time to bring it up, with all this stuff going on. Or maybe that’s why I chose now, I don’t know. But don’t say anything. Just think about it. Don’t call me today. Or tonight. I’m going to your game, but then I’m taking Audrey out for a few drinks. It’s her birthday. Sleep at your house tonight. Maybe we’ll talk tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Myron agreed.
Chapter 20
Big Cyndi sat at the reception desk. “Sat” was probably the wrong word. Talk about the proverbial camel trying to squeeze through the eye of the needle. The desk’s four legs were off the floor, the top teetering on Big Cyndi’s knees like a seesaw. Her coffee mug disappeared into fleshy hands that resembled couch cushions. Her short spikes of hair had more of a pinkish hue today. Her makeup reminded him of a childhood incident involving melted Crayola crayons. She wore white lipstick, like something out of an Elvis documentary. Her size-3XL T-shirt read CLUB SODA NOT SEALS. It took Myron a few seconds to get it. Politically correct but cute.
Usually she growled when she saw Myron. Today she smiled sweetly and batted her eyes at him. The sight was far more frightening, like Bette Davis in
“Line one?” he tried.
She shook her head. The up and down gesture became more hurried. She looked up at the ceiling. Myron followed her gaze but he saw nothing. Cyndi rolled her eyes. The smile was frozen on her face, like a clown’s.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“Win wants to see you,” she said.
It was the first time Myron had heard her voice, and it startled him. She sounded like one of those perky hostesses on a cable shopping network, the one where people call up and describe in far too much detail how much their lives were improved by purchasing a green vase shaped like Mount Rushmore.
“Where’s Esperanza?” he asked.
“Win’s cute.”
“Is she here?”
“Win seemed to think it was important.”
“I’m just—”
“You’re going to see Win,” Cyndi interrupted. “You’re certainly not checking up on your most valued associate.” The sweet smile.
“I’m not checking up. I just want to know—”
“Where Win’s office is. It’s two stories up.” She made a sound with her coffee that some might loosely label “slurping.” Moose in the tri-state area scattered in search of mates.
“Tell her I’ll be back,” Myron said.
“But of course.” She batted her eyelashes. They looked like two tarantulas in death throes. “Have a nice day.”
Win’s corner office faced Fifty-second Street and Park Avenue. Major league view for Lock-Horne Securities’ golden boy. Myron sank into one of the lush burgundy leather chairs. There were several paintings of fox hunts on the richly paneled walls. Dozens of manly men on horseback, dressed in black hats, red blazers, white pants, black boots, rode out armed with only rifles and dogs to chase down a small furry creature until they caught and killed it. Ah, gamesmanship. A tad overkill maybe. Like using a flamethrower to light a cigarette.
Win typed on a laptop computer that looked lonely on the mono-expanse he called a desk. “I found something of interest on the computer disks we made at Greg’s house.”
“Oh?”
“It appears our friend Mr. Downing had an e-mail address with America Online,” Win said. “He downloaded this particular piece of mail on Saturday.” Win spun the laptop around so Myron could read the screen:
Subj: Sex!
Date: 3-11 14:51:36 EST
From: Sepbabe
To: Downing22
Meet you tonight at ten. The place we discussed. Come. I promise you the greatest night of ecstasy imaginable.
—F
Myron looked up. “Greatest night of ecstasy imaginable?”
“She has quite the writing flair, no?” Win said.
Myron made a face.
Win put a sincere hand to his heart. “Even if she could not live up to such a promise,” he continued, “one has to admire her ability to take risk, her dedication to her craft.”
“Uh huh,” Myron said. “So who is F?”
“There is no profile for the screen name Sepbabe on line,” Win explained. “That doesn’t mean anything, of course. Many users don’t have a profile. They don’t want everyone knowing their real name. I would assume however that F is yet another alias for our dearly departed friend Carla.”
“We have Carla’s real name now,” Myron said.
“Oh?”
“Liz Gorman.”
Win arched an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“Liz Gorman. As in the Raven Brigade.” He told Win about Fred Higgins’s call. Win leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. As usual his face gave away nothing.
When Myron finished, Win said, “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“It comes down to this,” Myron said. “What connection could there possibly be between Greg Downing and Liz Gorman?”
“A strong one,” Win said, nodding toward the screen. “The possibility of the greatest night of ecstasy imaginable, if one is to buy into the hyperbole.”
“But with Liz Gorman?”
“Why not?” Win almost sounded defensive. “You shouldn’t discriminate on the basis of age or implants. It wouldn’t be right.”
Mr. Equal Rights. “It’s not that,” Myron said. “Let’s pretend that Greg has the hots for Liz Gorman, even though nobody described her as much of a looker…”
“You’re so shallow, Myron,” Win said with a disenchanted shake of the head. “Did you ever consider the possibility that Greg saw beneath that? She did, after all, have large breasts.”
“As usual when discussing sex,” Myron replied, “you’ve missed the point.”
“Which is?”
“How would they have hooked up in the first place?”
Win steepled his fingers again, bouncing the tips against his nose. “Ah,” he said.
“Right, ah. Here’s a woman who’s been living underground for more than twenty years. She’s traveled all over the world, probably never staying in one spot for very long. She was in Arizona robbing a bank two months ago. She’s working as a waitress in a tiny diner on Dyckman Street. How does this woman hook up with Greg Downing?”
“Difficult,” Win allowed, “but not impossible. There is plenty of evidence to support that.”
“Like?”
Win motioned to the computer screen. “This e-mail is talking about last Saturday night, for one—the same night Greg and Liz Gorman met in a New York City bar.”
