by Harlan Coben
Myron Bolitar, darling of the tightrope.
Duane said with a shrug, "Yeah, I heard of her."
"In what capacity?"
"She used to be on the circuit. Couple years back, I think."
"The tennis circuit?"
"No, the nightclub circuit," Myron interjected. "She used to open for Anthony Newley in Vegas."
So much for Mr. Restraint.
The glare was back. "Bolitar, you're really starting to piss me off."
"Are you going to get to the point already?"
"I take my time with interrogations. I don't like to rush."
"Should do the same," Myron said, "when purchasing footwear."
Dimonte's face reddened. Still glaring at Myron, he said, "Mr. Richwood, how long have you been on the circuit?"
"Six months."
"And in those six months you never saw Valerie Simpson?"
"That's right."
"Fine. Now let me see if I got this right: You were playing a match when the gun went off. You finished the match. You shook hands with your opponent. I assume you shook hands with your opponent?"
Duane nodded.
"Then you did an interview."
"Right."
"Did you shower before or after the interview?"
Myron held up his hands. "Okay, that's enough."
"You got a problem, Bolitar?"
"Yeah. Your questions are beyond idiotic. I'm now advising my client to stop answering them."
"Why? Your client got something to hide?"
"Yeah, Rolly, you're too clever for us. Duane killed her. Several million people were watching him on national television during the shooting. Several thousand more were watching him in person. But that wasn't him playing. It was really his identical twin, lost since birth. You're just too smart for us, Rolly. We confess."
"I haven't ruled that out," Dimonte countered.
"Haven't ruled what out?"
"That 'we' stuff. Maybe you had something to do with it. You and that psycho-yuppie friend of yours."
He meant Win. Lot of cops knew Win. None liked him. The feeling was mutual.
"We were in the stadium at the time of the shooting," Myron said. "A dozen witnesses will back that up. And if you really knew anything about Win, you'd know he'd never use a weapon that close up."
That made Dimonte hesitate. He nodded. Agreeing, for once.
"Are you through with Mr. Richwood?" Myron asked.
Dimonte suddenly smiled. It was a happy, expectant smile, like a school kid sitting by the radio on a snow day. Myron didn't like the smile.
"If you'll just humor me for another moment," he said with syrupy phoniness. He rose and moved toward his partner, the Pad. The Pad kept scribbling.
"Your client claims he didn't know Valerie Simpson."
"So?"
The Pad finally looked up. His eyes were as vacant as a court stenographer's. Dimonte nodded at him. The Pad handed him a small leather book encased in plastic.
"This is Valerie's calendar book," Dimonte said. "The last entry was made yesterday." His smile widened. His head was held high. His chest puffed out like a rooster about to get laid.
"Okay, poker face," Myron said. "What's it say?"
He handed Myron a photocopy. Yesterday's entry was fairly simple. Sprawled across the entire page it read:
D.R. 555-8705. Call!
555-8705. Duane's phone number. D.R. Duane Richwood.
Dimonte appeared gleeful.
"I'd like to talk to my client," Myron said. "Alone."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"You're not going to duck away now that I have you on the ropes."
"I'm his attorney--"
"I don't give a rat's ass if you're the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. You take him away, I take him downtown in cuffs."
"You don't have anything," Myron said. "His phone number is in her book. Means nothing."
Dimonte nodded. "But how would it look? To the press, for example. Or the fans. Duane Richwood, tennis's newest hero, being dragged into the station with handcuffs on. Bet that would be hard to explain to the sponsors."
"Are you threatening us?"
Dimonte put his hand to his chest. "Heavens no. Would I do something like that, Krinsky?"
The Pad did not look up. "Nope."
"There. You see?"
"I'll sue your ass for wrongful arrest," Myron said.
"And you might even win, Bolitar. Years from now, when the courts actually hear the case. Lot of good that's going to do you."
Dimonte looked a lot less stupid now.
Duane quickly stood and crossed the room. He snapped off the Ray*Bans, then, thinking better of it, put them back on. "Look, man, I don't know why my number is in her book. I don't know her. I never spoke to her on the phone."
"Your phone is unlisted. Is that correct, Mr. Richwood?"
"Yeah."
"And you just moved in. Your phone's only been hooked up, what, two weeks?"
Wanda said, "Three." She was hugging herself now, as though she were cold.
"Three," Roland Dimonte repeated. "So how did Valerie get your number, Duane? How come some woman you don't know has your brand-new, unlisted number in her date book?"
"I don't know."
Roland skipped skeptical and moved directly to absolute disbelief. For the next hour he continued to hammer Duane, but Duane stuck to his story. He never met her, he said. He didn't know her. He never spoke to her. He had no idea how she could have gotten his phone number. Myron watched in silence. The sunglasses made it harder to read Duane, but his body language was all wrong. So was Wanda's.
With an angry sigh Roland Dimonte finally stood up. "Krinsky?"
The Pad looked up.
"Let's get the hell out of here."
The Pad closed the pad, joined his partner.
"I'll be back," Dimonte barked. Then pointing at no one in particular he added, "You hear me, Bolitar?"
"You'll be back," Myron said.
"Count on it, asshole."
"Aren't you going to warn us not to leave town? I love it when you cops do that."
Dimonte made a gun with his hand. He pointed it at Myron and lowered the thumb/hammer. Then he and the Pad disappeared out the door.
For several minutes no one said anything. Myron was about to break the silence when Duane started laughing. "You sure showed him, Myron. Tore him a whole new asshole--"
"Duane, we need--"
"I'm tired, Myron." He feigned a yawn. "I really need to get some sleep."
"We need to talk about this."
"About what?"
Myron looked at him.
Duane said, "Pretty weird coincidence, huh?"
Myron turned toward Wanda. She looked away, still hugging herself. "Duane, if you're in some kind of trouble--"
"Hey, tell me about the commercial," Duane interrupted. "How did it come out?"
"Good."
Duane smiled. "How did I look?"
"Too handsome. I'll be fighting off the movie offers."
Duane laughed too hard. Much too hard. Wanda did not laugh. Neither did Myron. Then Duane feigned another yawn, stretched and stood. "I really need to get some rest," he said. "Big match coming up. Hate to let all this bullshit distract me."
He showed Myron to the door. Wanda still had not moved from her spot by the kitchen door. She finally met Myron's eye.
"Good-bye, Myron," Wanda said.
The door closed. Myron took the elevator back down and walked to his car. A ticket was nestled between the windshield and the wiper. He grabbed it and started the car.
Three blocks away Myron spotted the same powder-blue Cadillac with the canary-yellow top.
4
Yuppieville.
The fourteenth floor of Lock-Horne Investments & Securities reminded Myron of a medieval fortress. There was the vast space in the middle, and a thick, formidable wall--the big producers' offices--safeguarding the perimeter. The open ar
ea housed hundreds of mostly men, young men, combat soldiers easily sacrificed and replaced, a seemingly endless sea of them, bobbing and blending into the corporate-gray carpet, the identical desks, the identical rolling chairs, the computer terminals, the telephones, the fax machines. Like soldiers they wore uniforms--white button-down shirts, suspenders, bright ties strangling carotid arteries, suit jackets draped across the backs of the identical rolling chairs. There were loud noises, screams, rings, even something that sounded like death cries. Everyone was in motion. Everyone was scattering, panicked, under constant attack.
Yes, for here was one of the final strongholds of true yuppieism, a place where man was free to practice the religion of eighties greed, greed at all costs, without pretense of doing otherwise. No hypocrisy here. Investment houses were not about helping the world. They were not about providing a service to mankind or doing what was best for all. This haven had a simple, clear-cut, basic goal. Making money. Period.
Win had a spacious corner office overlooking Park and Fifty-second Street. A prime-time view for the company's number one producer. Myron knocked on the door.
"Enter," Win called out.
He was sitting in a full lotus on the floor, his expression serene, his thumbs and forefingers forming circles in each hand. Meditation. Win did it every day without fail. Usually more than once.
But as with most things with Win, his moments of inner solitude were a tad unconventional. For one, he liked to keep his eyes open when meditating, while most practitioners kept them closed. For another, he didn't imagine idyllic scenes of waterfalls or does in the forest; rather, Win opted for watching home videotapes--videos of himself and an interesting potpourri of lady friends in assorted throes of passion.
Myron made a face. "You mind turning that off?"
"Lisa Goldstein," Win said, motioning toward a mound of writhing flesh on the screen.
"Charmed, I'm sure."
"I don't think you ever met her."
"Hard to tell," Myron said. "I mean, I'm not even sure where her face is."
"Lovely lass. Jewish, you know."
"Lisa Goldstein? You're kidding."
Win smiled. He uncrossed his legs and stood in one fluid motion. He switched off the television, hit the EJECT button, put the tape back in a box marked L.G. He filed the box under the G's in an oak cabinet. There were a lot of tapes already there.
"You realize," Myron said, "that you're quite deranged."
Win locked the cabinet with a key. Dr. Discretion. "Every man needs a hobby."
"You're a scratch golfer. You're a champion martial artist. Those are hobbies. This is deranged. Hobbies; deranged. See the difference?"
"Moralizing," Win said. "How nice."
Myron did not respond. They had been down this road many times since they were freshmen at Duke. It never led anywhere.
Win's office was pure, elitist WASP. Paintings of a fox hunt adorned paneled walls. Burgundy leather chairs ideally complemented the deep forest-green carpeting. An antique wooden globe stood next to an oak desk that could double as a squash court. The effect--not a subtle one, at that--could be summed up in two words: Serious. Cash.
Myron sat in one of the leather chairs. "You got a minute?"
"Of course." Win opened a cabinet in the bar behind his desk, revealing a small refrigerator. He took out a cold Yoo-Hoo and tossed it to Myron. Myron shook the can as per the instructions (Shake! It's Great!) while Win mixed himself a very dry martini.
Myron started off by telling Win about the police visit to Duane Richwood. Win remained impassive, allowing himself a small smile when he heard how Dimonte had called him a psycho-yuppie. Then Myron told him about the powder-blue Cadillac. Win sat back and steepled. He listened without interrupting. When Myron finished, Win rose from his seat and picked up a putter.
"So our friend Mr. Richwood is holding something back."
"We can't be sure."
Win raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Do you have any thoughts as to how Duane Richwood and Valerie Simpson are connected?"
"Nope. I was hoping you might."
"Moi?"
"You knew her," Myron said.
"She was an acquaintance."
"But you have a thought."
"About a connection between Duane and Valerie? No."
"Then what?"
Win strolled to a corner. A dozen golf balls were all in a line. He began to putt. "Are you really intent on pursuing this? Valerie's murder, I mean?"
"Yep."
"It might be none of your business."
"Might be," Myron agreed.
"Or you might unearth something unpleasant. Something you would rather not find."
"A distinct possibility."
Win nodded, checked the carpet's lie. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"No. Not the first time. Are you in?"
"There is nothing in this for us," Win said.
"Maybe not," Myron agreed.
"No financial gain."
"None at all."
"In fact there is never any profit in your holy crusades."
Myron waited.
Win lined up another putt. "Stop making that face," he said. "I'm in."
"Good. Now tell me what you know about this."
"Nothing really. It's just a thought."
"I'm listening."
"You know, of course, about Valerie's breakdown," Win said.
"Yes."
"It was six years ago. She was only eighteen. The official word was that she collapsed under the pressure."
"The official word?"
"It may be the truth. The pressure on her was indeed awesome. Her rise had been nothing short of meteoric--but nowhere near as meteoric as the tennis world's expectations of her. Her subsequent fall--at least, up until the time of the breakdown--was slow and painful. Not at all like yours. Your fall, if you don't mind me using that word, was far swifter. Guillotinelike. One minute you were the Celtics' number one draft pick. The next minute you were finished. The end. But unlike Valerie, you had a freak injury and were thereby blameless. You were pitied. You cut a sympathetic figure. Valerie's demise, on the other hand, seemed to be of her own doing. She was a failure, ridiculed, but still no more than a child. To the world at large, the fickle finger of fate had ended the career of Myron Bolitar. But in the case of Valerie Simpson, she alone was culpable. In the eyes of the public she did not possess enough mental fortitude. Her fall, thus, was slow, torturous, brutal."
"So what does this have to do with the murder?"
"Perhaps nothing. But I always found the circumstances surrounding Valerie's mental collapse a bit disturbing."
"Why?"
"Her game had slipped, that much was true. Her coach--that famous gentleman who plays with all the celebrities..."
"Pavel Menansi."
"Whatever. He still believed Valerie could come back and win again. He said it all the time."
"Thereby putting more pressure on her."
Win hesitated. "Perhaps," he said slowly. "But there is another factor. Do you remember the murder of Alexander Cross?"
"The senator's son?"
"The senator from Pennsylvania," Win added.
"He was killed by robbers at his country club. Five, six years ago."
"Six. And it was a tennis club."
"You knew him?"
"Of course," Win said. "The Hornes have known every important Pennsylvania politician since William Penn. I grew up with Alexander Cross. We went to Exeter together."
"So what does he have to do with Valerie Simpson?"
"Alexander and Valerie were, shall we say, an item."
"A serious item?"
"Quite. They were about to announce their engagement when Alexander was killed. That night, as a matter of fact."
Myron did some quick mathematics in his head. Six years ago. Valerie would have been eighteen. "Let me guess. Valerie's breakdown took place right after his murder."
"Precisely."
"But I
don't get something. The Cross murder was on the news every day for weeks. How come I never heard Valerie's name mentioned?"
"That," Win said, nailing another putt, "is why I find the circumstances disturbing."
Silence.
"We need to talk to Valerie's family," Myron said. "Maybe the senator's as well."
"Yes."
"You live in that world. You're one of them. They'd be more apt to talk to you."
Win shook his head. "They'll never talk to me. Being 'one of them,' as you put it, is a severe handicap. Their guard will be up with someone like me. But with you they won't be so concerned about facades. They'll perceive you as someone who doesn't matter, as someone inferior, as someone beneath them. A nobody."
"Gee, that's flattering."
Win smiled. "The way of the world, my friend. Many things change, but these people still consider themselves the true, original Americans. You and your kind are just hired help, shipped in from Russia or Eastern Europe or from whatever gulag or ghetto your people originated."
"I hope they don't hurt my feelings," Myron said.
"I'll arrange a meeting for you with Valerie's mother for tomorrow morning."
"You think she'll see me?"
"If I request it, yes."
"Groovy."
"Indeed." Win put down his putter. "In the meantime what do you suggest we do?"
Myron checked his watch. "One of Pavel Menansi's protegees is playing on Stadium Court in about an hour. I figured I'd pay him a visit."
"And pour moi?"
"Valerie spent the past week at the Plaza Hotel," Myron said. "I'd like you to look around, see if anybody remembers anything. Check her phone calls."
"See if she did indeed call Duane Richwood?"
"Yes."
"And if she did?"
"Then we have to look into that too," Myron said.
5
The U.S.T.A. National Tennis Center is neatly snuggled into the bosom of Queens' top attractions: Shea Stadium (home of the New York Mets), Flushing Meadows Park (home of the 1964-65 World's Fair) and La Guardia Airport (home of, uh, delays).
Players used to complain about the La Guardia planes flying overhead, for the very simple reason that it made Stadium Court sound like a launch pad during an Apollo liftoff. Then-mayor David Dinkins, never one to let a terrible injustice go unheeded, immediately sprang into action. Using all his political might, the former mayor of New York City--who in a fascinating and almost eerie coincidence was also an enormous tennis fan--had La Guardia's offending runway halt operations for the duration of the Open. Tennis millionaires were grateful. In a show of mutual respect and admiration Mayor David Dinkins returned their gratitude by showing up at the matches every day for the two weeks of play, except--in yet another eerie coincidence--during election years.