'I'm not here to talk about Duane,' Myron said.
A shadow crossed his face. 'Oh?'
'I want to discuss another client. Or should I say a once-potential client.'
'And who would that be?'
'Valerie Simpson.'
Myron looked for a reaction. He got one. Pavel lowered his head into his hands. 'Oh, my God.'
The box rumbled with overwrought concern. Comforting hands found their way to Pavel's shoulders, uttering his name in low voices. But Pavel pushed them away. Very brave.
'Valerie came to me a few days ago,' Myron continued. 'She wanted to make a comeback.'
Pavel took a deep breath. He made a show of putting himself together a piece at a time. When he was able to continue, he said, 'The poor child. I can't believe it. I
just can't…' He stopped. Overwhelmed again. Then:
'I was her coach, you know. During her glory years.'
Myron nodded.
'To be shot down like that. Like a dog.' He shook his head dramatically.
'When was the last time you saw Valerie?'
'Several years ago,' he said.
'Have you seen her since the breakdown?'
'No. Not since she went into the hospital.'
'Spoken to her? On the phone maybe?'
Pavel shook his head again. Then he lowered it. 'I blame myself for what happened to her. I should have looked out for her better.'
'What do you mean?'
'When you coach one so young, you have responsibilities that go beyond her life on the court. She was a child – a child growing up in the spotlight. The media, they are savages, no? They don't understand what they do to sell papers. I tried to cushion some of their blows. I tried to protect her, to not let it eat her up inside. In the end, I failed.'
He sounded genuine, but Myron knew that meant nothing. People were amazing liars. The more sincere they sounded – the more they held your gaze and looked truthful – the more sociopathic they were. 'Do you have any idea who would have wanted her dead?'
He looked puzzled by the question. 'Why are you asking these questions, Myron?'
'I'm looking into something.'
'Into what? If I may ask.'
'It's kind of personal.'
He studied Myron for a few seconds. The stench of tobacco was heavy on his breath. Myron was forced to inhale through his mouth. 'I will tell you the same thing I told the police,' Pavel said. 'In my opinion Valerie's breakdown was not just from the usual tennis pressures.'
Myron nodded, encouraging him to continue.
Pavel turned his palms toward the sky, as though seeking divine intervention. 'Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I want to believe that to – how do you say? – soothe my own guilt. I don't know anymore. But I've had a lot of young people in my camp and never have I experienced anything like what happened to Valerie. No, Myron, her problems were caused by more than the pressures of big-time tennis.'
'What then?'
'I'm not a medical doctor, you understand. I cannot say for sure. But you must remember that Valerie was being menaced.'
Myron waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't, Myron said, 'Menaced?' Probing interrogatories – one of Myron's strong suits.
'Stalked,' he said with a finger snap. 'That's the word they use nowadays. Valerie was being stalked.'
'By whom?'
'A very sick man, Myron. A terrible man. After all these years I still remember his name. Roger Quincy. Crazy animal. He wrote her love letters. He called all the time. He hung around her house, by her hotel, at every match she played.'
'When was this?'
'When she was on the tour, of course. It began – I don't know – six months before she was hospitalized.'
'Did you try to stop him?'
'Of course. We went to the police. They could do nothing. We tried to get a court order, but this Quincy never actually threatened her. He would say 'I love you, I want to be with you,' things like that. We did our best. We changed hotels, signed in under different aliases. But you have to remember, Valerie was just a child. She became paranoid. The pressure on her was already tremendous. But now she had to look over her shoulder all the time. This Roger Quincy, he was a crazy beast. That's what he was. He was the one who should have been gunned down.'
Myron nodded, waiting a beat. 'How did Alexander Cross react to Roger Quincy?'
The question stunned Pavel like a surprise left hook. Lennox Lewis vs. Frank Bruno. He hesitated, trying to regain his footing. The players came out of the tunnel. Applause began to build. The distraction worked like a standing eight count, giving Pavel time to recover.
'Why would you ask that?' he asked.
'Weren't Alexander Cross and Valerie Simpson involved?'
'I guess you could say that.'
'Seriously?'
'She was away a lot. Traveling. But they seemed fond of each other.'
'And I assume their relationship was going on at the same time Quincy was stalking Valerie?'
'I believe the time periods overlapped, yes.'
'So it's a natural question,' Myron said. 'How did Valerie's boyfriend react?'
'Natural, perhaps,' he said. 'But you must admit it is also a bizarre question. Alexander Cross has been dead for several years now. How is his reaction relevant to what happened to Valerie today?'
'For one, they were both murdered.'
'You're not suggesting a connection?'
'I'm not suggesting anything,' Myron said. 'But I don't understand why you don't want to answer my question.'
'It's not a matter of wanting or not wanting,' Pavel replied. 'It's a matter of doing what is right. You are delving into places where you do not belong. Personal places. Places that cannot possible have any relevance in today's world. I feel like I am betraying confidences. You see?'
'No.'
Pavel looked back at Jack Lord. Jack's mouth twitched. He stood again. The chest self-inflated.
'The match is about to begin,' Pavel said. 'I hate to be rude, but I really must ask you to leave now.'
'Hit a raw nerve, did I?'
'Yes. I cared for Valerie very deeply.'
'That wasn't what I meant.'
'Please leave. I must concentrate on this match.'
Myron did not move. Jack Lord put a big mitt on Myron's shoulder. 'You heard the man,' he said. 'Move out.'
'Let go of my shoulder,' Myron said.
Jack shook his head. 'No more games, pal. It's time for you to get lost.'
'If you don't move your hand,' Myron explained calmly, 'I'll hurt you. Maybe severely.'
From behind his sunglasses Big Jack finally smiled. His grip on Myron's shoulder tightened. Myron quickly reached up with his right hand and grabbed the man's thumb. He locked the joint and pulled it back the wrong way. Jack dropped to one knee.
Myron lowered his mouth toward Jack's ear. 'I don't want to make a scene, so I'm going to let you go,' he whispered. 'If you do anything but smile I will hurt you. Definitely severely. Nod if you understand.'
He nodded, his face pale.
Myron let the thumb go. 'Later, Pavel.'
Pavel said nothing.
Myron walked past Jack. As ordered, Jack was smiling.
'Book 'em, Dann-o,' Myron said.
Chapter 6
A stalker.
Could it be that simple? Could some deranged fan have put a bullet into Valerie Simpson because a voice told him to? Doesn't explain Duane Richwood's connection. But maybe there was no connection. Or maybe the connection had nothing to do with the murder and, more important, was none of Myron's business.
Myron turned onto Hobart Gap Road. He was only a mile from his home in Livingston, New Jersey. The powder-blue Caddy with the canary-yellow roof finally turned off, jumping on the JFK Parkway. Whoever it was must have figured Myron was going home for the night, and hence there was no reason to keep the tail. But if the Caddy
