One False Move

  Myron thought about this. Something clicked.

  "What?" she asked.

  "Do me a favor," he said. "I got to make a couple of calls. Can you stall Frau Brucha for me?"

  She shrugged. "I can try."

  Brenda left him alone. The equipment room was enormous. An eighty-year-old guy worked the desk. He asked Myron for his sizes. Myron told him. Two minutes later the old man handed Myron a pile of clothes. Purple T-shirt, black socks with blue stripes, white jockstrap, green sneakers, and, of course, yellow Lycra shorts.

  Myron frowned. "I think you missed a color," he said.

  The old man gave him the eye. "I got a red sports bra, if you're interested."

  Myron thought about it but ultimately declined.

  He slipped on his shirt and jock. Pulling on the shorts was like pulling on a wet suit. Everything felt compressed--not a bad feeling, actually. He grabbed his cellular phone and hurried to the trainer's room. On the way he passed a mirror. He looked like a box of Crayolas left too long on a windowsill. He lay on a bench and dialed the office. Esperanza answered.

  "MB SportsReps."

  "Where's Cyndi?" Myron asked.

  "At lunch."

  A mental image of Godzilla snacking on Tokyo's citizenry flashed in front of his eyes.

  "And she doesn't like to be called just Cyndi," Esperanza added. "It's Big Cyndi."

  "Pardon my overabundance of political sensitivity. Do you have the list of Horace Slaughter's phone calls?"

  "Yes."

  "Any to a lawyer named Rick Peterson?"

  The pause was brief. "You're a regular Mannix," she said. "Five of them."

  Wheels were beginning to churn in Myron's head. Never a good thing. "Any other messages?"

  "Two calls from the Witch."

  "Please don't call her that," Myron said.

  Witch was actually an improvement over what Esperanza usually called Jessica (hint: rhymes with Witch but starts with the letter B). Myron had recently hoped for a thawing between the two--Jessica had invited Esperanza to lunch--but he now recognized that nothing short of a thermonuclear meltdown would soften that particular spread of earth. Some mistook this for jealousy. Not so. Five years ago Jessica had hurt Myron. Esperanza had watched it happen. She had seen up close the devastation.

  Some people held grudges; Esperanza clutched them and tied them around her waist and used cement and Krazy glue to hold them steady.

  "Why does she call here anyway?" Esperanza half snapped. "Doesn't she know your cellular number?"

  "She only uses it for emergencies."

  Esperanza made a noise like she was gagging on a soup ladle. "You two have such a mature relationship."

  "Can I just have the message please?"

  "She wants you to call her. At the Beverly Wilshire. Room six-one-eight. Must be the Bitch Suite."

  So much for improvement. Esperanza read off the number. Myron jotted it down.

  "Anything else?"

  "Your mom called. Don't forget dinner tonight. Your dad is barbecuing. A potpourri of aunts and uncles will be in attendance."

  "Okay, thanks. I'll see you this afternoon."

  "Can't wait," she said. Then she hung up.

  Myron sat back. Jessica had called twice. Hmm.

  The trainer tossed Myron a leg brace. Myron strapped it on, fastening it with Velero. The trainer silently worked on the knee, starting with stretch wrap. Myron debated calling Jessica back right now and decided he still had time. Lying back with his head on a sponge pillow of some sort, he dialed the Beverly Wilshire and asked for Jessica's room. She picked up as though she'd had her hand on the receiver.

  "Hello?" Jessica said.

  "Hello there, gorgeous," he said. Charm. "What are you doing?"

  "I just spread out a dozen snapshots of you on the floor," she said. "I was about to strip naked, coat my entire body with some type of oil, and then undulate on them."

  Myron looked up at the trainer. "Er, can I have an ice pack?"

  The trainer looked puzzled. Jessica laughed.

  "Undulate," Myron said. "That's a good word."

  "Me a writer," Jessica said.

  "So how's the left coast?" Left coast. Hip lingo.

  "Sunny," she said. "There's too much damn sun here."

  "So come home."

  There was a pause. Then Jessica said, "I have some good news."

  "Oh?"

  "Remember that production company that optioned Control Room?"

  "Sure."

  "They want me to produce it and cowrite the screenplay. Isn't that cool?"

  Myron said nothing. A steel band wrapped around his chest.

  "It'll be great," she continued, forcing pseudojocularity into the cautious tone. "I'll fly home on weekends. Or you can fly out here sometimes. Say, you can do some recruiting out here, nab some West Coast clients. It'll be great."

  Silence. The trainer finished up and left the room. Myron was afraid to speak. Seconds passed.

  "Don't be like that," Jessica said. "I know you're not happy about this. But it'll work out. I'll miss you like mad--you know that--but Hollywood always screws up my books. It's too big an opportunity."

  Myron opened his mouth, closed it, started again. "Please come home."

  "Myron ..."

  He closed his eyes. "Don't do this."

  "I'm not doing anything."

  "You're running away, Jess. It's what you do best."

  Silence.

  "That's not fair," she said.

  "Screw fair. I love you."

  "I love you too."

  "Then come home," he said.

  Myron's grip on the phone was tight. His muscles were tensing. In the background he heard Coach Podich blow that damn whistle.

  "You still don't trust me," Jessica said softly. "You're still afraid."

  "And you've done so much to assuage my fears, right?" He was surprised by the edge in his voice.

  The old image jarred him anew. Doug. A guy named Doug. Five years ago. Or was he a Dougie? Myron bet he was. He bet his friends called him Dougie. Yo, Dougie, wanna party, man? Probably called her Jessie. Dougie and Jessie. Five years ago. Myron had walked in on them, and his heart had crumbled as though it'd been molded in ash.

  "I can't change what happened," Jessica said.

  "I know that."

  "So what do you want from me?"

  "I want you to come home. I want us to be together."

  More cellular static. Coach Podich called out his name. Myron could feel something vibrating in his chest like a tuning fork.

  "You're making a mistake," Jessica said. "I know I've had some trouble with commitment before--"

  "Some trouble?"

  "--but this isn't like that. I'm not running away. You're pushing on the wrong issue."

  "Maybe I am," he said. He closed his eyes. It was hard for him to breathe. He should hang up now. He should be tougher, show some pride, stop wearing his heart on his sleeve, hang up. "Just come home," he said. "Please."

  He could feel their distance, a continent separating them, their voices bypassing millions of people.

  "Let's both take a deep breath," she said. "Maybe this isn't for the phone anyway."

  More silence.

  "Look, I got a meeting," she said. "Let's talk later, okay?"

  She hung up then. Myron held the empty receiver. He was alone. He stood. His legs were shaky.

  Brenda met him at the doorway. A towel was draped around her neck. Her face was shiny from sweat. She took one look at him and said, "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  She kept her eyes on him. She didn't believe him, but she wouldn't push either.

  "Nice outfit," she said.

  Myron looked down at his clothing. "I was going to wear a red sports bra," he said. "It throws the whole look together."

  "Yummy," she said.

  He managed a smile. "Let's go."

  They started heading down the corridor.

  "Myron?"


  "Yeah?"

  "We talk a lot about me." She continued walking, not looking at him. "Wouldn't kill either of us to switch roles now and again. Might even be nice."

  Myron nodded, said nothing. Much as he might wish to be more like Clint Eastwood or John Wayne, Myron was not the silent type, not a macho tough guy who kept all his problems inside him. He confided to Win and Esperanza all the time. But neither one of them was helpful when it came to Jessica. Esperanza hated her so much that she could never think rationally on the subject. And in Win's case, well, Win was simply not the man to discuss matters of the heart. His views on the subject could conservatively be called "scary."

  When they reached the edge of the court, Myron pulled up short. Brenda looked at him questioningly. Two men stood on the sidelines. Ragged brown suits, totally devoid of any sense of style or fashion. Weary faces, short hair, big guts. No doubt in Myron's mind.

  Cops.

  Somebody pointed at Myron and Brenda. The two men sauntered over with a sigh. Brenda looked puzzled. Myron moved a little closer to her. The two men stopped directly in front of them.

  "Are you Brenda Slaughter?" one asked.

  "Yes."

  "I am Detective David Pepe of the Mahwah Police Department. This is Detective Mike Rinsky. We'd like you to come with us please."

  Myron stepped forward. "What's this about?"

  The two cops looked at him with flat eyes. "And you are?"

  "Myron Bolitar."

  The two cops blinked. "And Myron Bolitar is?"

  "Miss Slaughter's attorney," Myron said.

  One cop looked at the other. "That was fast."

  Second cop: "Wonder why she called her attorney already."

  "Weird, huh?"

  "I'd say." He looked the multicolored Myron up and down. Smirked. "You don't dress like an attorney, Mr. Bolitar."

  "I left my gray vest at home," Myron said. "What do you guys want?"

  "We would like to bring Miss Slaughter to the station," the first cop said.

  "Is she under arrest?"

  First Cop looked at Second Cop. "Don't lawyers know that when we arrest people, we read them their rights?"

  "Probably got his degree at home. Maybe from that Sally Struthers school."

  "Got his law degree and VCR repairman certificate in one."

  "Right. Like that."

  "Or maybe he went to that American Bartenders Institute. They got a competitive program, I hear."

  Myron crossed his arms. "Whenever you guys are through. But please keep going. You're both extremely amusing."

  First Cop sighed. "We'd like to bring Miss Slaughter to the station," he said again.

  "Why?"

  "To talk."

  Boy, this was moving along nicely. "Why do you want to talk to her?" Myron tried.

  "Not us," Second Cop said.

  "Right, not us."

  "We're just supposed to pick her up."

  "Like escorts."

  Myron was about to make a comment on their being male escorts, but Brenda put her hand on his forearm. "Let's just go," she said.

  "Smart lady," First Cop said.

  "Needs a new lawyer," Second Cop added.

  Myron and Brenda sat in the back of an unmarked police car that a blind man could tell was an unmarked police car. It was a brown sedan, the same brown as the cops' suits, a Chevrolet Caprice with simply too much antenna.

  For the first ten minutes of the ride nobody spoke. Brenda's face was set. She moved her hand along the seat closer until it touched his. Then she left it there. She looked at him. The hand felt warm and nice. He tried to look confident, but he had a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  They drove down Route 4 and up Route 17. Mahwah. Nice suburb, almost on the New York border. They parked behind the Mahwah municipal building. The entrance to the station was in the back. The two cops led them into an interrogation room. There was a metal table bolted to the floor and four chairs. No hot lamp. A mirror took up half a wall. Only a moron who never, ever watched television didn't know that it was a one-way mirror. Myron often wondered if anybody was fooled by that anymore. Even if you never watched TV, why would the police need a giant mirror in an interrogation room? Vanity?

  They were left alone.

  "What do you think this is about?" Brenda asked.

  Myron shrugged. He had a pretty good idea. But speculating at this stage was worthless. They would find out soon enough. Ten minutes passed. Not a good sign. Another five. Myron decided to call their bluff.

  "Let's go," he said.

  "What?"

  "We don't have to wait around here. Let's go."

  As if on cue, the door opened. A man and a woman entered. The man was big and barrellike with explosions of hair everyplace. He had a mustache so thick it made Teddy Roosevelt's look like a limp eyelash. His hairline was low, the kind of low where you can't tell where the eyebrow ends and the actual hairline begins. He looked like a member of the Politburo. His pants were stretched tautly in the front, creasing obscenely, yet his lack of an ass made them too big in the back. His shirt was also too tight. The collar strangled him. The rolled-up sleeves worked the forearms like tourniquets. He was red-faced and angry.

  For those with a scorecard, this would be your Bad Cop.

  The woman wore a gray skirt with her detective shield on the waistband and a high-neck white blouse. She was early thirties, blond with freckles and pink cheeks. Healthy-looking. If she were a veal entree, the menu would describe her as "milk-fed."

  She smiled at them warmly. "Sorry to keep you waiting." Nice, even teeth. "My name is Detective Maureen McLaughlin. I'm with the Bergen County Prosecutor's Office. This is Detective Dan Tiles. He works for the Mahwah Police Department."

  Tiles did not say anything. He folded his arms and glowered at Myron like he was a vagrant urinating in his garden. Myron looked up at him.

  "Tiles," Myron repeated. "As in the porcelain things in my bathroom?"

  McLaughlin kept up the smile. "Miss Slaughter--may I call you Brenda?"

  Already with the friendly.

  Brenda said, "Yes, Maureen."

  "Brenda, I'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's okay."

  Myron said, "What's this all about?"

  Maureen McLaughlin flashed him the smile now. With the freckles it made for a very pert look. "Can I get either of you something? A coffee maybe? A cold beverage?"

  Myron stood. "Let's go, Brenda."

  "Whoa," McLaughlin said. "Settle down a second, okay? What's the problem?"

  "The problem is you won't tell us why we're here," Myron said. "Plus you used the word beverage in casual conversation."

  Tiles spoke for the first time. "Tell them," he said. His mouth never moved. But the shrub below his nose bounced up and down. Kinda like Yosemite Sam.

  McLaughlin suddenly looked distraught. "I can't just blurt it out, Dan. That wouldn't--"

  "Tell them," Tiles said again.

  Myron motioned at them. "You guys rehearse this?" But he was flailing now. He knew what was coming. He just did not want to hear it.

  "Please," McLaughlin said. The smile was gone. "Please sit down."

  They both slid slowly back into their seats. Myron folded his hands and put them on the table.

  McLaughlin seemed to be considering her words. "Do you have a boyfriend, Brenda?"

  "You running a dating service?" Myron said.

  Tiles stepped away from the wall. He reached out and picked up Myron's right hand for a moment. He dropped it and picked up his left. He studied it, looked disgusted, put it back down.

  Myron tried not to look confused. "Palmolive," he said. "More than just mild."

  Tiles moved away, recrossed his arms. "Tell them," he said again.

  McLaughlin's eyes were only on Brenda now. She leaned forward a little and lowered her voice. "Your father is dead, Brenda. We found his body three hours ago. I'm sorry."

  Myron had steeled himself, but the words st
ill hit like a falling meteorite. He gripped the table and felt his head spin. Brenda said nothing. Her face didn't change, but her breathing became shallow gulps.

  McLaughlin did not leave much time for condolences. "I realize that this is a very tough time, but we really need to ask you a few questions."

  "Get out," Myron said.

  "What?"

  "I want you and Stalin to get the hell out of here right now. This interview is over."

  Tiles said, "You got something to hide, Bolitar?"

  "Yeah, that's it, wolf boy. Now get out."

  Brenda still had not moved. She looked at McLaughlin and uttered one word. "How?"

  "How what?"

  Brenda swallowed. "How was he murdered?"

  Tiles almost leaped across the room. "How did you know he was murdered?"

  "What?"

  "We didn't say anything about murder," Tiles said. He looked very pleased with himself. "Just that your father was dead."

  Myron rolled his eyes. "You got us, Tiles. Two cops drag us in here, play Sipowicz and Simone, and somehow we figure that her father didn't die of natural causes. Either we're psychic or we did it."

  "Shut up, asshole."

  Myron stood up quickly, knocking over his chair. He went eyeball to eyeball with Tiles. "Get out."

  "Or?"

  "You want a piece of me, Tiles?"

  "Love it, hotshot."

  McLaughlin stepped between them. "You boys sprinkle on a little extra testosterone this morning? Back off, both of you."

  Myron kept his eyes on Tiles's. He took several deep breaths. He was acting irrationally. He knew that. Stupid to lose control. He had to get his act together. Horace was dead. Brenda was in trouble. He had to keep calm.

  Myron picked up his chair and sat back down. "My client will not talk to you until we confer."

  "Why?" Brenda said to him. "What's the big deal?"

  "They think you did it," Myron said.

  That surprised her. Brenda turned to McLaughlin. "Am I a suspect?"

  McLaughlin gave a friendly, on-your-side shrug. "Hey, it's too early to rule anybody in or out."

  "That's cop-speak for yes," Myron said.

  "Shut up, asshole." Tiles again.

  Myron ignored him. "Answer her question, McLaughlin. How was her father killed?"

  McLaughlin leaned back, weighing her options. "Horace Slaughter was shot in the head."

  Brenda closed her eyes.

  Dan Tiles moved in again. "At close range," he added.

  "Right, close range. Back of the head."

  "Close range," Tiles repeated. He put his fists on the table. Then he leaned in closer. "Like maybe he knew the killer. Like maybe it was somebody he trusted."

  Myron pointed at him. "You got some food stuck in your mustache. Looks like scrambled eggs."