The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (16 page)

Fedora Hat knew what he was doing.

“Stay a few steps behind me,” he barked at his new partner.

In the garage Fedora and Musclehead (who, Myron was happy to see, seemed to be out of commission) had underestimated Myron. Fedora would not make the same mistake twice. Not only had he always kept eyes and gun on Myron but he was making sure that his new partner (the Mustache) kept both himself and Esperanza a safe distance away.

Smart.

Myron had been tempted to make a move, but even his best move was useless in this circumstance. If he managed to get the gun away from Fedora, there was no way he’d be able to turn it on the Mustache before he’d shoot either him or Esperanza.

He would have to wait and watch. He knew what Fedora and Mustache intended to do. They hadn’t been hired to buy him ice cream or teach line dancing or even beat him up. Not this time.

“Let her go,” Myron said. “She has nothing to do with this.”

“Keep moving,” Fedora replied.

“You don’t need her.”

“Move.”

Mustache spoke for the first time. “I might want a little company later,” he sneered. Then he stopped and pressed the gun against Esperanza’s right cheek while he licked—actually licked—her left cheek with a wet cow-like tongue. Esperanza stiffened. Mustache looked at Myron. “You got a problem with that, pal?”

Myron knew words would be either superfluous or harmful at this stage. He kept his mouth shut.

They turned a corner. The stench of garbage was overwhelming. It was piled at least six feet high on both sides of the narrow alley. Fedora quickly scanned the area. It appeared to be abandoned.

“Go,” he said, giving Myron another poke with the gun. “End of the alley.”

Myron felt as if he were walking a plank. He tried to take it as slowly as possible.

“What are we going to do with the piece of ass?” Mustache asked.

Fedora’s eyes never left Myron. “She’s seen us,” he said. “She’s a witness.”

“But we weren’t hired to ace her,” Mustache whined.

“So?”

“So let’s not just waste a piece like this”—he smiled—“especially when we can fuck it first.”

Mustache laughed at his suggestion. Fedora did not. He stepped back, aiming the gun at Myron’s back. Myron turned to face him. They were separated by about six feet. Myron was against the back wall. There was no avenue of escape. The nearest window was at least twelve feet off the ground. No room to move at all.

Fedora raised the gun so that it stared Myron right in the face. Myron did not blink. He looked into Fedora’s eyes.

And then they were gone. Fedora’s eyes were gone. Along with half his head.

The bullet had ripped off the skull at the midway point, splitting Fedora’s head open like a coconut. He slid to the ground, the fedora floating down after him.

A dum-dum bullet.

Mustache cried out and dropped the gun. He held his hands up. “I surrender!”

Myron ran forward. “Don’t! He’s surren—”

But the gun exploded again. Mustache’s face disappeared in a spray of red mist. Myron stopped, closed his eyes. Mustache joined Fedora on the filthy cement. Esperanza came over and wrapped her arms around Myron. They both turned toward the alley’s entrance.

Win stepped into view, studying his handiwork as though it were a statue he wasn’t sure he liked. He was dressed in a gray suit, his red tie still in a perfect Windsor knot. His blond hair was neat, conservative, parted as always on the left. The .44 was in his right hand. His cheeks were rosy, and there was just a hint of a smile on his face.

“Good evening,” Win said.

“How long have you been here?” Myron asked. He
hadn’t spotted. Win when they exited the photography studio. But he had known he was there. With Win you just knew. One of life’s constants.

“I arrived as you entered the dwelling of ill repute,” Win answered. He smiled. “But I wanted my appearance to have that flair of drama.”

Myron let go of Esperanza.

“We better get moving,” Win said. “Before the authorities arrive.”

They walked away from the corpses in silence. Esperanza was shaking. Myron did not feel so hot either. Only Win seemed completely unaffected by what had transpired. As they approached the car, the same fat young prostitute clad in sausage casing approached Win.

“Hey, yo, want a blow job? Fifty bucks.”

Win looked at her. “I would rather have my semen sucked out with a catheter.”

“Okay,” the girl said. “Forty bucks.”

Win laughed and walked away.

“All units. One-eighteen Acre Street. All units One-eighteen Acre Street.”

Paul Duncan heard the call on his police scanner. He was only a few blocks from the scene, but this was not his district. Far from it. He could certainly not answer
the call. That would only draw attention and questions. Questions like what was he doing here.

Pieces were starting to come together. Fred Nickler, the publisher of those sleazy rags, had called him earlier in the day. What he had told Paul explained a lot. Not everything. Not by a long shot. But he now understood Jessica’s behavior the other night. She had learned about Kathy’s picture. Myron Bolitar must have told her.

But how had Myron gotten a copy of it?

Not important. Not really. What was important was that Myron Bolitar was involved. He could not be underestimated. Jessica was a big enough pain in the ass on her own. But now she had Myron on her side and probably that Win Lockwood, Myron’s psychotic Tonto. Paul knew something about their past work for the feds. Not a lot. Myron and Win had answered only to top government officials. Their work was almost always classified. But Paul knew their reputations. That was enough.

A police car sped past Paul, sirens screaming. They were probably on their way to 118 Acre Street. Paul turned up his scanner. He wanted to hear every word that was said.

He debated calling Carol, but what could he tell her? She hadn’t been specific on the phone, just telling him about the phone message from Nancy to Jessica. So what did Jessica know? How had she found out?

And what would Carol ultimately be pressured into saying?

Two ambulances flew by him. They too had their sirens on full blast. Paul swallowed. He wanted to pull over, but he wanted more to drive as far away as possible.

Once again Paul Duncan thought of his friend Adam Culver. Dead. Murdered. With everything that had happened, there had been no time for Paul to mourn.

Yes, mourn.

That might sound strange—Paul Duncan mourning Adam Culver. Especially if anyone knew how Adam had spent the last precious hours of his life.

    Win and Myron dropped Esperanza off at the apartment she shared with her sister and cousin in the east part of Greenwich Village. Myron escorted her to the door.

“You okay?”

She nodded. Her face was deathly pale. She had not spoken a word since the shooting. “Win—” She stopped, shook her head. It took her a full minute to pull herself together. “He saved us. I guess that’s what counts.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

Myron returned to the car. He called Jessica. She wasn’t home yet, but Myron did manage to wake her mother. They drove to a twenty-four-hour diner on Sixth Avenue—one of those Greek diners with a menu the approximate length of a Tolstoy novel. Win was a vegetarian. He ordered a salad and french fries. Myron ordered a Diet Coke. He couldn’t eat.

After they were settled in, Myron asked, “What happened with Chaz?”

Win was picking at a basket of stale bread. His face registered displeasure, but he settled on a small packet of Saltines. “Mr Landreaux hurried straight from our esteemed offices to a building at 466 Fifth Avenue,” he began. “He took the elevator to the eighth floor, which is rented by Roy O’Connor and TruPro Enterprises. When Landreaux entered the elevator, he had your contract tightly clutched in his paw. When he exited, the contract was no longer visible. He had no pockets that could hold
such a document. Conclusion: Mr Landreaux gave the contract to someone at TruPro Enterprises.”

“Your powers of deduction,” Myron said. “In a word: uncanny.”

Win smiled. “I assume you are feeling better.”

Myron shrugged.

“We are not the same, you and I,” Win added. “You call it execution, what I did to that vermin. I call it extermination.”

“You didn’t have to kill him.”

“I
wanted
to kill him,” Win said with flat inflection. “And I doubt any of us will mourn his death for very long.”

True enough, but the argument did not ease Myron’s mind. He wanted to drop the subject. “Where did Chaz go after he left TruPro?”

Win took a dainty bite out of the corner of the Saltine. “Before I get into that, I should point out that Mr. Landreaux was escorted from the building by a large man who fit the description of your friend Aaron. Large. Confident. Athletic. Suit with no shirt. Sunglasses, though the sun had already set.”

“Sounds like Aaron.”

“They split up on the street. Aaron got into a stretch limousine. Chaz Landreaux walked to the Omni Hotel.”

“Which Omni?” Myron asked. Manhattan had several.

“The one near Carnegie Hall. Landreaux met up with his mother in the lobby. Their reunion was rather moving. Mother and son embraced. Both were crying.”

“Hmm,” Myron said.

The waitress arrived with the food and drinks. She put them down, scratched her butt with a pencil, and returned to the kitchen.

“So where did they go after that?”

“Upstairs. They ordered room service.”

Myron thought a moment. “What is Chaz’s mother doing up from Philadelphia?”

“I would assume,” Win said, pulling a napkin out of the dispenser and spreading it on his lap, “based on their mutual anguish, that Frank Ache reached Chaz Landreaux through a family member.”

“A kidnapping?”

Win shrugged. “A possibility. Frank just sent two men to try to kill you. I highly doubt he is going to become squeamish over a ghetto abduction.”

Silence.

“We’re wading in some deep doo-doo,” Myron said.

“Indeed. Too deep.”

Chaz had a big family. If Frank really wanted to hit him where he lived, he’d take one of his siblings. “We’ll settle it tomorrow,” Myron said. “I scheduled a meeting with Herman Ache. Two o’clock. Usual place.”

“Should I attend?”

“Most definitely.”

Win ate his salad. “You do know that this won’t be easy.”

Myron nodded.

“Herman Ache does not like to intervene in his brother’s business.”

“I know.”

Win put down his fork. “If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion.”

“I’m listening.”

“Frank Ache sent two professionals after you. Their untimely deaths will not dissuade him from trying again.”

“Uh-huh. So what’s your suggestion?”

“Cut your losses now. Make an exchange. You let
them keep Landreaux. They call off the contract on your head.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can. You choose not to.”

“Semantics.”

“You don’t have to help him.”

“I
want
to help him,” Myron answered.

Win sighed. “A man must try to illuminate even those who prefer to sit in the darkness. Do you have a plan yet?”

“I’m still working on it.”

“Feverishly?”

Myron nodded.

“In the meantime,” Win said, “what did you learn from the photographer?”

Myron filled him in on the meeting with Lucy.

“So who bought the nude pictures?” Win asked.

“A name springs to mind,” Myron said.

“Who?”

“Adam Culver.”

“Kathy’s father?”

Myron nodded. “Think about it. The buyer was in his fifties. He wanted all copies and all negatives on the spot. He left nothing to chance.”

“The father protecting the daughter?”

“It makes sense,” Myron said.

“But Kathy was missing for over a year. How did Adam Culver suddenly learn about the photographs?”

“Maybe he knew about them all along.”

“Then why did he wait so long to buy them?”

Myron shrugged. “We’ll know more tomorrow. I’m going to send Esperanza over to the studio with a picture of Adam, see if Lucy recognizes him.”

Win took another bite of his salad. “It’s a rather strange development.”

“Yes.”

“But”—Win stopped to finish chewing—“here is something else you may not have considered: If Adam Culver purchased all the pictures and negatives in order to protect his daughter, how did her photograph end up in the magazine?”

Myron had considered that. He just didn’t have an answer.

The waitress put down the check. Myron picked up the tab for both of them. The total was $8.50. Mr. Magnanimous. They drove uptown. Win lived in the San Remo building overlooking Central Park West. Very fancy address. They were on Seventy-second Street when the car phone rang.

Myron looked at his multicolored Swatch. A gift from Esperanza.

Past midnight.

“Rather late for a call to your car,” Win noted.

Myron picked up the phone. “Hello?”

The voice came fast. “Bolitar, it’s Jake Courter. Get your ass down to St. Barnabas Hospital in Livingston right away.”

“What happened?”

“Just get down here. Now.”

“We got the call around eleven-thirty,” Jake said, ushering Myron through the lobby of St. Barnabas. Jake’s face was set, his eyes red and puffy. They hurried past the circular visitors’ desk and waited for an elevator.

“Is Jessica okay?” Myron asked.

“She is going to be fine,” he said. Then he added, “Wish I could say the same about Nancy Serat.”

“What happened?”

“She was garroted with a wire.” The elevator arrived. Jake pressed the button for the fifth floor. “When no one answered the door, Jessica let herself in through the back. The killer must have still been there. He knocked her over the head and ran. When she came to, she called us. I’d say she’s pretty lucky the perp didn’t waste her.”

The elevator opened with a
ding
. “What room is she in?” Myron asked.

“Five fifteen.”

Myron sprinted down the corridor. He turned the corner. Jessica was in the bed, her face ashen. A doctor stood next to her, preparing a needle. Jake came up behind Myron but stayed in the doorway.

Her voice was wobbly. “Myron?”

“I’m here,” he said, taking her hand. She looked small and frail and alone. “I won’t leave.”

The doctor pricked her with the needle. “You need your rest,” he said.

“I’m fine,” Jessica insisted weakly. “I want to get out of here.”

“We think it’s best if you stay overnight for observation.”

“But—”

“Listen to him, Jess,” Myron interrupted. “There’s nothing we can do tonight.”

The drug began to take effect. Her eyes fluttered back. “Nancy …”

“It’s okay,” Myron soothed.

“Her face was blue …”

“Shhh.”

Jessica slipped into unconsciousness. Myron looked up at the doctor. “Is she going to be okay?”

“She’ll be fine. I think the shock of what she saw was worse than the blow to her head.”

Jake put his hand on Myron’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I want to stay.”

“You can come back later. Right now we need to talk.”

Myron gazed down at Jessica. She was deep in sleep.

“She’ll be out for a while,” the doctor assured him.

They walked down the corridor silently and took the elevator back to the lobby. The place had that hospital smell—that unique combo of something antiseptic and the hospital food. Win had parked the car and was now sitting in the waiting area. He stood when he saw them.

“That your friend Win?” Jake asked, motioning with his chin. “The one P.T. told me about?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him to stay here. I want to talk to you alone.”

Myron signaled to Win. Win nodded, sat back down, picked up a newspaper, crossed his legs. Jake looked him over for a minute. “He as crazy as P.T. says?”

“Pretty much.”

“Come on.”

They grabbed coffee and found a table in the corner. “The crime scene unit is going over Nancy’s house now. They’ll beep me if they find anything.”

“So what do you know so far?” Myron asked.

“Not much. Nancy spent the last few days in Cancún—a graduation present from her parents.”

“Have they been told?”

He shook his head. “I’m going over there right after we talk.”

Silence. Jake broke it. “So how did Jessica get involved in this?”

“She wanted me to look into her father’s murder. She didn’t buy the fact that he was killed in a botched robbery.”

Jake nodded. “She thought her old man’s murder had something to do with her sister.”

“Yes.”

“I figured as much. I got the file in the car.”

Myron sat up. “Adam Culver’s homicide file?”

“Hey, I ain’t an idiot, Bolitar. You start investigating after eighteen months. Why? Had to be the father’s murder. You saw a connection. But I gotta be honest. I don’t see it. No connections in that file at all. A few inconsistencies maybe. But no connection.”

“What sort of inconsistencies?” Myron asked.

“Adam Culver was supposed to be in Denver when he was killed. At a medical examiners’ conference at the Hyatt Regency. But he never showed, missed his morning flight.”

“Does the file say why?”

“Adam didn’t feel well. A reasonable explanation.”

“Who told them that?”

“His wife.”

Pause. “What else?”

“Nothing else. The crime scene—a quiet street—was unremarkable. He was stabbed through the heart.”

“What was he doing out?”

“The wife said he went out to buy some groceries.”

Myron chewed that one over for a moment. “Odd thing to do,” he said, “when you’re not feeling well.”

“Yeah, that’s easy for us to say, sitting here like this. But the cops were concentrating on finding a mugger. No one really gave a shit about a missed flight or what it might mean.”

“Any witnesses to the murder?”

“None. The file is pretty bare-bone.” Jake leaned forward and tried to stare Myron down. Myron did not look away. “Now,” Jake said slowly, “you start talking to me. And don’t give me no ‘I don’t want no one hurt’ crap. Too late for that now. Why are you really involved in all this?”

“I told you Jessica.”

Jake leaned farther forward until their faces were only inches apart. “Stop jerking me around,” he spat out. “I ain’t blind. I can see Jessica Culver is great tail. But don’t start giving me this bullshit that you just decided to drop everything and help on a whim. You ain’t that hard up.”

“There was also Christian to consider,” Myron said.

“What about him?”

“He’s my top client. He was still upset about his fiancée’s disappearance.”

Jake made a snorting nose. “Yeah, I bet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Jake said, “that I’m not convinced Christian is completely innocent in all this.”

“But you said the DNA test on the semen—”

“I’m not saying he raped her.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That he might be involved,” Jake replied. “Your client had no solid alibi for the time of the disappearance. He claims he was in bed at eleven o’clock, but no one can confirm it.”

“He has a single room,” Myron said. “Who’s going to confirm he was in bed when he lived alone?”

“It’s suspicious,” Jake replied.

“How? Kathy Culver was seen entering the team locker room after ten, right?”

Jake nodded.

“And you know Christian was meeting with the offensive coordinator until ten-thirty,” Myron continued. “That’s confirmed.”

“But that’s where his alibi ends.”

“He went to bed after that. Kathy was seen wandering around on the other side of the campus at eleven o’clock. I don’t see the connection.”

“Maybe there is none,” Jake said simply. “But he’s the boyfriend. The boyfriend is always a prime suspect. And there was something else.”

“What?”

“His teammates.”

“What about them?”

Jake finished his coffee. He tapped the cup to get the last few drops. “They were cooperative, I guess, but some of them seemed awfully vague. Nothing I could pin down, but some of them looked more nervous than they should. Like they were covering something up. Like maybe, just maybe, they were protecting their star quarterback before the big game.”

Except, Myron thought, nobody on the team liked Christian. His teammates would not have gone out of their way to protect him. Just the opposite, in fact.

So why were they nervous?

Jake settled back and smiled, marking a change in tactics. “Now, Myron, I’ve been awfully sweet, haven’t I? I’ve told you all I know, and you’re still holding back on me. That ain’t nice. Something else—something you haven’t shared with me yet—put a real hairy bug in your ass. Now I visited our friend Dean Gordon a few hours ago, just like you suggested. The man was cordial, friendly, not at all a pompous ass. Which ain’t like him. In fact, I think he was scared shitless. Now why’s that?”

“Did he tell you anything?”

“Oh, he was real helpful. Kathy was a wonderful girl, an honor student, a hard worker, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yeah. He also told me your ex upstairs paid him a visit. Seems Jessica wanted her sister’s file. Imagine that.”

“We were trying to gather as much info as possible.”

“Information on what?”

Myron eyed his coffee. It looked like sewer sludge. “On the morning Adam Culver was murdered, he visited Nancy Serat.”

Jake’s eyes widened a bit. “How do you know that?”

“Nancy left a message on Jessica’s phone to meet her at ten o’clock tonight. She also said that she’d seen Adam Culver on the morning of the murder.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jake crossed his arms, resting them on his belly. “So Adam Culver visits Nancy Serat in the morning. He finds something out. Something big. Something so big he cancels his trip.”

“Something so big,” Myron added, “it gets him killed.”

Jake nodded, thinking. “Then the killer has to get rid of the source.”

“Nancy Serat.”

“Right.” Jake stopped. “But I questioned that girl for hours. I asked her everything.” His voice faded off, and a shadow crossed his face. Myron knew what he
was wondering. Any cop worth a damn would be asking the same questions. Did I fuck up? Did I miss something? Is a young girl dead because of me?

“If Nancy knew something that important,” Myron said, “the killer wouldn’t have waited eighteen months to silence her. I think it’s a little more complicated than our scenario. I think Adam Culver had already put most of it together. Nancy had the final piece, a piece that by itself meant nothing to anyone—except Adam Culver.”

“You trying to make me feel better?”

“No. It’s how I see it. If I thought you fucked up, I’d say so.”

“You didn’t see her body,” Jake said quietly. “Strangulation ain’t pretty. The damn wire nearly sliced her head off. Not a nice way to go, Myron.” He stopped, shook his head. “After seeing that, I know what Jessica is asking herself, because I keep asking myself the same thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Did Kathy meet a similar fate?”

Silence. They drank some coffee. Myron’s was already cold, but he didn’t complain. Cold, sludgelike coffee seemed to fit the occasion.

“P.T. told me all about you,” Jake said after a massive slurp. “Said you were smart, that I could trust you. He don’t say that about too many folks. Said you and that Win fella were as good as they come. A little too maverick, but right now I could use that. I’m a cop. I have to follow rules. You don’t. More power to you. But this is my territory, and I ain’t gonna sit around like some fucking movie extra.” He put his hands on the table. They were big and callused and had no rings. “So now I want you to tell me everything, Myron. Right now. Just you and me. It won’t get out, you have my word. Don’t hold anything back. You understand?”

Myron nodded.

“So start talking, boy. I’m all ears.”

Myron took out the magazine and handed it to Jake. “It all started with this.”