Myron glanced about. “Where are you?”
“Drive down to the end of the block. Make a left, then your second right. I’m parked behind the office building.”
Myron hung up and restarted the car. He followed the directions and pulled into the lot. Win leaned against his Jaguar with his arms crossed. He looked, as he always did, as if he were posing for the cover of
Well, two out of three ain’t bad.
The office building held an eclectic mix. Gynecologist. Electrolysis. Subpoena delivery service. Nutritionist. Women-only health club. Not surprisingly Win was standing near the entrance to the women-only health club. Myron approached.
“How did you know I was parked in front of the house?”
Keeping his eye on the entranceway Win motioned with his head. “Up that hill. You can see everything with a pair of binoculars.”
A woman in her early twenties wearing a black Lycra aerobics suit walked out carrying a baby. It hadn’t taken her long to get her figure back. Win smiled at her. The woman smiled back.
“I love young mothers,” Win said.
“You love women in Lycra,” Myron corrected.
Win nodded. “There’s that.” He snapped on a pair of sunglasses. “Shall we begin?”
“You think breaking into that house will be a problem?”
Win made his I’ll-pretend-you-didn’t-ask-that face. Another woman exited the health club; sadly, this one did not warrant a Win smile. “Fill me in,” Win said. “And move away. I want to make sure they can see the Jag.”
Myron told him all he knew. Eight women came out in the five minutes it took to tell the story. Only two of them were awarded The Smile. One wore a tiger-striped leotard. She was treated to the Full-Wattage Smile, the one that almost touched Win’s eyes.
Win’s face did not seem to register anything Myron said. Even when he told him about taking Greg’s temporary slot on the Dragons, Win went on staring hopefully at the health club door. Normal Win behavior. Myron finished up by asking, “Any questions?”
Win bounced a finger against his lip. “Do you think the one in the tiger-striped leotard was wearing any underwear?”
“I don’t know,” Myron said, “but she was definitely wearing a wedding band.”
Win shrugged. Didn’t matter to him. Win didn’t believe in love or relationships with the opposite sex. Some might take this for simple sexism. They’d be wrong. Women weren’t objects to Win; objects sometimes got his respect.
“Follow me,” Win said.
They were less than half a mile from the Downing house. Win had already scouted it out and found the path with the least chance of being seen or arousing suspicion. They walked in the comfortable silence of two men who had known each other a long time and very well.
“There’s one interesting aside in all this,” Myron said.
Win waited.
“Do you remember Emily Schaeffer?” Myron asked.
“The name rings a bell.”
“I dated her for two years at Duke.” Win and Myron had met at Duke. They had also been roommates for all four years. It had been Win who had introduced Myron to the martial arts, who had gotten him involved with feds. Win was now a top producer at his Lock-Horne Securities on Park Avenue, a securities firm that had been run by Win’s family since the market had first opened. Myron rented space from Win, and Win also handled all money- matters for MB SportsReps’ clients.
Win thought a bit. “Is she the one who used to make the little monkey noises?”
“No,” Myron said.
Win seemed surprised. “Who was the one who made the little monkey noises?”
“I have no idea.”
“Maybe it was someone I was with.”
“Maybe.”
Win considered this, shrugged. “What about her?”
“She used to be married to Greg Downing.”
“Divorced?”
“Yep.”
“I remember her now,” Win said. “Emily Schaeffer. Built.”
Myron nodded.
“I never liked her,” Win said. “Except for those little monkey noises. They were rather interesting.”
“She wasn’t the one who made monkey noises.”
Win smiled gently. “The walls were thin,” he said.
“And you used to listen in?”
“Only when you pulled down the shade so I couldn’t watch.”
Myron shook his head. “You’re a pig,” he said.
“Better than a monkey.”
They reached the front lawn and proceeded to the door. The secret was to look like you belonged. If you scurried around back, hunched over, someone might take notice. Two men in ties approaching the door does not normally lead one to think thief.
There was a metal keypad with a little red light. The light was on.
“Alarm,” Myron said.
Win shook his head. “Fake. It’s just a light. Probably bought it at Sharper Image.” Win looked at the lock and made a tsk-tsk noise. “A Kwiktight brand on a pro basketball player’s salary,” he said, clearly disgusted. “Might as well use Play-Doh.”
“What about the dead bolt?” Myron asked.
“It’s not locked.”
Win already had out his strip of celluloid. Credit cards are too stiff. Celluloid worked much better—known as ’loiding the lock. In no more time than it would take with a key, the door was open and they were inside the front foyer. The door had a chute and the mail was all over the place. Myron quickly checked some postage dates. No one had been here in at least five days.
The decor was nice in a fake-rustic, Martha Stewart sort of way. The furniture was what they called “simple country” where the look was indeed simple and the price outrageous. Lots of pines and wickers and antiques and dry flowers. The smell of potpourri was strong and cloying.
They split up. Win went upstairs to the home office. He turned on the computer and began to download everything onto floppy disks. Myron found the answering machine in a room that used to be called a “den” but now went by such lofty titles as the “California room” or “great room.” The machine announced the time and date of each message. Awfully convenient. Myron pressed a button. The tape rewound and started playing. On the first message, which according to the digital voice was received at 9:18 P.M. the night Greg vanished, Myron hit bingo.
A shaky woman’s voice said, “It’s Carla. I’ll be in the back booth until midnight.” Click.
Myron rewound and listened again. There were lots of noises in the background—people chatting, music, glasses clinking. The call had probably been placed from a bar or restaurant, especially with that back-booth reference. So who was this Carla? A girlfriend? Probably. Who else would call that late to set up a meeting for even later that night? But of course this had not been just any night. Greg Downing had vanished sometime between the time this call was made and the next morning.
Strange coincidence.
So where did they meet—assuming Greg had indeed made their back-booth liaison? And why did Carla,
