Drop Shot

by Harlan Coben

  Billy said, "Yes, Mr. Ache?"

  "Call a towing service for Bolitar's car."

  "Yes, Mr. Ache."

  Frank turned back to Myron. "Get the fuck out of my car."

  "No hug first?"

  "Out."

  "Can I ask you one quick question?"

  "What?"

  "Did you have Valerie killed to protect Pavel?"

  Frank grinned with bad, ferretlike teeth. "Get out," he said. "Or I'll use your nuts for snack foods."

  "Right, thanks. Nice chatting with you, Frank, stay in touch." He opened the door and got out.

  Frank slid across the seat and leaned his head through the open door. "You tell Win we talked, okay?"

  "Why?"

  "None of your business why. You just tell Win. Got it?"

  "Got it," Myron said.

  Frank closed the door. The limo drove away.

  42

  Triple A got there pretty quickly. Myron reached his office at six-thirty. Ned wasn't there yet. Esperanza handed him his messages. He went into his office and returned calls.

  Esperanza buzzed. "The bitch. Line three."

  "Stop calling her that." He picked up the phone. "You're back at the loft?"

  "Yes," Jessica said. "That didn't take long."

  "I work fast," he said.

  "And yet I never complain," she said.

  "Ouch."

  "So what happened?" she asked.

  "Someone murdered Pavel Menansi. There's nothing for Ache to protect anymore."

  "It's that simple?"

  "It's business. Business with these guys is very simple."

  "No profit, no kill."

  "The cardinal rule," Myron said.

  "Will you come over tonight?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "But one rule of our own," she said.

  "Oh?"

  "No talking about Valerie Simpson or murder or any of this. We forget it all."

  "What will we do instead?" Myron asked.

  "Screw each other's brains out."

  Myron said, "I guess I can live with that."

  Esperanza leaned her head in and said, "He's heeeeeere."

  He nodded at Esperanza and said to Jessica, "I'll call you later."

  Myron put the phone back in the cradle. He stood and waited. An evening alone with Jessica. Sounded perfect. It also sounded scary. Things were moving too fast. He had no control. Jess was back and things appeared to be better than ever. Myron wondered about that. Mostly he wondered if he could survive another crash like last time, if he could go through the pain again. He also wondered what he could do to protect himself, realized the answer was nothing, and wished he was better at putting up defenses.

  Ned Tunwell practically leaped into his office, hand extended--like an enthusiastic late-show guest coming through a curtain. Myron half expected him to wave to the crowd. He pumped Myron's hand. "Hey, Myron!"

  "Hi, Ned. Have a seat."

  Ned's smile dropped at Myron's tone. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with Duane, is there?"

  "No."

  Still standing but his voice was panicky. "He's not hurt?"

  "No, Duane is fine."

  "Great." The smile was back. Tough to keep a good man down. "That match yesterday--he was fantastic. Fantastic, Myron. I tell you, the way he came back--it's all anyone's talking about. The exposure was awesome. Simply awesome. We couldn't have scripted it better. I practically wet myself."

  "Uh-huh. Sit down, Ned."

  "Sure." Ned sat. Myron hoped he wouldn't leave a stain on the seat. "Just a few hours away, Myron. The big day. The Saturday Semis. Big live crowd, huge TV audience. You think Duane's got a shot against Craig? Papers don't seem to think so."

  Thomas Craig, the second seed and the game's premier serve-and-volley player, was currently playing his career-best tennis. "Yes," Myron said. "I think Duane's got a shot."

  Ned's eyes were bright. "Wow. If he could somehow pull it off..." He stopped and just shook his head and grinned.

  "Ned?"

  He looked up. Wide-eyed. "Yes?"

  "How well did you know Valerie Simpson?"

  Ned hesitated. The eyes dulled a bit. "Me?"

  Myron nodded.

  "A little, I guess."

  "Just a little?"

  "Yeah." He flashed a nervous smile, struggled to hold it. "Why, what's up?"

  "I heard differently."

  "Oh?"

  "I heard you were the one who got Nike to sign her. That you handled her account."

  He squirmed a bit. "Yeah, well, I guess so."

  "So you must have known her pretty well then."

  "Maybe, I guess. Why are you asking me this, Myron? What's the big deal?"

  "Do you trust me, Ned?"

  "With my life, Myron. You know that. But this subject is painful for me. You understand?"

  "You mean her dying and all?"

  Ned made a lemon-sucking face. "No," he said. "I mean her career plummet. She was the first person I signed for Nike. I thought she'd launch me to the top. Instead she set me back five years. It was painful."

  Another Mr. Sensitive.

  "When she flopped," Ned continued, "guess who took the fall? Go ahead, guess."

  Myron thought the question was rhetorical, but Ned waited with that expectant face of his. Myron finally said, "Would that be you, Ned?"

  "Damn straight, me. I was thrown to the bottom. Just dumped there. I had to start climbing up all over again. Because of Valerie and her collapse. Don't get me wrong, Myron. I'm doing okay now--knock wood." He rapped his knuckles on the desk.

  Myron knocked wood too. The sarcasm was lost on Ned. "Did you know Alexander Cross?" Myron asked.

  Both Ned's eyebrows jumped. "Hey, what's the deal here?"

  "Trust me, Ned."

  "I do, Myron, really, but come on...."

  "It's a simple question: Did you know Alexander Cross?"

  "I may have met him once, I don't remember. Through Valerie, of course. They were something of an item."

  "How about you and Valerie?"

  "What about me and Valerie?"

  "Were you two an item?"

  He put his hand out in a gesture of stop. "Hey, hold up. Look, Myron, I like you, I really do. You're an honest Joe. A straight shooter just like me--"

  "No, Ned, you're not a straight shooter. You're jerking me around. You knew Alexander Cross. In fact you were at the Old Oaks tennis club the night he was murdered."

  Ned opened his mouth but no sounds came out. He managed to shake his head no.

  "Here." Myron stood and handed him the party guest list. "In yellow highlighter. E. Tunwell. Edward ne Ned."

  Ned looked down at the paper, looked up, looked down again. "This was a long time ago," he said. "What does this have to do with anything?"

  "Why are you lying about it?"

  "I'm not lying."

  "You're hiding something, Ned."

  "No, I'm not."

  Myron stared down at him. Ned's eyes scattered, searching for safe haven and finding none. "Look, Myron, it's not what you think."

  "I don't think anything." Then: "Did you sleep with her?"

  "No!" Ned finally looked up and held a steady gaze. "That damn rumor almost ended my career. It's a lie that slimeball Menansi made up about me. It's a lie, Myron, I swear."

  "Pavel Menansi told people that?"

  Ned nodded. "He is a sick son of a bitch."

  "Was."

  "What?"

  "Pavel Menansi is dead. Someone killed him last night. Shot in the chest. Very similar to what happened to Valerie." Myron waited two beats. Then he pointed his finger at Ned. "Where were you last night?"

  Ned's eyes were two golf balls. "You can't think..."

  Myron shrugged. "If you've got nothing to hide..."

  "I don't!"

  "Then tell me what happened."

  "Nothing happened."

  "What aren't you telling me, Ned?"

  "It was nothing, Myron. I
swear--"

  Myron sighed. "You admit Valerie Simpson severely damaged your career. You admit you're still 'pained' by what she did. You've also told me that Pavel Menansi spread rumors about you. In fact you referred to a recent murder victim as--and I quote--'a sick son of a bitch.'"

  "Hey, come on, Myron, that was just talk." Ned tried to smile his way out of it, but Myron kept his face stern. "It didn't mean anything."

  "Maybe, maybe not. But I wonder how your superiors at Nike are going to react to the publicity."

  The smile stayed in place, but there was nothing behind it. "Hey, you can't be serious. You can't go around spreading rumors like that."

  "Why?" Myron asked. "You going to kill me too?"

  "I didn't kill anyone!" Ned shouted.

  Myron feigned fear. "I don't know..."

  "Look, Valerie took me outside that night, okay, that's all. We kissed, but it went no further, I swear."

  "Whoa, back up a second," Myron said. "Start at the beginning. You were at the party."

  Ned slid to the tip of his chair, his words came fast now. "Right, I was at the party, okay? So was Valerie. We arrived together. She was very excited because Alexander was going to announce their engagement. But when he backed out, she got really pissed off."

  "Why did he back out?"

  "His father. He made Alexander call it off."

  "Senator Cross?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Why?" Myron asked.

  "How the hell am I supposed to know? Valerie told me the man was a major prick. She hated him. But when Alexander bowed to his whim like that, she blew her stack. She wanted revenge. A little payback."

  "And you were handy?"

  Ned snapped his fingers. "Right, exactly, I was handy. That's all. It wasn't my fault, Myron. I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. You understand, right?"

  "So you two went outside," Myron prompted.

  "We went outside and found a spot behind a shed. We only kissed, I swear. Nothing more. Just kissed. Then we heard some noise, so we stopped."

  Myron sat back down. "What noise?"

  "First it was just someone hitting tennis balls. But then we heard raised voices. One of them was Alexander's. Then we heard this awful scream."

  "What did you do?" Myron asked.

  "Me? Nothing at first. Valerie screamed too. Then she broke into a run. I followed her. I lost her for a second. Then I came around a bend and saw her up ahead just standing there. When I got to her I saw what she was staring at. Alexander was bleeding all over the grass. His friends were starting to run away. The big black guy was standing over the body. He had a tennis racket in one hand, a big knife in the other."

  Myron leaned forward. "You saw the murderer?"

  Ned nodded. "Up close and personal."

  "And he was a big black guy?"

  "Yep."

  "How many of them were there?"

  "Two. Both black."

  So much for the setup theory. Unless Ned was lying, which Myron doubted. "So what happened next?"

  Ned paused for a second. "You ever see Valerie in her prime? On the court, I mean."

  "Yes."

  "You ever see that look in her eyes?"

  "What look?"

  "Certain athletes get it. Larry Bird used to. Joe Montana. Michael Jordan. Maybe you used to too. Well, Val had it, and she had it now. The smaller black guy started screaming at the big one, saying stuff like, 'Look what you did,' 'Are you crazy,' stuff like that. Then they started to run. They ran right toward us. Me, I ran. I'm no fool. But not Val. She just stood there and waited. When they got close she let out this big scream and dove at the little guy. I couldn't believe it. She tackled him like a linebacker. They both ended up on the ground. The little guy whacked her with his tennis racket and managed to pull away."

  "Did you get a good look at them?"

  "Pretty good, I guess."

  "Did you ever see pictures of Errol Swade?"

  "Yeah, sure, his picture was on the news every day for a while."

  "Was it the same guy you saw?"

  "Definitely," he said without hesitation. "No question about it."

  Myron mulled this over. They'd been there that night. At the Old Oaks Club. Myron had been wrong. Lucinda Elright had been wrong. Swade and Yeller were not just casual fall guys. "So what did you two do then?" Myron asked.

  "Hey, her career was in enough trouble. We didn't need this kind of press. So I brought her back to the party. Didn't say anything to anyone about it. Val was out of it anyway--in a real funk, but that wasn't any surprise. I mean, think about it. She takes me outside to cheat on her boyfriend at the exact moment he's getting murdered. Weird, huh?"

  Myron nodded. "Very."

  And, Myron thought, the kind of thing that would push a troubled soul over the final ledge.

  43

  Myron and Jessica kept their promise. They did not talk about the murders. They snuggled and watched Strangers on a Train on AMC while eating Thai takeout. They made love. They snuggled and watched Rear Window while downing some Haagen-Dazs. They made love again.

  Myron felt light-headed. For one night he actually forgot all about the world of Valerie Simpson and Alexander Cross and Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade and Frank Ache. It felt good. Too good. He started thinking about the suburbs and the hoop in the driveway and then he made himself stop thinking such thoughts.

  Several hours later the morning sunlight drop-kicked him back into the real world. The escape had been paradise and for a fleeting moment, as he lay in bed with Jessica, he considered wrapping his arms around her and not going anywhere. Why move? What was out there that could come close to this?

  He had no answer. Jessica hugged him a little tighter, as though reading his thoughts, but it didn't last long. They both dressed in silence and drove to Flushing Meadows. Today was the big match. The last Tuesday of the U.S. Open. The women's finals sandwiched by the men's semifinals. First match of the day featured the number-two seed, Thomas Craig, vs. the tournament's biggest surprise, Duane Richwood.

  After they passed through the gate Myron gave Jessica a ticket stub. "I'll meet you inside. I want to talk to Duane."

  "Now?" she said. "Before the biggest match of his career?"

  "Just for a second."

  She shrugged, gave him a skeptical eye, took the ticket.

  He hurried over to the players' lounge, showed his ID to the guard at the gate, and entered. The room was fairly unspectacular, considering that it was the players' lounge for a Grand Slam event. It reeked of baby powder. Duane sat alone in a corner. He had his Walkman on and his head tilted back. Myron couldn't tell if his eyes were opened or closed because, as always, Duane had on his sunglasses.

  When he approached, Duane's finger switched off the music. He tilted his face up toward Myron. Myron could see himself in the reflection of the sunglasses. It reminded him of the windows in Frank's limo.

  Duane's face was a rigid mask. He slowly slid the headphones off his ears and let them hang around his neck like a horseshoe. "She's gone," Duane said slowly. "Wanda left me."

  "When?" Myron asked. The question was stupid and irrelevant, but he wasn't sure what else to say.

  "This morning. What did you tell her?"

  "Nothing."

  "I heard she came to you," Duane said.

  Myron said nothing.

  "Did you tell her about seeing me at the hotel?"

  "No."

  Duane changed tapes in the Walkman. "Get out of here," he said.

  "She cares about you, Duane."

  "Funny way of showing it."

  "She just wants to know what's wrong."

  "Nothing's wrong."

  The sunglasses were disconcerting. He looked straight up at Myron; it appeared as though they were making eye contact, but who knew? "This match is important," Myron said, "but not like Wanda."

  "You think I don't know that?" he snapped.

  "Then tell her the truth."

  Duane's chiseled fa
ce smiled slowly. "You don't understand," he said.

  "Make me understand."

  He fiddled with the Walkman, popping the tape out, pushing it back in. "You think telling the truth will make it better, but you don't know what the truth is. You talking like 'The truth will set you free' when you don't even know the truth. The truth don't always set you free, Myron. Sometimes the truth can kill."

  "Hiding the truth isn't working," Myron said.

  "It would if you'd let it lie."

  "Someone was murdered. That's not something you can just let lie."

  Duane put the Walkman's headphones back on his ears. "Maybe it should be," he said.

  Silence.

  The two men stared dares. Myron could hear the faint din coming from the Walkman. Then he said to Duane, "You were there the night Alexander Cross was murdered. You were at the club with Yeller and Swade."

  The stares continued. Behind them, Thomas Craig lined up by the door. He carried several tennis rackets and what looked like an overnight bag. Security was there too with walkie-talkies and earplugs. They nodded toward Duane. "Show time, Mr. Richwood."

  Duane stood. "Excuse me," he said to Myron. "I have a match to play."

  He walked behind Thomas Craig. Thomas Craig smiled politely. Duane did likewise. Very civil, tennis. Myron watched them leave. He sat there for a few minutes in the abandoned locker room. In the distance he heard the cheers as both men entered the court.

  Show time.

  Myron found his way to his seat. It was during the match--in the fourth set actually--when he finally figured out who murdered Valerie Simpson.

  44

  Stadium Court was packed by the time Myron sat down. Duane and Thomas Craig were still warming up, each taking turns lofting easy lobs for the other to slam away. The fans floated and mingled and socialized and made sure they were seen. The usual celebs were there: Johnny Carson, Alan King, David Dinkins, Renee Richards, Barbra Streisand, Ivana Trump.

  Jake and his son Gerard came down to the box.

  "I see you got the tickets okay," Myron said.

  Jake nodded. "Great seats."

  "Nothing's too good for my friends."

  "No," Jake said, "I meant yours."

  Ever the wiseass.

  Jake and Gerard chatted a moment with Jessica before moving up to their seats, which were by any stretch of the imagination excellently situated. Myron scanned the crowd. A lot of familiar faces. Senator Bradley Cross was there with his entourage, including his son's old chum Gregory Caufield. Frank Ache had shown up wearing the same sweat suit Myron had seen him in yesterday. Frank nodded toward Myron. Myron did not nod back. Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke were there too--surprise, surprise. They were sitting a few boxes over. Myron tried to catch Helen's eye, but she was trying very hard to pretend she didn't see him. Ned Tunwell and Friends (not to be confused with Barney and Friends, though the confusion would be understandable) were in their usual box. Ned too was doing his utmost not to see Myron. He seemed less animated today.