“Forget I said anything. Go take the call.”
“No, really, my goal in life is to be just like you.”
Myron shook his head. “You’ll never have my ass.”
“There’s that,” she agreed before leaving.
Left alone, Myron picked up the Raven Brigade photo. He located the three members still at large—Gloria Katz, Susan Milano, and the Ravens’ enigmatic leader and most famous member, Cole Whiteman. No one had drawn the press’s attention and ire more than Cole Whiteman. Myron had been in elementary school when the Ravens went into hiding, yet he still remembered the stories. For one thing, Cole could have passed for Win’s brother—blond, patrician-featured, well-to-do family. While everyone else in the picture was scraggly and long haired, Cole was freshly shaven with a conservative haircut, his one sixties concession being sideburns that went down a tad too far. Hardly your Hollywood-cast, radical leftist. But as Myron had learned from Win, looks could often be deceiving.
He put down the photograph and dialed Dimonte’s line at One Police Plaza. After Dimonte snarled a hello, Myron asked him if he had anything new.
“You think we’re partners now, Bolitar?”
“Just like Starsky and Hutch,” Myron said.
“God, I miss those two,” Dimonte said. “That hot car. Hanging out with Fuzzy Bear.”
“Huggy Bear,” Myron said.
“What?”
“His name was Huggy Bear, not Fuzzy Bear.”
“Really?”
“Time’s short, Rolly. Let me help if I can.”
“You first. What have you got?”
Another negotiation. Myron told him about Greg’s gambling. Figuring that Rolly had the phone records too, he also told him about the suspected blackmail scheme. He didn’t tell him about the videotape. It wouldn’t be fair, not until he spoke to Emily first. Dimonte asked a few questions. When he was satisfied, he said, “Okay, what do you want to know?”
“Did you find anything else at Greg’s house?”
“Nothing,” Dimonte said. “And I mean, nothing. Remember how you told me you found some feminine doodads in the bedroom? Some woman’s clothes or lotions or something?”
“Yes.”
“Well, someone got rid of them too. No sign of any female apparel.”
So, Myron thought, the lover theory rears its ugly head once again. The lover comes back to the house and cleans up the blood to protect Greg. Then she covers her own tracks too, making sure that their relationship remains a secret. “How about witnesses?” Myron asked. “Anybody in Liz Gorman’s building see anything?”
“Nope. We canvassed the whole neighborhood. No one saw nada. Everybody was studying or something. Oh, another thing: the press picked up the murder. The story hit the morning editions.”
“You gave them her real name?”
“You crazy? Of course not. They think it’s just another breaking and entering homicide. But get this. We got an anonymous tip called in this morning. Someone suggested we check out Greg Downing’s house.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Female voice.”
“He’s being set up, Rolly.”
“No shit, Sherlock. By a chick nonetheless. And the murder didn’t exactly make a big news splash. It was stuck in the back pages like every other unspectacular homicide in this cesspool. Got a little extra juice because it was so close to a college campus.”
“Have you looked into that connection?” Myron asked.
“What connection?”
“Columbia University being so close by. Half of the sixties movements started there. They must still have some sympathizers in the ranks. Maybe someone there helped Liz Gorman.”
Dimonte gave a dramatic sigh. “Bolitar, do you think all cops are morons?”
“No.”
“You think you’re the only one who thought of that?”
“Well,” Myron said, “I have been called gifted.”
“Not in today’s sports section.”
Touche. “So what did you find out?”
“She rented the place from some whacko, fanatic, leftist, commie, pinko so-called Columbia professor named Sidney Bowman.”
“You’re so tolerant, Rolly.”
“Yeah, well, I lose touch when I keep missing those ACLU meetings. Anyway, this pinko won’t talk. He says she just rented from him and paid in cash. We all know he’s lying. The feds grilled him, but he got a team of faggot, liberal lawyers down here to spring him. Called us a bunch of Nazi pigs and stuff.”
“That’s not a compliment, Rolly. In case you don’t know.”
“Thanks for clueing me in. I got Krinsky tailing him right now, but he’s got nothing. I mean, this Bowman’s not a retard. He’s got to know we’re watching.”
“What else have you got on him?”
“Divorced. No kids. He teaches a class in existential, worthless-in-the-real-world bullshit. According to Krinsky he spends most of his time helping the homeless. That’s supposed to be his daily ritual—hanging out with hobos in parks and shelters. Like I said, a whacko.”
Win entered the office without knocking. He headed straight for the corner and opened the closet door, revealing a full-length mirror. He checked his hair. Patted it though every strand was perfect. Then he spread his legs a bit and put his arms straight down. Pretending to be gripping a golf club. Win slowly began to turn into a backswing, watching his motion in the mirror, making sure the front arm remained straight, the grip relaxed. He did this all the time, sometimes stopping in front of store windows while walking down the street. This was the golf equivalent, Myron surmised, to the weight lifters who flex whenever they happen past their reflection. It was also annoying as all hell.
“Got anything else, Rolly?”
“No. You?”
“Nothing. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Can hardly wait, Hutch,” Dimonte said. “You know something? Krinsky’s so young he doesn’t even remember the show. Sad, ain’t it?”
“Today’s youth,” Myron said. “They got no culture.”
Myron hung up. Win continued to study his shot in the mirror. “Fill me in please,” he said. Myron did. When he finished, Win said, “This Fiona, the ex-playmate. She sounds like a perfect candidate for a Windsor Horne Lockwood III interrogation.”
“Uh huh,” Myron said. “But why don’t you first tell me about the Windsor Horne Lockwood III interrogation of Thumper?”
Win frowned at the mirror, adjusted his grip. “She is rather close mouthed,” he said. “So I took a distinctive tack.”
“What tack is that?”
Win told him about their conversation. Myron just shook his head. “So you followed her?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And there is not much to report. She went to TC’s house after the game. She slept over. No calls of any consequence were made from his residence. Either she was not rattled by our conversation, or she doesn’t know anything.”
“Or,” Myron added, “she knew she was being followed.”
Win frowned again. He either didn’t like Myron’s suggestion or he’d spotted a problem with his swing. Probably the latter. He turned away from the mirror and glanced at Myron’s desk. “Is that the Raven Brigade?”
