'That's right'
'Fine. Now let me see if I got this right: You were playing a match when the gun went off. You finished the match. You shook hands with your opponent. I assume you shook hands with your opponent?'
Duane nodded.
'Then you did an interview.'
'Right'
'Did you shower before or after the interview?'
Myron held up his hands. 'Okay, that's enough.'
'You got a problem, Bolitar?'
'Yeah. Your questions are beyond idiotic. I'm now advising my client to stop answering them.'
'Why? Your client got something to hide?'
'Yeah, Rolly, you're too clever for us. Duane killed her. Several million people were watching him on national television during the shooting. Several thousand more were watching him in person. But that wasn't him playing. It was really his identical twin, lost since birth. You're just too smart for us, Rolly. We confess.'
'I haven't ruled that out' Dimonte countered.
'Haven't ruled what out?'
'That 'we' stuff. Maybe you had something to do with it. You and that psycho-yuppie friend of yours.'
He meant Win. Lot of cops knew Win. None liked him. The feeling was mutual.
'We were in the stadium at the time of the shooting,' Myron said. 'A dozen witnesses will back that up. And if you really knew anything about Win, you'd know he'd never use a weapon that close up.'
That made Dimonte hesitate. He nodded. Agreeing, for once.
'Are you through with Mr. Richwood?' Myron asked.
Dimonte suddenly smiled. It was a happy, expectant smile, like a school kid sitting by the radio on a snow day. Myron didn't like the smile.
'If you'll just humor me for another moment,' he said with syrupy phoniness. He rose and moved toward his partner, the Pad. The Pad kept scribbling.
'Your client claims he didn't know Valerie Simpson.'
'So?'
The Pad finally looked up. His eyes were as vacant as a court stenographer's. Dimonte nodded at him. The Pad handed him a small leather book encased in plastic.
'This is Valerie's calendar book,' Dimonte said. 'The last entry was made yesterday.' His smile widened. His head was held high. His chest puffed out like a rooster about to get laid.
'Okay, poker face,' Myron said. 'What's it say?'
He handed Myron a photocopy. Yesterday's entry was fairly simple. Sprawled across the entire page it read:
D.R. 555-8705. Call!
555-8705. Duane's phone number. D.R. Duane Rich-wood.
Dimonte appeared gleeful.
'I'd like to talk to my client,' Myron said. 'Alone.'
'No.'
'Excuse me?'
'You're not going to duck away now that I have you on the ropes.'
'I'm his attorney-'
'I don't give a rat's ass if you're the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. You take him away, I take him downtown in cuffs.'
'You don't have anything,' Myron said. 'His phone number is in her book. Means nothing.'
Dimonte nodded. 'But how would it look? To the press, for example. Or the fans. Duane Richwood, tennis's newest hero, being dragged into the station with handcuffs on. Bet that would be hard to explain to the sponsors.'
'Are you threatening us?'
Dimonte put his hand to his chest. 'Heavens no. Would I do something like that, Krinsky?'
The Pad did not look up. 'Nope.'
'There. You see?'
'I'll sue your ass for wrongful arrest,' Myron said.
'And you might even win, Bolitar. Years from now, when the courts actually hear the case. Lot of good that's going to do you.'
Dimonte looked a lot less stupid now.
Duane quickly stood and crossed the room. He snapped off the Ray-Bans, then, thinking better of it, put them back on. 'Look, man, I don't know why my number is in her book. I don't know her. I never spoke to her on the phone.'
'Your phone is unlisted. Is that correct, Mr. Rich-wood?'
'Yeah.'
'And you just moved in. Your phone's only been hooked up, what, two weeks?'
Wanda said, 'Three.' She was hugging herself now, as though she were cold.
'Three,' Roland Dimonte repeated. 'So how did Valerie get your number, Duane? How come some woman you don't know has your brand-new, unlisted number in her date book?'
'I don't know.'
Roland skipped skeptical and moved directly to absolute disbelief. For the next hour he continued to hammer Duane, but Duane stuck to his story. He never met her, he said. He didn't know her. He never spoke to her. He had no idea how she could have gotten his phone number. Myron watched in silence. The sunglasses made it harder to read Duane, but his body language was all wrong. So was Wanda's.
With an angry sigh Roland Dimonte finally stood up. 'Krinsky?'
The Pad looked up.
'Let's get the hell out of here.'
The Pad closed the pad, joined his partner.
'I'll be back,' Dimonte barked. Then pointing at no one in particular he added, 'You hear me, Bolitar?'
'You'll be back,' Myron said.
'Count on it, asshole.'
'Aren't you going to warn us not to leave town? I love it when you cops do that.'
Dimonte made a gun with his hand. He pointed it at Myron and lowered the thumb/hammer. Then he and the Pad disappeared out the door.
For several minutes no one said anything. Myron was about to break the silence when Duane started laughing. 'You sure showed him, Myron. Tore him a whole new asshole-'
'Duane, we need-'
'I'm tired, Myron.' He feigned a yawn. 'I really need to get some sleep.'
'We need to talk about this.'
'About what?'
Myron looked at him.
Duane said, 'Pretty weird coincidence, huh?'
Myron turned toward Wanda. She looked away, still hugging herself. 'Duane, if you're in some kind of trouble- '
'Hey, tell me about the commercial,' Duane interrupted. 'How did it come out?'
'Good.'
Duane smiled. 'How did I look?'
'Too handsome. I'll be fighting off the movie offers.'
Duane laughed too hard. Much too hard. Wanda did not laugh. Neither did Myron. Then Duane feigned another yawn, stretched and stood. 'I really need to get some rest,' he said. 'Big match coming up. Hate to let all this bullshit distract me.'
He showed Myron to the door. Wanda still had not moved from her spot by the kitchen door. She finally met Myron's eye.
'Good-bye, Myron,' Wanda said.
The door closed. Myron took the elevator back down and walked to his car. A ticket was nestled between the windshield and the wiper. He grabbed it and started the car.
Three blocks away Myron spotted the same powder-blue Cadillac with the canary-yellow top.
Chapter 4
Yuppieville.
The fourteenth floor of Lock-Horne Investments amp; Securities reminded Myron of a medieval fortress. There was the vast space in the middle, and a thick, formidable wall – the big producers' offices – safeguarding the perimeter. The open area housed hundreds of mostly men, young men, combat soldiers easily sacrificed
