“Yes. One of them looks like you.” Myron pointed to Cole Whiteman.
Win studied it for a moment. “While the man is indeed handsome, he lacks both my sense of style and my striking, debonair good looks.”
“Not to mention your humility.”
Win put out his hand. “Then you understand.”
Myron looked at the picture again. He thought again about what Dimonte said about Professor Sidney Bowman’s daily routine. Then it came to him all at once. Ice flooded his veins in a gush. In his mind he changed around Cole’s features a bit, imagined distortions from plastic surgery and twenty years of aging. It didn’t fit exactly, but it was close enough.
Liz Gorman had disguised herself by perverting her most distinguishing characteristic. Wouldn’t it make sense to assume that Cole Whiteman had done the same?
“Myron?”
He looked up. “I think I know where to find Cole Whiteman.”
Chapter 30
Hector was not thrilled to see Myron back at the Parkview Diner.
“We think we found Sally’s accomplice,” Myron said.
Hector cleaned the counter with a rag.
“His name is Norman Lowenstein. Do you know him?”
Hector shook his head.
“He’s a homeless man. He hangs out in the back and uses your pay phone.”
Hector stopped cleaning. “You think I’d let a homeless man in my kitchen?” he said. “And we don’t even have a back. Take a look.”
The answer did not surprise Myron. “He was sitting at the counter when I was here the other day,” he tried. “Unshaven. Long black hair. Tattered beige overcoat.”
Still working the rag over the Formica, Hector nodded. “I think I know who you mean. Black sneakers?”
“Right.”
“He comes in a lot. But I don’t know his name.”
“Did you ever see him talk to Sally?”
Hector shrugged. “Maybe. When she was his waitress. I really don’t know.”
“When was he here last?”
“I haven’t seen him since the day you came in,” Hector said.
“And you never met him?”
“No.”
“Or know anything about him?”
“No.”
Myron wrote down his phone number on a scrap of paper. “If you see him, please call. There’s a thousand- dollar reward.”
Hector studied the phone number. “This your work number? At AT&T?”
“No. It’s my personal phone.”
“Uh huh,” Hector said. “I called AT&T after you left last time. There’s no such thing as Y511 and there’s no employee named Bernie Worley.” He did not look particularly upset, but he wasn’t dancing the hula either. He just waited, watching Myron with steady eyes.
“I lied to you,” Myron said. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s your real name?” he asked.
“Myron Bolitar.” He gave the man one of his cards. Hector studied it for a moment.
“You’re a sports agent?”
“Yes.”
“What does a sports agent have to do with Sally?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You shouldn’t have lied like that. It wasn’t right.”
“I know,” Myron said. “I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t important.”
Hector put the card in his shirt pocket. “I have customers.” He turned away. Myron debated explaining further, but there was no point.
Win was waiting for him on the sidewalk. “Well?”
“Cole Whiteman is a homeless man who calls himself Norman Lowenstein.”
Win waved down a taxi. A driver in a turban slowed down. They got in. Myron told him where to go. The driver nodded; as he did, his turban buffed the taxi’s ceiling. Sitar music blew forth from the front speakers, plucking at the air with razor-sharp nails. Awful. It made Benny and His Magical Sitar sound like Itzhak Perlman. Still it was preferable to Yanni.
“He looks nothing like that old picture,” Myron said. “He’s had plastic surgery. He grew his hair and dyed it jet black.”
They waited at a traffic light. A blue TransAm pulled up next to them, one of those souped-up models that hip-hopped up and down while playing music loud enough to crack the earth’s core. The taxi actually started shaking from the decibel level. The light turned green. The TransAm sped ahead.
“I started thinking about how Liz Gorman had disguised herself,” Myron continued. “She’d taken her defining attribute and stood it on its head. Cole was the well-bred, clean-cut rich boy. What better way to stand that on its head than to become an unkempt vagrant?”
“A
“Right. So when Dimonte told me that Professor Bowman liked to hang out with the homeless, something clicked.”
The turban barked, “Route.”
“What?”
“Route. Henry Hudson or Broadway.”
“Henry Hudson,” Win replied. He glanced over at Myron. “Continue.”
“This is what I think happened,” Myron said. “Cole Whiteman suspected Liz Gorman was in some kind of trouble. Maybe she hadn’t called him or met up with him. Something. The problem was, he couldn’t check it out himself. Whiteman hasn’t survived underground all these years by being stupid. He knew that if the police found her, they’d set a trap for him—the way they’re doing right now.”
“So,” Win said, “he gets you to go in for him.”
Myron nodded. “He hangs around the diner, hoping to hear something about ‘Sally.’ When he overhears me talking to Hector, he figures I’m his best bet. He gives me this weird story about how he knows her from using the phone at the diner. Claimed they were lovers. The story didn’t really mesh, but I didn’t bother questioning it. Anyway, he takes me to her place. Once I’m inside, he hides and waits to see what happens. He sees the cops come. He probably even sees the body being taken out—all from a safe distance. It confirms what he probably suspected all along. Liz Gorman is dead.”
Win thought about it a moment. “And now you think Professor Bowman may be contacting him when he visits with the homeless?”
“Yes.”
“So our next goal is to find Cole Whiteman.”
“Yes.”
“Amongst the wretched unbathed in some godforsaken shelter?”
“Yes.”
Win looked pained. “Oh, goodie.”
“We could try to set a trap for him,” Myron said. “But I think it’ll take too long.”
“Set a trap how?”
