The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (45 page)

29

By the time Myron got back to Stadium Court, Duane had dropped the first two sets 6–3, 6–1, and it was 2–2 in the third set. Myron sat between Jessica and Win. Pavel Menansi, he immediately noticed, was no longer in his seat. Aaron was still there. Senator Cross and Gregory Caufield were in their box too. Ned Tunwell still sat with his Nike colleagues. Ned was no longer waving. He was, in fact, crying. The entire Nike box looked like a deflated balloon. Henry Hobman was still as a Rodin.

Myron turned to Jessica. She looked concerned but said nothing. She took his hand and gave it a little squeeze. He squeezed back and gave her a small smile. He noticed that she was now wearing a bright pink Ray•Ban cap.

“What’s with the cap?” he asked.

“A guy offered me a thousand dollars to wear it.”

Myron was familiar with the old advertising trick. Companies—in this case, Ray•Ban—paid anyone seated in the players’ boxes to wear the caps during matches, figuring, of course, that there was an excellent chance the person and hence the hat would show up on television. Relatively cheap and effective exposure.

Myron looked at Win. “What about you?”

“I don’t do caps,” Win replied. “They muss my hair.”

“That,” Jessica added, “and the guy only offered him five hundred dollars.”

Win shrugged. “Sexual discrimination. It’s an ugly thing.”

More like smart business. Five hundred dollars was the normal rate. But somebody at Ray•Ban realized Jess was both attractive and a celebrity—ergo, extra exposure.

Duane dropped another game. Down 3–2 after losing the first two sets. Not good. The players collapsed in their chairs on either side of the umpire for the changeover. Duane toweled down his racket. He changed shirts. Some female fans whistled. Duane did not smile. He glanced over at their box. Unlike just about any other sport in the world, tennis players are not allowed to talk to their coaches during the match. But Henry did move. He took his hand off his chin and made a fist. Duane nodded.

“Time,” the chair ump said.

That was when Pavel made his return.

He entered through the portal on the right near the grandstand carrying an Evian in his hand. Myron’s eyes locked on to him. He felt his pulse quicken. Pavel Menansi was still wearing the sweater tied around his neck. He took his seat behind Aaron. Pavel Menansi. He smiled. He laughed. He sipped a cold Evian. He breathed in and out. He lived. People patted his back. Someone asked for an autograph. A young girl. Pavel said something to her. The young girl giggled behind her hand.

“Burgess Meredith,” Win said. He was looking at the court, not Myron.

“What?”

“Burgess Meredith.”

More Name the
Batman
Criminal. “Not now,” Myron said.

“Now. Burgess Meredith.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re staring. Aaron will pick it up.” Win adjusted his sunglasses. “Burgess Meredith.”

He was right. “The Penguin.”

“Victor Buono.”

“King Tut.”

“Bruce Lee.”

Jessica leaned over. “Trick question,” she said.

“No hints,” Win said.

“He played Kato,” Myron said. “Green Hornet’s sidekick. He guest-starred on one episode. I don’t know if you could call him a criminal.”

“Correct.” Silence. Then Win said: “That bad?”

“Worse.”

“The police released Valerie’s body,” Win said. “The funeral is tomorrow.”

Myron nodded. On the court Duane served up an ace. Only his second of the match. Myron said, “It may get ugly now.”

“How so?”

“I know why the Ache brothers want us out.”

“Ah,” Win said. “May I assume the Aches will not want you to disseminate this information to the general public?”

“Correct assumption.”

“And may I further assume this information is worth the cost of Aaron and an all-star cast?”

“Another correct assumption.”

Win sat back. He was very still. He was also smiling. Myron turned to Jessica. Her hand still held his.

“If you get killed,” she whispered, “I’ll kill you. Soul mate.”

Silence.

On the court Duane hit two more aces and then an overhead to tie the third set at three games apiece. Duane looked over at the box. The reflection of the sun off his sunglasses was blinding, giving him a sleek, robotic look. But something in his face had changed. Duane made the fist again.

Henry spoke for the first time. “He’s baaack.”

30

Henry Hobman was good as his word. Duane rallied. He took the third set 6–4. Ned Tunwell stopped crying. The fourth set went to a tiebreaker, which Duane won 9–7, saving three match points. Ned started the windmill wave again. Duane won the fifth set 6–2. Ned had to change his underwear.

Final score of the marathon match: 3–6, 1–6, 6–4, 7–6, (9–7), 6–2. Before the combatants had even left the court the word
classic
was being bantered about.

By the time all the congratulations and news conferences ended it was getting late. Jess borrowed Myron’s car to visit her mother. Win dropped him off at the office. Esperanza was still there.

“Big win,” she said.

“Yup.”

“Duane played like shit in the first two sets.”

“He had a long night,” Myron said. “What have we got?”

Esperanza handed him a stack of papers. “Prenuptial agreement for Jerry Prince. Final copy.”

Ah, the beloved prenup. A necessary evil. Myron hated to recommend them. Marriage should be about love and romance. A prenup, frankly speaking, was about as romantic as licking a litter box. Still, Myron had an obligation to guard the financial well-being of his clients. Too many of these marriages ended in quickie divorces. Gold-digging, it used to be called. Some mistook his concern for sexism. It wasn’t. Well-to-do female athletes should do the same.

“What else?” he asked.

“Emmett Roberts wants you to call. He needs your opinion on a car he’s buying.”

Myron drove a Ford Taurus, hardly qualifying him as
Motor Trend
’s Man of the Year.

Emmett was a fringe basketball player who bounced between bench-sitting in the NBA and starring in the Continental Basketball Association—a sort of basketball minor league where players do nothing but try to impress NBA scouts. Very few do. There were exceptions. John Starks and Anthony Mason of the Knicks, to name two. But for the most part the CBA gymnasiums were yet another haven of shattered dreams, a bottom rung on the ladder before slipping off altogether.

Myron fingered through his Rolodex. Esperanza was good about keeping it up-to-date and in alphabetical order for him. Raston. Ratner. Rextell. Rippard. Roberts. There. Emmett Roberts.

Myron stopped.

“Where’s Duane’s card?” he asked.

“What?”

Myron quickly skimmed through the rest of the
R
’s. “Duane Richwood isn’t in my Rolodex. Could you have misfiled it?”

She dismissed that possibility with a glare. “Look around. It’s probably on your desk someplace.”

Not on the desk. Myron tried the
D
’s. No Duane.

“I’ll make you up a new one,” she said, heading for the door. “Try not to lose it this time.”

“Thanks a bunch,” he said. Still, the missing card gnawed at him. Another coincidence involving Duane? He dialed Emmett Roberts’s phone. Emmett answered.

“Hey, Myron. How’s it going?”

“Good, Emmett. What’s this about buying a car?”

“I saw this Porsche today. Red. Fully loaded. Seventy Gs. I was thinking about using the play-off bonus money to buy it.”

“If that’s what you want,” Myron said.

“Man, you sound like my mother. I wanted your opinion.”

“Buy something cheaper,” Myron said. “A lot cheaper.”

“But the car is so hot, Myron. If you could just see it …”

“Then buy it, Emmett. You’re an adult. You don’t need my blessing.” Myron hesitated. “Did I ever tell you about Norm Booker?”

“Who?”

How soon they forget.

“I was maybe fifteen or sixteen years old,” Myron said, “and I was working at this summer camp in Massachusetts. It was a Celtics camp. They used to have their rookie tryouts there. I was basically a towel boy. I met a lot of the draft picks back then. Cedric Maxwell. Larry Bird. But my first year the Celtics had a first-round pick named Norm Booker. I think he was out of Iowa State.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Norm was a great player. Six-seven, smooth moves, nice touch. Strong as an ox. And nice guy too. He talked to me. Lot of the guys ignored the towel boys, but Norm wasn’t like that. I remember he used to shoot foul shots with his back to the basket. He’d toss the ball over his shoulder. He had such a great touch that he could make better than fifty percent that way.”

“So what happened to him?”

“He sat the bench as a rookie. The Celtics cut him the next year. He scrounged around a bit and then he landed with the Portland Trailblazers. He mostly rode the bench, played garbage time, that sort of thing. When the Trailblazers made the play-offs Norm got the usual bonus. He was so excited about it he went out and bought a Rolls-Royce. Dropped every dime he had on that car. But he wasn’t worried. There was always next year. And the year after that. Only thing was, Portland cut him. He tried out with a couple of other clubs, but nobody wanted him. Last I heard Norm had to sell the car to feed his family.”

Silence.

After some time passed Emmett said, “I also saw this Honda Accord. They had a pretty good lease deal.”

“Go for it, Emmett.”

They hung up a few minutes later. Myron hadn’t thought about Norm Booker in a long time. He wondered what became of him.

Esperanza came back in. She put a new card for Duane Richwood in his Rolodex. “Happy?”

“Yes.” He handed her two sheets of paper. “This is a party list for the night Alexander Cross was killed.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Heck if I know. A familiar name. Something that leaps out at you.”

She nodded. “You know about the funeral tomorrow?”

Myron nodded.

“You going?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I tracked down one of the schoolteachers from the article on Curtis Yeller.”

“Which one?”

“Mrs. Lucinda Elright. She’s retired now, lives in Philadelphia. She’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. You can go right after the funeral.”

Myron leaned back. “I’m not sure that’s necessary anymore.”

“You want me to cancel?”

Myron thought a moment. In light of what he’d learned about Pavel Menansi, the connection between Valerie’s murder and what happened to Curtis Yeller seemed more tenuous than ever. The murder of Alexander Cross had not caused Valerie’s downfall. It wasn’t even the final push. Pavel Menansi had pushed Valerie off the cliff years before. He had watched her slowly plummet, tumbling over jagged rocks on her painful way down. Alexander Cross’s death had marked the end of the descent. The ground, if you will. The final crash. Nothing more. Clearly there was no connection between Valerie’s death and the events of six years ago. There was also no connection between Duane and Valerie other than what Duane had said—they slept together. No big deal.

Except …

Except for last night’s rendezvous between Duane and Curtis Yeller’s mother.

If not for that—if Myron hadn’t seen them together at the hotel—he would be able to dismiss them both entirely. But Duane and Deanna Yeller having an affair—it was too much of a coincidence. There had to be a connection.

“Don’t cancel,” Myron said.

31

Valerie’s funeral was strictly cookie-cutter.

The reverend, a porky man with a red nose, hadn’t known her with any depth. He listed achievements as though reading from a résumé. He mixed in a few oldies but goodies: loving daughter; so full of life; taken so young; God has a plan. An organ sounded self-righteous indignation. Tacky flowers, like something you’d find draped around a winning horse, adorned the chapel. Stern stain-glass figures peered from above.

The crowd did not linger long. They stopped by Helen and Kenneth Van Slyke, not so much to offer comfort but to be sure they’d been seen and recognized, which was the real reason they’d come in the first place. Helen Van Slyke shook hands with her head high. She did not blink. She did not smile. She did not cry. Her jaw was set. Myron waited in the receiving line with Win. As they got closer they could hear Helen repeat the same phrases—“Good of you to come, thank you for coming, good of you to come, thank you for coming”—in a singsong voice reminiscent of a flight attendant upon disembarkation.

When it was Myron’s turn Helen gripped his hand hard. “Do you know who hurt Valerie?”

“Yes.” She had said hurt, Myron noted. Not kill.

Helen Van Slyke looked at Win for confirmation. Win nodded.

“Come back to the house,” she said. “There’s going to be a reception.” She turned to the next mourner and hit
PLAY
on her internal tape recorder. “Good of you to come, thank you for coming, good of you to come …”

Myron and Win did as she asked. The mood at Brentman Hall was neither Irish wake–like nor devastating grief. There were no tears. No laughter. Either would have been more welcome than this room completely void of any emotion. “Mourners” milled around like they were at an office cocktail party.

“No one cares,” Myron said. “She’s gone and no one cares.”

Win shrugged. “No one ever does.” The eternal optimist.

The first person to approach them was Kenneth. He was dressed in proper black with well-shined shoes. He greeted Win with a back slap and a firm handshake. He ignored Myron.

“How are you holding up?” Win asked. Like he cared.

“Oh I’m doing okay,” he said with a heavy sigh. Mr. Brave. “But I’m worried about Helen. We’ve had to medicate her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Myron said.

Kenneth turned to him, as though seeing him for the first time. He made a face like he was sucking on a lemon. “Do you mean that?” he asked.

Myron and Win shared a glance. “Yes, I do, Kenneth,” Myron said.

“Then do me the courtesy of staying away from my wife. She was very upset after your visit the other day.”

“I meant no harm.”

“Well, you caused plenty of it, I can tell you. I think it’s high time, Mr. Bolitar, you showed some respect. Leave my wife alone. We are grieving here. She’s lost her daughter and I’ve lost my stepdaughter.”

Win rolled his eyes.

Myron said, “You have my word, Kenneth.”

Kenneth nodded a manly nod and moved away.

“His stepdaughter,” Win said in disgust. “Bah.”

From across the room Myron caught Helen Van Slyke’s eye. She made a gesture toward a door on her right and slipped through it. Like they were meeting for a secret liaison.

“Keep Kenneth away,” Myron said.

Win feigned surprise. “But you gave Kenneth your word.”

“Bah,” Myron said. Whatever that meant.

He ducked through the doorway and followed Helen. She too wore all black, a suit of some sort with the skirt cut just low enough to be sexy yet proper. Good legs, he noticed, and felt like a pig for thinking such a thing at such a time. She led him to a small room down the end of an ornate corridor and closed the door behind them. The room looked like a miniature version of the living room. The chandelier was smaller. The couch was smaller. The fireplace was smaller. The portrait over the mantel was smaller.

“This is the drawing room,” Helen Van Slyke explained.

“Oh,” Myron said. He’d always wanted to know what a drawing room was. Now that he was in one he still had no idea.

“Would you care for some tea?”

“No thanks.”

“Do you mind if I have some?”

“Not at all,” he said.

She sat demurely and poured herself a cup from the silver set on the table. Myron noticed that there were two tea sets on the table. He wondered if that was a clue as to the definition of drawing room.

“Kenneth tells me you’re on medication,” he said.

“Kenneth is full of shit.”

Big surprise.

“Are you still investigating Valerie’s murder?” she asked. There was almost a mocking quality in her voice. Her words also seemed just a tad slurred, and Myron wondered if perhaps she was indeed being medicated or if she’d added a little home brew to her tea.

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you still feel some chivalrous responsibility toward her?”

“I never did.”

“Then why do you do it?”

Myron shrugged. “Someone should care.”

She looked up, searching his face for a shred of sarcasm. “I see,” she said. “So tell me: what have you learned from your investigation?”

“Pavel Menansi abused your daughter.”

Myron watched for a reaction. Helen Van Slyke smiled semi-teasingly and put a sugar cube in her tea. Not exactly the reaction he had in mind. “You can’t be serious,” she said.

“I am.”

“What do you mean, abused?”

“Sexual abuse.”

“As in rape?”

“You may call it that, yes.”

She made a scoffing noise. “Come now, Mr. Bolitar. Isn’t that a tad extreme?”

“No.”

“It is not as though Pavel forced himself on her, is it? They had an affair. It’s hardly unheard of.”

“You knew about it?”

“Of course. And frankly, I was quite displeased. Pavel showed poor judgment. But my daughter was sixteen years old at the time—maybe seventeen, I’m not really sure. Anyway, she was certainly of legal age. Calling it rape or sexual abuse, well, I think that’s being a tad overdramatic, don’t you?”

Maybe both medication and booze. Maybe even mixing them. “Valerie was a young girl,” he said. “Pavel Menansi was her coach, a man of nearly fifty.”

“Would it have made it any better if he was forty? Or thirty?”

“No,” Myron said.

“So why bring up their age difference?” She put down the tea. The smile was again toying with her lips. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Bolitar. If Valerie was a sixteen-year-old boy and he had an affair with a beautiful female coach who was, let’s say, thirty—would you call that sexual abuse? Would you call that rape?”

Myron hesitated for a second. It was a second too long.

“I thought so,” she said triumphantly. “You’re a sexist, Mr. Bolitar. Valerie had an affair with an older man. It happens all the time.” Again the playful smile. “To me even.”

“Did you have a breakdown after it was over?”

She raised an eyebrow. “So that’s your definition of abuse?” she asked. “A breakdown?”

“You entrusted your daughter to this man,” Myron said. “He was supposed to help her. But he used her instead. He tore her down. He destroyed and discarded her.”

“Tore? Destroyed? Discarded? My, my, Mr. Bolitar, we are out for shock effect, aren’t we?”

“You don’t see anything wrong with what he did?”

She put down her tea and took a cigarette. She lit it, inhaled deeply with her eyes closed, and let it all out. “If it makes you happy to blame me for what happened, fine, blame me. I was a lousy mother. The worst. Is that better?”

Myron watched her calmly smoking her cigarette and sipping her tea. Too calmly. Did she really buy this crap she was peddling? Or was it an act? Was she just deluding herself or …

“Pavel bought you off,” Myron said.

“No.”

“TruPro and Pavel are paying—”

“That’s not it at all,” she interrupted.

“We know about the money, Mrs. Van Slyke.”

“You don’t understand. Pavel blames himself for what happened. He took it upon himself to remedy the situation in the only way he could.”

“By paying you off.”

“By providing us with some of the funds Valerie may have earned had her career continued. He didn’t have to do that. The affair wasn’t necessarily the cause—”

“It’s called hush money.”

“Never,” she said in a near-hiss. “Valerie was my daughter.”

“And you sold her for cash.”

She shook her head. “I did what I thought was best for my daughter.”

“He abused her. You took his money. You let him get away with it.”

“There was nothing I could do,” she said. “We didn’t want to make it public. Valerie wanted to put it behind her. She wanted to keep it confidential. We all did.”

“Why?” Myron said. “It was just an affair with an older man. Happens all the time. To you even.”

She bit down on her lip for a moment. When she spoke again her voice was softer. “There was nothing I could do,” she repeated. “It was in everyone’s best interest to keep it quiet.”

“Bullshit,” Myron said. He realized he was pushing too hard, but something inside of him wouldn’t let him back off. “You sold your daughter.”

She was silent for a few moments, concentrating only on her cigarette, watching the ash grow longer and longer. In the distance they could hear the low rumble from the funeral crowd. Glasses clinking. A polite titter.

“They threatened Valerie,” she said.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Men who work with Pavel. They made it very clear that if she opened her mouth she was dead.” She looked up, pleading. “Don’t you see? What option did we have? No good could come from talking. They’d kill her. I was afraid for Valerie. Kenneth—well, I think Kenneth was more interested in the money. Hindsight may be twenty-twenty, but at the time I believed it was the best thing.”

“You were protecting your daughter,” Myron said.

“Yes.”

“But she’s dead now.”

Helen was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to worry about her being hurt anymore. She’s dead. You’re free to do as you please.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. “I have another daughter,” she managed. “I have a husband.”

“So then what was all that talk before about protecting Valerie?”

“It … I was trying …” Her voice churned to a silence.

“You took the hush money,” Myron said. He tried to remind himself that the woman who sat before him had buried her daughter today, but not even that fact could slow him down. If anything, it seemed to fuel him. “Don’t blame your husband. He’s a spineless worm. You were Valerie’s mother. You took money to protect a man who abused your daughter. And now you’ll keep taking money to protect a man who might have killed her.”

“You have no proof Pavel had anything to do with her murder.”

“The murder, no. His other crimes against Valerie—that’s a different story.”

She closed her eyes. “It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late. He’s still doing it, you know. Guys like Pavel don’t stop. They just find new victims.”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“I have a friend,” Myron said. “Her name is Jessica Culver. She’s a writer.”

“I know who she is.”

He handed her Jess’s card. “Tell her the story. She’ll write it up. Put it in a major publication.
Sports Illustrated
maybe. It’ll be out before Pavel’s people even know about it. They’re bad men, but they’re not wasteful or stupid. Once it’s published there’ll be no reason to go after your family anymore. It’ll end him.”

“I’m sorry.” She lowered her head. “I can’t do it.”

She was crumbling. Her whole body was slumped and shaking. Myron watched her, tried to muster up some pity, couldn’t do it. “You left her alone with him,” he continued. “You didn’t look after her. And when you had the chance to help her, you told her to bury it. You took money.”

Her body racked. Probably from a sob. Attacking a mother at her own daughter’s funeral, Myron thought. What could he do for an encore? Drown newborn kittens in the neighbor’s pool?

“Perhaps,” he went on, “Valerie wanted to tell the truth. Maybe she needed that to put it all behind her. And maybe that’s why she was murdered.”

Silence. Then without warning Helen Van Slyke raised her head. She stood and left without saying another word. Myron followed. When he reentered the living room he could hear her voice.

“Good of you to come. Thank you for coming.”