by Harlan Coben
As usual her voice made him soar. “Why, yes it is. What can we do for you, ma’am?”
“I’m looking for a true stallion.”
“You called the right place. Any preference?”
“Well hung,” she replied. “But you’ll do.”
“Nice talk.”
There was a lot of noise in the background. “What took you so long to pick up?” she asked.
“I was outside. Playing with Timmy and the kids.”
“Did I interrupt?”
“Nope. Game just ended.”
“Your mom sounded a tad frosty on the phone.”
“She gets that way,” Myron said.
“She used to like me.”
“She still does.”
“And Esperanza?”
“Esperanza never liked you.”
“Oh yeah,” she said.
“You still at the Grand Bretagne Hotel?” Myron asked. “Room 207?”
Pause. “Were you spying on me?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know—”
“Long story. I’ll tell you about it when you get home. Where are you?”
“Kennedy Airport. We just landed.”
His heart did a quick twirl. “You’re home?”
“I will be as soon as I find my luggage.” She hesitated. “Will you come right over?”
“I’m on my way.”
“Wear something I can easily rip off your bod,” she said. “I’ll be waiting in the tub with all kinds of exotic oils from overseas.”
“Hussy.”
There was another hesitation. Then Jessica said, “I love you, you know. I get funny sometimes, but I do love you.”
“Never mind that. Tell me more about the oils.”
She laughed. “Hurry now.”
He put the receiver back in its cradle. He quickly stripped down and showered. A cold shower for the time being. He was whistling “Tonight” from West Side Story. He dried himself off and checked out his closet. Something in the easy-to-rip-off family. Found it. Snap buttons. He sprinkled on a little cologne. Myron rarely wore cologne, but Jess liked it. He heard the doorbell ring as he was bounding up the stairs.
“I’ll get it,” he called out.
Two uniformed police officers were at the door.
“Are you Myron Bolitar?” the taller one asked.
“Yes.”
“Detective Roland Dimonte sent us. We would appreciate it if you would come with us.”
“Where?”
“Queens Homicide.”
“What for?”
“Roger Quincy has been captured. He’s a suspect in the murder of Valerie Simpson.”
“So?”
The shorter cop spoke for the first time. “Mr. Bolitar, do you know Roger Quincy?”
“No.”
“You’ve never met him?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Not to my knowledge. Lawyer talk for no.
The officers exchanged a glance.
“You better come with us,” the taller cop said.
“Why?”
“Because Mr. Quincy refuses to make a statement until he talks with you.”
23
Myron called Jessica’s place and left a message that he’d be late.
When they arrived at the precinct, Dimonte greeted Myron at the door. He was chewing a wad of gum or maybe it was spitting tobacco. And he was smiling a whole lot. He wore a different pair of boots this time. Still snakeskin, still hideous. But these were bright yellow with blue fringes.
“Glad you could make it,” Dimonte said.
Myron pointed to the boots. “Mug a cheerleader, Rolly?”
Dimonte laughed. This wasn’t good. “Come on, smart-guy,” he said with something approaching good nature. He led Myron down a corridor, threading between lots of bored-looking cops. Almost every one of them had a cup of coffee in their hands, leaning against a wall or refreshment machine, pleading some pathetic case to a nodding head.
“No press,” Myron noted.
“They haven’t been told of Quincy’s capture yet,” Dimonte said. “But it’ll leak soon enough.”
“You going to leak it?”
He shrugged happily. “The public has a right to know.”
“Sure.”
“What about you, Bolitar? You want to come clean?”
“Come clean on what?”
He shrugged again. Mr. Carefree. “Suit yourself.”
“I don’t know him, Rolly.”
“Guess he got your name out of the yellow pages, huh?”
Myron stayed silent. No point in arguing now.
Dimonte opened a door into a small interrogation room. Two cops were already in there. Their neckties were loosened low enough to double as a belt. They’d been working Roger Quincy over pretty good, but Quincy did not seem too agitated. In most movies or TV shows a prisoner in a holding cell wear stripes or grays. But in reality they wear loud, fluorescent orange. Better to see them should they opt to flee.
Roger Quincy’s eyes lit up when he saw Myron. He was younger than Myron had expected—early thirties, though he probably could have passed for mid-twenties. He was thin, his face pretty in a feminine way. His fingers were graceful and elongated. He looked like a ballet dancer.
From his chair Roger Quincy waved and said, “Thanks for coming, Myron.”
Myron looked at Dimonte. Dimonte smiled back. “Don’t know him, huh?” He nodded to the other cops. “Come on, guys. Let’s leave the two buddies alone.”
A few quiet snickers later, the cops were gone. Myron sat in the chair across the table from Roger Quincy.
“Do I know you?” Myron asked.
“No, I don’t think so.” Quincy extended his hand. “I’m Roger Quincy.”
Quincy’s hand felt like a small bird. Myron gave it a quick shake. “How do you know my name?”
“Oh, I’m a big sports fan,” he said. “I know I don’t look the type, but I’ve been one for years. I don’t follow basketball that closely anymore. Tennis is my favorite. Do you play at all?”
“Just a little.”
“I’m not very good, but I try.” His eyes lit up again. “Tennis is such a magnificent sport when you think about it. A competitive acrobatic dance really. A small ball hurls at you with un-earthly velocity and you have to move, set your feet, hit the ball back using a racket. Everything has to be calculated in a matter of moments: the speed of the oncoming ball, the spot it will land, the spin on it, the angle of the bounce, the distance between your hand and the center of the racket head, the stroke you will use, the placement of your return. It’s amazing when you think about it.”
Two words: Looney Tunes.
“Uh, Roger, you didn’t answer my question,” Myron said. “How do you know me?”
“I’m sorry.” He flashed a shy smile. “I get overexcited sometimes. Some people think it’s a flaw. Me, I’d rather be like that than some couch potato. Did I mention that I’m also a basketball fan?”
“Yes.”
“That’s how I know your name. I saw you play at Duke.” He smiled like that explained everything.
“Okay,” Myron said, struggling to keep a patient tone. “So why did you tell the police you wanted to talk to me?”
“Because I did. Want to talk to you, that is.”
“Why?”
“They think I killed Valerie, Myron.”
“Did you?”
His mouth made a surprised little O. “Of course not. What kind of man do you think I am?”
Myron shrugged. “The kind who stalks young girls. The kind who harassed Valerie Simpson, who followed her around, called her repeatedly, wrote her long letters, frightened her.”
He waved Myron off with those long fingers. “You’re exaggerating,” he said. “I courted Valerie Simpson. I loved her. I cared about her well-being. I was merely a persistent suitor.”
“She wanted you to leave her alone.”
He laughed. “So she turned me
down. Big deal. Am I the first man ever rejected by a beautiful woman? I just don’t give up as easily as most. I sent her flowers. I wrote her love letters. I asked her out again. I tried different tactics. Do you ever read romance novels?”
“Not really.”
“The hero and heroine are always rejecting each other. Through wars or pirate attacks or high society parties, the couple fight and claw and seem to hate each other. But deep down they are in love. They’re repressing their true feelings, see? That’s how it was with Valerie and me. There was an undeniable tension there. A high-voltage surge between us.”
“Uh-huh,” Myron said. “Roger, why did you want to see me?”
“I thought you could talk to the police for me.”
“And tell them what?”
“That I didn’t kill Valerie. That she was in imminent danger from someone else.”
“Who?”
“I thought you knew.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Valerie told me. Right before she was murdered.”
“She told you what exactly?”
“That she was in danger.”
“In danger of what?”
“I thought you’d know.”
Myron raised his hand. “Slow down a second, okay? Let’s start at the beginning. You were at the U.S. Open.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I go every year. I’m a big fan. I love to watch the matches. They’re so mesmerizing—”
“I think we covered that already, Roger. So you went as a fan. Your going had nothing to do with Valerie Simpson? You didn’t follow her there?”
“Of course not. I had no idea she’d even be there.”
“Okay, so what happened?”
“I was sitting in the stadium watching Duane Richwood demolish Ivan Restovich. Incredible performance. I mean, Duane slaughtered him.” He smiled. “But why am I telling you this? You’re his agent, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can you get me his autograph?”
“Sure.”
“Not tonight, of course. Tomorrow maybe?”
“Maybe.” Earth to Roger. “But let’s stick with Valerie right now. You were watching Duane’s match.”
“Exactly.” His voice grew serious. “I wish I’d known you were Duane Richwood’s agent then, Myron. Maybe everything would have been okay then. Maybe Valerie would still be alive and I’d be the hero who saved her and she’d have to stop denying her true feelings and let me into her life and let me protect her forevermore.”
Myron remembered a quote from Man of La Mancha: “I can see the coo-coo singing in the coo-coo berry tree.”
“What happened, Roger?”
“The match was basically over so I checked my program. Arantxa Sanchez-Vicario was about to start her match on court sixteen, so I figured I’d go over there and get a good seat. Arantxa’s a wonderful player. Such a hustler. Her brothers Emilio and Javier are pros also. Nice players, but they don’t have her heart.”
“So you left the stadium,” Myron tried
“I left the stadium. I had a few minutes, so I went over to the booth near the front entrance. The one with all the TV monitors giving the scores of the other matches. I saw that Steffi had already won and that Michael Chang had been dragged into a fifth set. I was checking out some doubles matches on the board. Men’s doubles, I think. Ken Flach was one of the people. No, it was … I can’t remember.”
“Stay with me, Roger.”
“Anyway, that’s when I saw Valerie.”
“Where?”
“By the front gate. She was trying to get in, but the guard wouldn’t let her. She didn’t have a ticket. She was very upset, that was clear. You know, the Open is always sold out. Every year. But I still couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The guard wouldn’t let her in. Valerie Simpson. He didn’t even recognize her. So naturally I went to her aid.”
Naturally. “What did you do?”
“I got my hand stamped by another guard and walked outside the gate. Then I came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned around I couldn’t believe what I saw.”
“What?”
“I know Valerie Simpson,” he said, his words slower now. “Even you will have to concede that. I’ve seen every match she ever played in. I saw her at work. I saw her at play. I’ve seen her on the streets, on the court, at her house, practicing with that slimy coach of hers. I’ve seen her happy and sad, up and down, in triumph and defeat. I saw her progress from an enthusiastic teenager to a fierce competitor to a despondent, lifeless beauty. My heart has ached for her so many times, I’ve lost count. But I’d never seen her like this.”
“Like what?”
“So scared. She was absolutely terrified.”
Little wonder, Myron thought. Daffy Duck here sneaks up behind her and taps her on her shoulder. “Did she recognize you?”
“Of course.”
“What did she do then?”
“She asked for my help.”
Myron arched a skeptical eyebrow. He’d learned the technique from Win.
“It’s true,” Roger insisted. “She said she was in danger. She said she needed to get in and see you.”
“She mentioned me by name?”
“Yes. I’m telling you, she was desperate. She pleaded with the guard, but he wouldn’t listen. So I came up with an idea.”
“What was that?”
“Scalp a ticket,” he answered. He was clearly pleased with himself. “There were dozens of scalpers hanging around the subway entrance. I found one. A black man. Nice enough fellow. He wanted a hundred and fifty dollars. I told him that was way too much. They always start high. The scalpers, I mean. You have to negotiate with them. They expect it. But Valerie would have none of that. She just accepted his price. That’s Valerie. No head for money. If we’d gotten married, I would have had to handle the finances. She’s too impulsive.”
“Focus with me, Roger. What happened after you bought the ticket?”
His face went soft and dreamy. “She thanked me,” he said, like he’d seen a burning bush. “It was the first time she ever opened up to me. I knew then that my patience had won out. After all this time I’d finally cracked the face. Funny, isn’t it? For years I tried so hard to make her love me. And then when I least expect it, boom!—love crashed into my life.”
I, me, I, me, I, me. Even Valerie’s murder he could only see in terms of himself. “What did she do then?” Myron asked.
“I escorted her through the gates. She asked me if I knew what you looked liked. I said, you mean Myron Bolitar the basketball player? She said yes. I said yes, I knew. She said she needed to find you.” He leaned forward. Earnest. “You see what I mean? If I had known you were Duane’s agent I would have known exactly where you were. I would have led her right to you. Then everything would have been all right. I’d have gotten a bigger thank-you and that priceless Valerie Simpson smile all for me. I’d have saved her life. I would have been her hero.” He shook his head for what might have been. “It would have been perfect.”
“But instead?” Myron tried.
“We split up. She asked me to cover the outside courts while she searched the Food Court and the stadium area. We were going to meet back by the Perrier booth every fifteen minutes. I took off and began my search. I was anxious. Finding you would have proved my undying love—”
“Yeah, I got that part.” This guy must have been gobs of fun for ol’ Rolly to interrogate. “What happened next?”
“I heard a gunshot,” Quincy continued. “Then I heard screams. I ran back toward the Food Court. By the time I got there a crowd had formed. You were running toward the body. She was on the ground. So still. You bent down and cradled her body. My dreams. My life. My happiness. Dead. I knew what the police would think. They tormented me for courting her. Called me names. Heck, they threatened to put me in jail for asking her out—what were they going to think now? They never understood the
bond between us. The attraction.”
“So you ran,” Myron said.
“Yes. I went to my place and packed a bag. Then I took out the maximum amount on my MAC card. I saw on TV once how the police tracked a guy down by where he used his credit cards, so I wanted to make sure I had enough cash. Smart, huh?”
“Ingenious,” Myron agreed. But he felt his heart sink. Valerie Simpson had had no one. She’d been alone. When danger struck she turned to Myron, a man she barely knew. And someone had murdered her. A painful pang consumed him.
“I stayed in crummy motels and used fake names,” Quincy rambled. “But someone must have recognized me. Well, you know the rest. When they caught me, I asked for you. I thought you’d be able to explain to them what really happened.” Quincy leaned forward, whispered conspiratorially. “That Detective Dimonte can be rather hostile.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The only time he smiled was when I mentioned your name.”
“Oh?”
“I told him you and I were friends. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Myron said.
24
Myron faced Dimonte and sidekick Krinsky in the adjoining interrogation room. It was identical to the other one in every way. Dimonte was still gleeful.
“Would you care for an attorney?” he asked sweetly.
Myron looked at him. “Your face is positively beaming, Rolly. New moisturizer?”
The smile stayed. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Of course not. Have a seat. Care for a drink?”
“Sure.”
“What would you like?” Quite the host, that Rolly. “Coke? Coffee? Orange juice?”
“Got any Yoo-Hoo?”
Dimonte looked at Krinsky. Krinsky shrugged and went to check. Dimonte folded his hands and put them on the table. “Myron, why did Roger Quincy ask for you?”
“He wanted to speak to me.”
Dimonte smiled. Mr. Patience. “Yes, but why you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”
“Can’t,” Dimonte said. “Or won’t?”
“Can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I think it falls under attorney-client privilege. I have to check.”
