Cole smiled sadly and began to walk away. He stopped before he reached the door and turned back around. “I’m alone now,” he said. “Gloria Katz was shot in the initial attack. She died three months later. Susan Milano died in a car crash in 1982. Liz and I kept their deaths a secret. We wanted the feds searching for four of us, not two. We thought it would help us stay hidden. So you see, there is only one of us left now.”
He had the bone-weary look of a survivor who wasn’t so sure the dead weren’t the lucky ones. He rambled back over toward Myron and unlocked the handcuffs. “Go,” he said.
Myron rose, rubbing his wrists. “Thank you,” he said.
Cole merely nodded.
“I won’t tell anyone where you are.”
“Yeah,” Cole said. “I know.”
Chapter 35
Myron sprinted to his car and dialed Clip’s number. Clip’s secretary answered and told him that Mr. Arnstein was not in at the moment. He asked her to transfer the call to Calvin Johnson. She put him on hold. Ten seconds later, the call was put through.
“Hey, Myron,” Calvin said, “what’s up?”
“Where’s Clip?”
“He should be here in a couple of hours. By game time anyway.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find him,” Myron said. “When you do, call me back.”
“What’s going on?” Calvin asked.
“Just find him.”
Myron disconnected the call. He opened the car window and took deep breaths. It was a few minutes after six. Most of the guys would already be at the arena warming up. He headed up Riverside Drive and crossed the George Washington Bridge. He dialed Leon White’s number. A woman answered.
“Hello?”
Myron disguised his voice. “Is this Mrs. Fiona White?” he asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Would you like to subscribe to
“No, thank you.” She hung up.
Conclusion: Fiona White, the Sepbabe and promisor of night ecstasy, was home. Time to pay her a little visit.
He took Route 4 and got off at Kindermack Road. Five minutes later, he was there. The house was a semi- nouveau ranch with orange-tinged brick and diamond-shaped windows. This particular architectural look was all the rage for maybe a two-month span in 1977, and it had aged about as well as the leisure suit. Myron parked in the driveway. On either side of the cement walkway were low-rise iron fences with plastic ivy snaked through them. Classy.
He rang the bell. Fiona White opened the door. Her green, flower-print blouse hung open over a white leotard. Her bleached-blonde hair was tied in a bun that was falling apart, spare strands dangling down over her eyes and ears. She looked at Myron and frowned. “Yes?”
“Hi, Fiona. I’m Myron Bolitar. We met the other night at TC’s house.”
The frown was still there. “Leon isn’t here.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
Fiona sighed and crossed her arms under the ample bosom. “What about?”
“Can I come inside?”
“No. I’m busy right now.”
“I think it would be better in private.”
“This is private,” she said, her face unyielding. “What do you want?”
Myron shrugged, conjured up his most charming smile, saw it would take him nowhere. “I want to know about you and Greg Downing.”
Fiona White’s arms dropped to her sides. She suddenly looked horror-stricken. “What?”
“I know about your e-mail to him. Sepbabe. You were supposed to meet last Saturday for the”—Myron made quote marks with his fingers—“‘greatest night of ecstasy imaginable.’ Do you recall that?”
Fiona White went to close the door. Myron stuck his foot in the way.
“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” she said.
“I’m not trying to expose you.”
She pushed the door against his foot. “Get out.”
“I’m just trying to find Greg Downing.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Were you having an affair with him?”
“No. Now leave.”
“I saw the e-mail, Fiona.”
“Think what you want. I’m not talking to you.”
“Fine,” Myron said, moving back and throwing up his hands. “I’ll talk to Leon instead.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Do whatever you want,” she said. “I did not have an affair with him. I did not see him last Saturday night. I don’t know where he is.”
She slammed the door.
Gee, that went well.
Myron headed back to his car. As he reached the door, a black BMW with tinted windows rocketed up the street and screeched to a halt in the driveway. The driver’s door opened and Leon flew out like an escaped bird.
“What the fuck you doing here?” he snapped.
“Take it easy, Leon.”
“Fuck take it easy,” he shouted. Leon ran up and stuck his face within an inch of Myron’s. “What the fuck you doing around here, huh?”
“I came by to see you.”
“Bullshit.” The spittle hit Myron’s cheeks. “We’re supposed to be at the arena in twenty minutes.” He pushed Myron in the chest. Myron stumbled back. “Why you here, huh?” Leon pushed again. “What are you sniffing after?”
“Nothing.”
“You think you’d find my wife alone?”
“It’s nothing like that.”
Leon lined himself up for another push. Myron was ready. When Leon’s hand reached him, Myron’s right forearm shot across his body, pinning Leon’s hands helplessly against Myron’s chest. Myron bent at the waist, bending Leon’s wrists back the wrong way. The pressure forced Leon to drop to one knee. Myron’s right hand slid until it met Leon’s left. He grabbed it and quickly executed an elbow lock. Leon winced.
“You calm?” Myron asked.
“Motherfucker.”
“That doesn’t sound like calm, Leon.” Myron applied a little pressure to the elbow. Joint locks were about controlled pain. They worked by bending joints in ways they were never intended to bend. The more the bend, the more the pain. But go too far and the joint dislocated or a bone broke. Myron was careful.
“Greg is missing again,” Myron said. “That’s why I’m on the team. I’m supposed to find him.”
Leon was still on his knees, his arm locked and upright. “So what does that have to do with me?”
“You two have had a falling out,” Myron said. “I want to know why.”
