The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (32 page)

“Hit a raw nerve, did I?”

“Yes. I cared for Valerie very deeply.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Please leave. I must concentrate on this match.”

Myron did not move. Jack Lord put a big mitt on Myron’s shoulder. “You heard the man,” he said. “Move out.”

“Let go of my shoulder,” Myron said.

Jack shook his head. “No more games, pal. It’s time for you to get lost.”

“If you don’t move your hand,” Myron explained calmly, “I’ll hurt you. Maybe severely.”

From behind his sunglasses Big Jack finally smiled. His grip on Myron’s shoulder tightened. Myron quickly reached up with his right hand and grabbed the man’s thumb. He locked the joint and pulled it back the wrong way. Jack dropped to one knee.

Myron lowered his mouth toward Jack’s ear. “I don’t want to make a scene, so I’m going to let you go,” he whispered. “If you do anything but smile I will hurt you. Definitely severely. Nod if you understand.”

He nodded, his face pale.

Myron let the thumb go. “Later, Pavel.”

Pavel said nothing.

Myron walked past Jack. As ordered, Jack was smiling.

“Book ’em, Dann-o,” Myron said.

6

A stalker.

Could it be that simple? Could some deranged fan have put a bullet into Valerie Simpson because a voice told him to? Doesn’t explain Duane Richwood’s connection. But maybe there was no connection. Or maybe the connection had nothing to do with the murder and, more important, was none of Myron’s business.

Myron turned onto Hobart Gap Road. He was only a mile from his home in Livingston, New Jersey. The powder-blue Caddy with the canary-yellow roof finally turned off, jumping on the JFK Parkway. Whoever it was must have figured Myron was going home for the night, and hence there was no reason to keep the tail. But if the Caddy was around tomorrow, Myron would have to take care of it—unmask the true identity of Mr. Miami Gin Tournament.

Right now he needed to concentrate on this whole stalker possibility.

If Valerie had been killed by Roger Quincy, then why had ol’ Pavel gotten so antsy when Myron mentioned Alexander Cross? Or was it just like Pavel said—he didn’t want to betray confidences? When you thought about it, wasn’t it a hell of a lot more probable that Pavel just felt it was in his best interest to keep quiet? Senator Cross was an awfully powerful man. Spreading stories about his murdered son wasn’t necessarily the wisest course of action. So there could be nothing there. Then again it could be something big. Or something small.

Thoughts like these are what made Myron a brilliant detective.

He parked in the driveway. His mom’s car was in the garage. His dad’s was nowhere in sight. He opened the door with his key.

“Myron?”

Myron. God, what a name. You’d think he’d be used to it by now, but occasionally the horror hit him anew. He had been dubbed Myron. A last-second decision, his parents claimed. Something Mom came up with at the hospital. But to name a kid Myron Bolitar? Was that fair? Was that ethical?

As a youngster Myron tried giving himself nicknames: Mike, Mickey, even Sweet J, for his famous jumpshot. Okay, maybe it was a good thing that Sweet J didn’t stick. But still.

Warning to parents naming children: Let’s be careful out there.

His mother called out, “Myron? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“I’m in the den.” She was wearing an exercise outfit, watching some kind of workout tape. She stood on one leg, crane stance à la
The Karate Kid
. On the television a familiar voice crooned, “Now flow-step to the left.…”

David Carradine’s T’ai Chi Workout. Wonderful.

“Hi, Mom.”

“You’re late,” she said.

“I didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

“You said you’d be home by seven. It’s past nine.”

“Your point being?”

“I was worried. I saw on the news about that girl getting shot at the Open. How did I know you weren’t killed?”

Myron held back a sigh. “Did the news say I was killed? Did the news say anything about unidentified bodies? Or did they say only one girl named Valerie Simpson was shot?”

“They could have been lying.”

“Excuse me?”

“Happens all the time. The police lie to the reporters until they notify the next of kin.”

“Weren’t you home all day?”

“What, the police have my phone number?”

“But they could …” He stopped. What was the point? “Next time a murder takes place within a three-mile radius of my being I’ll be sure to call home.”

“Good.” She snapped off the tape. Then she placed a pillow in a corner and stood on her head.

“Mom?”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like? I’m standing on my head. It’s good exercise. Makes the blood flow. Makes me look my best. You know who used to stand on his head every day?”

Myron shook his head.

“David Ben-Gurion.”

“And everyone knows what a looker he was,” Myron said.

“Smart-mouth.”

Mom was a major paradox. On the one hand she’d been a practicing attorney for the past twenty years. She was the first generation born in the United States, her parents coming over from Minsk or somewhere like that, living lives that as near as Myron could tell paralleled
Fiddler on the Roof
. She became a sixties radical, an original bra burner, and experimented with various mind-altering drugs (hence naming a child Myron). She did not cook. Ever. She had no idea where the vacuum cleaner was stored. She did not know what an iron looked like, never mind whether or not she owned one. In the courtroom her crosses were legendary. She breakfasted on star witnesses. She was bright, frighteningly shrewd, and very modern.

On the other hand, all of this went out the window when it came to her son. She completely decompensated. She became her mother. And her mother before her. Only worse. Murphy Brown became Grandma Tzietl.

“Your father is picking up some Chinese food. I ordered enough for you.”

“I’m not hungry, thanks.”

“Spareribs, Myron. Sesame chicken.” Meaningful pause. “Shrimp with lobster sauce.”

“I’m really not hungry.”

“Shrimp with lobster sauce,” she repeated.

“Mom …”

“From Fong’s Dragon House.”

“No thanks.”

“What? You love Fong’s shrimp in lobster sauce. You’re crazy about it.”

“Maybe a little then.” Easier.

She was still standing on her head. She began to whistle. Very casuallike. “So,” she said in that strain-to-sound-aloof voice, “how’s Jessica?”

“Butt out, Mom.”

“Who’s butting? I just asked a simple question.”

“And I gave you a simple answer. Butt out.”

“Fine. But don’t go crying to me if something goes wrong.”

Like that happens.

“Why has she been away so long anyway? What’s she doing over there?”

“Thanks for butting out.”

“I’m concerned,” Mom said. “I just hope she’s not up to something.”

“Butt out.”

“Is that all you can say? Butt out? What are you, a parrot? Where is she anyway?”

Myron opened his mouth, wrestled it closed, and stormed into the basement. His dwelling. He was almost thirty-two years old and still lived at home. He hadn’t been here much the past few months. Most nights he’d spent at Jessica’s place in the city. They had even talked about moving in together but decided to take it slow. Very slow. Easier said than done. The heart don’t know from slow. At least Myron’s didn’t. As usual Mom had drilled into exposed nerve endings. Jessica was in Europe right now, but Myron had no idea where. He hadn’t heard from her in two weeks. He missed her. And he was wondering too.

The doorbell rang.

“Your father,” Mom called down. “Probably forgot his key again. I swear that man is getting senile.”

A few seconds later he heard the basement door open. His mother’s feet appeared. Then the rest of her. She beckoned him forward.

“What?”

“There’s a young lady here to see you,” she said. Then in a whisper, “She’s black.”

“Gasp!” Myron put his hand to his heart. “Hope the neighbors don’t call the police.”

“That’s not what I meant, smart-mouth, and you know it. We have black families in the neighborhood now. The Wilsons. Lovely people. They live on Coventry Drive. In the old Dechtman home.”

“I know, Mom.”

“I was just describing her for you. Like I might say she has blond hair. Or a nice smile. Or a harelip.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or limp. Or she’s tall. Or short. Or fat. Or—”

“I think I get the drift, Mom. Did you ask her name?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t want to pry.”

Right.

Myron headed up the stairs. It was Wanda, Duane’s girlfriend. For some reason Myron was not surprised. She smiled nervously, waved quickly.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at home,” she said.

“No problem. Please come in.”

They headed down to the basement. Myron had subdivided it into two rooms. One, a small sitting room he basically never used. Hence it was presentable and clean. The inside room, his living quarters, resembled a frat house after a major kegger.

Wanda’s eyes darted around again, like they had when Dimonte had been at the apartment. “You live down here?”

“Only since I was sixteen.”

“I think that’s sweet. Living with your parents.”

From upstairs: “If only you knew.”

“Close the door, Mom.”

Slam.

“Please,” Myron said. “Sit down.”

Wanda looked unsure but finally settled into a chair. She was wringing her hands nonstop. “I feel a little foolish,” she said.

Myron gave her an understanding, encouraging smile—the Phil Donahue smile.
Caller, are you there?

“Duane likes you,” she said. “A lot.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“The other agents, they call Duane all the time. All the big ones. They keep saying how you’re too small-time to represent Duane. They keep saying they can help him make a lot more money.”

“They might be right,” Myron said.

She shook her head. “Duane doesn’t think so. I don’t think so either.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

“You know why Duane won’t meet with those other agents?”

“Because he doesn’t want to see me weep?”

She smiled at that one. The Master of Levity strikes again. Señor Self-Deprecation. “No,” she said. “Duane trusts you.”

“I’m glad.”

“You’re not just in it for the money.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Wanda, but Duane is making me a lot of money. There’s no denying that.”

“I know,” she said. “I don’t want to sound naive here, but you put him first. Before the money. You look out for Duane Richwood the human being. You care about him.”

Myron said nothing.

“Duane doesn’t have many people,” she continued. “He doesn’t have any family. He lived on the streets since he was fifteen, scraping by. He wasn’t an angel that whole time. He did some things he’d rather forget. But he never hurt anybody, never did anything serious. His whole life he never had anyone he could rely on. He had to take care of himself.”

Silence.

“Does Duane know you’re here?” Myron asked.

“No.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He just took off. He does that sometimes.”

More silence.

“So anyway, like I said, Duane doesn’t have anybody else. He trusts you. He trusts Win, too, but only because he’s your best friend.”

“Wanda, what you’re saying is very nice, but I’m hardly driven by altruism. I’m well paid for what I do.”

“But you care.”

“Henry Hobson cares.”

“Maybe. But his wagon is hitched to Duane’s star. Duane is his ticket back to the bigs.”

“Many would say the same for me,” Myron countered. “Except that part about ‘back,’ since I’ve never been to the bigs. Duane’s my only big tennis player. In fact Duane is the only player I’ve got in the U.S. Open.”

She considered this for a moment, nodding. “Maybe that’s all true,” she said. “But when push came to shove—when trouble hit today—Duane came to you. And when push came to shove for me tonight, I came to you too. That’s the bottom line.”

The basement door opened.

“Would you kids like something to drink?”

“Got any Kool-Aid, Mom?”

Wanda laughed.

“Listen, smart-mouth, maybe your company is hungry.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Bolitar,” Wanda shouted up.

“You sure, hon? Coffee maybe? A Coke?”

“Nothing, really, thank you.”

“How about some Danish? I just bought some fresh at the Swiss House. Myron’s favorite.”

“Mom …”

“Okay, okay, I can take a hint.”

Right. The Mistress of the Subtle Signal. The basement door closed.

“She’s sweet,” Wanda said.

“Yeah, adorable.” Myron leaned forward. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

She started wringing her hands again. “I’m worried about Duane.”

“If it’s about Dimonte’s visit, don’t let him get to you. Being a horse’s ass is part of his job.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “Duane wouldn’t hurt anybody. I know that. But something isn’t right with him. He’s tense all the time. He paces around the apartment. He flies off the handle at the littlest things.”

“He’s under a lot of pressure right now. It could just be nerves.”

She shook her head. “Duane thrives on pressure. He loves competing, you know that. But the last day or two it’s different. Something is really bothering him.”

“Any idea what?”

“No.”

Myron leaned forward. “Let me ask you the obvious question: Did Duane get a call from Valerie Simpson?”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Does he know her?”

“I don’t know that either. But I know Duane. We’ve been together for three years, since we were both eighteen. He was still on the streets when we met. My father freaked out when he heard. He’s a chiropractor. He makes a good living, worked hard to keep the bad element away from us. And here I was, dating a street kid, a runaway.”

She chuckled at the memory. Myron sat and waited.

“No one thought it would last,” she continued. “I left college and got a job so he could pursue tennis. Now he’s putting me through NYU. We love each other. We loved each other before all this tennis stuff started and we’ll love each other long after he puts down the racket for good. But for the first time he’s shutting me out.”