shoes.”

“Emily, I’m trying to help.”

“Help me or Greg?”

“Help get to the truth. I assume you want that too.”

She shrugged noncommittally.

“So when did you and Thumper …?” He made vague coming-together motions with his hand.

She laughed at his discomfort. “It was the first time,” she replied. “In all respects.”

“I’m not judging—”

“I don’t care if you are or not. You want to know what happened, right? It was my first time. That little whore set me up.”

“How?”

“What do you mean, how?” she countered. “You want me to go into details—how many drinks I had, how I was feeling lonely, how her hand started up my leg?”

“I guess not.”

“Then let me give you the quick capsule: she seduced me. We’d flirted innocently a few times in the past. She invited me to the Glenpointe for drinks. It was like a dare on myself—I was drawn and repelled, but I knew I wouldn’t go through with it. One thing led to another. We went upstairs. End of capsule.”

“So you’re saying Thumper knew you were being filmed?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know? Did she say anything?”

“She didn’t say anything. But I know.”

“How?”

“Myron, please stop asking so many goddamn questions. I just know, okay? How else would anyone know to set up a camera in that room? She set me up.”

That made sense, Myron thought. “But why would she do it?”

Her face registered her exasperation. “Christ, Myron, she’s the team whore. Didn’t she fuck you yet? Or no, let me guess. You refused, right?”

Emily stormed away into the living room and collapsed on a couch. “Get me the aspirin,” she said. “They’re in the bathroom. In the medicine chest.”

Myron shook out two tablets and filled a cup with water. When he came back, he said, “I have to ask you about one more thing.”

She sighed. “What?”

“I understand you made allegations against Greg,” he said.

“My attorney made allegations.”

“Were they true?”

She put the pills on her tongue, took some water, swallowed. “Some of them.”

“How about the ones about him abusing the children?”

“I’m tired, Myron. Can we talk more later?”

“Were they true?”

Emily looked into Myron’s eyes, and a cold gust of air blew across his heart. “Greg wanted to take my kids away from me,” she said slowly. “He had money, power, prestige on his side. We needed something.”

Myron broke the eye contact. He walked toward the door. “Don’t destroy that coat.”

“You have no right to judge me.”

“Right now,” he said, “I don’t want to be near you.”

Chapter 33

Audrey was leaning against his car. “Esperanza told me you’d be here.”

Myron nodded.

“Jesus, you look like hell,” she said. “What happened?”

“Long story.”

“And one that you will soon tell me in riveting detail,” Audrey added. “But I’ll go first. Fiona White was indeed a Miss September in 1992—or as that particular rag calls it, the September Babe-A-Rama.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Fiona’s turn-ons include moonlit walks on the beach and cozy nights by a fireplace.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “My, what originality.”

“Her turn-offs include shallow men who only care about looks. And men with back hair.”

“Did they list her favorite movies?”

“Schindler’s List,”
Audrey said. “And
Cannonball Run II
.”

He laughed. “You’re making this up.”

“All except the part about being the September Babe-A-Rama in 1992.”

Myron shook his head. “Greg Downing and his best friend’s wife,” he sighed. In a way, the news sort of buoyed him. Myron’s ten-year-old indiscretion with Emily no longer seemed quite so bad. He knew that he shouldn’t find comfort in such logic, but man takes solace where he can find it.

Audrey motioned toward the house. “So what’s up with the ex?”

“Long story.”

“You said that already. I got time.”

“I don’t.”

She held up her palm like a cop directing traffic. “Not fair, Myron. I’ve been a good girl. I’ve been running your errands and keeping my big mouth shut. Not to mention the fact that I got zippo from you for my birthday. Please don’t make me start with the exposure threats again.”

She was right. Myron gave her an abbreviated update, leaving out two parts: the Thumper videotape (no reason anyone had to know about that) and the fact that Carla was the infamous Liz Gorman (it was simply too big a story; no reporter could be trusted to keep it off the record).

Audrey listened intently. Her page-boy cut had grown a little too long in the front. Hairs dangled close to her eyes. She kept sticking out her lower lip and blowing strands off her forehead. Myron had never before seen this particular gesture done by anybody over the age of eleven. It was kind of sweet.

“Do you believe her?” Audrey asked, motioning again to Emily’s house.

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “Her story sort of makes sense. She had no motive to kill the woman, except to frame Greg and that’s reaching.”

Audrey tilted her head as if to say, maybe yes—maybe no.

“What?” he asked.

“Well,” she began, “isn’t there’s a chance that we’re looking at this from the wrong perspective?”

“What do you mean?”

“We assume that this blackmailer had dirt on Downing,” Audrey said. “But maybe she had dirt on Emily.”

Myron stopped, looked back at the house as though it held some answers, looked back at Audrey.

“According to Emily,” Audrey went on, “the blackmailer approached her. But why? She and Greg aren’t together anymore.”

“Carla didn’t know that,” Myron replied. “She figured Emily was his wife and would want to protect him.”

“That’s one possibility,” Audrey agreed. “But I’m not sure it’s the best one.”

“Are you saying that they were blackmailing her, not Greg?”

Audrey turned her palms skyward. “All I’m saying is that it could work the other way too. The blackmailer might have had something on Emily—something Greg would want to use against her in the child custody case.”

Myron folded his arms and leaned against the car. “But what about Clip?” he asked. “If they had something on Emily, why would he be interested?”

“I don’t know.” Audrey shrugged. “Maybe she had dirt on both of them.”

“Both of them?”

“Sure. Something that could destroy them both. Or maybe Clip thought whatever it was—even if it was about Emily—would distract Greg.”

“Any guesses?”

“Not a one,” Audrey said.

Myron mulled it over for a few seconds, but nothing came to him. “There’s a chance,” he said, “we’ll find out tonight.”

“How?”

“The blackmailer called. He wants to sell me the information.”

“Tonight?”

“Yep.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know yet. He’s going to call. I got my home line forwarded to the cellular.”

As if on cue, the cellular rang. Myron took it out of his pocket.

It was Win. “The dear professor’s schedule was posted on his office door,” he said. “He is in class for another hour. After that, he has open office hours so the kiddies can whine about grades.”

“Where are you?”

“On Columbia’s campus,” Win replied. “By the way, Columbia women are fairly attractive. I mean, for the Ivy Leagues and all.”

“Glad you haven’t lost your powers of observation.”

“Indeed,” Win said. “Have you finished speaking to our girl?”

Our girl was Emily. Win did not trust cellular phones with names. “Yes,” he said.

“Goodie. What time should I expect you then?”

“I’m on my way.”

Chapter 34

Win was sitting on a bench near the Columbia gate on 116th Street. He was wearing Eddie Bauer khakis, Top-Siders without socks, a blue button-down Oxford, and a power tie.

“I’m blending in,” Win explained.

“Like a Hasid at Christmas mass,” Myron agreed. “Is Bowman still in class?”

Win nodded. “He should be exiting that door in ten minutes.”

“Do you know what he looks like?”

Win handed him a faculty handbook. “Page two ten,” he said. “So tell me about Emily.”

Myron did. A tall brunette dressed in a black, skintight cat suit strolled by with her books pressed up against her chest. Julie Newmar on Batman. Win and Myron watched her closely. Meow.

When Myron finished, Win didn’t bother with any questions. “I have a meeting at the office,” he said as he stood. “Do you mind?”

Myron shook his head and sat down. Win left. Myron kept his eye on the door. Ten minutes later students began to file out the door. Two minutes after that, Professor Sidney Bowman followed suit. He had the same unkempt, academic beard as in the photo. He was bald but kept his fringe hair ridiculously long. He wore jeans, Timberland boots, and a red flannel shirt. He was either trying to look like a working stiff or Jerry Brown on the campaign trail.

Bowman pushed up his spectacles and kept walking. Myron waited until he was out of sight before following. No rush. The good professor was indeed heading for his office. He crossed the grassy commons and disappeared into yet another brick building. Myron found a bench and sat down.

An hour passed. Myron watched the students and felt very old. He should have brought a newspaper. Sitting for an hour without reading material meant he had to think. His mind kept conjuring up new possibilities and then dismissing them. He knew he was missing something, could see it bobbing in the distance, but every time he reached out it ducked back down below the surface.

He suddenly remembered that he had not checked Greg’s answering machine today. He took out his cellular phone and dialed the number. When Greg’s voice came on, he pressed 317, the code numbers Greg had programmed into the machine. There was only one message on the tape, but it was a doozy.

“Don’t fuck with us,” the electronically altered voice said. “I’ve spoken to Bolitar. He’s willing to pay. Is that what you want?”

End of message.

Myron sat very still. He stared at a brick, ivyless wall. He listened to a tone for a few seconds and did nothing. What the hell …?

“… He’s willing to pay. Is that what you want?”

Myron pressed the star button to have the message replayed. Then he did it again. He probably would have listened for a fourth time, had Professor Bowman not suddenly appeared at the door.

Bowman stopped to chat with a couple of students. The conversation grew animated, all three displaying fervent, academic earnest. College. Continuing their undoubtedly weighty discourse, they walked off campus and down Amsterdam Avenue. Myron pocketed the phone and kept his distance. At 112th Street, the group separated. The two students continued south. Bowman crossed the street and headed toward the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.

St. John the Divine’s was a massive structure and interestingly enough, the largest cathedral in the world in terms of cubic square feet (St. Peter’s in Rome is considered a basilica by this statistic, not a cathedral). The edifice was like the city that housed it: awe-inspiring yet worn. Towering columns and gorgeous stained-glass windows were surrounded by signs like
HARD HAT AREA
(though it dated back to 1892, St. John the Divine’s has never been completed) and
THE CATHEDRAL IS PATROLLED AND ELECTRONICALLY MONITORED FOR YOUR PROTECTION
. Wooden planks plugged holes in the granite facade. On the left side of this architectural wonder were two prefab aluminum storage barracks that brought back memories of the opening credits of
Gomer Pyle
. On the right was the Children’s Sculpture Garden featuring the Peace Fountain, an enormous sculpture that inspired several moods, none of them peaceful. Images of severed heads and limbs, lobster claws, hands reaching out from the dirt as though trying to escape hell, a man twisting the neck of a deer all whirled together to create an atmosphere that was more Dante meets Goya than languid tranquillity.

Bowman headed down the driveway on the cathedral’s right. Myron knew that there was a homeless shelter down that way. He crossed the street and tried to keep his distance. Bowman passed a group of apparently homeless men—all dressed in threadbare synthetics and pants with plunging butt-lines. Some waved and called out to Bowman. Bowman waved back. Then he disappeared through a door. Myron debated what to do. There was no choice really. Even if it meant blowing his cover, he had to go in.

He passed the men, nodded, smiled. They nodded and smiled back. The shelter entrance was a double black door with chintzy lace curtains. Not far from it were two signs—one reading
SLOW CHILDREN AT PLAY
and the other
CATHEDRAL SCHOOL
. A homeless shelter and a children’s school side by side—an interesting yet working combo. Only in New York.

Myron entered. The room was packed with frayed mattresses and men. A smell like a used bong after an all-nighter singed his nostril hairs. Myron tried not to make a face. He spotted Bowman talking to several men in one corner. None of them was Cole Whiteman aka Norman Lowenstein. Myron glanced about the unshaven faces and hollow eyes, his gaze swinging left to right.

They spotted each other at exactly the same time.

From across the room, their eyes locked for perhaps a second, but that was long enough. Cole Whiteman turned and ran. Myron followed, threading his way through the throngs. Professor Bowman spotted the disturbance. Eyes afire, he jumped in Myron’s path. Myron lowered his shoulder and flattened him without breaking stride. Just like Jim Brown. Except Jim Brown had to do it against guys like Dick Butkus and Ray Nitschke opposed to a fifty-year-old college professor who probably didn’t weigh 180 even with the soft gut. Still.

Cole Whiteman disappeared out a back door, slamming it behind him. Myron went through it not long after. They were outside now, but only briefly. Whiteman disappeared up a metal stairway and back into the main chapel. Myron followed. The inside was very much like the outside—spectacular examples of art and architecture mixed in with the tattered and tacky. The pews, for example, were cheap folding chairs. Lush tapestries hung upon granite walls with seemingly no organization. Ladders were melded into thick columns.

Myron spotted Cole heading back out a nearby door. He sprinted after him, his heels echoing up through the giant arched ceiling. They were back outside. Cole headed down below the cathedral and through heavy fire doors. A sign read
A.C.T
.
PROGRAM
. It looked like a basement school or daycare center. Both men raced down a hallway lined with beat-up, metallic lockers. Cole turned right and disappeared behind a wooden door.

When Myron pushed the door open, a darkened stairway greeted him. He heard footsteps below him. He trotted down, the light from above dwindling with each step. He was descending deep into the cathedral’s subdwelling now. The walls were cement and clammy to the touch. He wondered if he was entering a crypt or tomb or something equally creepy, if indeed there was equally creepy. Did American cathedrals have crypts, or was that only in Europe?

By the time he reached the bottom step, Myron was bathed in darkness, the light from above little more than a distant glint. Great. He stepped into a black hole of a room. He cocked his head, listening for a sound like a dog on a hunt. Nothing. He felt for a light switch. Again nothing. The room had a bone-chilling, windless cold. A damp smell permeated his surroundings. He didn’t like it down here. He didn’t like it at all.

He inched forward blindly, his arms outstretched like Frankenstein’s monster. “Cole,” he called out. “I just want to talk to you.”

His words echoed hard before fading out like a song on the radio.

He kept going. The room was still as … well, as a tomb. He had moved about five feet when his outstretched fingers hit something. Myron kept his hand on the smooth, cold surface. Like marble, he thought. He traced down. It was a statue of some sort. He felt the arm, the shoulder, to the back, down a marble wing. He wondered if it was some kind of tombstone decoration and quickly withdrew his hand.

He stayed perfectly still and tried to listen again. The only sound was a rushing in his ears, like seashells were pressed against them. He debated going back upstairs, but there was no way he could do that. Cole knew now that his identity was in danger. He would go into hiding again and not resurface. This was Myron’s only chance.

He took another step, leading now with his foot. His toe hit something hard and unyielding. Marble again, he figured. He circled around it. Then a sound—a scurrying sound—made him freeze in his tracks. It had come from the ground. Not a mouse. Too big for a mouse. He cocked his head again and waited. His pulse raced. His eyes were just beginning to adjust to the darkness, and he could make out a few shadowy, tall figures. Statues. Lowered heads. He imagined the serene expressions of religious art on their faces, looking down at him with the knowledge they were embarking on a journey to a better place than the one in which they dwelled.

He took another step, and cold fingers of flesh grabbed his ankle.

Myron screamed.

The hand pulled and Myron fell hard against the cement. He kicked his leg loose and scrambled backward. His back slammed into more marble. A man giggled madly. Myron felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. Another man giggled. Then another. Like a group of hyenas were encircling him.

Myron tried to get to his feet, but midway up, the men suddenly pounced. He didn’t know how many. Hands dragged him back to the floor. He threw a blind fist and connected square into a face. Myron heard a crunching sound and a man fell. But others reached their target. He found himself sprawled on the wet cement, fighting blindly and frantically. He heard grunts. The stench of body odor and alcohol was suffocating, inescapable. The hands were everywhere now. One ripped off his watch. One grabbed his wallet. Myron threw another punch. It hit ribs. Another grunt and another man fell.

Somebody turned on a flashlight and shone it into his eyes. It looked like a train heading toward him.

“Okay,” a voice said, “back off him.”

The hands slid off like wet snakes. Myron tried to sit up.

“Before you get any cute ideas,” the voice behind the flashlight said, “take a look at this.”

The voice put a gun in front of the flashlight.

Another voice said, “Sixty bucks? That’s fuckin’ all? Shit.”

Myron felt the wallet hit him in the chest.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

He did as the voice asked. Someone grabbed the forearms, pulling them closer together, tearing at the shoulder tendons. A pair of handcuffs were snapped on his wrists.

“Leave us,” the voice said. Myron heard the rustling movements. The air cleared. Myron heard a door open, but the flashlight in his eyes prevented him from seeing anything. Silence followed. After some time passed, the voice said, “Sorry to do this to you, Myron. They’ll let you go in a few hours.”

“How long you going to keep running, Cole?”

Cole Whiteman chuckled. “Been running a long time,” he said. “I’m used to it.”

“I’m not here to stop you.”

“Imagine my relief,” he said. “So how did you figure out who I was?”

“It’s not important,” Myron said.

“It is to me.”

“I don’t have any interest in bringing you down,” Myron said. “I just want some information.”

There was a pause. Myron blinked into the light. “How did you get involved in all this?” Cole asked.

“Greg Downing vanished. I was hired to find him.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

Cole Whiteman laughed deep and hearty. The sound bounced around like balls of Silly Putty, the volume reaching a frightening crescendo before mercifully fading away.

“What’s so funny?” Myron asked.

“Inside joke.” Cole stood, the flashlight rising with him. “Look, I have to go. I’m sorry.”

More silence. Cole flicked off the flashlight, plunging Myron back into total blackness. He heard footsteps receding.

“Don’t you want to know who killed Liz Gorman?” Myron called out.

The footsteps continued unimpeded. Myron heard a switch and a dim lightbulb came on. Maybe forty watts. It didn’t come close to fully illuminating the place, but it was a hell of an improvement. Myron blinked away black spots left over from the flashlight assault and examined his surroundings. The room was jammed with marble statues, lined and piled up without reason or logic, some tilted over. It wasn’t a tomb, after all. It was some bizarre, church-art storage room.

Cole Whiteman came back over to him. He sat cross-legged directly in front of Myron. The white stubble was still there—thick in some spots, completely missing in others. His hair jutted up and out in every direction. He lowered the gun to his side.