whoever she might be, sound so shaky—or was this just Myron’s imagination?
Myron listened to the rest of the tape. No other messages from Carla. If Greg hadn’t shown up at said back booth, wouldn’t Carla have called again? Probably. So for now, Myron could safely assume that Greg Downing had seen Carla sometime before his disappearance.
A clue.
There were also four calls from Martin Felder, Greg’s agent. He seemed to grow more perturbed with each message. The last one said, “Jesus, Greg, how can you not call me? Is the ankle serious or what? And don’t go incommunicado on me now, not when we’re wrapping up the Forte deal. Call me, okay?” There were also three calls from a man named Chris Darby, who apparently worked for Forte Sports Incorporated. He too sounded panicked. “Marty won’t tell me where you are. I think he’s playing a game with us, Greg, trying to up the price or something. But we had a deal, am I right? Let me give you my home number, okay, Greg? How bad’s this injury anyhow?”
Myron smiled. Martin Felder’s client was missing, but he was doing all he could to turn it into a positive lever. Agents. He pressed the mode button on the answering machine several times. Eventually the LCD screen scrolled to reveal the code number Greg had set to call in for messages: 317. A fairly new trick of the trade. Now Myron could call in anytime, press 317, and hear what messages had been left on the machine. He hit the redial button on the phone. Another fairly new trick. Find out who Greg called last. The phone rang twice and was picked up by a woman saying, “Kimmel Brothers.” Whoever they were. Myron hung up.
Myron joined up with Win in the upstairs office. Win continued copying onto computer disks while Myron went through the drawers. Nothing particularly helpful.
They moved on to the master bedroom. The king-size bed was made. Both night tables were cluttered with pens and keys and papers.
Both.
Curious for a man who lived alone.
Myron’s eyes swept the room and landed on a reading chair that doubled as a dressing dummy. Greg’s clothes were strewn over one arm and the back. Normal enough, Myron guessed—neater than Myron, in fact, though that wasn’t saying much. But looking again, he noticed something a tad strange on the other arm of the chair. Two articles of clothing. A white blouse and a gray skirt.
Myron looked at Win.
“They might belong to Miss Monkey Noises,” Win said.
Myron shook his head. “Emily hasn’t lived here in months. Why would her clothes still be on a chair?”
The bathroom, too, proved interesting. A large Jacuzzi on the right, a big steam shower with a sauna, and two vanities. They checked the vanities first. One contained a can of men’s shaving cream, a roll-on deodorant, a bottle of Polo after-shave, a Gillette Atra razor. The other vanity had an open makeup case, Calvin Klein perfume, baby powder, and Secret Roll-On. A sprinkling of baby powder was on the floor near the vanity. There were also two disposable Lady Schick razors in the soap dish next to the Jacuzzi.
“He’s got a girlfriend,” Myron said.
“A professional basketball player shacking up with some nubile lass,” Win remarked. “Quite a revelation. Perhaps one of us should cry out, ‘Eureka.’ ”
“Yes, but it raises an interesting question,” Myron said. “If her boyfriend had suddenly vanished, wouldn’t said lover have reported it?”
“Not,” Win said, “if she were with him.”
Myron nodded. He told Win about the cryptic message from Carla.
Win shook his head. “If they were planning on running away,” he said, “why would she say where they were meeting?”
“She didn’t say where. Only in a back booth at midnight.”
“Still,” Win said. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you do before you disappear. Let’s say that for some reason Carla and Greg decide to vanish for a little while. Wouldn’t Greg know where and when to meet her before the fact?”
Myron shrugged. “Maybe she was changing their meeting place.”
“From what? Front booths to back booths?”
“Damned if I know.”
They checked the rest of the upstairs. Not much doing. Greg’s son’s bedroom had racing-car wallpaper and a poster of Dad driving past Penny Hardaway for a layup. The daughter’s room was done in Early American Barney— dinosaurs and purple. No clues. In fact there were no other clues until they reached the basement.
When they turned on the lights, Myron saw it right away.
It was a finished basement, a brightly colored playroom for the kids. There were lots of Little Tikes cars and big Legos and a plastic house with a sliding board. There were scenes from Disney movies like
There was also blood. A fair amount of it in drips on the floor. Another fair amount smeared on a wall.
Bile nestled in Myron’s throat. He had seen blood many times in his life, but it still left him queasy. Not so with Win. Win approached the crimson stains with something akin to amusement on his face. He bent to get a better look. Then he stood back up.
“Look at the bright side,” Win said. “Your temporary slot on the Dragons may become more permanent.”
Chapter 4
There was no body. Just the blood.
Using Glad sandwich bags he found in the kitchen, Win collected a few samples. Ten minutes later they were back outside, the lock on the front door reengaged. A blue Oldsmobile Delta 88 drove past them. Two men sat in the front seat. Myron glanced at Win. Win barely nodded.
“A second pass,” Myron said.
“Third,” Win said. “I saw them when I first drove up.”
“They’re not exactly experts at this,” Myron said.
“No,” Win agreed. “But of course, they hadn’t known the job would require expertise.”
“Can you run the plates?”
Win nodded. “I’ll also run Greg’s ATM and credit card transactions,” he said. He reached the Jag and unlocked it. “I’ll contact you when I have something. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”
“You heading back to the office?”
“I’m going to Master Kwon’s first,” Win said.
Master Kwon was their tae kwon do instructor. Both of them were black belts—Myron a second degree, Win a sixth degree, one of the highest ranking Caucasians in the world. Win was the best martial artist Myron had ever seen. He studied several different arts including Brazilian jujitsu, animal kung fu, and Jeet Kun Do. Win the Contradiction. See Win and you think pampered, preppy pantywaist; in reality, he was a devastating fighter. See Win and you think normal, well-adjusted human being; in reality, he was anything but.
“What are you doing tonight?” Myron asked.
Win shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“I can get you a ticket to the game,” Myron said.
Win said nothing.
“Do you want to go?”
“No.”
Without another word, Win slipped behind the wheel of his Jag, started the engine, peeled out with nary a squeal. Myron stood and watched him speed away, puzzled by his friend’s abruptness. But then again, to paraphrase one of the four questions of Passover: why should today be different than any other day?
