Drop Shot, Page 5

  "No thanks."

  "What? You love Fong's shrimp in lobster sauce. You're crazy about it."

  "Maybe a little then." Easier.

  She was still standing on her head. She began to whistle. Very casuallike. "So," she said in that strain-to-sound-aloof voice, "how's Jessica?"

  "Butt out, Mom."

  "Who's butting? I just asked a simple question."

  "And I gave you a simple answer. Butt out."

  "Fine. But don't go crying to me if something goes wrong."

  Like that happens.

  "Why has she been away so long anyway? What's she doing over there?"

  "Thanks for butting out."

  "I'm concerned," Mom said. "I just hope she's not up to something."

  "Butt out."

  "Is that all you can say? Butt out? What are you, a parrot? Where is she anyway?"

  Myron opened his mouth, wrestled it closed, and stormed into the basement. His dwelling. He was almost thirty-two years old and still lived at home. He hadn't been here much the past few months. Most nights he'd spent at Jessica's place in the city. They had even talked about moving in together but decided to take it slow. Very slow. Easier said than done. The heart don't know from slow. At least Myron's didn't. As usual Mom had drilled into exposed nerve endings. Jessica was in Europe right now, but Myron had no idea where. He hadn't heard from her in two weeks. He missed her. And he was wondering too.

  The doorbell rang.

  "Your father," Mom called down. "Probably forgot his key again. I swear that man is getting senile."

  A few seconds later he heard the basement door open. His mother's feet appeared. Then the rest of her. She beckoned him forward.

  "What?"

  "There's a young lady here to see you," she said. Then in a whisper, "She's black."

  "Gasp!" Myron put his hand to his heart. "Hope the neighbors don't call the police."

  "That's not what I meant, smart-mouth, and you know it. We have black families in the neighborhood now. The Wilsons. Lovely people. They live on Coventry Drive. In the old Dechtman home."

  "I know, Mom."

  "I was just describing her for you. Like I might say she has blond hair. Or a nice smile. Or a harelip."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Or limp. Or she's tall. Or short. Or fat. Or--"

  "I think I get the drift, Mom. Did you ask her name?"

  She shook her head. "I didn't want to pry."

  Right.

  Myron headed up the stairs. It was Wanda, Duane's girlfriend. For some reason Myron was not surprised. She smiled nervously, waved quickly.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you at home," she said.

  "No problem. Please come in."

  They headed down the basement. Myron had subdivided it into two rooms. One, a small sitting room he basically never used. Hence it was presentable and clean. The inside room, his living quarters, resembled a frat house after a major kegger.

  Wanda's eyes darted around again, like they had when Dimonte had been at the apartment. "You live down here?"

  "Only since I was sixteen."

  "I think that's sweet. Living with your parents."

  From upstairs: "If only you knew."

  "Close the door, Mom."

  Slam.

  "Please," Myron said. "Sit down."

  Wanda looked unsure but finally settled into a chair. She was wringing her hands nonstop. "I feel a little foolish," she said.

  Myron gave her an understanding, encouraging smile--the Phil Donahue smile. Caller, are you there?

  "Duane likes you," she said. "A lot."

  "The feeling is mutual."

  "The other agents, they call Duane all the time. All the big ones. They keep saying how you're too small-time to represent Duane. They keep saying they can help him make a lot more money."

  "They might be right," Myron said.

  She shook her head. "Duane doesn't think so. I don't think so either."

  "That's nice of you to say."

  "You know why Duane won't meet with those other agents?"

  "Because he doesn't want to see me weep?"

  She smiled at that one. The Master of Levity strikes again. Senor Self-Deprecation. "No," she said. "Duane trusts you."

  "I'm glad."

  "You're not just in it for the money."

  "That nice of you to say, Wanda, but Duane is making me a lot of money. There's no denying that."

  "I know," she said. "I don't want to sound naive here, but you put him first. Before the money. You look out for Duane Richwood the human being. You care about him."

  Myron said nothing.

  "Duane doesn't have many people," she continued. "He doesn't have any family. He lived on the streets since he was fifteen, scraping by. He wasn't an angel that whole time. He did some things he'd rather forget. But he never hurt anybody, never did anything serious. His whole life he never had anyone he could rely on. He had to take care of himself."

  Silence.

  "Does Duane know you're here?" Myron asked.

  "No."

  "Where is he?"

  "I don't know. He just took off. He does that sometimes."

  More silence.

  "So anyway, like I said, Duane doesn't have anybody else. He trusts you. He trusts Win, too, but only because he's your best friend."

  "Wanda, what you're saying is very nice, but I'm hardly driven by altruism. I'm well paid for what I do."

  "But you care."

  "Henry Hobson cares."

  "Maybe. But his wagon is hitched to Duane's star. Duane is his ticket back to the bigs."

  "Many would say the same for me," Myron countered. "Except that part about 'back,' since I've never been to the bigs. Duane's my only big tennis player. In fact Duane is the only player I've got in the U.S. Open."

  She considered this for a moment, nodding. "Maybe that's all true," she said. "But when push came to shove--when trouble hit today--Duane came to you. And when push came to shove for me tonight, I came to you too. That's the bottom line."

  The basement door opened.

  "Would you kids like something to drink?"

  "Got any Kool-Aid, Mom?"

  Wanda laughed.

  "Listen, smart-mouth, maybe your company is hungry."

  "No, thank you, Mrs. Bolitar," Wanda shouted up.

  "You sure, hon? Coffee maybe? A Coke?"

  "Nothing, really, thank you."

  "How about some Danish? I just bought some fresh at the Swiss House. Myron's favorite."

  "Mom..."

  "Okay, okay, I can take a hint."

  Right. The Mistress of the Subtle Signal. The basement door closed.

  "She's sweet," Wanda said.

  "Yeah, adorable." Myron leaned forward. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

  She started wringing her hands again. "I'm worried about Duane."

  "If it's about Dimonte's visit, don't let him get to you. Being a horse's ass is part of his job."

  "It's not that," she said. "Duane wouldn't hurt anybody. I know that. But something isn't right with him. He's tense all the time. He paces around the apartment. He flies off the handle at the littlest things."

  "He's under a lot of pressure right now. It could just be nerves."

  She shook her head. "Duane thrives on pressure. He loves competing, you know that. But the last day or two it's different. Something is really bothering him."

  "Any idea what?"

  "No."

  Myron leaned forward. "Let me ask you the obvious question: Did Duane get a call from Valerie Simpson?"

  She thought for a moment. "I don't know."

  "Does he know her?"

  "I don't know that either. But I know Duane. We've been together for three years, since we were both eighteen. He was still on the streets when we met. My father freaked out when he heard. He's a chiropractor. He makes a good living, worked hard to keep the bad element away from us. And here I was, dating a street kid, a runaway."

  She chuckled at the memo
ry. Myron sat and waited.

  "No one thought it would last," she continued. "I left college and got a job so he could pursue tennis. Now he's putting me through NYU. We love each other. We loved each other before all this tennis stuff started and we'll love each other long after he puts down the racket for good. But for the first time he's shutting me out."

  "And you think Valerie Simpson is somehow connected?"

  She hesitated. "I guess I do."

  "How?"

  "I have no idea."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  She stood, paced in the small room. "I heard those policemen talking. They said you used to be a big deal with the government. You and Win. Something secretive with the FBI--after you recovered from the knee injury. Is that true?"

  "Yes."

  "I thought maybe you could, I don't know, look into it?"

  "You want me to investigate Duane?"

  "He's hiding something, Myron. It has to come out."

  "You might not like what I find," he said, echoing Win's earlier words.

  "I'm more afraid of going on like this." Wanda looked up at him. "Will you help him?"

  He nodded. "I'll do what I can."

  7

  The phone rang.

  Myron reached out blindly, swimming back to consciousness. He grabbed the receiver and croaked, "Hello?"

  "Is this the Rent-a-Stud hotline?"

  Her voice hit him like a jolt. "Jess?"

  "Oh shit," Jessica said. "You were sleeping, right?"

  "Sleeping?" Myron squinted at his digital. "At four-thirteen in the morning? Captain Midnight? Surely you jest."

  "Sorry. I forgot about the time difference."

  He sat up. "Where are you?"

  "Greece," she said. "I miss you."

  "You're just horny."

  "Well, there's that."

  "Captain Midnight is willing to help," he said.

  "My fearless hero. I suppose you're not even a little horny."

  "Captain Midnight lives chastely."

  "Part of his image?"

  "Exactly," he said.

  "It's no fun," she said. "Being away from you."

  His heart soared. "So come home."

  "I am."

  "When?"

  "Soon." Jessica Culver, Miss Specific USA. "Tell me what's been going on," she said.

  "You hear about the shooting at the Open?"

  "Sure. The hotel has CNN."

  Myron told her about Valerie Simpson. When he finished, her first comment was, "You didn't have to bend that clod's thumb back."

  "But it was all very macho," Myron said.

  "A real turn-on, I'm sure."

  "Guess you had to be there," he said.

  "Guess so. So are you going to find the killer?"

  "I'm going to try."

  "For Valerie's sake? Or for Wanda and Duane?"

  "For all of them, I guess. But mostly Valerie. You should have seen her, Jess. She tried so hard to be sullen and unpleasant. A girl that young shouldn't have to try that hard."

  "Do you have a plan?"

  "Of course. First, I'm going to visit Valerie's mother tomorrow morning. In Philadelphia."

  "And then?"

  "Well, the plan isn't really that well developed. But I'm working on it."

  "Please be careful."

  "Captain Midnight is always careful."

  "It's not just Captain Midnight I'm worried about it. It's his alter ego."

  "And who might that be?"

  "My Love Muffin."

  Myron grinned into the receiver. "Hey, Jess, did you know Joan Collins was on Batman?"

  "Of course," Jessica said. "She played the Siren."

  "Oh yeah? Well, who did Liberace play?"

  8

  Myron spent the rest of the night dreaming about Jessica, though as usual he could only remember meaningless scraps in the morning. Jessica was in his life again, but it was still new to him. Too new. He needed to hold back, to tread gently. He was afraid of being crushed under her heel again, of having his heart slammed in the door of love.

  Door of love. Christ. He sounded like a bad country song.

  He motored south on the famed New Jersey Turnpike. The powder-blue Cadillac with the canary-yellow top was four cars behind him. More than anything else, this stretch of roadway had made New Jersey the butt of so many jokes. He passed Newark Airport. Kind of ugly, but what airport isn't? Then he drove by the turnpike's piece de resistance, its cause celebre if you will--an enormous industrial power plant between exits 12 and 13 that closely resembled the futuristic nightmare world in the beginning of the Terminator movies. Thick smoke sprung from every orifice. Even in the bright sunshine the place looked dark, metallic, menacing, foreboding.

  On the radio a rock group called the Motels were repeatedly singing the ingenious line Take the L out of lover, and it's over. Deep. Literal, but still deep. The Motels. Whatever happened to them?

  Myron picked up the cellular phone and dialed. A familiar voice answered.

  "Sheriff Courter speaking."

  "Hey, Jake, it's Myron."

  "I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number. Bye."

  "Good one," Myron said. "Guess those night-school comedy courses are finally starting to pay off."

  "What do you want, Myron?"

  "Can't a friend just call and say hello?"

  "So this is just a social call?" Jake said.

  "Yes."

  "I feel so blessed."

  "Wait. It gets better. I'm going to be in your neck of the woods in a couple of hours."

  "Be still my heart."

  "I thought maybe we could meet for lunch. I'm buying."

  "Uh-huh. You bringing Win?"

  "No."

  "Then okay. Guy gives me the creeps."

  "You don't even know him."

  "Cool by me. Now what do you want, Myron? This may be a surprise to you, but I work for a living."

  "You still have friends on the Philadelphia force?"

  "Sure."

  "Can you get someone to fax you a homicide file?"

  "Recent homicide?"

  "Er, not exactly."

  "How old?"

  "Six years," Myron said.

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "It gets worse. The victim was Alexander Cross."

  "The senator's kid?"

  "Right."

  "What the hell do you want that for?"

  "I'll tell you about it when I get there."

  "Someone is going to want to know why."

  "Make something up."

  Jake chewed on something that sounded like tree bark. "Yeah, all right. What time will you be here?"

  "Probably around one. I'll call you."

  "You're going to owe me, Myron. Owe me big."

  "Didn't I mention I was buying lunch?"

  Jake hung up.

  Myron headed off at exit 6. The toll was almost four dollars. He was tempted to pay the Caddy's toll, but four dollars was a bit steep for the gesture. Myron handed the clerk the money. "I only wanted to drive on the road," Myron said. "Not buy it."

  Not even a sympathetic smile. Complaining about toll prices. One of those signs you're becoming your father. Next thing you know Myron'd be screaming at someone for turning up the thermostat.

  Altogether the trip to Philadelphia's wealthiest suburb took two hours. Gladwynne was old money. Plymouth Rock old money. Bloodlines were as important as credit lines. The house Valerie Simpson had grown up in was Gatsby-esque with signs of fray. The lawn was not quite manicured. The shrubbery was slightly overgrown. The paint was chipped in certain places. The ivy crawling along the walls seemed a tad too thick.

  Still, the estate was huge. Myron parked so far away he almost waited for shuttle service. As he approached the front door Detectives Dimonte and Krinsky came out. In a major shock, Dimonte did not appear happy to see him. He put his hands on his hips. Important, impatient.

  "What the fuck are you doing here?" he barked. />
  "Do you know what happened to the Motels?" Myron asked.

  "The what?"

  Myron shook his head. "How quickly they forget."

  "Goddamn it, Bolitar, I asked you a question. What do you want here?"

  "You left your underpants at my house last night," Myron said. "Jockey shorts. Size thirty-eight. Little bunny design."

  Dimonte's face grew red. Most cops were homophobes. Best way to needle them was to play on it. "You better not be playing fucking Hardy Boys with my case, asshole. You and your pal Psycho-yuppie."

  Krinsky laughed at that one. Psycho-yuppie. When ol' Rolly got hold of a good one he didn't let it go.

  "Doesn't matter," Dimonte continued. "The case is just about wrapped up."

  "And I'll be able to say I knew you when."

  "You'll be happy to know your client is no longer my main suspect."

  Myron nodded. "Roger Quincy the stalker is."

  That didn't please Dimonte. "How the fuck do you know about that?"

  "I am all-seeing, all-knowing."

  "Doesn't mean your boy is fully in the clear. He's still lying about something. You know it. I know it. Krinsky here knows it."

  Krinsky sort of nodded. Mr. Sidekick.

  "But now we just figure your boy was porking her. You know, on the side."

  "You have any evidence?"

  "Don't need none. Don't give a shit. I want her killer, not her porker."

  "Poetically put, Rolly."

  "Ah screw it, I don't have time for your wit."

  As they passed, Myron gave a little wave. "Nice talking to you, Krinsky."

  Krinsky nodded.

  Myron rang the doorbell. It rang dramatically. Sounded like an orchestra. Tchaikovsky maybe. Maybe not. A man of about thirty came to the door. He was dressed in a pink oxford shirt open at the neck. Ralph Lauren. Big dimple on chin. Hair so black it was almost blue, like Superman's.

  He looked at Myron like he was a vagrant urinating on the steps. "Yes?"

  "I'm here to see Mrs. Van Slyke." Valerie's mother had remarried.

  "Now is not a good time," he said.

  "I have an appointment."

  "Perhaps you didn't hear me," he said in that haughty, Win-like accent. "Now is not a good time."

  "Please tell Mrs. Van Slyke that Myron Bolitar is here," Myron persisted. "She is expecting me. Windsor Lockwood spoke with her last night."

  "Mrs. Van Slyke isn't seeing anybody today. Her daughter was murdered yesterday."

  "I'm aware of that."

  "Then you'll understand--"

  "Kenneth?"

  A woman's voice.

  "It's okay, Helen," the man said. "I'm handling the situation."

  "Who is it, Kenneth?"

  "No one."

  Myron said, "Myron Bolitar."

  Kenneth shot Myron a look. Myron held back the temptation to stick out his tongue. It wasn't easy.

  She appeared in the foyer. All in black. Her eyes were red with equally red rims. She was an attractive woman, though Myron ventured to guess she was probably a lot more attractive twenty-four hours ago. Late forties. Blond hair, softly colored. Nicely coiffed. Not too bleachy.