by Harlan Coben
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 Häagen-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 face 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.
&n
bsp; “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.
“I’ll be right back,” Jessica said.
Myron sat. Henry Hobman was already in game mode. Myron said, “Hi, Henry.”
“Stop messing with his head,” Henry said. “Your job is to keep him happy.”
Myron didn’t bother responding.
Win finally showed up. He wore a pink shirt from some golf club, bright green pants, white bucks, and a yellow sweater tied around his neck. “Hello,” Win said.
Myron shook his head. “Who dresses you?”
“It’s the latest in sophisticated wear.”
“You clash with the world.”
“Pardon moi, Monsieur Saint Laurent.” Win sat down. “Did you talk to Duane?”
“Just a little pep talk.”
Jessica returned. She greeted Win with a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered to him.
Win said nothing.
They stood for the national anthem. When it was over, the English-accented voice on the loudspeaker asked everyone to lower their heads for a moment of silence to remember the great Pavel Menansi. Heads lowered. The crowd hushed. Someone sniffled. Win rolled his eyes. Two minutes later the match began.
The play was incredible. Both men were power hitters, but no one expected anything like this. The pace was like something from another planet. A far faster planet. The IBM serve speedometer drew constant “Ooo”s from the crowd. Rallies didn’t last very long. Mistakes were made, but so were incredible shots. This was serve and volley in the old tradition taken to the tenth power. Duane was unconscious. He whacked at the ball with uncommon fury, as though the ball had personally offended him. Myron had never seen either man play better.
Win leaned over and whispered, “Must have been some pep talk.”
“Wanda left him.”
“Ah,” Win said with a nod. “That explains it. The shackles are off.”
“I don’t think that’s it, Win.”
“If you say so.”
Myron didn’t bother. It was like talking colors with a blind man.
Duane won the first set 6–2. The second set went into a tiebreaker, which Thomas Craig won. As the third set opened, Win said, “What have you learned?”
Myron filled him in, trying to keep his voice down. At one point, Ivana Trump shushed him. Win waved a hand in her direction. “She digs me. Big-time.”
“Get real,” Myron said.
During a change of sides in the third set, Win said, “So first we believed that Valerie was eliminated because she knew something harmful about Pavel Menansi. Now we believe that she was eliminated because she saw something the night Alexander Cross was killed.”
“A possibility,” Myron said.
During the next change of sides, Myron felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked down—way down—and was surprised. “Dr. Abramson,” he said.
“Hello, Myron.”
“Nice to see you, Doc.”
“Nice to see you too,” she said. “Your client is playing very well. You must be pleased.”
“I’m sorry,” Myron said. “I can neither confirm nor deny that Duane Richwood is a client of mine.”
She didn’t smile. “Was that supposed to be funny?”
“Guess not,” Myron said “I didn’t know you were a tennis fan.”
“I come every year.” She spotted Win. “Hello, Mr. Lockwood.”
Win nodded. “Dr. Abramson.”
“This is my friend Jessica Culver,” Myron said.
The two women shook hands and exchanged polite smiles. “A pleasure,” Dr. Abramson said. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to say a quick hello.”
“Can we talk a little later?” Myron asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Good-bye.”
“Did you know that Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke are here?”
“Yes. And I also know they just stepped out for a moment.”
Myron looked toward their seats. Empty. He smiled. “You crafty shrink. Coming over to say hello when they weren’t looking.”
“And to say good-bye,” she said, returning the smile. She turned away and left. The match started up again. During the next change of sides, the Van Slykes returned. Myron leaned over to Win. “How do you know Dr. Abramson?”
“I visited Valerie,” he said.
“Often?”
Win didn’t answer. He might have shrugged, might not. Either way it told Myron to mind his own business. Myron looked at Jessica. She shrugged too.
On the court Duane was growing more erratic, but he was still hitting enough winners to maintain the edge. He won the third set 7–5. He was up two sets to one—one set away from the U.S. Open finals. The Nike box was animated. Hands were slapping Ned’s back. Even Ned seemed to be perking up now. Hard to keep a good man down.
Senator Cross watched in silence. No one talked to him, and he talked to no one. Not even during breaks. He had met Myron’s eyes only once. He stared for a long time, but did not move. Helen and Kenneth Van Slyke spoke to the people around them, but they both looked uncomfortable. Frank Ache adjusted his crotch and jabbered with Roy O’Connor, the president of TruPro. Frank looked comfortable. Roy looked like he wanted to puke. Ivana Trump glanced about her surroundings. Every time she looked near Win, he blew her kisses.
It was during a serve in the third set when Myron finally began to see it. It started small, a statement made
by Jimmy Blaine that did not compute. Something about the foot chase in Philadelphia. The rest sort of tumbled into place. When the final piece clicked, he sat up.
Win and Jessica traded glances. Myron stared off.
“What is it?” Jessica asked.
Myron turned to Win. “I need to talk to Gregory Caufield.”
“When?”
“Right away, next break. Can you get him alone?”
Win nodded. “Done.”
45
In the tournament’s first few rounds it was not uncommon for fifteen or more matches to be going on at the same time. The biggest names usually stayed on Stadium Court or the Grandstand, while other matches took place in smaller venues, some with no seating. Today those courts were so barren, Myron half expected a tumbleweed to blow through. He waited by court sixteen, a semimajor court. It had the most seating next to the Stadium and Grandstand, though less than most high school gyms.
He sat on an aluminum bench in the front row. The sun had gained strength and was now at its most potent. Every once in a while he heard cheers erupt from the Stadium’s crowd a hundred yards or so away. Sometimes tennis fans sounded like they were having an orgasm during particularly brilliant points. It sort of built up slowly with a low oh-oh-oh, and then increased Oh-Oh, and finally the big OH-OH-OH, followed by a loud sigh and clapping.
Weird thought.
Distracting thought too.
He heard Gregory Caufield well before he saw him. That same creepy, money accent that Win possessed said, “Windsor, where on earth are we going?”
“Just over here, Gregory.”
“Are you sure this couldn’t wait, old boy?”
Old boy. Neither one of them was thirty-five yet and he was using term old boy.
“No, Gregory, it can’t.”
They rounded the corner. Gregory’s eyes widened a bit when he saw Myron, but he recovered fast. He smiled and stuck out his hand. “Hello, Myron.”
“Hi, Greg.”
His face flinched for a second. He was Gregory, not Greg.
“What’s this all about, Windsor? I thought you had something private to tell me.”
