Click.
Myron looked at Win. That was my father.
Yes, I picked up on that when Big Cyndi said your father was on the line. It was further
reemphasized when you said 'Dad' four times during the conversation. I'm gifted that way.
He wants to have lunch tomorrow.
Win nodded. And I care because ?
Just telling you.
I'll write about it in my diary tonight, Win said. In the meantime, I had another thought, vis-a
vis Lucy Mayor.
I'm listening.
If you recall, we were trying to figure out who was being injured in all this.
I recall.
Clu obviously. Esperanza. You. I.
Yes.
Well, we must add a new person: Sophie Mayor.
Myron thought about it. Then he started nodding. That could very well be the connection. If you
wanted to destroy Sophie Mayor, what would you do? First, you'd do something to undermine
any support she had with the Yankee fans and management.
Clu Haid, Win said.
Right. Then you might hit her in what has to be a vulnerable spot her missing daughter. I
mean, if someone sent her a similar diskette, can you imagine the horror?
Which raises an interesting question, Win said.
What?
Are you going to tell her?
About the diskette?
No, about recent troop movements in Bosnia. Yes, the diskette.
Myron thought about it but not for very long. I don't see where I have any choice. I have to tell
her.
Perhaps that too is part of the theoretical plan to wear her down, Win said. Perhaps someone
sent you the diskette knowing it would get back to her.
Maybe. But she still has the right to know. It's not my place to decide what Sophie Mayor is
strong enough to handle.
Too true. Win rose. I have some contacts trying to locate the official reports on Clu's
murder autopsy, crime scene, witness statements, labs, what have you. But everyone is tightlipped.
I got a possible source, Myron said.
Oh?
The Bergen County medical examiner is Sally Li. I know her.
Through Jessica's father?
Yes.
Go for it, Win said.
Myron watched him head for the door. Win?
Yes?
You have any thoughts on how I should break the news to Sophie Mayor?
None whatsoever.
Win left then. Myron stared at the phone. He picked it up and dialed Sophie Mayor's phone
number. It took some time, but a secretary finally patched him through to her. Sophie sounded
less than thrilled to hear his voice.
She opened sharply. What?
We need to talk, Myron said. There was distortion on the line. A cell or car phone probably.
We already talked.
This is different.
Silence. Then: I'm in the car right now, about a mile from my house out on the Island. How
important is this?
Myron picked up a pen. Give me your address, he said. I'll be right over.
Chapter 19
On the street the man was still reading a newspaper. Myron's elevator trip down to the lobby featured mucho stops. Not atypical. No one spoke, of course, everyone busying themselves by staring up at the descending flashing numbers as though awaiting a UFO landing. In the lobby he joined the stream of suits and flowed out onto Park Avenue, salmons fighting upstream against the tide until, well, they died. Many of the suits walked with heads high, their expressions kick-ass-runway-model; others walked with backs bent, flesh versions of the statue on Fifth Avenue of Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders,
but for them the world was simply too heavy.
Whoa, again with the deep.
Perfectly situated on the corner of Forty-sixth and Park, standing reading a newspaper but
positioned in such way as to watch all entering or leaving the Lock-Home building, was the same
man Myron had noticed standing there when he entered.
Hmm.
Myron took out his cell phone and hit the programmed button.
Articulate, Win said.
I think I got a tail.
Hold please. Maybe ten seconds passed. Then: The newspaper on the corner.
Win keeps a variety of telescopes and binoculars in his office. Don't ask.
Yep.
Good Lord, Win said. Could he be any more obvious?
Doubt it.
Where's the pride in his work? Where's the professionalism?
Sad.
That, my friend, is the whole problem with this country.
Bad tails?
It's an example. Look at him. Does anybody really stand on a street corner and read a
newspaper like that? He might as well cut out two eyeholes.
Uh-huh, Myron said. You got some free time?
But of course. How would you like to play it?
Back me up, Myron said.
Give me five.
Myron waited five minutes. He stood there and studiously avoided looking at the tail. He checked his watch and huffed a bit as though he expected someone and was getting impatient. When the five minutes passed, Myron walked straight over to the tail.
The tail spotted his approach and ducked into the newspaper.
Myron kept walking until he stood directly next to the tail. The tail kept his face in the newspaper. Myron gave him Smile 8. Big and toothy. A televangelist being handed a hefty check. Early Wink Martindale. The tail kept his eyes on the newspaper. Myron kept smiling, his eyes wide as a clown's. The tail ignored him. Myron inched closer, leaned his uber-wattage smile within inches of the taiPs face, wriggled his eyebrows.
The tail snapped closed the newspaper and sighed. Fine, hotshot, you made me. Congratulations.
Still with the Wink Martindale smile: And thank you for playing our game! But don't worry, we won't let you go home empty-handed! You get the home version of Incompetent Tail and a year's subscription to Modern Doofus Yeah, right, see you around.
Wait! Final Jeopardy! round. Answer: He or she hired you to follow me.
Bite me.
