'Would you approve if it was your daughter?'
'I guess not. So you knew nothing about her relationship with Stan Gibbs?'
'Nothing.'
'I understand that you spoke to her not long before she died.'
'Four days before.'
'Can you tell me about the conversation?'
'Melina had been drinking,' he said in that pure monotone you get when the words have been ricocheting around your brain too long. 'A lot. She drank too much, my daughter. Got that from her papa — who got it from his papa. The Garston family legacy.' He made a chuckling sound that sounded far closer to a sob than anything in the neighborhood of a laugh.
'Melina talked to you about her testimony?'
'Yes.'
'Could you tell me what she said exactly?'
' 'I made a mistake, Papa.' That's what she said. She said that she lied.'
'What did you say?'
'I didn't even know what she was talking about. It's as I told you before — I didn't know about this boyfriend.'
'Did you ask her to explain?'
'Yes.'
'And?'
'And she didn't. She said to forget about it. She said she'd take care of it. Then she told me she loved me and hung up.'
Silence.
'I had two children, Mr. Bolitar. Did you know that?'
Myron shook his head.
'A plane crash killed my Michael three years ago. Now an animal has tortured and killed my girl. My wife, her name was Melina too, passed away fifteen years ago. There is no one. Forty-eight years ago, I thought I came to this country with nothing. I made a lot of money. And now I truly have nothing. You understand?'
'Yes,' Myron said.
'Is that all, then?'
'Your daughter had an apartment on Broadway.'
'Yes.'
'Are her personal belongings still there?'
'Sandra — that's my daughter-in-law — she's been packing her things. But it's all still there. Why?'
'I'd like to go through them, if it's okay with you.'
'The police already did that.'
'I know.'
'You think you might find something they didn't?'
'I'm almost positive I won't.'
'But?'
'But I'm attacking this thing from a different perspective. It gives me a fresh set of eyes.'
George Garston flicked on his desk lamp. The yellow from the bulb painted his face a dark jaundice. Myron could see that his eyes were too dry, brittle like fallen acorns in the sun. 'If you find whoever killed my Melina, you will tell me first.'
'No,' Myron said.
'Do you know what he did to her?'
'Yes. And I know what you want to do. But it won't make you feel any better.'
'You say this like you know it for a fact.'
Myron kept silent.
George Garston flicked off the light and turned away. 'Sandra will take you over now.'
'He sits in that study all day,' Sandra Garston told him, pressing the elevator button. 'He won't go out anymore.'
'It's still new,' Myron said.
She shook her head. Her blue-black hair fell in big, loose curls, like thermal fax paper fresh out of the machine. But despite the hair color, her overall effect was almost Icelandic, the face and build of a world-class speed skater. Her features were sharp and ended rather abruptly. Her skin had the red of raw cold.
'He thinks he has no one,' she said.
'He has you.'
'I'm a daughter-in-law. He sees me and it's like a tether to Michael. I don't have the heart to tell him I finally started dating.'
When they reached the street, Myron asked, 'Were you and Melina close?'
'I think so, yes.'
'Did you know about her relationship with Stan Gibbs?'
'Yes.'
'But she never told her father.'
'Oh, she would never. Papa didn't approve of most men. A married one would have sent him off the ledge.'
They crossed the street and into the mid-city wonder known as Central Park. The park was packed on this rather spectacular day. Asian sketch artists hustled business. Men jogged by in those shorts that look suspiciously like diapers. Sunbathers lazed around on the grass, crowded together yet totally alone. New York City is like that. E. B. White once said that New York bestows the gift of loneliness and the gift of privacy. Damn straight. It was like everyone was plugged into their own internal Walkman, each playing a different tune, bopping obliviously to his or her own beat.
A yah-dude with a bandanna around his head tossed a Frisbee and yelled 'Fetch,' but he had no dog. Hard- bodied women skated by in black jogging bras. Lots of men with various builds had their shirts off. Examples: A guy thick with flab that looked like wet Play-Doh jiggled past him. Behind him, a well-built guy skidded to a stop and arrogantly flexed a bicep. Actually flexed. In public. Myron frowned. He didn't know which was worse: guys who shouldn't take their shirts off and do, or guys who should take their shirts off and do.
When they reached Central Park West, Myron asked, 'Did you have a problem with her dating a married man?'
Sandra shrugged. 'I worried, of course. But he told Melina he would leave his wife.'
'Don't they all?'
'Melina believed it. She seemed happy.'
'Did you ever meet Stan Gibbs?'
'No. Their relationship was supposed to be a secret.'
'Did she ever tell you about lying in court?'
'No,' she said. 'Never.'
Sandra used her key and swung the door open. Myron stepped inside. Colors. Lots of them. Happy colors. The apartment looked like the Magical Mystery Tour meets the Teletubbies, all bright hues, especially greens, with hazy psychedelic splashes. The walls were covered with vivid watercolors of distant lands and ocean voyages. Some surreal stuff too. The effect was like an Enya video.
'I started throwing her stuff in boxes,' Sandra said. 'But it's hard to pack up a life.'
Myron nodded. He started walking around the small apartment, hoping for a psychic revelation or something. None came. He ran his eyes over the artwork.
'She was supposed to have her first show in the Village next month,' Sandra said.
Myron studied a painting with white domes and crystal blue water. He recognized the spot in Mykonos. It was wonderfully done. Myron could almost smell the salt of the Mediterranean, taste the grilled fish along the beach, feel the night sand clinging to a lover's skin. No clue here, but he stared another minute or two before turning away.
