'So you two went outside,' Myron prompted.
'We went outside and found a spot behind a shed. We only kissed, I swear. Nothing more. Just kissed. Then we heard some noise, so we stopped.'
Myron sat back down. 'What noise?'
'First it was just someone hitting tennis balls. But then we heard raised voices. One of them was Alexander's. Then we heard this awful scream.'
'What did you do?' Myron asked.
'Me? Nothing at first. Valerie screamed too. Then she broke into a run. I followed her. I lost her for a second. Then I came around a bend and saw her up ahead just standing there. When I got to her I saw what she was staring at. Alexander was bleeding all over the grass. His friends were starting to run away. The big black guy was standing over the body. He had a tennis racket in one hand, a big knife in the other.'
Myron leaned forward. 'You saw the murderer?'
Ned nodded. 'Up close and personal.'
'And he was a big black guy?'
'Yep.'
'How many of them were there?'
'Two. Both black.'
So much for the setup theory. Unless Ned was lying, which Myron doubted. 'So what happened next?'
Ned paused for a second. 'You ever see Valerie in her prime? On the court, I mean.'
'Yes.'
'You ever see that look in her eyes?'
'What look?'
'Certain athletes get it. Larry Bird used to. Joe Montana. Michael Jordan. Maybe you used to too. Well, Val had it, and she had it now. The smaller black guy started screaming at the big one, saying stuff like, 'Look what you did,' 'Are you crazy,' stuff like that. Then they started to run. They ran right toward us. Me, I ran. I'm no fool. But not Val. She just stood there and waited. When they got close she let out this big scream and dove at the little guy. I couldn't believe it. She tackled him like a linebacker. They both ended up on the ground. The little guy whacked her with his tennis racket and managed to pull away.'
'Did you get a good look at them?'
'Pretty good, I guess.'
'Did you ever see pictures of Errol Swade?'
'Yeah, sure, his picture was on the news every day for a while.'
'Was it the same guy you saw?'
'Definitely,' he said without hesitation. 'No question about it.'
Myron mulled this over. They'd been there that night. At the Old Oaks Club. Myron had been wrong. Lucinda Elright had been wrong. Swade and Yeller were not just casual fall guys. 'So what did you two do then?' Myron asked.
'Hey, her career was in enough trouble. We didn't need this kind of press. So I brought her back to the party. Didn't say anything to anyone about it. Val was out of it anyway – in a real funk, but that wasn't any surprise. I mean, think about it She takes me outside to cheat on her boyfriend at the exact moment he's getting murdered. Weird, huh?'
Myron nodded. 'Very.'
And, Myron thought, the kind of thing that would push a troubled soul over the final ledge.
Chapter 43
Myron and Jessica kept their promise. They did not talk about the murders. They snuggled and watched
Myron felt light-headed. For one night he actually forgot all about the world of Valerie Simpson and Alexander Cross and Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade and Frank Ache. It felt good. Too good. He started thinking about the suburbs and the hoop in the driveway and then he made himself stop thinking such thoughts.
Several hours later the morning sunlight drop-kicked him back into the real world. The escape had been paradise and for a fleeting moment, as he lay in bed with Jessica, he considered wrapping his arms around her and not going anywhere. Why move? What was out there that could come close to this?
He had no answer. Jessica hugged him a little tighter, as though reading his thoughts, but it didn't last long. They both dressed in silence and drove to Flushing Meadows. Today was the big match. The last Tuesday of the U.S. Open. The women's finals sandwiched by the men's semifinals. First match of the day featured the number-two seed, Thomas Craig, vs. the tournament's biggest surprise, Duane Richwood.
After they passed through the gate Myron gave Jessica a ticket stub. 'I'll meet you inside. I want to talk to Duane.'
'Now?' she said. 'Before the biggest match of his career?'
'Just for a second.'
She shrugged, gave him a skeptical eye, took the ticket
He hurried over to the players' lounge, showed his ID to the guard at the gate, and entered. The room was fairly unspectacular, considering that it was the players' lounge for a Grand Slam event. It reeked of baby powder. Duane sat alone in a corner. He had his Walkman on and his head tilted back. Myron couldn't tell if his eyes were opened or closed because, as always, Duane had on his sunglasses.
When he approached, Duane's finger switched off the music. He tilted his face up toward Myron. Myron could see himself in the reflection of the sunglasses. It reminded him of the windows in Frank's limo.
Duane's face was a rigid mask. He slowly slid the headphones off his ears and let them hang around his neck like a horseshoe. 'She's gone,' Duane said slowly. 'Wanda left me.'
'When?' Myron asked. The question was stupid and irrelevant, but he wasn't sure what else to say.
'This morning. What did you tell her?'
'Nothing.'
'I heard she came to you,' Duane said.
Myron said nothing.
'Did you tell her about seeing me at the hotel?'
'No.'
Duane changed tapes in the Walkman. 'Get out of here,' he said.
'She cares about you, Duane.'
'Funny way of showing it.'
'She just wants to know what's wrong.'
'Nothing's wrong.'
The sunglasses were disconcerting. He looked straight up at Myron; it appeared as though they were making eye contact, but who knew? 'This match is important,' Myron said, 'but not like Wanda.'
'You think I don't know that?' he snapped.
'Then tell her the truth.'
Duane's chiseled face smiled slowly. 'You don't understand,' he said.
'Make me understand.'
He fiddled with the Walkman, popping the tape out, pushing it back in. 'You think telling the truth will make it better, but you don't know what the truth is. You talking like 'The truth will set you free' when you don't even know the truth. The truth don't always set you free, Myron. Sometimes the truth can kill.'
'Hiding the truth isn't working,' Myron said.
'It would if you'd let it lie.'
'Someone was murdered. That's not something you can just let lie.'
Duane put the Walkman's headphones back on his ears. 'Maybe it should be,' he said.
Silence.
The two men stared dares. Myron could hear the faint din coming from the Walkman. Then he said to Duane, 'You were there the night Alexander Cross was murdered. You were at the club with Yeller and Swade.'
The stares continued. Behind them, Thomas Craig lined up by the door. He carried several tennis rackets and what looked like an overnight bag. Security was there too with walkie-talkies and earplugs. They nodded toward Duane. 'Show time, Mr. Richwood.'
Duane stood. 'Excuse me,' he said to Myron. 'I have a match to play.'
He walked behind Thomas Craig. Thomas Craig smiled politely. Duane did likewise. Very civil, tennis. Myron watched them leave. He sat there for a few minutes in the abandoned locker room. In the distance he heard the cheers as both men entered the court.
Show time.
Myron found his way to his seat. It was during the match – in the fourth set actually – when he finally figured out who murdered Valerie Simpson.
Chapter 44
