Duane took off his shirt and began toweling off his chest. 'Some stalker killed her,' he said. 'I saw it on the news. Got nothing to do with me.'
'Why did she call you, Duane?'
His hands were clenching and unclenching. 'You work for me, right?'
'Right'
'Then drop it or you're fired.'
Myron looked at him. 'No,' he said.
Duane sunk into a chair, his head in his hands. 'Shit, I'm sorry, Myron. I didn't mean that. It's just the pressure. What with this tournament and that Dimonte cop accusing me and all. Look, just forget I said anything, okay? Just forget this whole conversation happened.'
'No.'
'What?'
'Why did she call you, Duane?'
'Man, don't you listen?'
'Not well.'
'Just stay out of it.'
'No.'
'It's got nothing to do with the murder.'
'Then you admit she called you?'
Duane stood, turned his back toward Myron, leaned against his locker.
'Duane?'
His words were soft. 'Yeah, she called me. So what?'
'Why?'
'Let's just say we were acquainted. Intimately, if you get my drift.'
'You and Valerie…?' Myron made futile hand gestures.
Duane nodded slowly. 'It was no big thing. Just a few times.'
'When did this start?'
'Couple of months ago.'
'Where did you meet?'
He looked at Myron, confused. 'At a tournament.'
'Which one?'
'I don't remember. New Haven, I think. But it was over quick.'
'So why did you lie to the police?'
'Why do you think?' he countered. 'Wanda was standing right there. I love her, man. I made a mistake. I didn't want to hurt her. Is that so wrong?'
'So why wouldn't you tell me?'
'What?'
'When I asked you just now. Why didn't you tell me the truth?'
'Same reason.'
'But Wanda isn't here.'
'I was ashamed, okay?'
'Ashamed?'
'I'm not proud of what I did.'
Myron watched him. With those sunglasses Duane's face looked sleek and robotic. But something wasn't right here. It was a nice sentiment, but twenty-one-year-old professional athletes, no matter how faithful to their partners, were not this ashamed of letting their agents know about an indiscretion. The excuse might be commendable, but it rang hollow. 'If it was over, why was Valerie calling you?'
'I don't know. She wanted to see me again. One last fling, I guess.'
'Did you agree to see her?'
'No. I told her we were finished.'
'What else did you say?'
'Nothing.'
'What else did she say?'
'Nothing.'
'Are you sure? Do you remember anything at all?'
'No. Nothing.'
'Did she seem distressed?'
'Not that I could tell.'
The door opened. Players began to file in, many offering Duane icy congratulations. Rising stars were not big in the locker room. If someone new was joining the ultra-exclusive tennis club known as the 'Top Ten,' another member had to be thrown out. The way it was. No boardroom was this cutthroat. Everyone was a rival here. Everyone was competing for the same dollars and fame. Everyone was an enemy.
Duane suddenly looked very much alone.
'You hungry?' Myron asked.
'Starved,' Duane said.
'You want anything in particular?'
'Pizza,' Duane said. 'Extra cheese and pepperoni.'
'Get dressed. I'll meet you out front.'
Chapter 16
'Myron Bolitar?'
The car phone. He'd just dropped Duane off at his apartment.
'Yes.'
'This is Gerard Courter with the NYPD. Jake's son.'
'Oh, right. How's it going, Gerard?'
'Can't complain. I doubt you remember but we played against each other once.'
' Michigan State,' Myron said. 'I remember. And I have the bruises to prove it.'
Gerard laughed. Sounded just like his old man. 'Glad I was memorable.'
'That's a polite word for what you were.'
Another Jake-like guffaw. 'My dad said you needed info on the Simpson homicide.'
'I'd appreciate it.'
'You probably heard there's a major suspect. Guy named Roger Quincy.'
'The stalker.'
'Yeah.'
'Is there anything specific tying him to the murder?' Myron asked. 'Besides the stalking?'
'He's on the run, for one thing. When they got to Quincy 's apartment he was packed and gone. No one knows where he is.'
'He might have just been scared,' Myron said.
'Good reason to be.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Roger Quincy was at the tennis center on the day of the murder.'
'You have witnesses?'
'Several.'
That slowed Myron down. 'What else?'
'She was shot with a thirty-eight. Very close range. We found the weapon in a garbage can ten yards away from the shooting. Smith amp; Wesson. It was in a Feron's bag. The bag had a bullet hole in it.'
Feron's. Another tournament sponsor. They were licensed to sell 'official tournament merchandise.' Feron's had at least half a dozen stands selling to a zillion people. No way to trace it back. 'So the killer walked up to her,' Myron said, 'shot her through the bag, kept walking, dumped the gun in the garbage, and headed out.'
'That's how we see it,' Gerard said.
'A cool customer.'
'Very.'
'Any prints on the gun?' Myron asked.
