One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (17 page)

Myron said, “Don’t answer.”

“Let me help you, Brenda. Your father didn’t listen to the court order, right? He came after you, didn’t he?”

Brenda said nothing.

“You were his daughter. You disobeyed him. You publicly humiliated him, so much so that he decided to teach you a lesson. And when he came after you—when that big, scary man was going to attack you again—you had no choice. You shot him. It was self-defense, Brenda. I understand that. I would have done the same thing. But if you walk out that door, Brenda, I can’t help you. It moves from something justifiable to coldblooded murder. Plain and simple.”

McLaughlin took her hand. “Let me help you, Brenda.”

The room went still. McLaughlin’s freckled face was totally earnest, the perfect mask of concern and trust and openness. Myron glanced over at Tiles. Tiles quickly diverted his gaze.

Myron didn’t like that.

McLaughlin had laid out a neat little theory. It made sense. Myron could see why they would believe it. There was bad blood between father and daughter. A well-documented history of abuse. A court order …

Hold the phone.

Myron looked back over at Tiles. Tiles would still not meet his eyes.

Then Myron remembered the blood on the shirt in the locker. The cops didn’t know about that, couldn’t know about it.…

“She wants to see her father,” Myron blurted out.

Everybody looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“His body. We want to see Horace Slaughter’s body.”

“That won’t be necessary,” McLaughlin said. “We’ve positively identified him through fingerprints. There’s no reason to put—”

“Are you denying Miss Slaughter the opportunity to view her father’s body?”

McLaughlin backpedaled a bit. “Of course not. If that’s what you really want, Brenda—”

“That’s what we want.”

“I’m speaking to Brenda—”

“I’m her attorney, Detective. You speak to me.”

McLaughlin stopped. Then she shook her head and turned to Tiles. Tiles shrugged.

“Okay then,” McLaughlin said. “We’ll drive you over.”

The Bergen County Medical Examiner’s Office looked like a small elementary school. It was one level, red brick, right angles, and as unassuming a building as one could construct, but then again, what did you want in a morgue? The waiting room chairs were molded plastic and about as comfortable as a pinched nerve. Myron had been here once before, not long after Jessica’s father had been murdered. The memory was not a pleasant one.

“We can go in now,” McLaughlin said.

Brenda stayed close to Myron as they all walked down a short corridor. He put his arm around her waist. She moved in a touch. He was comforting her. He knew that. He also knew that it shouldn’t have felt so right.

They entered a room of gleaming metal and tile. No big storage drawers or anything like that. Clothes—a
security guard’s uniform—was in a plastic bag in one corner. All the instruments and utensils and what-have-you’s were in another corner, covered by a sheet. So was the table in the center. Myron could see right away that the body underneath it belonged to a big man.

They paused at the door before gathering around the gurney. With minimum fanfare, a man—Myron assumed he was the medical examiner—pulled the sheet back. For the briefest of moments, Myron thought that maybe the cops had screwed up the ID. It was a whimsical hope, he realized, not anything based on fact. He was sure it ran through every person’s mind who came here to identify someone, even when he knew the truth, a last gasp, a fantasy that a wonderful, beautiful mistake had been made. It was only natural.

But there was no mistake here.

Brenda’s eyes filled. She tilted her head and screwed up her mouth. Her hand reached out and brushed the still cheek.

“That’s enough,” McLaughlin said.

The medical examiner started pulling the sheet back. But Myron reached his hand out and stopped him. He looked down at the remains of his old friend. He felt tears sting his own eyes, but he forced them back. Now was not the time. He had come here for a purpose.

“The bullet wound,” Myron said, his voice thick. “It’s in the back of the head?”

The medical examiner glanced at McLaughlin. McLaughlin nodded. “Yes,” the medical examiner said. “I cleaned him up when I heard you were coming.”

Myron pointed to Horace’s right cheek. “What’s that?”

The medical examiner looked nervous. “I have not yet had the time to properly analyze the body.”

“I didn’t ask you for an analysis, Doctor. I asked you about this.”

“Yes, I understand that. But I do not wish to make any suppositions until I perform a complete autopsy.”

“Well, Doctor, it’s a bruise,” Myron said. “And it happened premortem. You can tell by the lividity and coloring.” Myron had no idea if that was true, but he ran with it. “His nose also appears to be broken, does it not, Doctor?”

“Don’t answer that,” McLauglin said.

“He doesn’t have to.” Myron starting leading Brenda away from the shell that was once her father. “Nice try, McLaughlin. Call us a taxi. We’re not saying another word to you.”

When they were alone outside, Brenda said, “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

“They were trying to con you.”

“How?”

“For the sake of argument, let’s say you did murder your father. The police are questioning you. You’re nervous. Suddenly they give you the perfect out.”

“That self-defense stuff.”

“Right. Justifiable homicide. They pretend they’re on your side, that they understand. You as the killer would jump at the chance, right?”

“If I were the killer, yeah, I guess I would.”

“But you see, McLaughlin and Tiles knew about those bruises.”

“So?”

“So if you shot your father in self-defense, why was he beaten beforehand?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Here’s how it works. They get you to confess. You follow their lead, come up with a story about how he attacked you and how you had to shoot him. But the problem is, if that’s the case, where did the facial bruises come from? All of a sudden, McLaughlin and Tiles produce this new physical evidence that contradicts your version of the events. So what are you left with? A confession you can’t retract. With that in hand, they use the bruises to show it wasn’t self-defense. You’ve screwed yourself.”

Brenda chewed that over. “So they figure someone beat him right before he was killed?”

“Right.”

She frowned. “But do they really believe I could have beaten him up like that?”

“Probably not.”

“So how are they figuring?”

“Maybe you surprised him with a baseball bat or something. But more likely—and this is the tricky part—they think you had an accomplice. You remember how Tiles checked my hands?”

She nodded.

“He was looking for bruised knuckles or some other telltale sign of trauma. When you punch somebody, your hand usually shows it.”

“And that’s also why she asked me about a boyfriend?”

“Right.”

The sun was starting to weaken a bit. Traffic whizzed by. There was a parking lot across the street. A sprinkling of men and women in business suits trudged to their cars after a day of unnatural office light, their faces pale, their eyes blinking.

“So they believe that Dad was beaten right before he was shot,” she said.

“Yes.”

“But we know that it probably isn’t true.”

Myron nodded. “The blood in the locker. My guess is, your father was beaten a day or two before. Either he got away or the beating was just a warning. He went to his locker at St. Barnabas to clean up. He used a shirt to stop the blood flowing out of his nose. Then he ran away.”

“And someone found him and shot him.”

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t we tell the police about the bloody shirt?”

“I’m not sure. Think about it a second. The cops firmly believe you did it. Now you produce a shirt with your dad’s blood on it. Is that going to help us or hurt us?”

Brenda nodded and suddenly turned away. Her breathing became funny again. Too much too fast, Myron thought. He stayed back and gave her a little space. His heart started swelling up. Mother and father both gone, no sisters or brothers. What must that feel like?

A taxi pulled up a few minutes later. Brenda faced him again.

“Where do you want to be dropped off?” Myron asked. “A friend’s house? Your aunt’s?”

She thought about it. Then she shook her head and met his gaze. “Actually,” she said, “I’d like to stay with you.”

The taxi pulled up to the Bolitar house in Livingston.

“We can go somewhere else,” he tried again.

She shook her head. “Just do me one favor.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell them about my father. Not tonight.”

He sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

Uncle Sidney and Aunt Selma were already there. So were Uncle Bernie and Aunt Sophie and their boys. Other cars pulled up as he paid the taxi driver. Mom sprinted down the driveway and hugged Myron as though he’d just been released by Hamas terrorists. She also hugged Brenda. So did everyone else. Dad was in the back at the barbecue. A gas grill now, thank goodness, so Dad could stop loading on the lighter fluid with a hose. He wore a chef’s hat somewhat taller than a control tower and an apron that read
REFORMED VEGETARIAN.
Brenda was introduced as a client. Mom
quickly grabbed her away from Myron, threading her arm through Brenda’s, and led her into the house for a tour. More people came. The neighbors. Each with a pasta salad or fruit salad or something. The Dempseys and the Cohens and the Daleys and the Weinsteins. The Brauns had finally surrendered to the warm allure of Florida, and a couple younger than Myron with two kids had moved in. They came over too.

The festivities began. A Wiffle ball and bat were produced. Teams were chosen. When Myron swung and missed, everyone fell down as though from the breeze. Funny. Everyone talked with Brenda. They wanted to hear about the new women’s league, but they were far more impressed when they heard Brenda was going to be a doctor. Dad even let Brenda take over the grill for a while, a move for Dad tantamount to donating a kidney. The smell of charred foods filled the air. Chicken and burgers and hot dogs from Don’s deli (Mom bought her hot dogs only from Don) and shish kebabs and even a few salmon steaks for the health-conscious.

Myron kept meeting Brenda’s eye. Brenda kept smiling.

Kids, all dutifully wearing helmets, parked their bikes at the end of the driveway. The Cohens’ kid had gotten an earring. Everyone ribbed him about it. He slumped his head and smiled. Vic Ruskin gave Myron a stock tip. Myron nodded and promptly forgot it. Fred Dempsey grabbed a basketball from the garage. The Daley girl picked teams. Myron had to play. So did Brenda. Everyone laughed. Myron downed a cheeseburger between points. Delicious. Timmy Ruskin fell down and cut his knee. He cried. Brenda bent down
and examined the cut. She put on a Band-Aid and smiled at Timmy. Timmy beamed.

Hours passed. Darkness crept in slowly as it does in suburban summer skies. People began to drift home. Cars and bikes faded away. Fathers threw their arms around sons. Little girls rode home on shoulders. Everyone kissed Mom and Dad good-bye. Myron looked at his parents. They were the only original family left in the neighborhood now, the surrogate grandparents of the block. They suddenly looked old to Myron. That scared him.

Brenda came up behind him. “This is wonderful,” she said to him.

And it was. Win might poke fun at it. Jessica did not care for scenes like these—her own family had created the perfect Rockwellian facade to hide the rot below—and rushed back to the city as though it held an antidote. Myron and Jess often drove back from such events in total silence. Myron thought about that. And he thought again what Win had said about taking leaps of faith.

“I miss your father,” Myron said. “I haven’t talked to him in ten years. But I still miss him.”

She nodded. “I know.”

They helped clean up. Not much to it. They’d used only paper plates and cups and plastic utensils. Brenda and Mom laughed the whole time. Mom kept sneaking glances at Myron. The looks were a little too knowing.