The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (82 page)

Chapter 36

Myron wasn’t sure what to do next.

In truth, he had nothing more than a suspicion. There was no proof. No real evidence. But it could potentially answer a lot of questions. Why, for example, had Thumper helped set up Emily on videotape? By all accounts, she was not particularly close to Greg.

But she was to TC.

Again the superstar bond. Greg had feared losing his kids in a custody battle. That’s about as big a worry as a person can have. So whom did he turn to for help?

TC.

When Win had leaned on Thumper last night, letting her know that he was searching for Greg, whom had she warned?

TC.

No proof, of course. But it felt very right.

Myron could now put a lot of it together. Greg was under incredible strain—not the best situation for a man of his questionable mental fortitude to be ensnared. What had gone through his mind when he saw Liz Gorman dead on the floor? He’d have to have known that he would be the prime suspect in her murder. As Emily had pointed out, Greg had motive, opportunity, and was at the murder scene. Emily saw that. It was why she set him up. Greg must have seen it too.

So what did he do?

He ran.

Seeing Liz Gorman dead had been the final straw. But Greg had also known that he could not do it alone. People would be looking for him this time. He needed help. He needed time and space.

So whom did Greg reach out to?

The guy who understood him best. Who could relate to the unique troubles of superstardom. Who shared that rarefied air with him.

Myron stopped at a red light. He was close, so goddamn close. TC was helping Greg hide; he was sure of it. But of course, TC was only part of the solution. None of this answered the central question in all this:

Who killed Liz Gorman?

He put his mind on rewind and reviewed the night of the murder. He thought about Clip being the first of the three to arrive. In many ways, Clip was now his best suspect. But Myron still saw big problems with that scenario. What was Clip’s motive, for example? Yes, Liz Gorman’s information may have been detrimental to the team. The information may have even been potent enough for him to lose the vote. But would Clip pick up a baseball bat and murder a woman over that? People kill for money and power all the time. Would Clip?

But there was still a larger problem at work here, one that Myron could not get around no matter how hard he tried. Emily was the one who planted the blood and murder weapon at Greg’s house. That was established and that made sense. Okay, fine. We know who planted the evidence …

… but who cleaned it up?

There were only three logical choices: 1) Greg Downing, 2) someone trying to protect Greg, or 3) the killer.

But it couldn’t have been Greg. Even if you accept the semi-impossible premise that Greg went back into his house after going into hiding, how did he find the blood? Did he just happen to go down into his playroom? No. It was too ridiculous. The only way Greg would have gone down there was if he’d known the blood had been planted.

Myron froze.

That was it. Whoever had cleaned up the blood had known what Emily had done. They didn’t just stumble across it by accident. So how did they find out? From Emily? Uh uh, no way. Emily would be the last person to say anything. Could she have been spotted in the act? Again, the answer was a resounding no. If that had been the case, the bat would have been removed too. More to the point, the blood would have been cleaned up right away—
before
Myron and Win found it. The timing of the clean-up was crucial—it’d happened after Myron and Win had revealed their discovery. That meant Myron and Win were the leak.

So who had they told?

The finger pointed back to Clip.

He turned on Route 3 and entered the Meadowlands complex. The arena loomed before him like a large UFO on a white landing pad. Did Clip Arnstein murder Liz Gorman and clean up the blood? Myron wrestled with the possibility, but he didn’t like it. How had Clip gotten inside Greg’s house? There were no signs of forced entry. Had he picked the lock? Doubtful. Did he have a key? Doubtful. Did he hire a professional? Still doubtful. Clip hadn’t even let a private investigator do a simple credit card check on Greg for fear word would get out. Whom would he trust to clean up the blood of a person he murdered?

And something else still jabbed at Myron with a sharpened, steel point: the woman’s clothes in the bedroom. They had been packed away too. Why would Clip remove all traces of a secret girlfriend? Why would anybody?

The different scenarios swirled in Myron’s head like rubber ducks in a whirlpool. He concentrated again on the mystery girlfriend. Could it have been Fiona White? She wasn’t talking, but Myron firmly believed that she was not the one. How could Fiona have lived with Greg and kept it hidden from a husband as obsessively jealous as Leon? Perhaps there had been some entanglement between Greg and Fiona—a casual fling in a motel room or something—but Myron no longer believed even that. The more he thought about it, the “greatest night of sexual ecstasy” epistle was more of a come-on than the talk of two familiar lovers. It seemed more logical that Greg was telling Leon the truth when he said he would never sleep with another man’s wife. The thought gave Myron’s old shame new life.

A commercial came on the radio. A very hip man and a very hip woman were enjoying a Molson’s Golden far too much. They spoke in low voices and laughed at each other’s lame jokes. Myron switched it off.

He still had more questions than answers. But when he picked up his cellular phone to check Greg’s answering machine, his fingers began to tremble. Something tightened his chest, making it hard to breathe. This feeling, however, was not like pregame jitters. In fact, it was the furthest thing from them.

Chapter 37

Myron rushed by Clip’s secretary.

“He’s not in there,” she cried.

Ignoring her, he opened the office door. The lights were off and the room was empty. He spun back toward the secretary. “Where is he?”

The secretary, a classic battle-ax who had probably been with Clip since the Coolidge Administration, put her hands on her hips. “I don’t have the slightest idea,” she huffed.

Calvin Johnson came out of the adjoining office. Myron approached him. He waited until they were inside Calvin’s office and the door was closed. “Where is he?”

Calvin held up his hands. “I don’t know. I tried his house, but there was no answer.”

“Does he have a car phone?”

“No.”

Myron shook his head and began pacing. “He lied to me,” Myron said. “The son of a bitch lied.”

“What?”

“He met with the blackmailer.”

Calvin raised an eyebrow. He moved to the chair behind his desk and sat down. “What are you talking about?”

“The night she was murdered,” Myron said, “Clip went to her apartment.”

“But she wasn’t supposed to meet with us until Monday,” Calvin said.

“Did you hear her say that?”

Calvin plucked at his chin with his thumb and pointer. The track lights from above his desk reflected off the receding forehead. His face remained the ever placid pool. “No,” he said slowly. “Clip told me.”

“He lied to you.”

“But why?”

“Because he’s hiding something.”

“Do you know what?”

“No,” Myron said. “But I intend to find out tonight.”

“How?”

“The blackmailer still wants to sell,” Myron said. “I’m his new buyer.”

Calvin tilted his head. “I thought you said the blackmailer was dead.”

“She had a partner.”

“I see,” Calvin said with a slow nod. “And you’re meeting tonight?”

“Yep. But I don’t know when or where. He’s supposed to call.”

“I see,” Calvin said again. He made a neat fist and coughed into it. “If it’s something damaging. I mean, something that could affect the outcome of the vote tomorrow.…”

“I’ll do whatever is right, Calvin.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

Myron rose. “Let me know when he gets here.”

“Sure.”

Myron entered the locker room. TC was in his pregame pose—sprawled on a chair in the corner with a Walkman plugged into his ears, his eyes blazing straight ahead and unmoving. He did not acknowledge Myron. Leon was also there. He, too, studiously avoided Myron’s gaze. Not surprising.

Audrey approached. “How did it go with—?”

Myron shook his head to silence her. She nodded, understanding. “You okay?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“You think they can hear us?”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

Audrey looked left, then right. “You find something new?”

“Plenty,” Myron said. “You should have your story tonight. And then some.”

The gleam in her eye expanded. “You know where he is?”

Myron nodded. The locker room door opened. Calvin popped his head in. He leaned over and spoke to the Kipper for a moment. When he left, Myron noticed that he turned right, which led to the exit, as opposed to left which would have taken him back to his office.

The cellular phone in Myron’s pocket rang. He looked up at Audrey. Audrey looked back. He moved closer to the corner and picked it up.

“Hello?”

An electronically altered voice said, “You got the money?”

“You got lousy timing,” Myron said.

“Answer my question.”

Leon pulled up his gym shorts. TC stood and bobbed his head in rhythm to the music.

“I have it,” Myron said. “I also have a game tonight.”

“Forget the game. Do you know Overpeck Park?”

“The one in Leonia? Yeah, I know it.”

“Turn in the right side off Route Ninety-five. Then go down a quarter mile and make another right. You’ll see a cul-de-sac. Park there and look for a flashlight. Approach with both your hands raised.”

“Do I get to say a password?” Myron asked. “I loves passwords.”

“Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late. And for the record, I know your superhero partner is in his Park Avenue office. I have a man watching it. If he leaves between now and then, the deal is off.”

Myron turned off the phone. It was coming to a head now. In fifteen minutes it would all be over—one way or another. “Could you hear?” he asked.

Audrey nodded. “Most of it.”

“There’s going to be some weird stuff going down,” Myron said. “I need an unbiased journalist to record it. You want to come along?”

She smiled. “That was a rhetorical question, right?”

“You’ll have to keep on the floor in the backseat,” he went on. “I can’t risk having you spotted.”

“No problem,” she said. “It’ll remind me of my high school dates.”

Myron turned toward the door. His nerves were as frayed as an old horse whip. He tried to look nonchalant as they exited. Leon was lacing up his sneakers. TC remained still, but this time his eyes followed them out.

Chapter 38

Rain beat down, blackening the pavement. Cars were just starting to enter the arena lot in force. Myron took the back exit over the New Jersey Turnpike and onto the northbound lanes just past the final toll booth. He veered to the right, staying on Route 95.

“So what’s going on?” Audrey asked.

“The man I am about to meet,” he said, “killed Liz Gorman.”

“Who’s Liz Gorman?”

“The blackmailer who was murdered.”

“I thought her name was Carla.”

“That was an alias.”

“Wait a minute. Isn’t Liz Gorman the name of some sixties radical?”

Myron nodded. “It’s a long story; I don’t have time to go into details. Suffice to say the guy we’re about to meet was part of the blackmail scheme. Something went awry. She ended up dead.”

“Do you have evidence?” Audrey asked.

“Not really. That’s what I need you for. You have your microcassette player?”

“Sure.”

“Let me have it.”

Audrey reached into her purse and handed it up front.

“I’m going to try to get him to talk,” Myron said.

“How?”

“By pushing the right buttons.”

She frowned. “You think he’ll fall for that?”

“Yeah, I do. If I push the right ones.” He picked up the car phone. “I have two separate phones here: the car phone and the cellular in my pocket. I’m going to dial the car phone with the cellular and keep the line open. This way, you can listen in. I want you to take down every word. If something happens to me, go to Win. He’ll know what to do.”

She leaned forward and nodded. The windshield wipers whipped shadows across her face. The rain picked up its tempo, glistening the road in front of them. Myron took the next exit. A sign reading Overpeck Park greeted them a quarter mile later.

“Get down,” he said.

She disappeared from view. He made the right turn. Another sign told him the park was closed. He ignored it and proceeded ahead. It was too dark to see anything, but he knew there were woods on his left and a horse stables straight ahead. He made the first right. The car’s headlights danced across a picnic area, illuminating tables, benches, garbage cans, a swing set, a sliding board. He reached the cul-de-sac and stopped the car. He killed the lights, turned off the engine, and dialed the car’s number on his cellular. He answered with the car’s speakerphone so Audrey could listen in. Then he waited.

For several minutes nothing happened. The rain pelted down on the roof like tiny pebbles. Audrey remained still in the back. Myron put his hands back on the wheel and felt his grip tighten. He could hear his heart thumping in his chest.

Without warning, a beacon of light sliced through the night like a reaper’s scythe. Myron shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted. He slowly opened the car door. The wind had picked up now, spraying the rain into his face. He hefted himself out of the car.

A male voice, distorted by the elements, shouted, “Put your hands up.”

Myron raised them above his head.

“Open your coat. I know you’re carrying a gun in a shoulder holster. Take it out with two fingers and toss it onto the seat of the car.”

Keeping one hand in the air, Myron unbuttoned his coat. He was already drenched from the rain, his hair matted against his forehead. He took out the gun and put it on his car seat.

“Close the door.”

Again Myron obeyed the voice.

“Do you have the money?”

“First I want to see what you brought,” Myron said.

“No.”

“Hey, be reasonable here. I don’t even know what I’m buying.”

A brief hesitation. “Come closer.”

Myron stepped toward the light, ignoring the symbolism. “Whatever you’re selling,” he said, “how do I know you haven’t made copies?”

“You don’t,” the voice said. “You’ll have to trust me.”

“Who else knows about this?”

“I’m the only one,” the voice said, “who is still alive.”

Myron picked up the pace. His hands were still in the air. The wind whipped into his face. His clothes were sopping. “How do I know you won’t talk?”

“Again, you don’t. Your money buys my silence.”

“Until someone ups the bid.”

“No. I’m leaving after this. You won’t hear from me again.” The flashlight flickered. “Please stop.”

Ten feet in front of him stood a man wearing a ski mask. He had a flashlight in one hand and a box in the other. He nodded at Myron and lifted the box. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“First, the money.”

“For all I know, the box is empty.”

“Fine. Go back to your car and leave then.” The man in the ski mask turned around.

“No, wait,” Myron said. “I’ll get the money.”

The ski mask faced Myron again. “No games.”

Myron headed back to the car. He had moved about twenty paces when he heard the gunshots. Three of them. The noises did not startle him. He slowly turned around. The man with the ski mask was down. Audrey was running toward the still body. She was carrying Myron’s gun.

“He was going to kill you,” Audrey cried. “I had to shoot.”

Audrey kept running. When she reached the still body, she ignored it and scooped up the box. Myron slowly walked toward her.

“Open it,” he said.

“Let’s get out of this rain first. The police—”

“Open it.”

She hesitated. No thunder bellowed. No lightning struck.

“You were right before,” Myron said.

Audrey looked puzzled. “About what?”

“I was looking at this the wrong way.”

“What are you talking about?”

Myron took another step toward her. “When I asked myself who knew about the blood in the basement,” he began, “I only remembered Clip and Calvin. I forgot I told you. When I wondered why Greg’s lover would have to keep her identity a secret, I thought about Fiona White and Liz Gorman. Again I forgot about you. It’s hard enough for a woman to get respect as a female sports reporter. Your career would be ruined if anybody found out you were dating one of the players you covered. You had to keep it quiet.”

She looked at him, her face a wet, white blank.

“You’re the only one who fits, Audrey. You knew about the blood in the basement. You had to keep a relationship with Greg a secret. You had a key to his house so access would be no problem. And you were the one who had a motive to clean up the blood in order to protect him. After all, you killed to protect him. What’s cleaning up some blood?”

She brushed her hair away from her eyes and blinked into the rain. “You can’t seriously believe that I—”

“That night after TC’s party,” Myron interrupted, “when you told me how you had put it all together. I should have wondered then. Sure, my joining the team was unusual. But only somebody with a personal connection—somebody who truly knew that Greg had vanished and why—would have been able to come up with it so fast. You were the mystery lover, Audrey. And you don’t know where Greg is either. You cooperated with me not because you wanted the story, but because you wanted to find Greg. You’re in love with him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

“The police will comb the house, Audrey. They’ll find hairs.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “I interviewed him a couple of times—”

“In his bedroom? In his bathroom? In his shower?” Myron shook his head. “They’ll also comb the murder scene now that they know about you. There’ll be evidence there too. A hair or something.” He took another step toward her. Audrey raised the gun with a quivering hand.

“Beware the Ides of March,” Myron said.

“What?”

“You were the one who pointed it out to me. The ides are the fifteenth of March. Your birthday was the seventeenth. March seventeenth. Three-one-seven. The code Greg set on his answering machine.”

She pointed the gun at his chest. “Turn off the tape recorder,” she said. “And the phone.”

Myron reached into his pocket and did as she asked.

Tears and rain mixed together and cascaded down her cheeks. “Why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut?” she wailed. She pointed to the still body on the wet grass. “You heard what he said: no one else knows. All the blackmailers are dead. I could have destroyed this thing”—she held up the box—“once and for all. I wouldn’t have had to hurt you. It would have finally been over.”

“And what about Liz Gorman?”

Audrey made a scoffing noise. “That woman was nothing more than a conniving blackmailer,” she said. “She couldn’t be trusted. I told Greg that. What was to stop her from making copies and bleeding him dry? I even went to her house that night and pretended I was an ex-girlfriend with an ax to grind. I told her I wanted to buy a copy. She said sure. Don’t you see? Paying her off would do no good. There was only one way to keep her quiet.”

He nodded. “You had to kill her.”

“She was just a low-life criminal, Myron. She’d robbed a bank, for chrissake. Greg and I … we were perfect together. You were right about my career. I had to keep our relationship a secret. But not much longer. I was going to get transferred to another beat. Baseball. The Mets or Yankees. Then we could be open about it. It was going so well, Myron, and then this low-life bitch comes along.…” Her voice drifted off with a hard shake of the head. “I had to think about our future,” she said. “Not just Greg’s. Not just mine. But our baby’s too.”

Myron’s eyes closed in pain. “You’re pregnant,” he said softly.

“Now do you see?” Her wide-eyed enthusiasm was back, though it took on a more twisted dimension now. “She wanted to destroy him. Destroy us. What choice did I have? I’m not a killer but it was either us or her. And I know how it looks—Greg running off and not telling me. But it’s just the way he is. We’ve been together for more than six months. I know he loves me. He just needed time.”

Myron swallowed. “It’s over now, Audrey.”

She shook her head and held the gun with both hands. “I’m sorry, Myron. I don’t want to do it. I’d almost rather die first.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Myron took another step. She moved back. The gun trembled in her hand. “They’re blanks,” he said.

Her eyes squinted in confusion. The man in the ski mask sat up like Bela Lugosi in an old Dracula film. He pulled off the mask and showed his badge. “Police,” Dimonte shouted. Win and Krinsky came over the crest. Audrey’s mouth formed a perfect circle. Win had made the fake blackmailer call; Myron had set his cellular phone’s volume on high to be sure Audrey overheard it. The rest was easy.

Dimonte and Krinsky made the arrest. Myron watched, no longer feeling the rain. After Audrey was put into the back of a cruiser, he and Win walked toward the car.

“Superhero partner?” Myron said.

Win shrugged.