Drop Shot

  "Hi, Gregory." Like they actually knew each other.

  "Please come in. There's someone here I'd like you to meet."

  Myron stepped fully into the room. Big walnut table with dark leather chairs, the expensive kind, the kind with those little gold buttons on them. Oil portraits of stern-faced men on the walls. The room was empty, except for one man down the other end of the table. Though they had never met, Myron recognized the man immediately. He should have been surprised, but he wasn't.

  Senator Bradley Cross.

  Gregory did not bother with introductions. In fact he didn't bother staying. He slipped out the door, closing it behind him. The senator stood. His were a far cry from the classic patrician good looks one usually associates with political families. They say people look like their pets; in that case Senator Bradley Cross owned a basset hound. His features were long and malleable. His finely tailored suit did nothing to disguise his exaggerated pear build; on a woman, his hips would be called child-bearing. His hair was wispy gray strands that seemed to be suffering from static cling. He wore thick glasses and an off-center smile. Still, it was an endearing smile--indeed, an endearing, trustworthy face. The kind of face you'd vote for.

  Senator Cross slowly put out his hand. "I'm sorry for the dramatics," he said, "but I thought we should meet."

  They shook hands.

  "Please have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something?"

  "No, thank you," Myron said.

  They sat facing each other. Myron waited. The senator seemed unsure how to begin. He coughed into his fists several times. Each cough made his jowls flap a bit.

  "Do you know why I wanted to see you?" he asked.

  "No," Myron said.

  "I understand you've been asking a lot of questions about my son. More specifically, about his murder."

  "Where did you hear that?"

  "Around. Here and there. I am not without my sources." He tilted his head the way a basset hound does when he hears a strange sound. "I'd like to know why."

  "Valerie Simpson was going to be a client of mine," Myron said.

  "So I've been told."

  "I'm looking into her murder."

  "And you believe there might be a connection between Valerie's murder and Alexander's?"

  Myron shrugged.

  "My son was killed by a random street thug six years ago near Philadelphia. Valerie was killed almost gangland style at the U.S. Open in New York. What possible connection could there be?"

  "Maybe none."

  Cross leaned back, fiddled his thumbs. "I want to be up-front with you, Myron. I've looked into your background a bit. I know about your past work. Not the details, of course, but your reputation. I'm not trying to apply any influence here. It's not my style. I've never been comfortable at playing the tough guy." He smiled again. His eyes were wet now and there was a discernible quake in his voice. "I'm talking to you now not as a United States senator but as a grieving father. A grieving father who just wants to let his son rest in peace. I'm asking you to please stop what you're doing."

  The pain in the man's voice was raw. Myron had not expected this. "I'm not sure I can, Senator."

  The senator rubbed his entire face vigorously, using both hands. "You see two young people..." he began tiredly. "You see two young people with the whole world in front of them. Practically engaged to one another. And what happens to them? They're murdered in two separate incidents six years apart. The cruel coincidence is too much to fathom. You wonder about that, don't you, Myron?"

  Myron nodded.

  "So you begin to scrutinize their deaths. You look for something that might explain such a bizarre double tragedy. And in your search you find inconsistencies. You see pieces that just don't add up."

  "Yes."

  "And those inconsistencies lead you to believe that there is a connection between Alexander's murder and Valerie's."

  "Maybe."

  Cross glanced up at the ceiling and rested his index finger on his lip. "Will you take my word that those inconsistencies have nothing to do with Valerie Simpson?"

  "No," Myron said. "I can't."

  Senator Cross nodded, more to himself than Myron. "I didn't suspect you would," he said. "You don't have children, do you, Myron?"

  "No."

  "It doesn't matter. Even people who have children don't understand. They can't. What happened...it's not just the pain. The death is all-consuming. It never lets you go, never gives you a chance to catch your breath. My wife still has to be medicated almost daily. It's like someone scooped out everything inside of her and left behind only a pitiful shell. You can't imagine what it's like to see her like that."

  "I don't mean to hurt anyone, Senator."

  "But you won't stop either. And no matter how careful you are, someone is bound to get wind of your investigation, just as I did."

  "I'll try to be discreet."

  "You know that's impossible."

  "I can't back away now. I'm sorry."

  The senator gave himself the face massage again. He sighed deeply and said, "You leave me no choice. I'll have to tell you what happened. Maybe then you'll let it go."

  Myron waited.

  "You are an attorney, are you not?"

  "Yes," Myron said.

  "You're a member of the New York bar?"

  "Yes."

  Bradley Cross reached into his suit pocket. Sallow skin hung off his face in uneven clumps. He took out a checkbook. "I'd like to hire you as my attorney," he said. "Will a five-thousand-dollar retainer be enough?"

  "I don't understand."

  "As my attorney, what I'm about to tell you falls under the jurisdiction of attorney-client privilege. You will not be allowed, even in a court of law, to repeat what I am about to tell you."

  "You don't need to hire me for that."

  "I'd prefer it."

  "Fine. Make it a hundred dollars."

  Bradley Cross wrote out the check and handed it to Myron.

  "My son was on drugs," he said without preamble. "Cocaine mostly. Heroin too, but he'd only just started on it. I knew he was on something, but frankly I didn't think it was serious. I saw him high. I saw the red eyes. But I thought it was just marijuana. Hell, I've tried marijuana. Inhaled even."

  Weak smile. Myron returned it, equally weak.

  "Alexander and his friends weren't taking a casual stroll around the club grounds that night," he said. "They were going to get high. Alexander was found with a syringe in his pocket. There was cocaine found in the bushes not far from where the murder took place. And, of course, there were traces of both heroin and cocaine in Alexander's body. Not just in his fluids but in his tissue. I'm told that shows he'd been using for a while."

  "I thought there was no autopsy," Myron said.

  "It was kept secret. Nothing was reported or filed. It didn't matter anyway. A knife wound ended Alexander's life, not drugs. The fact that my son was taking illegal substances was irrelevant."

  Maybe, Myron thought, keeping his expression blank.

  Cross stared off for a while. After some time had passed he asked, "Where was I?"

  "They left the party to get high."

  "Right, thank you." He cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter. "The rest of the story is fairly straightforward. The boys stumbled upon Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller on one of the grass courts. The papers talked about how brave Alexander was, how he tried to thwart the evil-doers without concern for his own safety. My spin doctors at their best. But the truth is, he was flying so high he acted irrationally. He swooped in like some kind of superhero. The Yeller boy--the one the police shot--dropped everything and ran. But Errol Swade was a cooler customer. He took out a switchblade and punctured my boy's heart like a balloon. Casually, they say. Nonchalant."

  Senator Cross stopped. Myron waited for him to continue. When it was clear he had reached the end of his saga, Myron asked, "Why were they at the club?"

  "Who?"

  "Swade and Yeller
."

  Senator Cross looked puzzled. "They were thieves."

  "How do you know that?"

  "What else would they have been doing here?"

  Myron shrugged. "Selling drugs to your son. Dealing. It sounds a lot more plausible than a late-night robbery of a tennis club."

  Cross shook his head. "They were carrying items. Tennis rackets. Tennis balls."

  "According to whom?"

  "According to Gregory and the others. The items were also found at the scene."

  "Tennis rackets and balls?"

  "There may have been other things, I don't remember."

  "That's what they were after?" Myron said. "Some tennis gear?"

  "The police believe that my son interrupted them before the robbery was complete."

  "But your son stumbled across them outside. If they'd already stolen some gear, then they'd already been inside."

  "So what are you suggesting?" the senator asked sharply. "That my son was murdered in a drug deal gone bad?"

  "I'm just trying to see what sounds most plausible."

  "Would a drug deal murder make a connection with Valerie more likely?"

  "No."

  "So what's your point?"

  "No point. Just trying out different theories. What happened next? Directly after the murder?"

  He looked off again, this time in the general direction of one of the portraits, but Myron didn't think he was actually seeing it. "Gregory and the other boys came running back into the party," he said in a hollow voice. "I followed them outside. Blood was bubbling out of Alexander's mouth. By the time I reached him he was dead."

  Silence.

  "You can pretty much figure out the rest. Everything switched over to autopilot. I really didn't do much. Aides did. Gregory's father--he's a senior partner here--helped too. I just stood and nodded numbly. I won't lie to you. I won't tell you I didn't know what was going on. I did. Old habits die hard, Myron. There is no creature more selfish than a politician. We so easily justify our selfishness as the 'common good.' So the cover-up was done."

  "And if the truth came out now?"

  He smiled. "I'd be destroyed. But I'm not really afraid of that anymore. Or maybe that's a lie too, who knows anymore?" He threw up his hands, lowered them. "But my wife never learned the truth. I don't know what it would do to her, I really don't. Alexander was a good kid, Mr. Bolitar. I don't want his memory ripped to shreds. In the end drugs do not make Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller any less culpable or my son any more guilty. He didn't ask to be stabbed."

  Myron waited a beat. Then the left-field question: "What about Deanna Yeller?"

  Puzzled. "Who?"

  "Curtis Yeller's mother."

  "What about her?"

  "You have no relationship with her?"

  More puzzled. "Of course not. Why would you ask something like that?"

  "You never paid to keep her silent?"

  "About what?"

  "About the circumstances of her son's death."

  "No. Why should I?"

  "You know there was never an autopsy done on Curtis Yeller either. Strange, don't you think?"

  "If you're insinuating that the police did not act strictly within regulations, I can't answer that because I don't know. I don't care either. Yes, I've wondered about the police shooting myself. Perhaps there was a second cover-up that night. If there was, I was not involved in it. And more important, I don't see what possible connection it could have with Valerie Simpson. In fact I don't see any connection in any of this with Valerie."

  "She was at the party that night?"

  "Valerie? Of course."

  "Do you know where she was at the time Alexander was murdered?"

  "No."

  "Do you remember how she reacted to his death?"

  "She was devastated. Her fiance had just been killed in cold blood. She was distraught and angry."

  "Did you approve of their relationship?"

  "Yes, very much so. I thought Valerie was a bit troubled. A bit too sad. But I liked her. She and Alexander were good together."

  "Valerie's name was never mentioned in connection with your son's murder. Why?"

  The jowls were quivering big-time. "You know why," he said. "Valerie Simpson was still something of a celebrity from her tennis days. We felt that there was already enough scrutiny without adding her name to the mix. It wasn't a question of liking or not liking Valerie. We just wanted to minimize the story as much as possible. Keep it off the front pages."

  "You got lucky then."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Yeller was killed. Swade vanished."

  Cross blinked several times. "I'm not sure I understand."

  "If they were alive there would have been a trial. More media attention. Maybe too much media attention for even your spin doctors to handle."

  He smiled. "I see you've heard the rumors."

  "Rumors?"

  "That I had Errol Swade killed. That the mob did me a favor or some such nonsense."

  "You have to admit, Senator, their fates made for a convenient little public relations package. No one to dispute your spin on things."

  "I don't cry over the fate of Curtis Yeller, and if Errol Swade was murdered I doubt I'd shed too many tears about that either. But I don't know any mobsters. That may sound silly, but I wouldn't know the first thing about enlisting the mob's help. I did hire a detective agency to look for Swade."

  "Did they find anything?"

  "No. They believe that Swade is dead. So do the police. He was a punk, Myron. He wasn't on a path that led to a long life even before this incident."

  Myron followed up with a few more questions, but there was nothing more to learn. A few minutes later the two men stood.

  "Would you mind if I spoke to Gregory Caufield before I leave?" Myron asked.

  "I'd prefer it if you didn't."

  "If there's nothing to hide--"

  "I don't want him knowing I told you this. Attorney-client privilege, remember? He won't speak honestly to you anyway."

  "He will if you tell him to."

  Cross shook his head. "Gregory's father controls him. He won't talk."

  Myron shrugged. The senator was probably right. The only leverage he could apply on Gregory would be what Cross just told him. Cross had neatly arranged it so Myron couldn't do that. He'd have to think of a way to end-run that. Caufield was an eyewitness. He'd be worth a few questions.

  The two men shook hands, both making serious eye contact. Was Senator Cross a sweet old codger, a grieving father trying to protect his son's memory? Or had he calculated that this would be the most effective strategy for dealing with Myron? Was he cagey or sympathetic or both?

  Cross gave him the endearing off-center smile again. "I hope I've satisfied your curiosity," he said.

  He hadn't. Not even close. But Myron didn't bother telling him that.

  20

  Myron left the building and strolled down Madison Avenue. Traffic was at a standstill. Big surprise in Manhattan. Five lanes were merging into one on Fifty-fourth Street. The other four lanes were blocked by one of those purely New York construction sites with steam pouring up out of the streets. Very Dante. What was with all that steam anyway?

  He was about to cut across Fifty-third Street when he felt a sharp stab in his ribs.

  "Give me an excuse, asshole."

  Myron recognized the voice before seeing the taped nose and the black eyes. Fishnet. He was pressing a gun against Myron's rib cage, using his body to hide the gun from any curious onlookers.

  "You're wearing the same shirt," Myron said. "Jesus Christ, you didn't even change."

  Fishnet gave him a little gun jab. "You're going to wish you were never born, asshole. Get in the car."

  The car--the powder-blue Caddy with thick scratches on the side--pulled alongside of them. Jim, Fishnet's partner, was driving, but Myron barely noticed him. His eyes immediately locked on the familiar figure in the backseat. The figure smiled and waved.
<
br />   "Hey, Myron," he called out. "How's it going?"

  Aaron.

  "Bring him here, Lee," Aaron said.

  Fishnet Lee gave Myron a nudge with the gun. "Let's go, asshole."

  Myron got in the backseat with Aaron. Fishnet Lee joined Jim in the front. The front seats were both covered with plastic where Win had dumped the maple syrup.

  Aaron was dressed in his customary garb. Pure-snow-white suit, white shoes. No socks. No shirt. Aaron never wore a shirt, preferring to display his tan pectorals. They gleamed from some sort of oil or grease. He always looked fresh out of the wax salon, his body smooth as a baby's bottom. Aaron was a big man, six-six, two-forty. The weight lifter's build was not merely for show. Aaron moved with a speed and grace that defied the bulk. His black hair was slicked back and tied into a long ponytail.

  He gave Myron a game-show-host grin and held it.

  Myron said, "Nice smile, Aaron. Lots of teeth."

  "Proper dental hygiene. It's a passion of mine."

  "You should share your passion with Lee," Myron said.

  Fishnet's head spun. "What the fuck did you say, asshole?"

  "Turn around, Lee," Aaron said to Fishnet. Fishnet glared a few more daggers. Myron yawned. Jim drove. Aaron sat back. He said nothing, smiling brightly. Every part of him glistened in the sunlight. After two blocks of this Myron pointed at Aaron's cleavage. "Your electrolysis missed a chest hair."

  To Aaron's credit he didn't look. "We need to chat, Myron."

  "What about?"

  "Valerie Simpson. For once I think we're on the same side."

  "Oh?"

  "You want to capture Valerie Simpson's killer. So do we."

  "You do?"

  "Yes. Mr. Ache is determined to bring her killer to justice."

  "That Frank. Always the Good Samaritan."

  Aaron chuckled. "Still the funny man, eh, Myron? Well, I admit it sounds a bit bizarre, but we'd like to help you."

  "How?"

  "We both know that Roger Quincy killed Valerie Simpson. Mr. Ache is willing to use his considerable influence to help locate him."

  "And in return?"

  Aaron feigned shock. He put a manicured hand the size of a manhole cover to his chest. "Myron, you wound me. Really. We try to extend the hand of friendship and you slap it away with an insult."

  "Uh-huh."

  "This is one of those rare win-win situations," Aaron said. "We're willing to help you get your killer."