'Rennart wanted vengeance. He waited twenty-three years to get it.'
+ Victoria frowned again.
'I admit that it's a bit of a stretch.'
'A bit? It's ridiculous. Do you know where Lloyd Rermart is now?'
'That's a little complicated.'
'Oh?'
'He may have committed suicide.'
Victoria looked at Linda, then at Myron. 'Would you please elaborate?'
'The body was never found,' Myron said. 'But everyone thinks he jumped off a cliff in Peru.'
Linda groaned. 'Oh, no . . .'
'What is it?' Victoria asked.
'We got a postcard from Peru.'
'Who did'?' '
'It was addressed to Jack, but it was unsigned. It arrived last fall or winter.'
Myron's pulse raced. Last fall or winter. About the time Lloyd allegedly jumped. 'What did it say?'
'It only had two words on it,' Linda said. ' 'Forgive me.' '
Silence.
Victoria broke it. 'That doesn't sound like the words of a man out for revenge.'
'No,' Myron agreed. He remembered what Esperanza had learned about the money Rennart had used to buy his house and bar. This postcard now confirmed what he had already suspected: Jack had been sabotaged. 'But it also means that what happened twenty-three years ago was no accident.'
'So what good does that do us'?' Victoria asked.
'Someone paid Rennart off to throw the U. S. Open.
Whoever did that would have motive.'
'To kill Rennart maybe,' Victoria countered. 'But not Jack.'
Good point. Or was it? Somebody had hated Jack enough twenty-three years ago to destroy his chances of winning the Open. Maybe that hatred had not died. Or maybe Jack had learned the truth and thus had to be quieted.
Either way, it was worth looking into.
'I do not want to go digging into the past,' Victoria said. 'It could make things very messy.'
'I thought you liked messy. Messy is fertile land for reasonable doubt.'
'Reasonable doubt, I like,' she said. 'But the unknown, I don't. Look into Esme Fong. Look into the Squires family. Look into whatever. But stay away from the past, Myron. You never know what you might find back there.'
Chapter 37
On the car phone: 'Mrs. Rennart? This is Myron Bolitar.'
'Yes, Mr. Bolitar.'
'I promised that I'd call you periodically. To keep you updated.' .
'Have you learned something new'?'
How to proceed? 'Not about your husband. So far, there is no evidence that suggests Lloyd's death was anything other than a suicide.'
'l see.'
Silence.
'So why are you calling me, Mr. Bolitar'?'
'Have you heard about Jack Coldren's murder?'
'Of course,' Francine Rennart said. 'It's on every station.' Then: 'You don't suspect Lloyd-'
''No,' Myron said quickly. 'But according to Jack's wife, Lloyd sent Jack a postcard from Peru. Right before his death.'
'I see,' she said again. 'What did it say?'
'It had only two words on it: 'Forgive me.' He didn't sign it.'
There was a brief pause and then she said, 'Lloyd is dead, Mr. Bolitar. So is Jack Coldren. Let it lie.'
'I'm not out to damage your husband's reputation.
But it is becoming clear that somebody either forced Lloyd to sabotage Jack or paid him to do it.'
'Arid you want me to help you prove that'?'
'Whoever it was may have murdered Jack and maimed his son. Your husband sent Jack a postcard asking for forgiveness. With all due respect, Mrs. Rennart, don't you think Lloyd would want you to heIp?'
More silence.
'What do you want from me, Mr. Bolitar? I don't know anything about what happened.'
'I realize that. But do you have any old papers of Lloyd's'? Did he keep a journal or a diary? Anything that might give us a clue?'
'He didn't keep a journal or a diary.'
'But there might be something else.' Gently, fair Myron. Tread gently. 'If Lloyd did receive compensation', 'a nice way of saying a bribe 'there may be bank receipts or letters or something.'
'There are boxes in the basement,' she said. 'Old photos, some papers maybe. I don't think there are any bank statements.' Francine Rennart stopped talking for a moment. Myron kept the receiver pushed against his ear.
'Lloyd always did have a lot of cash,' she said softly. 'I
never really asked where it came from.'
Myron licked his lips. 'Mrs. Rennart, can I look I through those boxes?'
'Tonight,' she said. 'You can come by tonight.'
Esperanza was not back at the cottage yet. But Myron had barely sat down when the intercom buzzed.
'Yes?'
The guard manning the front gate spoke with perfect diction. 'Sir, a gentleman and a young lady are here to see you. They claim that they are not with the media.'
'Did they give a name?'
'The gentleman said his name is Carl.'
'Let them in.'
Myron stepped outside and watched the canary-yellow Audi climb the drive. Carl pulled to a stop and got out.
His Hat hair looked freshly pressed, like he'd just gotten it 'martinized,' whatever that was. A young black woman who couldn't have been twenty years old came out of the passenger door. She looked around with eyes the size of satellite dishes.
Carl turned to the stables and cupped his big hand over his eyes. A female rider decked out in full gear was steering a horse through some sort of obstacle course.
'That what they call steeplechasing?' Carl asked.
'Got me,' Myron said.
Carl continued to watch. The rider got off the horse.
She unstrapped her black hat and patted the horse. Carl said, 'You don't see a lot of brothers dressed like that.'
'What about lawn jockeys?'
Carl laughed. 'Not bad,' he said. 'Not great, but not bad.'
Hard to argue. 'You here to take riding lessons'?'
'Not likely,' Carl said. 'This is Kiana. I think she may be of help to us.'
'Us?'
'You and me together, bro.' Carl smiled. 'I get to play your likable black partner.'
Myron shook his head. 'No.'
'Excuse me?'
'The likable black partner always ends up dead. Usually early on, too.'
That stopped Carl a second. 'Damn, I forgot about that.'
