The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (77 page)

“Child abuse?”

Felder did not bother with an answer. “We felt that we needed to quell these malicious and dangerous untruths. To balance the scales, so to speak. I’m not proud of that. None of us are. But I’m not ashamed either. You can’t fight fair if your opponent insists on using brass knuckles. You must do what you can to survive.”

“What did you do?”

“We videotaped Emily Downing in a rather delicate situation.”

“When you say delicate, what exactly do you mean?”

Felder stood up and took a key from his pocket. He unlocked a cabinet and pulled out a videotape. Then he opened another cabinet. A TV and VCR faced them. He placed the tape in the machine and picked up the remote. “Your turn now,” he said. “You said Greg was in big trouble.”

It was time for Myron to give a little. Another cardinal rule of negotiation: don’t be a pig and just take. It’ll backfire in the long run. “We believe a woman may have been blackmailing Greg,” he said. “She has several aliases. Usually Carla but she may have used the names Sally or Liz. She was murdered last Saturday night.”

That one stunned him. Or at least he acted stunned. “Surely the police don’t suspect Greg—”

“Yes,” Myron said.

“But why?”

Myron kept it vague. “Greg was the last person seen with her the night of the murder. His fingerprints were at the murder scene. And the police found the murder weapon at his house.”

“They searched his house?”

“Yes.”

“But they can’t do that.”

Already playing the ready-to-distort lawyer. “They got a warrant,” Myron said. “Do you know this woman? This Carla or Sally?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea where Greg is?”

“None.”

Myron watched him, but he couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. Except in very rare instances, you can never tell if a person is lying by watching their eyes or their body language or any of that stuff. Nervous, fidgety people tell the truth too, and a good liar could look as sincere as Alan Alda at a telethon. So-called “students of body language” were usually just fooled with more certainty. “Why did Greg take out fifty thousand dollars in cash?” Myron asked.

“I didn’t ask,” Felder said. “As I just explained to you, such matters were not my concern.”

“You thought it was for gambling.”

Again Felder didn’t bother responding. He lifted his eyes from the floor. “You said this woman was blackmailing him.”

“Yes,” Myron said.

He looked at Myron steadily. “Do you know what she had on him?”

“Not for sure. The gambling, I think.”

Felder nodded. With his eyes looking straight ahead, he pointed the remote control at the television behind him and pressed some buttons. The screen brightened into gray static. Then a black and white image appeared. A hotel room. The camera seemed to be shooting from the ground up. No one was in the room. A digital counter showed the time. The setup reminded Myron of those tapes of Marion Barry smoking a crack pipe.

Uh oh.

Could that be it? Having sex would hardly be grounds to show unfitness as a parent, but what about drugs? What better way to balance the scales, as Felder had put it, than to show the mother smoking or snorting or shooting up in a hotel room? How would that work on a judge?

But as Myron was about to see, he was wrong.

The hotel room door opened. Emily entered alone. She looked around tentatively. She sat on the bed, but then got back up. She paced. She sat down again. She paced again. She checked the bathroom, came right back out, paced. Her fingers picked up whatever object they could find—hotel brochures, room services menus, a television guide.

“Is there any sound?” Myron asked.

Marty Felder shook his head no. He was still not looking at the screen.

Myron watched transfixed as Emily continued to go through her nervous ritual. Suddenly she froze in place and turned to the door. Must have heard a knock. She approached tentatively. Looking for Mr. Goodbar? Probably, Myron surmised. But when Emily turned the knob and let the door swing open, Myron realized he was wrong again. It was not Mr. Goodbar who entered the hotel room.

It was Ms. Goodbar.

The two women talked for a bit. They had a drink from the room’s minibar. Then they began to undress. Myron’s stomach coiled. By the time they moved to the bed, he had seen more than enough.

“Turn it off.”

Felder did so, still not looking at the screen. “I meant what I said before. I’m not proud of that.”

“What a guy,” Myron said.

So now he understood Emily’s ferocious hostility. She had indeed been taped in
flagrante delicto
—not with another man, but with a woman. Certainly no law against it. But most judges would be influenced. It was the way of the world. And speaking of the way of the world, Myron knew Ms. Goodbar by another nickname:

Thumper.

Chapter 29

Myron walked back to his office, wondering what it all meant. For one thing, it meant that Thumper was more than a harmless diversion in all this. But what exactly was she? Had she set up Emily or had she, too, been taped unaware? Were they steady lovers or participants in a one-night stand? Felder claimed he didn’t know. On the tape, the two women hadn’t appeared to be all that familiar with each other—at least, not in the small portion he had watched—but he was hardly an expert on the subject.

Myron cut east on 50th Street. An albino wearing a Mets cap and yellow boxer shorts on the outside of ripped jeans played an Indian sitar. He was singing the seventies classic “The Night Chicago Died” in a voice that reminded Myron of elderly Chinese women in the back of a laundromat. The albino also had a tin cup and a stack of cassettes. A sign read “The Original Benny and His Magical Sitar, only $10.” The original. Oh. Wouldn’t want that imitation albino, sitar, AM seventies music, no sir.

Benny smiled at him. When he reached the part of the song where the son learns a hundred cops are dead—maybe even the boy’s father—Benny began to weep. Moving. Myron stuffed a dollar into the cup. He crossed the street, his thoughts reverting back to the videotape of Emily and Thumper. He wondered now about the relevance. He’d felt like a dirty voyeur for watching the tape in the first place, and now he felt that way for rehashing it in his mind. It was, after all, probably no more than a bizarre aside. What possible connection could there be in all this to the murder of Liz Gorman? None that he could see; then again he still had trouble seeing how Liz Gorman fit in with Greg’s gambling or how she fit in at all.

Still, the video undoubtedly raised a few fairly major issues. For one thing, there were the abuse allegations made against Greg. Was there anything to them, or as Marty Felder had indicated, was Emily’s attorney just playing hardball? And hadn’t Emily told Myron she would do anything to keep her kids? Even kill. How did Emily react when she learned about the videotape? Spurred on by this awful violation, how far would Emily go?

Myron entered his office building on Park Avenue. He exchanged a brief elevator smile with a young woman in a business suit. The elevator reeked of drugstore cologne, the kind where some guy decides that taking a shower is too time-consuming so he opts for sprinkling himself with enough cologne to glaze a wedding cake. The young woman sniffed and looked at Myron.

“I don’t wear cologne,” he said.

She didn’t seem convinced. Or perhaps she was condemning the gender in general for this affront. Understandable under these circumstances.

“Try holding your breath,” he said.

She looked at him, her face a seaweed green.

When he entered his office, Esperanza smiled and said, “Good morning.”

“Oh no,” Myron said.

“What?”

“You’ve never said good morning to me before. Ever.”

“I have too.”

Myron shook his head. “
Et tu,
Esperanza?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You heard about what happened last night. You’re trying to be—dare I say it?—nice to me.”

The fire in her eyes flamed up. “You think I give a shit about that game? That you got your butt burned at every turn?”

Myron shook his head. “Too late,” he said. “You care.”

“I do not. You sucked. Get over it.”

“Nice try.”

“What, nice try? You sucked. S-U-C-K-E-D. A pitiful display. I was embarrassed to know you. I hid my head in shame when I came in.”

He bent down and kissed her cheek.

Esperanza wiped it off with the back of her hand. “Now I got to get a cootie shot.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Really.”

“Like I care. Really.”

The phone rang. She picked it up. “MB SportsReps. Why yes, Jason, he is here. Hold on a moment.” She put a hand over the receiver. “It’s Jason Blair.”

“The vermin who said you had a nice ass?”

She nodded. “Remind him about my legs.”

“I’ll take it in my office.” A photograph on the top of a stack of papers on her desk caught his eye. “What’s this?”

“The Raven Brigade file,” she said.

He picked up a grainy photo of the group taken in 1973, the only shot of the seven of them together. He quickly found Liz Gorman. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her, but from what he saw, there was no way anyone would ever imagine that Carla and Liz Gorman were one and the same. “Mind if I keep this for a few minutes?” he asked.

“Suit yourself.”

He moved into his office and picked up the phone. “What’s up, Jason?”

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“Not much. How about you?”

“Don’t play smart guy with me. You put that little lady on my contract and she fucked it all up. I got half a mind to leave MB.”

“Calm down, Jason. How did she fuck it up?”

His voice cracked with incredulity. “You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Here we are, hot in the middle of negotiating with the Red Sox, right?”

“Right.”

“I want to stay in Boston. We both know that. But we have to make a lot of noise like I’m leaving. That’s what you said to do. Make them think you want to switch teams. To up the money. I’m a free agent. This is what we got to do, right?”

“Right.”

“We don’t want them to know I want to be on the team again, right?”

“Right. To a degree.”

“Fuck to a degree,” he snapped. “The other day my neighbor gets a mailing from the Sox, asking him to renew his season tickets. Guess whose picture is on the brochure saying I’m gonna be back? Go ahead. Guess.”

“Would that be yours, Jason?”

“Damn straight mine! So I call up little Miss Nice Ass—”

“She’s got great legs too.”

“What?”

“Her legs. She’s not that tall, so they’re not very long. But they’re nicely toned.”

“Will you quit fucking around here, Myron? Listen to me. She tells me the Sox called up and asked if they could use my picture in the ad, even though I wasn’t signed. She tells them to go ahead! Go right fucking ahead! Now what are those Red Sox assholes supposed to think, huh? I’ll tell you what. They think I’m gonna sign with them no matter what. We lost all our leverage because of her.”

Esperanza opened the door without knocking. “This came in this morning.” She tossed a contract on Myron’s desk. It was Jason’s. Myron began to skim through it. Esperanza said, “Put the pea brain on the speakerphone.”

Myron did.

“Jason.”

“Oh Christ, Esperanza, get the fuck off the line. I’m talking to Myron here.”

She ignored him. “Even though you don’t deserve to know, I finalized your contract. You got everything you wanted and more.”

That slowed him down. “Four hundred thou more per year?”

“Six hundred thousand. Plus an extra quarter million on the signing bonus.”

“How the … what …?”

“The Sox screwed up,” she said. “Once they printed your picture in that mailer, the deal was as good as done.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Simple,” she said. “The mailer went out with your picture on it. People bought tickets based on that. Meanwhile I called the front office and said that you’d decided to sign with the Rangers down in Texas. I told them the deal was almost final.” She shifted in the chair. “Now, Jason, pretend you are the Red Sox for a moment. What are you going to do? How are you going to explain to all those ticket holders that Jason Blair, whose picture was on your latest mailer, won’t be around because the Texas Rangers outbid them?”

Silence. Then: “To hell with your ass and legs,” Jason said. “You got the most gorgeous set of brains I ever laid eyes on.”

Myron said, “Anything else, Jason?”

“Go practice, Myron. After the way you played last night, you need it. I want to talk over the details with Esperanza.”

“I’ll take it at my desk,” Esperanza said.

Myron put him back on hold. “Nice move,” he said to her.

She shrugged. “Some kid in the Sox marketing department screwed up. It happens.”

“You read it very well.”

Her tone was an exaggerated monotone. “My heaving bosom is swelling with pride.”

“Forget I said anything. Go take the call.”

“No, really, my goal in life is to be just like you.”

Myron shook his head. “You’ll never have my ass.”

“There’s that,” she agreed before leaving.

Left alone, Myron picked up the Raven Brigade photo. He located the three members still at large—Gloria Katz, Susan Milano, and the Ravens’ enigmatic leader and most famous member, Cole Whiteman. No one had drawn the press’s attention and ire more than Cole Whiteman. Myron had been in elementary school when the Ravens went into hiding, yet he still remembered the stories. For one thing, Cole could have passed for Win’s brother—blond, patrician-featured, well-to-do family. While everyone else in the picture was scraggly and long haired, Cole was freshly shaven with a conservative haircut, his one sixties concession being sideburns that went down a tad too far. Hardly your Hollywood-cast, radical leftist. But as Myron had learned from Win, looks could often be deceiving.

He put down the photograph and dialed Dimonte’s line at One Police Plaza. After Dimonte snarled a hello, Myron asked him if he had anything new.

“You think we’re partners now, Bolitar?”

“Just like Starsky and Hutch,” Myron said.

“God, I miss those two,” Dimonte said. “That hot car. Hanging out with Fuzzy Bear.”

“Huggy Bear,” Myron said.

“What?”

“His name was Huggy Bear, not Fuzzy Bear.”

“Really?”

“Time’s short, Rolly. Let me help if I can.”

“You first. What have you got?”

Another negotiation. Myron told him about Greg’s gambling. Figuring that Rolly had the phone records too, he also told him about the suspected blackmail scheme. He didn’t tell him about the videotape. It wouldn’t be fair, not until he spoke to Emily first. Dimonte asked a few questions. When he was satisfied, he said, “Okay, what do you want to know?”

“Did you find anything else at Greg’s house?”

“Nothing,” Dimonte said. “And I mean, nothing. Remember how you told me you found some feminine doodads in the bedroom? Some woman’s clothes or lotions or something?”

“Yes.”

“Well, someone got rid of them too. No sign of any female apparel.”

So, Myron thought, the lover theory rears its ugly head once again. The lover comes back to the house and cleans up the blood to protect Greg. Then she covers her own tracks too, making sure that their relationship remains a secret. “How about witnesses?” Myron asked. “Anybody in Liz Gorman’s building see anything?”

“Nope. We canvassed the whole neighborhood. No one saw nada. Everybody was studying or something. Oh, another thing: the press picked up the murder. The story hit the morning editions.”

“You gave them her real name?”

“You crazy? Of course not. They think it’s just another breaking and entering homicide. But get this. We got an anonymous tip called in this morning. Someone suggested we check out Greg Downing’s house.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Female voice.”

“He’s being set up, Rolly.”

“No shit, Sherlock. By a chick nonetheless. And the murder didn’t exactly make a big news splash. It was stuck in the back pages like every other unspectacular homicide in this cesspool. Got a little extra juice because it was so close to a college campus.”

“Have you looked into that connection?” Myron asked.

“What connection?”

“Columbia University being so close by. Half of the sixties movements started there. They must still have some sympathizers in the ranks. Maybe someone there helped Liz Gorman.”

Dimonte gave a dramatic sigh. “Bolitar, do you think all cops are morons?”

“No.”

“You think you’re the only one who thought of that?”

“Well,” Myron said, “I have been called gifted.”

“Not in today’s sports section.”

Touché. “So what did you find out?”

“She rented the place from some whacko, fanatic, leftist, commie, pinko so-called Columbia professor named Sidney Bowman.”

“You’re so tolerant, Rolly.”

“Yeah, well, I lose touch when I keep missing those ACLU meetings. Anyway, this pinko won’t talk. He says she just rented from him and paid in cash. We all know he’s lying. The feds grilled him, but he got a team of faggot, liberal lawyers down here to spring him. Called us a bunch of Nazi pigs and stuff.”

“That’s not a compliment, Rolly. In case you don’t know.”

“Thanks for clueing me in. I got Krinsky tailing him right now, but he’s got nothing. I mean, this Bowman’s not a retard. He’s got to know we’re watching.”

“What else have you got on him?”

“Divorced. No kids. He teaches a class in existential, worthless-in-the-real-world bullshit. According to Krinsky he spends most of his time helping the homeless. That’s supposed to be his daily ritual—hanging out with hobos in parks and shelters. Like I said, a whacko.”

Win entered the office without knocking. He headed straight for the corner and opened the closet door, revealing a full-length mirror. He checked his hair. Patted it though every strand was perfect. Then he spread his legs a bit and put his arms straight down. Pretending to be gripping a golf club. Win slowly began to turn into a backswing, watching his motion in the mirror, making sure the front arm remained straight, the grip relaxed. He did this all the time, sometimes stopping in front of store windows while walking down the street. This was the golf equivalent, Myron surmised, to the weight lifters who flex whenever they happen past their reflection. It was also annoying as all hell.