Myron smiled. 'Hi, Rolly.'
'Let's get one thing straight, Bolitar. I know all about you. I know all about your glory days with the feds. I know all about how you like to play cop now. But I don't give a shit about none of that Nor do I give a shit that your client is a public figure. I gotta job to do. You hear what I'm saying?'
Myron put his hand to his ear. 'Must be a bad connection.'
Roland Dimonte crossed his arms and gave Myron his most withering glare. The snakeskin boots had a high platform of some sort, pushing his height over six foot but Myron still had a good three or four inches on him. A minute passed. Roland still glared. Then another minute. Roland gnawed on the toothpick. The glare persisted without a blink.
'On the inside,' Myron said, 'I'm quaking in fear.'
'Go fuck yourself, Bolitar.'
'Chewing the toothpick is a nice touch. A little cliche perhaps, but it works for you.'
'Just keep it up, smart-ass.'
'Mind if I come in,' Myron said, 'before I wet my pants?'
Dimonte moved out of the way. Slowly. The death glare was still locked on autopilot.
Myron found Duane sitting on the couch. He was wearing his Ray-Bans, but that was not surprising. He stroked his closely cropped beard with his left hand. Wanda, Duane's girlfriend, stood by the kitchen. She was tall, five-ten or so. Her figure was what was commonly referred to as tight or hard rather than muscular, and she was a stunner. Her eyes kept darting about like birds moving from branch to branch.
It was not a huge apartment. The decor was standard New York rental. Duane and Wanda had moved in only a few weeks ago. Month-to-month lease. No reason to fix the place up. With the money Duane was about to start making they could live anywhere they wanted to soon.
'Did you say anything to them?' Myron asked.
Duane shook his head. 'Not yet.'
'Want to tell me what's going on?'
Duane shook his head again. 'I don't know.'
There was another cop in the room. A younger guy. Much younger. He looked to be about twelve. Probably just made detective. He had his pad out, his pen at the ready.
Myron turned to Roland Dimonte. Dimonte had his hands on his hips, emanating self-importance from every pore. 'What's this all about?' Myron asked.
'We just want to ask your client a few questions.'
'About what?'
'The murder of Valerie Simpson.'
Myron looked over at Duane. 'I don't know nothing,' Duane said.
Dimonte sat down, making a big production out of it King Lear. 'Then you won't mind answering a few questions?'
Duane said, 'No.' But he didn't sound very confident about it
'Where were you when the shooting occurred?'
Duane glanced at Myron. Myron nodded. 'I was on Stadium Court '
'What were you doing?'
'Playing tennis.'
'Who was your opponent?'
Myron nodded. 'You're good, Rolly.'
'Shut the fuck up, Bolitar.'
Duane said, 'Ivan Restovich.'
'Did the match continue after the shooting?'
'Yeah. It was match point anyway.'
'Did you hear the gunshot?'
'Yeah.'
'What did you do?'
'Do?'
'When you heard the shot?'
Duane shrugged. 'Nothing. I just stood there until the umpire told us to keep playing.'
'You never left the court?'
'No.'
The young cop kept scribbling, never looking up.
'Then what did you do?' Dimonte asked.
'When?'
'After the match.'
'I did an interview.'
'Who interviewed you?'
'Bud Collins and Tim Mayotte.'
The young cop looked up for a moment, confused.
' Mayotte,' Myron said. 'M-A-Y-O-T-T-E.'
He nodded and resumed his scribbling.
'What did you talk about?' Roland asked him.
'Huh?'
'During the interview. What did they ask you about?'
Dimonte shot a challenging glare at Myron. Myron responded with his warmest nod and a pilotlike thumbs up.
'I'm not going to tell you again, Bolitar. Cut the shit.'
'Just admiring your technique.'
'You'll admire it from a jail cell in a minute.'
'Gasp!'
Another death glare from Roland Dimonte before he turned back to Duane. 'Do you know Valerie Simpson?'
'Personally?'
'Yes.'
Duane shook his head. 'No.'
'But you've met?'
'No.'
'You don't know her at all?'
'That's right.'
'You've never had any contact with her?'
'Never.'
Roland Dimonte crossed his legs, resting his boot on his knee. His fingers caressed – actually caressed -the white-and-purple snakeskin. Like it was a pet dog. 'How about you, miss?'
Wanda seemed startled. 'Pardon me?'
'Have you ever met Valerie Simpson?'
'No.' Her voice was barely audible.
Dimonte turned back to Duane. 'Had you ever heard of Valerie Simpson before today?'
Myron rolled his eyes. But for once he kept his mouth shut. He didn't want to push it too far. Dimonte was not as dumb as he appeared. No one was. He was trying to lull Duane before the big whammy. Myron's job was to disrupt his rhythm with a few choice interruptions. But not too many.
Myron Bolitar, darling of the tightrope.
Duane said with a shrug, 'Yeah, I heard of her.'
'In what capacity?'
'She used to be on the circuit Couple years back, I think.'
'The tennis circuit?'
'No, the nightclub circuit,' Myron interjected. 'She used to open for Anthony Newley in Vegas.'
So much for Mr. Restraint.
The glare was back. 'Bolitar, you're really starting to piss me off.'
'Are you going to get to the point already?'
'I take my time with interrogations. I don't like to rush.'
'Should do the same,' Myron said, 'when purchasing footwear.'
Dimonte's face reddened. Still glaring at Myron, he said, 'Mr. Richwood, how long have you been on the circuit?'
'Six months.'
'And in those six months you never saw Valerie Simpson?'
