The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (30 page)

“It’s Duane,” Esperanza said.

Myron took the call at her desk. “Hey, Duane. What’s up?”

His voice came fast. “Get over here, man. Like now.”

“What’s the matter?”

“The cops are in my face. They’re asking me all kinds of shit.”

“About what?”

“That girl who got shot today. They think I got something to do with it.”

3

“Let me speak to the police officer,” Myron told Duane.

Another voice came on the line. “This is homicide detective Roland Dimonte,” the voice barked with pure cop impatience. “Who the hell is this?”

“I’m Myron Bolitar. Mr. Richwood’s attorney.”

“Attorney, huh? I thought you were his agent.”

“I’m both,” Myron said.

“That a fact?”

“Yes.”

“You got a law degree?”

“It’s hanging on my wall. But I can bring it if you’d like.”

Dimonte made a noise. Might have been a snicker. “Ex-jock. Ex-fed. And now you tell me you’re a goddamn lawyer?”

“I’m what you might call a Renaissance man,” Myron said.

“Yeah? Tell me, Bolitar, what law school would let in someone like you?”

“Harvard,” Myron said.

“Whoa, aren’t we a big shot.”

“You asked.”

“Well, you got half an hour to get here. Then I drag your boy to the precinct. Got me?”

“I’ve really enjoyed this little chat, Rolly.”

“You got twenty-nine minutes. And don’t call me Rolly.”

“I don’t want my client questioned until I’m present. Understood?”

Roland Dimonte didn’t answer.

“Understood?” Myron repeated.

Pause. Then: “Must be a bad connection, Bolitar.” Dimonte hung up.

Pleasant guy.

Myron handed the phone back to Esperanza. “Mind getting rid of Ned for me?”

“Done.”

Myron took the elevator to the ground floor and sprinted toward the Kinney lot. Someone shouted, “Go, O.J.!” at him. In New York everyone’s a comedian. Mario tossed Myron the keys without glancing up from his newspaper.

Myron’s car was parked on the ground floor. Unlike Win, Myron was not what one would label a “car guy.” A car was a mode of transportation, nothing more. Myron drove a Ford Taurus. A gray Ford Taurus. When he cruised down the street, chicks did not exactly swarm.

He’d driven about twenty blocks when he spotted a powder-blue Cadillac with a canary-yellow roof. Something about it bothered Myron. The color maybe. Powder blue with a yellow roof? In Manhattan? A retirement community in Boca Raton, okay, driven by some guy named Sid who always had his left blinker on. Myron could see that. But not in Manhattan. And more to the point, Myron remembered sprinting past the exact same car on his way to the garage.

Was he being followed?

A possibility, though not a great one. This was midtown Manhattan and Myron was heading straight down Seventh Avenue. About a million other cars were doing the same. Could be nothing. Probably was. Myron made a quick mental note and proceeded.

Duane had recently rented a place on the corner of Twelfth Street and Sixth Avenue. The John Adams Building, on the fringe of Greenwich Village. Myron illegally parked in front of a Chinese restaurant on Sixth, got passed through by the doorman, and took the elevator to Apartment 7G.

A man who had to be Detective Roland Dimonte answered the door. He was dressed in jeans, paisley green shirt, black leather vest. He also had on the ugliest pair of snakeskin boots—snow-white with flecks of purple—Myron had ever seen. His hair was greasy. Several strands were matted to his forehead like to flypaper. A toothpick—an actual toothpick—was jutting out of his mouth. His eyes were set deep in a pudgy face, like someone had stuck two brown pebbles in at the last minute.

Myron smiled. “Hi, Rolly.”

“Let’s get one thing straight, Bolitar. I know all about you. I know all about your glory days with the feds. I know all about how you like to play cop now. But I don’t give a shit about none of that. Nor do I give a shit that your client is a public figure. I gotta job to do. You hear what I’m saying?”

Myron put his hand to his ear. “Must be a bad connection.”

Roland Dimonte crossed his arms and gave Myron his most withering glare. The snakeskin boots had a high platform of some sort, pushing his height over six foot, but Myron still had a good three or four inches on him. A minute passed. Roland still glared. Then another minute. Roland gnawed on the toothpick. The glare persisted without a blink.

“On the inside,” Myron said, “I’m quaking in fear.”

“Go fuck yourself, Bolitar.”

“Chewing the toothpick is a nice touch. A little cliché perhaps, but it works for you.”

“Just keep it up, smart-ass.”

“Mind if I come in,” Myron said, “before I wet my pants?”

Dimonte moved out of the way. Slowly. The death glare was still locked on autopilot.

Myron found Duane sitting on the couch. He was wearing his Ray•Bans, but that was not surprising. He stroked his closely cropped beard with his left hand. Wanda, Duane’s girlfriend, stood by the kitchen. She was tall, five-ten or so. Her figure was what was commonly referred to as tight or hard rather than muscular, and she was a stunner. Her eyes kept darting about like birds moving from branch to branch.

It was not a huge apartment. The decor was standard New York rental. Duane and Wanda had moved in only a few weeks ago. Month-to-month lease. No reason to fix the place up. With the money Duane was about to start making they could live anywhere they wanted to soon.

“Did you say anything to them?” Myron asked.

Duane shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Duane shook his head again. “I don’t know.”

There was another cop in the room. A younger guy. Much younger. He looked to be about twelve. Probably just made detective. He had his pad out, his pen at the ready.

Myron turned to Roland Dimonte. Dimonte had his hands on his hips, emanating self-importance from every pore. “What’s this all about?” Myron asked.

“We just want to ask your client a few questions.”

“About what?”

“The murder of Valerie Simpson.”

Myron looked over at Duane. “I don’t know nothing,” Duane said.

Dimonte sat down, making a big production out of it. King Lear. “Then you won’t mind answering a few questions?”

Duane said, “No.” But he didn’t sound very confident about it.

“Where were you when the shooting occurred?”

Duane glanced at Myron. Myron nodded. “I was on Stadium Court.”

“What were you doing?”

“Playing tennis.”

“Who was your opponent?”

Myron nodded. “You’re good, Rolly.”

“Shut the fuck up, Bolitar.”

Duane said, “Ivan Restovich.”

“Did the match continue after the shooting?”

“Yeah. It was match point anyway.”

“Did you hear the gunshot?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do?”

“Do?”

“When you heard the shot?”

Duane shrugged. “Nothing. I just stood there until the umpire told us to keep playing.”

“You never left the court?”

“No.”

The young cop kept scribbling, never looking up.

“Then what did you do?” Dimonte asked.

“When?”

“After the match.”

“I did an interview.”

“Who interviewed you?”

“Bud Collins and Tim Mayotte.”

The young cop looked up for a moment, confused.

“Mayotte,” Myron said. “M-A-Y-O-T-T-E.”

He nodded and resumed his scribbling.

“What did you talk about?” Roland asked him.

“Huh?”

“During the interview. What did they ask you about?”

Dimonte shot a challenging glare at Myron. Myron responded with his warmest nod and a pilotlike thumbs up.

“I’m not going to tell you again, Bolitar. Cut the shit.”

“Just admiring your technique.”

“You’ll admire it from a jail cell in a minute.”

“Gasp!”

Another death glare from Roland Dimonte before he turned back to Duane. “Do you know Valerie Simpson?”

“Personally?”

“Yes.”

Duane shook his head. “No.”

“But you’ve met?”

“No.”

“You don’t know her at all?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve never had any contact with her?”

“Never.”

Roland Dimonte crossed his legs, resting his boot on his knee. His fingers caressed—actually caressed—the white-and-purple snakeskin. Like it was a pet dog. “How about you, miss?”

Wanda seemed startled. “Pardon me?”

“Have you ever met Valerie Simpson?”

“No.” Her voice was barely audible.

Dimonte turned back to Duane. “Had you ever heard of Valerie Simpson before today?”

Myron rolled his eyes. But for once he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to push it too far. Dimonte was not as dumb as he appeared. No one was. He was trying to lull Duane before the big whammy. Myron’s job was to disrupt his rhythm with a few choice interruptions. But not too many.

Myron Bolitar, darling of the tightrope.

Duane said with a shrug, “Yeah, I heard of her.”

“In what capacity?”

“She used to be on the circuit. Couple years back, I think.”

“The tennis circuit?”

“No, the nightclub circuit,” Myron interjected. “She used to open for Anthony Newley in Vegas.”

So much for Mr. Restraint.

The glare was back. “Bolitar, you’re really starting to piss me off.”

“Are you going to get to the point already?”

“I take my time with interrogations. I don’t like to rush.”

“Should do the same,” Myron said, “when purchasing footwear.”

Dimonte’s face reddened. Still glaring at Myron, he said, “Mr. Richwood, how long have you been on the circuit?”

“Six months.”

“And in those six months you never saw Valerie Simpson?”

“That’s right.”

“Fine. Now let me see if I got this right: You were playing a match when the gun went off. You finished the match. You shook hands with your opponent. I assume you shook hands with your opponent?”

Duane nodded.

“Then you did an interview.”

“Right.”

“Did you shower before or after the interview?”

Myron held up his hands. “Okay, that’s enough.”

“You got a problem, Bolitar?”

“Yeah. Your questions are beyond idiotic. I’m now advising my client to stop answering them.”

“Why? Your client got something to hide?”

“Yeah, Rolly, you’re too clever for us. Duane killed her. Several million people were watching him on national television during the shooting. Several thousand more were watching him in person. But that wasn’t him playing. It was really his identical twin, lost since birth. You’re just too smart for us, Rolly. We confess.”

“I haven’t ruled that out,” Dimonte countered.

“Haven’t ruled what out?”

“That ‘we’ stuff. Maybe you had something to do with it. You and that psycho-yuppie friend of yours.”

He meant Win. Lot of cops knew Win. None liked him. The feeling was mutual.

“We were in the stadium at the time of the shooting,” Myron said. “A dozen witnesses will back that up. And if you really knew anything about Win, you’d know he’d never use a weapon that close up.”

That made Dimonte hesitate. He nodded. Agreeing, for once.

“Are you through with Mr. Richwood?” Myron asked.

Dimonte suddenly smiled. It was a happy, expectant smile, like a school kid sitting by the radio on a snow day. Myron didn’t like the smile.

“If you’ll just humor me for another moment,” he said with syrupy phoniness. He rose and moved toward his partner, the Pad. The Pad kept scribbling.

“Your client claims he didn’t know Valerie Simpson.”

“So?”

The Pad finally looked up. His eyes were as vacant as a court stenographer’s. Dimonte nodded at him. The Pad handed him a small leather book encased in plastic.

“This is Valerie’s calendar book,” Dimonte said. “The last entry was made yesterday.” His smile widened. His head was held high. His chest puffed out like a rooster about to get laid.

“Okay, poker face,” Myron said. “What’s it say?”

He handed Myron a photocopy. Yesterday’s entry was fairly simple. Sprawled across the entire page it read:

D.R. 555-8705. Call!

555-8705. Duane’s phone number. D.R. Duane Richwood.

Dimonte appeared gleeful.

“I’d like to talk to my client,” Myron said. “Alone.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not going to duck away now that I have you on the ropes.”

“I’m his attorney—”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. You take him away, I take him downtown in cuffs.”

“You don’t have anything,” Myron said. “His phone number is in her book. Means nothing.”

Dimonte nodded. “But how would it look? To the press, for example. Or the fans. Duane Richwood, tennis’s newest hero, being dragged into the station with handcuffs on. Bet that would be hard to explain to the sponsors.”

“Are you threatening us?”

Dimonte put his hand to his chest. “Heavens no. Would I do something like that, Krinsky?”

The Pad did not look up. “Nope.”

“There. You see?”

“I’ll sue your ass for wrongful arrest,” Myron said.

“And you might even win, Bolitar. Years from now, when the courts actually hear the case. Lot of good that’s going to do you.”

Dimonte looked a lot less stupid now.

Duane quickly stood and crossed the room. He snapped off the Ray•Bans, then, thinking better of it, put them back on. “Look, man, I don’t know why my number is in her book. I don’t know her. I never spoke to her on the phone.”