by Harlan Coben
"You're so shallow, Myron," Win said with a disenchanted shake of the head. "Did you ever consider the possibility that Greg saw beneath that? She did, after all, have large breasts."
"As usual when discussing sex," Myron replied, "you've missed the point."
"Which is?"
"How would they have hooked up in the first place?"
Win steepled his fingers again, bouncing the tips against his nose. "Ah," he said.
"Right, ah. Here's a woman who's been living underground for more than twenty years. She's traveled all over the world, probably never staying in one spot for very long. She was in Arizona robbing a bank two months ago. She's working as a waitress in a tiny diner on Dyckman Street. How does this woman hook up with Greg Downing?"
"Difficult," Win allowed, "but not impossible. There is plenty of evidence to support that."
"Like?"
Win motioned to the computer screen. "This e-mail is talking about last Saturday night, for one--the same night Greg and Liz Gorman met in a New York City bar."
"In a dive bar," Myron corrected. "Why there? Why not go to a hotel or her place?"
"Perhaps because it is out of the way. Perhaps, as you implied, Liz Gorman would want to keep out of the public eye. Such a bar might be a good alternative." He stopped steepling and lightly drummed his fingers on the desk. "But you, my friend, are forgetting something else."
"What?"
"The woman's clothes in Greg's house," Win said. "Your investigation has led us to conclude that Downing has a lover he was keeping secret. The question, of course is: why? Why would he work so hard to keep a love affair clandestine? One possible explanation is that the secret love was the infamous Liz Gorman."
Myron wasn't sure what to think. Audrey had seen Greg at a restaurant with a woman that did not fit Liz Gorman's description. But what did that mean? It might have been another date. It might have been something innocent. It might have been a side affair, who knows? Still, Myron had trouble buying a romantic entanglement involving Greg Downing and Liz Gorman. Something about it just didn't wash. "There must be a way of tracing down this screen name and finding out the user's real identity," he said. "Let's make sure it checks back to Liz Gorman or one of her aliases."
"I'll see what I can do. I don't have any contacts with America Online, but someone we know must." Win reached behind him. He opened up the paneled door on his minifridge. He tossed Myron a can of Yoo-Hoo and poured himself a Brooklyn Lager. Win never drank beer, only lager. "Greg's money has been difficult to locate," he said. "I'm not sure there is very much."
"That would fit into what Emily said."
"However," Win continued, "I did find one major withdrawal."
"How much?"
"Fifty thousand dollars in cash. It took some time because it came out of an account that Martin Felder holds for him."
"When did he withdraw it?"
"Four days before he disappeared," Win said.
"Paying off a gambling debt?"
"Perhaps."
Win's phone rang. He picked it up and said, "Articulate. Okay, put it through." Two seconds later he handed the phone to Myron.
"For me?" Myron asked.
Win gave him flat eyes. "No," he said. "I'm handing you the phone because it's too heavy for me."
Everyone's a wiseass. Myron took the phone. "Hello?"
"I got a squad car downstairs." It was Dimonte in full bark. "Get your ass in it now."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm at fucking Downing's house, that's what's wrong. I had to practically suck off a judge to get the warrant."
"Nice imagery, Rolly."
"Don't fuck with me, Bolitar. You said there was blood in the house."
"In the basement," Myron corrected.
"Well, I'm in the basement right now," he countered. "And it's as clean as a baby's ass."
Chapter 21
The basement was indeed clean. No blood anywhere.
"There's got to be traces," Myron said.
Dimonte's toothpick looked like it was about to snap between his clenched teeth. "Traces?"
"Yeah. With a microscope or something."
"With a..." Dimonte flapped his arms, his face crimson. "What the hell good is traces going to do me? They don't prove a damn thing. You can't test traces."
"It'll prove there was blood."
"So what?" he shouted. "You go through any house in America with a microscope and you're bound to find traces of blood. Who the fuck cares?"
"I don't know what to tell you, Rolly. The blood was there."
There were maybe five lab cops--no uniforms, no marked cars--going through the house. Krinsky was there too. The video-camera in his hand was off right now. He also had what looked like manila files jammed into his armpit. Myron motioned to them. "That the coroner's report?"
Roland Dimonte stepped in to block Myron's view. "That ain't none of your business, Bolitar."
"I know about Liz Gorman, Rolly."
The toothpick hit the floor on that one. "How the hell...?"
"It's not important."
"The fuck it ain't. What else do you know? If you're holding out on me, Bolitar--"
"I'm not holding out on you, but I think I can help."
Dimonte narrowed his eyes. Senor Suspicious. "Help how?"
"Just tell me Gorman's blood type. That's all I want to know. Her blood type."
"Why the hell should I?"
"Because you're not a total numb nut, Rolly."
"Don't give me that shit. Why do you want to know?"
"Remember I told you about finding blood in the basement?" Myron said.
"Yeah."
"I left something out."
Dimonte gave him the glare. "What?"
"We tested some of the blood."
"We? Who the fuck is..." His voice trailed off. "Oh Christ, don't tell me that psycho-yuppie is in on all this?"
To know Win was to love him. "I'd like to make a little trade."
"What kind of trade?"
"You tell me the blood type in the report. I tell you the blood type we found in the basement."
"Fuck you, Bolitar. I can arrest your ass for tampering with evidence in a police investigation."
"What tampering? There was no investigation."
"I could still nail your ass for breaking and entering."
"If you could prove it. And if Greg were around to press charges. Look, Rolly--"
"AB positive," Krinsky said. He ignored Dimonte's renewed glare and continued. "It's fairly rare. Four percent of the populace."
They both turned their attention to Myron. Myron nodded. "AB positive. It's the same."
Dimonte put up both hands and scrunched his face into perplexed. "Whoa, hold up here. Just what the fuck are you trying to say? That she was killed down here and moved?"
"I'm not saying anything," Myron said.
"Cause we didn't see any evidence of the body being moved," Dimonte went on. "None at all. Not that we were looking for it. But the bleeding pattern--I mean, if she was killed down here, there wouldn't have been so much blood like that at her apartment. You saw the mess there, right?"
Myron nodded.
Dimonte's eyes darted aimlessly. Myron could practically see the gears inside his head grinding to a halt. "You know what that means, don't you, Bolitar?"
"No, Rolly, why don't you enlighten me?"
"It means the killer came back here after the murder. It's the only explanation. And you know who all this is starting to point to? Your pal Downing. First we found his fingerprints in the victim's apartment--"
"What's this?"
Dimonte nodded. "That's right. Downing's fingerprints were by the door frame."
"But not inside?"
"Yeah, inside. Inside the door frame."
"But nowhere else?"
"What the hell's the difference? The fingerprints prove he was at the scene. What more do you need? Anyway, here's how it must have happened." He stuck a new toothpick
in his mouth. New toothpick for a new theory. "Downing kills her. He comes back to his house to pack or something. He's in a rush so he leaves a little mess in the basement. Then he runs away. A few days later he comes back and cleans it up."
Myron shook his head. "Why come down to the basement in the first place?"
"The laundry room," Dimonte answered. "He was coming down here to wash his clothes."
"The laundry room is upstairs off the kitchen," Myron said.
Dimonte shrugged. "So maybe he was getting a suitcase."
"They're in the bedroom closet. This is just a kids' playroom, Rolly. Why did he come down here?"
That stopped Dimonte for a moment. It stopped Myron too. None of this made much sense. Had Liz Gorman been killed here and dragged to her apartment in Manhattan? That didn't seem to make much sense based on the physical evidence. Could she have been injured down here?
Whoa, hold the phone.
Maybe the attack started here. Maybe there had been a scuffle in the basement. In the course of subduing or knocking her out, blood was spilled. But then what? Did the killer stick her in a car and drive to Manhattan? And then--what?--on a fairly active street, the killer parked a car, dragged her injured body up the stairs, entered her apartment, killed her?
Did that make any sense?
From the first level a voice cried down, "Detective! We found something! Quick!"
Dimonte wet his lips. "Turn on the video," he told Krinsky. Videotaping all the relevant moments. Just like Myron had told him. "Stay here, Bolitar. I don't want to have to explain your ugly mug being on the film."
Myron followed but at a discreet distance. Krinsky and Dimonte headed up the stairs into the kitchen. They turned left. The laundry room. Vinyl yellow wallpaper with white chicks blanketed all four walls. Emily's taste? Probably not. Knowing Emily she'd probably never even seen the inside of a laundry room.
"Over here," someone said. Myron stayed back. He could see that the dryer had been pushed away from the wall. Dimonte bent down and looked behind it. Krinsky arched over to make sure the whole thing was being filmed. Dimonte stood back up. He was trying like hell to look grim--a smile wouldn't look good on film--but he was having a rough time of it. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and lifted the item into view.
The baseball bat was covered with blood.
Chapter 22
When Myron got back to the office, Esperanza was at the reception desk.
"Where's Big Cyndi?" Myron asked.
"Having lunch."
The image of Fred Flintstone's car tipping over from the weight of his Bronto-ribs flashed in front of Myron's eyes.
"Win filled me in on what's been going on," Esperanza said. She wore an aqua-blue blouse open at the throat. A gold heart on a slender chain dangled proudly against the dark skin of her sternum. Her always-mussed hair was slightly entangled in big hoop earrings. She pushed the hair back with one finger. "So what happened at the house?"
He explained about the cleaned-up blood and the baseball bat. Esperanza usually liked to do other things while she listened. She wasn't right now. She stared square into his eyes. When she looked at you like that, there was such intensity it was sometimes hard to look back.
"I'm not sure I understand," she said. "You and Win found blood in the basement two days ago."
"Right."
"Since then, someone cleaned up that blood--but they left behind the murder weapon?"
"So it appears."
Esperanza considered this for a moment. "Could it have been a maid?"
"The police already checked on that. She hasn't been there in three weeks."
"Do you have a thought?"
He nodded. "Someone is trying to frame Greg. It's the only logical explanation."
She arched a skeptical eyebrow. "By planting and then cleaning up blood?"
"No, let's start from the beginning." He grabbed the chair and sat in front of her. He had been going over it in his mind the whole ride back, and he wanted to talk it out. In the corner on his left, the fax machine sounded its digitally primordial screech. Myron waited for the sound to subside. "Okay," he said, "first I'm going to assume that the killer knew Greg was with Liz Gorman that night--maybe he followed them, maybe he was waiting for them near her apartment. Whatever, he knows they were together."
Esperanza nodded, stood. She walked over to the fax machine to check the incoming transmission.
"After Greg leaves, the killer murders Liz Gorman. Knowing that Downing would make a good fall guy, he takes some blood from the murder scene and plants it at Greg's house. That will raise suspicion. To put the icing on the cake, the killer also takes the murder weapon and plants it behind the dryer."
"But you just said the blood was cleaned up," she interjected.
"Right. Here's where it gets a little tricky. Suppose, for example, I wanted to protect Greg Downing. I go into his house and find the blood. Now remember, I want to protect Greg from a murder rap. So what would I do?"
She squinted at the fax coming through. "Clean up the blood."
"Exactly."
"Wow, thanks. Do I get a gold star? Get on with it already."
"Just bear with me, okay? I would see the blood and clean it up. But--and here's the important part--the first time I was in that house I never saw the bat. That's not just in this example. That's real life. Win and I only saw the blood in the basement. No baseball bat."
"Hold on," she said. "You're saying someone cleaned up the blood to protect Greg from a murder rap but didn't know about the bat?"
"Right."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
Esperanza shook her head. She moved back to her desk and hit some keys on her computer keyboard. "It doesn't add up."
"Why not?"
"Suppose I'm madly in love with Greg Downing," she said, moving back to the fax machine. "I'm in his house. For some reason I can't fathom, I'm in his kids' playroom. Doesn't matter where I am. Imagine I'm in my own apartment. Or I'm visiting your house. I could be anywhere."
"Okay."
"I see blood on the floor or on the walls or wherever." She stopped, looked at him. "What conclusion would you logically expect me to draw?"
Myron shook his head. "I don't understand what you're saying."
Esperanza thought a moment. "Suppose you left here right now," she began, "and went back to the bitch's loft."
"Don't call her that."
"Whatever. Suppose when you walked in, you found blood on her walls. What would be your first reaction?"
Myron nodded slowly. Now he saw what she was getting at. "I'd be worried about Jessica."
"And your second reaction? After you found out she was okay?"
"Curiosity, I guess. Whose blood is it? How did it get there? That sort of thing."
"Right," she said with a quick nod. "Would you think to yourself, 'Gee, I better clean it up before the bitch gets accused of murdering somebody'?"
"Stop calling her that."
Esperanza waved him off. "Would you think that or not?"
"Not in that circumstance, no," Myron said. "So in order for my theory to hold water--"
"Your protector had to know about the murder," she finished for him, back checking her computer for something. "He or she would also have to know that Greg was somehow involved."
Myron's head spun with possibilities. "You think Greg killed her," he said. "You think he went back to his house after the murder and left behind some traces of the crime--like blood in the basement. Then he sent this protector back to the house to help cover his tracks."
Esperanza made a face. "Where the hell did you come up with that?"
"I just--"
"That's not what I think at all," Esperanza said. She stapled the fax pages together. "If Greg sent someone to get rid of the evidence, the weapon would be gone too."
"Right. So that leaves us where?"
Esperanza shrugged, circled something on the fax page with a red marker. "You're the gre
at detective. You figure it out."
Myron thought about it a moment. Another answer--one he prayed was wrong--came to him all at once. "There's another possibility," he said.
"What?"
"Clip Arnstein."
"What about him?"
"I told Clip about the blood in the basement," Myron said.
"When?"
"Two days ago."
"How did he react?"
"He freaked, pretty much," Myron said. "He's also got motive--any scandal will destroy his chances of keeping control of the Dragons. Hell, that's why he hired me. To keep any trouble contained. Nobody else even knew about the blood in the basement." Myron stopped. He leaned back and ran it through his mind again. "Of course I haven't had a chance to tell Clip about Liz Gorman's murder. He didn't even know the blood wasn't Greg's. All he knew was that there was blood in the basement. Would he go that far just on that? Would he still risk covering it all up if he didn't know anything about Liz Gorman?"
Esperanza gave him a small smile. "Maybe he knows more than you think," she said.
"What makes you say that?"
She handed him the fax. "It's the list of long distance calls made from the pay phone at the Parkview Diner," she said. "I already cross-checked it with my computer Rolodex. Look at the number I circled."
Myron saw it. A call lasting twelve minutes had been made from the Parkview Diner four days before Greg's disappearance. The phone number was Clip's.
Chapter 23
Liz Gorman called Clip?" Myron looked up at Esperanza. "What the hell is going on?"
Esperanza shrugged. "Ask Clip."
"I knew he was keeping something from me," he went on, "but I don't get it. How does Clip fit into this equation?"
"Uh huh." She shuffled through some papers on her desk. "Look, we got a ton of work to do. I mean, sports agent work. You have a game tonight, right?"
He nodded.
"So ask Clip then. In the meantime, we're just going around in circles here."
Myron scanned the sheet. "Any other numbers jump out at you?"
"Not yet," she said. "But I want to talk about something else for a minute."
"What?"
"We have a problem with a client."
"Who?"
"Jason Blair."
"What's wrong?"
"He's pissed off," she said. "He's not happy with me handling his contract negotiations. He said he hired you, not some"--she made quote marks in the air with her fingers--"'scantily clad wrestler with a nice ass.'"
