The Final Detail, Page 5

  "Your Honor, I assure you that my client knows nothing about any money."

  "I'd be surprised if your position were different, Ms. Crimstein. But the facts presented by the district attorney are sufficiently troublesome. Bail denied."

  Crimstein's eyes widened. "Your Honor, this is an outrage--"

  "No need to shout, Counselor. I hear you just fine."

  "I strenuously object--"

  "Save it for the cameras, Ms. Crimstein." The judge hit the gavel. "Next case?"

  Suppressed mumbles broke forth. Big Cyndi started wailing like a widow in a war newsreel. Hester Crimstein put her mouth to Esperanza's ear and whispered something. Esperanza nodded, but it didn't look like she was listening. The guards led Esperanza toward a door. Myron tried to catch her eyes again, but she didn't--or maybe wouldn't--face him.

  Hester Crimstein turned and shot Myron a glare so nasty it almost made him duck. She approached him and fought to keep her face neutral. "Room seven," she said to Myron, not looking at him, barely moving her lips. "Down the hallway and to the left. Five minutes. Don't say anything to anyone."

  Myron did not bother with a nod.

  Crimstein hurried out, already starting with the no comments before she hit the door. Win sighed, took a piece of paper and a pen from his jacket pocket, began to scribble something down.

  "What are you doing?" Myron asked.

  "You'll see." It did not take long. Two plainclothes cops accompanied by the stench of cheap cologne made their approach. Homicide division, no doubt. Before they could even introduce themselves, Win said, "Are we under arrest?"

  The cops looked confused. Then one said, "No."

  Win smiled and handed him the piece of paper.

  "What the hell is this?"

  "Our attorney's phone number," Win said. He rose and ushered Myron toward the door. "Have a special day."

  They arrived in the defendant's conference room before the anointed five minutes. The room was empty.

  "Clu withdrew cash?" Myron said.

  "Yes," Win said.

  "You knew about it?"

  "Of course."

  "How much?"

  "The district attorney said two hundred thousand dollars. I have no reason to quibble with that estimate."

  "And you just let him?"

  "Pardon?"

  "You just let Clu withdraw two hundred grand?"

  "It's his money."

  "But that much cash?"

  "It was none of my business," Win said.

  "You know Clu, Win. It could have been for drugs or gambling or--"

  "Probably was," Win agreed. "But I am his financial adviser. I instruct him on investment strategies. Period. I am not his conscience or his mommy or his baby-sitter--or even his agent."

  Ouch. But no time for that now. Once again Myron suppressed the guilt and mulled over the possibilities. "Clu okayed us receiving his financial statements, right?"

  Win nodded. MB SportsReps insisted that all clients use Win's services and meet with him in person at least quarterly to go over their accounts. This was for their sake more than Myron's. Too many athletes get taken advantage of because of ignorance. But most of Myron's clients had copies of their statements sent to Myron so that he too could help keep track of the ins and outs, set up some automatic bill paying, that kind of thing.

  "So a withdrawal that big would have come up on our screen," Myron said.

  "Yes."

  "Esperanza would have known about it."

  "Yes again."

  Myron frowned. "So that gives the DA another motive for the murder. She knew about the cash."

  "Indeed."

  Myron looked at Win. "So what did Clu do with the money?"

  Win shrugged.

  "Maybe Bonnie knows?"

  "Doubtful," Win said. "They've separated."

  "Big deal. They're always fighting, but she always takes him back."

  "Perhaps. But this time she made the separation legal."

  That surprised Myron. Bonnie had never gone that far before. Their turmoil cycle had always been consistent: Clu does something stupid, a big fight ensues, Bonnie throws him out for a couple of nights, maybe a week, Clu begs forgiveness, Bonnie takes him back, Clu behaves for a little while, Clu does something stupid, the cycle starts anew. "She got a lawyer and filed papers?"

  "According to Clu."

  "He told you that?"

  "Yes, Myron. That's what 'According to Clu' means."

  "When did he tell you all this?"

  "Last week. When he took out the cash. He said that she had already begun divorce proceedings."

  "How did he feel about it?"

  "Badly. He craved yet another reconciliation."

  "Did he say anything else when he withdrew the cash?"

  "Nothing."

  "And you have no idea--"

  "None."

  The conference room door flew open. Hester Crimstein came in, red-faced and fuming. "You dumb bastards. I told you to stay away."

  "Don't put this on us," Myron said. "This is your screwup."

  "What?"

  "Getting her bail should have been a slam dunk."

  "If you weren't in the courtroom, it would have been. You played right into the DA's hands. He wants to show the judge that the defendant has the resources to run away, and boom, he points to a famous ex-jock and one of the country's richest playboys sitting right in the front row."

  She started stomping about as though the industrial gray carpet contained small brushfires. "This judge is a liberal schmuck," she said. "That's why I started with all that hardworking Hispanic crap. She hates rich people, probably because she is one. Having the Preppy Handbook here"--she gestured with her head at Win--"sit in the front row was like waving a Confederate flag at a black judge."

  "You should drop the case," Myron said.

  Her head jerked toward him. "Are you out of your mind?"

  "Your fame is playing against you. The judge may not like rich people, but she doesn't much like celebrities either. You're the wrong attorney for this case."

  "Bullshit. I've had three cases before this judge. I'm three and oh."

  "Maybe she doesn't like that either."

  Crimstein seemed to lose a little steam. She moved back and collapsed into a chair. "Bail denied," she said more to herself than anyone else. "I can't believe they even had the nerve to ask for no bail." She sat a bit straighter. "All right, here's how we play it. I'm going to press for answers. In the meantime you guys say nothing. No talking to the cops, the DA, the press. Nobody. Not until we figure out what exactly they think the three of you did."

  "The three of us?"

  "Weren't you listening, Myron? They think it's a money scheme."

  "Involving the three of us?"

  "Yes."

  "But how?"

  "I don't know. They mentioned your going to the Caribbean, maybe the Cayman Islands. We all know what that means."

  "Depositing cash in offshore accounts," Myron said. "But I left the country three weeks ago--before the money was even withdrawn. And I never went anywhere near the Caymans."

  "They're probably still grasping at straws," Crimstein said. "But they're going to go after you in a big way. I hope your books are in order because I guarantee you they'll have them subpoenaed within the hour."

  Money scandal, Myron thought. Hadn't FJ mentioned something about that?

  Crimstein turned her attention to Win. "Is that stuff about a big cash withdrawal true?"

  "Yes."

  "Can they prove Esperanza knew about it?"

  "Probably."

  "Damn." She thought about this a moment.

  Win moved into a corner. He took out his cell phone, dialed, started talking.

  Myron said, "Make me co-counsel."

  Crimstein looked up. "Excuse me?"

  "As you pointed out last night, I'm a bar-appointed attorney. Make me her attorney, and anything she tells me falls under attorney-client."

  She
shook her head. "One, that'll never fly. The judge will see it for what it is, a loophole to make sure you can't testify. Two, it's moronic. Not only will it reek of a desperate defensive move, but it'll look like we're shutting you up because we have something to hide. Three, you may still be charged in all this."

  "How? I already told you. I was in the Caribbean."

  "Right. Where nobody but Preppy Boy could find you. How convenient."

  "You think--"

  "I don't think anything, Myron. I'm telling you what the DA might be thinking. For now we're just guessing. Go back to your office. Call your accountant. Make sure your books are in order."

  "They're in order," Myron said. "I've never stolen a dime."

  She turned to Win. "How about you?"

  Win hung up the phone. "What about me?"

  "They'll subpoena your books too."

  Win arched the eyebrow. "They'll try."

  "Are they clean?"

  "You could eat off them," Win said.

  "Fine, whatever. I'll let your lawyers handle it. I got enough to worry about."

  Silence.

  "So how do we get her out?" Myron asked.

  "We don't get her out. I get her out. You stay away."

  "I don't take orders from you."

  "No? How about from Esperanza?"

  "What about Esperanza?"

  "This is her request as well as mine. Stay away from her."

  "I don't believe she'd say that."

  "Believe it."

  "If she wants me out," Myron said, "she'll have to tell me to my face."

  "Fine," Crimstein said with a heavy sigh. "Let's go take care of that now."

  "What?"

  "You want her to tell you herself? Give me five minutes."

  CHAPTER

  8

  Win said, "I have to get back to the office."

  Myron was surprised. "You don't want to hear what Esperanza has to say?"

  "No time."

  His tone slammed the door on further discussion. Win reached for the knob.

  "If you need my special talents," he said, "I'll have the cellular."

  He hurried out as Hester Crimstein entered. She watched him disappear down the corridor. "Where's he going?"

  "His office."

  "Why's he in such a rush all of a sudden?"

  "I didn't ask."

  Hester Crimstein raised an eyebrow. "Hmm."

  "Hmm what?"

  "Win was the one in charge of the account with the missing money."

  "So?"

  "So maybe he had a reason to silence Clu Haid."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Are you saying he's incapable of murder?"

  Myron did not reply.

  "If even half the stories I've heard about Windsor Lockwood are true--"

  "You know better than to listen to rumors."

  She looked at him. "So if I subpoena you to testify and if I ask if you've ever witnessed Windsor Horne Lockwood the Third kill someone, what would you say?"

  "No."

  "Uh-huh. Guess you also missed the class on perjury."

  Myron did not bother with a comeback. "When can I see Esperanza?"

  "Come on. She's waiting for you."

  Esperanza sat at a long table. She still wore the orange prison suit, her now-uncuffed hands folded in front of her, her expression serene as a church statue's. Hester signaled to the trooper, and they both left the room.

  When the door closed, Esperanza smiled at him. "Welcome back," she said.

  "Thanks," Myron replied.

  Her eyes took him in. "If your tan was any darker, you could pass for my brother."

  "Thanks."

  "Still got the smooth tongue with the ladies, eh?"

  "Thanks."

  She almost smiled. Even under these conditions, Esperanza still looked radiant. Her supple skin and ink black hair shimmered against the fluorescent orange backdrop. Her eyes still brought forth thoughts of Mediterranean moons and white peasant blouses.

  "Are you feeling better now?" she asked him.

  "Yes."

  "Where were you anyway?"

  "A private island in the Caribbean."

  "For three weeks?"

  "Yes."

  "By yourself?"

  "No."

  When he didn't elaborate, Esperanza simply said, "Details."

  "I ran off with a beautiful anchorwoman I barely knew."

  Esperanza smiled. "Did she--how to put this delicately?--did she boff your brains out?"

  "As it were."

  "Glad to hear it. If any guy needed to have his brain boffed out--"

  "Right, I'm the guy. Voted Most Boff Needy by the senior class."

  She liked that one. She leaned back and crossed her legs cocktail-lounge casual. Odd in these surroundings, to put it mildly. "You didn't tell anybody where you were?"

  "That's right."

  "Yet Win still found you in a matter of hours," she said.

  It surprised neither of them. They sat in silence for a moment or two. Then Myron asked, "You okay?"

  "Fine."

  "Do you need anything?"

  "No."

  Myron was not sure how to continue, what subject to broach or how to broach it. Once again Esperanza took the ball and started dribbling.

  "So are you and Jessica through?" she asked.

  "Yes." It was the first time he had said it out loud. It felt weird.

  That made her smile, big time. "Ah, the silver lining," she said triumphantly. "So it's really over? Queen Bitch is gone for good?"

  "Don't call her that."

  "Is she gone for good?"

  "I think so."

  "Say yes, Myron. It'll make you feel better."

  But he couldn't. "I'm not here to talk about me."

  Esperanza crossed her arms, said nothing.

  "We'll get you out of this," he said. "I promise."

  She nodded, still playing casual; if she were a smoker, she'd be blowing rings. "You better get back to the office. We've already lost too many clients."

  "I don't care about that."

  "I do." Her voice had an edge now. "I'm a partner now."

  "I know that."

  "So I own part of MB SportsReps. If you want to self-destruct, fine. But don't drag my lusted-after ass down with you, okay?"

  "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant we've got bigger worries right now."

  "No."

  "What?"

  "We don't have bigger worries. I want you to stay out of this."

  "I don't understand."

  "I have one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the country working on my case. Let her handle it."

  Myron tried to let her words settle in, but they were like unruly children after a sugar fix. He leaned forward a bit.

  "What's going on here?"

  "I can't talk about it."

  "What?"

  "Hester told me I shouldn't talk about the case with anyone, even you. Our conversations are not protected."

  "You think I'd tell?"

  "You can be forced to testify."

  "So I'd lie."

  "You won't have to."

  Myron opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. "Win and I can help here. We're good at this."

  "No offense, Myron, but Win is psycho. I love him, but his kind of help I don't need. And you"--Esperanza stopped, looked up, unfolded her arms, lowered her gaze back to his--"you're damaged goods. I don't blame you for running away. It was probably the right thing to do. But let's not pretend you're back to normal."

  "Not normal," he agreed. "But I'm ready for this."

  She shook her head. "Concentrate on MB. It's going to take all your efforts to keep her afloat."

  "You're not going to tell me what happened?"

  "No."

  "That doesn't make any sense."

  "I just spelled out the reasons--"

  "You're really afraid I'd testify against you?"

  "I didn't say that."
/>
  "So what is it? If you think I'm not up for this, okay, maybe I buy it. But that wouldn't stop you from talking to me. In fact, you'd probably tell me just to keep me from poking around. So what's going on here?"

  Her face slid closed. "Go to the office, Myron. You want to help? Save our business."

  "Did you kill him?"

  He regretted it the moment the words came out of his mouth. She looked at him as if he'd just reached across the table and slapped her face.

  "I don't care if you did," he pressed on. "I'll stand by you no matter what. I want you to know that."

  Esperanza regained her composure. She slid her chair back and stood. For a few moments she stared at him, studying his face as though searching for something that was normally there. Then she turned away, called for the guard, and left the room.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Big Cyndi was already manning the reception desk when Myron reached the offices of MB SportsReps. They had a prime location, right smack on Park Avenue in midtown. The Lock-Horne high-rise had been owned by Win's family since Great-Great-Et-Cetera Grandpa Horne (or was it Lockwood?) had torn down a tepee and started building it. Myron rented space at a premium discount from Win. In return Win handled all the finances for Myron's clients. This deal was a bargain for Myron. Between the primo address and the ability to guarantee his clients the financial services of the near-legendary Windsor Horne Lockwood III, MB SportsReps had an air of legitimacy few small firms could boast.

  MB SportsReps was on the twelfth floor. An elevator opened directly into their reception room. Muy classy. The phones were beeping. Big Cyndi put people on hold and looked up at him. She looked even more ridiculous than usual. No easy task. In the first place, the furniture was too small for her, the desk legs actually teetering on her knees like something a father might experience when visiting his child's elementary school. In the second place, she still had not washed up or changed from last night. Normally Myron, the image-conscious entrepreneur, would comment on this, but now did not seem an appropriate (or safe) time.

  "The press is pulling out all the tricks to get up here, Mr. Bolitar." Big Cyndi always called him Mr. Bolitar. She liked formalities. "Two of them even pretended to be prospective clients coming out of Division One schools."

  Myron was hardly surprised. "I told the guard downstairs to be extra wary."

  "A lot of clients are calling too. They're concerned."

  "Patch them through. Get rid of everybody else."

  "Yes, Mr. Bolitar." Like she wanted to salute. Big Cyndi handed him a pile of blue slips. "These are this morning's calls from clients."

  He started thumbing through the stack.

  "For your information," Big Cyndi continued, "we told everyone you were just gone for a day or two at first. Then a week or two. Then we started faking emergencies for you: family illnesses, helping a sick client, that sort of thing. But some clients got tired of the excuses."