by Harlan Coben
“Why did she call you, Duane?”
His hands were clenching and unclenching. “You work for me, right?”
“Right.”
“Then drop it or you’re fired.”
Myron looked at him. “No,” he said.
Duane sunk into a chair, his head in his hands. “Shit, I’m sorry, Myron. I didn’t mean that. It’s just the pressure. What with this tournament and that Dimonte cop accusing me and all. Look, just forget I said anything, okay? Just forget this whole conversation happened.”
“No.”
“What?”
“Why did she call you, Duane?”
“Man, don’t you listen?”
“Not well.”
“Just stay out of it.”
“No.”
“It’s got nothing to do with the murder.”
“Then you admit she called you?”
Duane stood, turned his back toward Myron, leaned against his locker.
“Duane?”
His words were soft. “Yeah, she called me. So what?”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say we were acquainted. Intimately, if you get my drift.”
“You and Valerie …?” Myron made futile hand gestures.
Duane nodded slowly. “It was no big thing. Just a few times.”
“When did this start?”
“Couple of months ago.”
“Where did you meet?”
He looked at Myron, confused. “At a tournament.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t remember. New Haven, I think. But it was over quick.”
“So why did you lie to the police?”
“Why do you think?” he countered. “Wanda was standing right there. I love her, man. I made a mistake. I didn’t want to hurt her. Is that so wrong?”
“So why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“What?”
“When I asked you just now. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“Same reason.”
“But Wanda isn’t here.”
“I was ashamed, okay?”
“Ashamed?”
“I’m not proud of what I did.”
Myron watched him. With those sunglasses Duane’s face looked sleek and robotic. But something wasn’t right here. It was a nice sentiment, but twenty-one-year-old professional athletes, no matter how faithful to their partners, were not this ashamed of letting their agents know about an indiscretion. The excuse might be commendable, but it rang hollow. “If it was over, why was Valerie calling you?”
“I don’t know. She wanted to see me again. One last fling, I guess.”
“Did you agree to see her?”
“No. I told her we were finished.”
“What else did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“What else did she say?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure? Do you remember anything at all?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Did she seem distressed?”
“Not that I could tell.”
The door opened. Players began to file in, many offering Duane icy congratulations. Rising stars were not big in the locker room. If someone new was joining the ultra-exclusive tennis club known as the “Top Ten,” another member had to be thrown out. The way it was. No boardroom was this cutthroat. Everyone was a rival here. Everyone was competing for the same dollars and fame. Everyone was an enemy.
Duane suddenly looked very much alone.
“You hungry?” Myron asked.
“Starved,” Duane said.
“You want anything in particular?”
“Pizza,” Duane said. “Extra cheese and pepperoni.”
“Get dressed. I’ll meet you out front.”
16
“Myron Bolitar?”
The car phone. He’d just dropped Duane off at his apartment.
“Yes.”
“This is Gerard Courter with the NYPD. Jake’s son.”
“Oh, right. How’s it going, Gerard?”
“Can’t complain. I doubt you remember but we played against each other once.”
“Michigan State,” Myron said. “I remember. And I have the bruises to prove it.”
Gerard laughed. Sounded just like his old man. “Glad I was memorable.”
“That’s a polite word for what you were.”
Another Jake-like guffaw. “My dad said you needed info on the Simpson homicide.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“You probably heard there’s a major suspect. Guy named Roger Quincy.”
“The stalker.”
“Yeah.”
“Is there anything specific tying him to the murder?” Myron asked. “Besides the stalking?”
“He’s on the run, for one thing. When they got to Quincy’s apartment he was packed and gone. No one knows where he is.”
“He might have just been scared,” Myron said.
“Good reason to be.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Roger Quincy was at the tennis center on the day of the murder.”
“You have witnesses?”
“Several.”
That slowed Myron down. “What else?”
“She was shot with a thirty-eight. Very close range. We found the weapon in a garbage can ten yards away from the shooting. Smith & Wesson. It was in a Feron’s bag. The bag had a bullet hole in it.”
Feron’s. Another tournament sponsor. They were licensed to sell “official tournament merchandise.” Feron’s had at least half a dozen stands selling to a zillion people. No way to trace it back. “So the killer walked up to her,” Myron said, “shot her through the bag, kept walking, dumped the gun in the garbage, and headed out.”
“That’s how we see it,” Gerard said.
“A cool customer.”
“Very.”
“Any prints on the gun?” Myron asked.
“Nope.”
“Any witnesses to the shooting?”
“Several hundred. Unfortunately all anyone remembers is the sound of the gun, and Valerie toppling over.”
Myron shook his head. “The killer took a hell of a chance. Shooting her in public like that.”
“Yeah. A major case of brass balls.”
“You got anything else?”
“Just a question,” Gerard said.
“Shoot.”
“Where are our seats for next Saturday?”
17
Esperanza had neatly stacked two piles of six-year-old press clippings on Myron’s desk. The pile on the right—the taller pile—was made up of articles on the murder of Alexander Cross. The smaller stack was on the hospitalization of Valerie Simpson.
Myron ignored the third stack—the one with his messages—and started sifting through the pile on Valerie. The story was already familiar to him. Valerie’s family had claimed she was “taking time off,” but a well-placed source leaked the truth to the press: the teen tennis star was actually a patient at the famed Dilworth Mental Health Facility. The family denied it for a few days—until a photograph of Valerie taking a walk on the Dilworth grounds appeared in the papers. A belated statement from the family claimed that Valerie was “resting from exhaustion caused by external pressures,” whatever that meant.
The media coverage was only mildly intense. Valerie was already a has-been in the tennis world, ergo the press was interested but not ravenous. Still, rumors surfaced, especially in some of the fringe periodicals. One said that Valerie’s breakdown had been the result of a sexual assault. Another said she’d been attacked by a stalker. Still another claimed Valerie had murdered someone in cold blood, though the article didn’t bother the reader with mundane details—like the victim’s name, how he or she was killed, why the police hadn’t arrested Valerie, the little things.
But the most interesting rumor, the one that really snared Myron’s attention, appeared in two separate papers. According to several “unnamed sources,” Valerie Simpson h
ad gone into hiding to cover up a pregnancy.
Might be something, might be nothing. Pregnancy rumors always surface when a young woman goes into hiding. Still …
He moved on to articles on Alexander Cross’s murder. Esperanza had limited her search to Philadelphia area periodicals, but the material was still immense. The stories basically followed the police version. Alexander Cross had been at a party at his snooty tennis club. He stumbled across two burglars, Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller. He took chase, confronted them on the main grass court, and was stabbed by Errol Swade. The blade punctured Alexander’s heart. Death was instantaneous.
Senator Cross and his family had not commented on the case. According to the senator’s spokesman, the family was “in seclusion” and was “relying on law enforcement agencies and the justice system,” whatever that meant.
The press focused on the manhunt for Errol Swade. The police were confident to the point of cocky that Swade would be captured within a matter of hours. But hours turned to days. Editorials harshly criticized the police for not being able to nab one nineteen-year-old drug addict, but the Cross family remained silent. The story provoked the standard public outrage—why, editorials demanded to know, had a lowlife like Errol Swade been let out on parole in the first place?
But the anger fizzled, as it always does in such cases. Other stories began to take precedence. The coverage trickled from front page to back page to oblivion.
Myron checked through the pile again. The police shooting of Curtis Yeller had been neatly glossed over. There was no mention of an internal affairs investigation into the incident. None of the usual reactionaries protested the police “brutality,” which was strange. Usually some whacko managed to get himself on television, no matter what the facts, especially in the case of a black teen being gunned down by a white cop. But not this time. Or at least it wasn’t covered by the press.
Wait. Hold the phone.
An article on Curtis Yeller. Myron had missed it the first time because it’d been printed the day immediately following the murder. Very early for this kind of piece. Probably sneaked in before Senator Cross put his foot down—but that might just be conspiracy paranoia on Myron’s part. Hard to tell.
It was a small article on the bottom corner of page 12 in the metro section. Myron read it twice. Then a third time. The article was not on the shooting in west Philly or even the police’s role in said shooting. The article was on Curtis Yeller himself.
It started out like any puff piece: Curtis Yeller was described as an “honor roll student.” Not a big deal really. A psychotic child molester with the IQ of a citrus beverage was suddenly dubbed an honor student when killed prematurely. Very Bonfire of the Vanities. But this story went a bit further. Mrs. Lucinda Elright, Curtis Yeller’s history teacher, described Curtis as her “best pupil” and a boy who “had never even gotten a detention.” Mr. Bernard Johnson, his English teacher, said Curtis was “unusually bright and inquisitive,” “one in a million,” and “like a son to me.”
The usual death hyperbole?
Perhaps. But school records backed the teachers up. Curtis had never been on report. He also had the best attendance record in his grade. On top of that, his transcript reported a 3.9 average, his sole B coming in some sort of health class. Both teachers firmly believed that Curtis Yeller was incapable of violence. Mrs. Elright blamed Curtis’s cousin Errol Swade, but no specifics were given.
Myron sat back. He stared at a movie still from Casablanca on the far wall. Sam was serenading Bogie and Bergman as the Nazis moved in. Here’s looking at you, kid. We’ll always have Paris. You’re getting on that plane. Myron wondered if young Curtis Yeller had ever seen the movie, if he had had the opportunity to behold the celluloid image of Ingrid Bergman with tears in her eyes at a foggy airport.
He picked up the basketball from behind his desk and began spinning it on his finger. He slapped it at just the right angle to increase the speed rotation without dislodging the ball from its axis. He stared at his handiwork as though it were a Gypsy’s crystal ball. He saw an alternate universe, one with a younger version of himself hitting a three-pointer at the buzzer on the Boston Garden’s parquet floor. He tried not to let himself dwell on this image too long, but there it stayed, front and center, refusing to leave.
Esperanza came in. She sat down and waited in silence.
The ball stopped spinning. Myron put it down and handed her the article. “Take a look at this.”
She read it. “A couple of teachers said something nice about a dead kid. So what? Probably misquoted anyway.”
“But this is more than just a couple of casual comments. Curtis Yeller had no police record, no school record, a nearly perfect attendance record, and a 3.9 GPA. For most kids that’s a hell of a statement. But this was a kid from one of the worst parts of Philadelphia.”
Esperanza shrugged. “I don’t see the relevance. What difference does it make if Yeller was Einstein or an idiot?”
“None. Except it’s just one more thing that doesn’t add up. Why did Curtis’s mother say he was a no-good thief?”
“Maybe she knew more than his teachers.”
Myron shook his head. He thought about Deanna Yeller. The proud, beautiful woman who answered the door. The suddenly hostile, defensive woman at the mention of her dead son. “She was lying.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Win thinks she’s being bought off.”
“Sounds like a good possibility,” Esperanza said.
“What, a mother taking bribes to protect her son’s murderer?”
Esperanza shrugged again. “Sure, why not?”
“You really think a mother …?” Myron stopped. Esperanza’s face was totally impassive—another one who always believed the worst. “Just look at this whole scenario for a second,” he tried. “Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade break into this ritzy tennis club at night. Why? To rob the place? Of what? It was night. It wasn’t like they were going to find wallets in the locker room. So what were they going to steal? Some tennis sneakers? A couple of rackets? That’s a hell of a long way to go for some tennis equipment.”
“Stereo equipment, maybe,” Esperanza said. “The clubhouse could have a big-screen TV.”
“Fine. Assume you’re right. Problem is, the boys didn’t take a car. They took public transportation and walked. How were they going to carry the loot? By hand?”
“Maybe they planned on stealing one.”
“From the club’s valet lot?”
She shrugged. “Could be,” she said. Then: “Mind if I change subjects for a second?”
“Go ahead.”
“How did it go with Eddie Crane last night?”
“He’s a big fan of Little Pocahontas. He said she was ‘hot.’ ”
“Hot?”
“Yup.”
She shrugged. “Kid’s got taste.”
“Nice too. I liked him. He’s smart, got his head on straight. Helluva good kid.”
“You going to adopt him?”
“Uh, no.”
“How about represent him?”
“They said they’ll be in touch.”
“What do you think?”
“Hard to say. The kid liked me. The parents are worried about me being small-time.” Pause. “How did it go with Burger City?”
She handed him some papers. “Prelim contract for Phil Sorenson.”
“TV commercial?”
“Yeah, but he has to dress up as a burger condiment.”
“Which one?”
“Ketchup, I think. We’re still talking.”
“Fine. Just don’t let it be mayonnaise or pickle.” He studied the contract. “Nice work. Good figures.”
Esperanza looked at him.
“Very good, in fact.” He smiled at her. Widely.
“Is this the part where I get all excited by your praise?” she asked.
“Forget I said anything.”
She pointed to the stack of articles. “I manage
d to track down Valerie’s shrink from her days at Dilworth. Her name is Julie Abramson. She has a private office on Seventy-third Street. She won’t see you, of course. Refuses to discuss her patient.”
“A woman doctor,” Myron mused. He put his hands behind his head. “Maybe I can entice her with my rapier wit and brawny body.”
“Probably,” Esperanza said, “but on the off chance she’s not comatose, I went with an alternative plan.”
“And that is?”
“I called her office back, changed my voice, and pretended you were a patient. I made an appointment for you to see her tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.”
“What’s my psychosis?”
“Chronic priapism,” she said. “But that’s just my opinion.”
“Funny.”
“Actually, you’ve been much better since what’s-her-name left town.”
What’s-her-name was Jessica, which Esperanza knew very well. Esperanza did not care much for the love of Myron’s life. A casual observer might offer up jealousy as the culprit, but that’d be way off base. True, Esperanza was extraordinarily beautiful. Sure, there’d been moments of temptation between them, but one or the other had always been prudent enough to douse the flames before any real damage was done. There was also the fact that Esperanza liked a bit of diversity when it came to beaus—diversity that went well beyond tall or short, fat or thin, white or black. Right now, for example, Esperanza was dating a photographer. The photographer’s name was Lucy. Lucy. As in a female, for those having trouble catching the drift.
No, the reason for her strong dislike was far simpler: Esperanza had been there when Jessica left the first time. She had seen it all firsthand. And Esperanza held grudges.
Myron returned to his original question. “So what did you tell them was wrong with me?”
“I was vague,” she said. “You hear voices. You suffer from paranoid schizophrenia, delusions, hallucinations, something like that.”
“How did you get an appointment so fast?”
“You’re a very famous movie star.”
“My name?”
“I didn’t dare give one,” Esperanza said. “You’re that big.”
18
