persuasive.”
“Before you go,” Larry said, “I think you should read his file after all.” He handed her a manila envelope.
The file was short but potent. One page to be exact. Sara skimmed the sheet. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered.
“I thought you might find it intriguing.”
She read out loud. “ ‘Born Beth Israel Hospital, Newark, New Jersey. His father, Samuel Silverman, died in a car crash when he was five. Mother, Estelle Silverman, remarried a year later to a Martin Johnson. Between the ages of six and nine Michael had eight overnight hospital stays. His injuries were rumored to have been the result of physical abuse at the hands of his stepfather and included several broken bones and three concussions. When Michael was ten, his mother committed suicide by shooting herself in the forehead. Michael found her body. He has no brothers, no sisters. Stepfather abandoned him after the suicide. Only living relative was paternal grandmother, Sadie Silverman, who raised Michael until her death when he turned nineteen.’ ” She looked up. “Jesus, Larry, you want me to go after this guy?”
“None of it has really been printed before because the details are too sketchy. Keep reading.”
Her eyes found the spot where she had stopped reading. “ ‘Michael got full scholarship to Stanford for basketball as well as piano.’” She paused. “The guy’s a pianist?”
Larry nodded. “That part is fairly well-known.”
“ ‘Academic All-American at Stanford four years in a row… reputation of being a bit of a ladies’ man—’ ”
“That’s the understatement of the millennium,” Larry interjected. “The man changes women like some men change socks.” He smiled. “Hope you don’t get sucked in.”
“Changes women like socks? Very tempting but doesn’t sound like my type.”
“No one is your type,” Larry replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he said, “that you never date.”
“I’ve got too much work to do.”
“Excuses.”
“And no one interests me right now, okay.”
“Listen, Sara, I’m sixty-seven years old, have seven grandchildren, and have been happily married for forty-four years.”
“So?”
“So you’re going to have to find someone else. I’m taken.”
She smiled. “Damn. You found me out.”
“And don’t be so quick to judge Silverman,” he added. “Look at his past. Would you want to get close to too many people if you had his childhood?”
She put the file on her desk. “This story is beginning to sound like a piece of cheap sensationalism,” Sara said.
He shrugged. “Depends on how you handle it. Fact is, Michael Silverman is a sports idol. We Jews love him because so few of us can play sports. I mean, the last time there was a Jewish athlete this famous… Well, you’d have to go back to Sandy Koufax.”
“What’s your point, Larry?”
“It’s a great human interest story. A man who overcame incredible adversity to become one of the world’s top basketball players. And he’d be a perfect role model for abused kids.”
“Suppose he doesn’t want to be a role model.”
“Tough. He’s news, Sara, big news. So the story is a bit sensational — so what? You’re a reporter and this is a damn good story.”
“All right, all right. I get the picture. I’m on my way over there now.”
“Sara?”
She looked up, startled. “I’m sorry, Eric.”
“Don’t apologize. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind right now, but remember this — all Michael’s problems are in the past. You two are going to have a baby together, and Michael has never been happier in his life.”
Sara tried to smile, but it never reached more than the corners of her mouth. She sensed that Michael’s past woes were not finished with him yet, that they were still potent enough to reach into the present and hurt him…
“Mind if I join you two?”
“Hello, Max,” Sara said. “Max, you know Eric Blake, don’t you?”
“I believe we’ve met,” Bernstein said. “How are you, Doctor?”
“Very well, thank you,” Eric replied as the beeper on his belt went off. “If you two will excuse me, I have to go.”
“Emergency?” Max asked.
“No. Just time for rounds.”
Max scratched his face hard, like he had fleas. “Can I ask you a quick question before you go?”
Eric stopped. “Of course.”
“When was the last time you saw Dr. Grey alive?”
Eric thought a moment. “The day he left for Cancun.”
“Did he look the same to you?”
“The same? I don’t understand.”
“I mean, was his hair still dark and did he still have a beard?”
“Yes,” Eric said without hesitation. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Thanks, Eric.”
“Anytime, Lieutenant. I’ll see you later, Sara.”
“Bye, Eric.”
Eric Blake neatly piled the garbage on his tray before leaving. When he brought his tray to the window, he was the only one who took the time to sort his silverware.
Sara turned to Max. “I called you three times today.”
“Sorry. It’s been a busy day.”
“Are you getting much flak about the castration story in the news?”
Max’s whole body seemed to shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle with a grenade launcher and tear gas.”
“I can imagine. Okay, so what have you learned?”
He leaned forward, his right elbow on the table, his left arm thrown behind the back of the chair. “First of all, Bruce Grey had blond hair and no beard when he allegedly jumped out the window. He also was wearing cosmetic contact lenses to change the color of his eyes. I checked with several of his friends, even the limousine driver who dropped him off at the airport. Bruce definitely had dark hair and the beard when he left New York.”
Sara nodded. “As you would say, ‘Interesting.’ ”
“To say the least. But there’s more.” He quickly told her about the rest of his conversation with Hector Rodriquez at the Days Inn. Sara sat stunned, quietly listening.
“Then Grey didn’t commit suicide,” she said when Max finished.
“He was murdered, Sara. I’m sure of it.”
“And someone wanted to make it look like a suicide,” she said.
“Seems so,” Max replied.
“Hmmm. Bruce’s murder has to be connected to the stabbings, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“So why did the killer want to make Bruce’s death look like a suicide while doing nothing to hide the fact that the other three were murdered?”
“I don’t know,” Max said. He stood up, circled the table for no apparent reason, and sat back down.
“Max.”
“What?”
