The Final Detail: A Myron Bolitar Novel (18 page)

“Hey, Brucie.”

“Myron? Jesus Christ. Hey, I appreciate you calling me back.”

“Sure, Bruce. I love to cooperate with my favorite reporter.”

Pause. Then: “Uh-oh.”

“What?” Myron said.

“This is too easy.”

“Pardon.”

“Okay, Myron, let’s skip the part where you break down my defenses with your supernatural charisma. Cut to it.”

“I want to make a deal.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not willing to make a statement yet. But when I do, you get first crack. An exclusive.”

“An exclusive? Sheesh, Myron, you really do know your media lingo, don’t you?”

“I could have said scoop. It’s one of my favorite words.”

“Okay, Myron, great. So in return for your
not
telling me anything, you get what?”

“Just some information. But you don’t read into anything that I ask and you don’t report on it. You’re just my source.”

“More like your bitch,” Bruce said.

“If that’s what you’re into.”

“Not today, dear, I have a headache. So let me get this straight. You tell me nothing. I report nothing. In return I get to tell you everything. Sorry, big guy, no deal.”

“Bye-bye, Brucie.”

“Whoa, whoa, Myron, hold up. Christ, I’m not a general manager. Don’t pull that negotiating crap on me.
Look, let’s stop tugging each other’s chains here. This is what we do: You give me something. A statement, anything. It can be as innocuous as you want to make it. But I want to be the first with a statement from Myron Bolitar. Then I tell you what you want, I keep quiet, you give me the exclusive scoop or whatever before everyone else. Deal?”

“Deal,” Myron said. “Here’s your statement: Esperanza Diaz did not kill Clu Haid. I stand behind her one hundred percent.”

“Was she having an affair with Clu?”

“That’s my statement, Bruce. Period.”

“Okay, fine, but what’s this about your being out of the country at the time of the murder?”

“A statement, Bruce. As in, ‘no further comment.’ As in, ‘I’ll be answering no questions today.’ ”

“Hey, it’s already public knowledge. I just want a confirmation. You were in the Caribbean, right?”

“Right.”

“Where in the Caribbean?”

“No comment.”

“Why not? Were you really in the Cayman Islands?”

“No, I was not in the Caymans.”

“Then where?”

See how reporters work? “No comment.”

“I called you immediately following Clu’s positive drug test. Esperanza said you were in town but would not comment.”

“And I still won’t,” Myron said. “Now it’s your turn, Bruce.”

“Come on, Myron, you’re giving me nothing here.”

“We had a deal.”

“Yeah, all right, sure, I want to be fair,” he said in a
tone that made it clear he would start up again later. “Ask away.”

Casual, casual. He couldn’t just ask about Sophie Mayor’s daughter. Subtlety. That was the key. Myron’s office door opened, and Win swept into the room. Myron signaled with one finger. Win nodded and opened a closet door. There was a full-length mirror on the inside back. Win stared at his reflection and smiled. A nice way of passing the time.

“What were the rumors about Clu?” Myron asked.

“You mean before the positive test results?”

“Yes.”

“Time bomb,” Bruce said.

“Explain.”

“He was pitching great, no question. And he looked good. Thinned down, seemed focused. But then a week or so before the drug test, he started looking like hell. Christ, you must have seen it, right? Or were you out of the country then too?”

“Just go on, Bruce.”

“What else can I tell you? With Clu you’ve seen it a hundred times before. The guy breaks your heart. His arm was touched by God. The rest of him was, well, just touched, if you follow my meaning.”

“So there were signs before the positive test?”

“Yeah, I guess. In hindsight, sure there were lots of signs. I hear his wife threw him out. He was unshaven, red-eyed, that kind of thing.”

“It didn’t have to be drugs,” Myron said.

“True. It could have been booze.”

“Or maybe it was just the strain of marital discord.”

“Look, Myron, maybe some guys like Orel Hershiser get the benefit of the doubt. But when it comes to Clu Haid or Steve Howe or some other perennial screwup, you figure
it’s substance abuse, and eleven times out of ten you’re right.”

Myron looked over at Win. Win had finished patting the blond locks and was now using the mirror to practice his different smiles. Right now he was working on roguish.

Subtle, Myron reminded himself, subtle …. “Bruce?”

“Yeah?”

“What can you tell me about Sophie Mayor?”

“What about her?”

“Nothing specific.”

“Just curious, huh?”

“Right, curious.”

“Sure you are,” Bruce said.

“How much damage did Clu’s drug test do to her?”

“Tremendous damage. But you know this. Sophie Mayor stuck her neck out, and for a while she was a genius. Then Clu fails the drug test, and presto, she’s an idiotic bimbo who should let the men run things.”

“So tell me about her background.”

“Background?”

“Yes. I want to get a feel for her.”

“Why?” Bruce asked. Then: “Ah, what the hell. She’s from Kansas, I think, or Iowa or Indiana or Montana. Someplace like that. An aged Ivory Girl type. Loves fishing, hunting, all that nature stuff. She was also something of a math prodigy. Came East to go to MIT. That’s where she met Gary Mayor. They got married and lived most of their lives as science professors. He taught at Brandeis; she taught at Tufts. They developed a software program for personal finance in the early eighties and suddenly went from middle-class professors to millionaires. They took the company public in ’94 and changed the
m
to a
b.
”

“The
m
to a
b
?”

“Millionaire to billionaire.”

“Oh.”

“So the Mayors did what lots of superwealthy people do: They bought a sports franchise. In this case, the Yankees. Gary Mayor grew up loving them. It was going to be a nice toy for him, but of course he never got to enjoy it.”

Myron cleared his throat. “And they, uh, have children?” Señor Subtle-o.

“They had two. You know Jared. He’s actually a pretty good kid, smart, went to your alma mater, Duke. But everyone hates him because he got the job through nepotism. His main responsibility is to keep an eye on Mommy’s investment. My understanding is that he’s actually pretty good at that and that he leaves the baseball to the baseball guys.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They also have a daughter. Or had a daughter.”

With great effort, Win sighed, closed the closet door. So difficult to pull himself away from a mirror. He sat across from Myron looking, as always, completely at ease. Myron cleared his throat and said into the phone, “What do you mean,
had
a daughter?”

“The daughter’s very estranged. Don’t you remember the story?”

“Vaguely. She ran away, right?”

“Right. Her name was Lucy. She took off with a boyfriend, some grunge musician, a few weeks before her eighteenth birthday. This was, I don’t know, ten, fifteen years ago. Before the Mayors had any money.”

“So where does she live now?”

“Well, that’s the thing. No one knows.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She ran away, that much is known for sure. She left
them a note, I think. She was going to hit the road with her boyfriend and seek her fortune, the usual teenage stuff. Sophie and Gary Mayor were typical East Coast college professors who read too much Dr. Spock, so they gave their daughter ‘space,’ figuring of course that she’d come back.”

“But she didn’t.”

“Duh.”

“And they never heard from her?”

“Duh again.”

“But I remember reading about this a few years ago. Didn’t they start a search for her or something?”

“Yeah. First off, the boyfriend came back after a few months. They’d broken up and gone their separate ways. Big shock, right? Anyway, he didn’t know where she went. So the Mayors called the police, but they treated it like no big deal. Lucy was eighteen by this time, and she had clearly run away on her own. There was no evidence of foul play or anything and remember that this was before the Mayors had beaucoup bucks.”

“And after they became rich?”

“Sophie and Gary tried to find her again. They made it like a search for the missing heiress. The tabloids loved it for a while. There were some wild reports but nothing concrete. Some say Lucy moved overseas. Some say she’s living in a commune somewhere. Some say she’s dead. Whatever. They never found her, and there was still no sign of foul play, so the story eventually petered out.”

Silence. Win looked at Myron and arched an eyebrow. Myron shook his head.

“So why the interest?” Bruce asked.

“I just want to get a feel for the Mayors.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No big deal.”

“Okay, I buy that. Not.”

“It’s the truth,” Myron lied. “And how about using a more up-to-date reference? No one says
not
anymore.”

“They don’t?” Pause: “Guess I gotta watch more MTV. But Vanilla Ice is still hip, right?”

“Ice, ice, baby.”

“Fine, okay, we’ll play it your way for now, Myron. But I don’t know anything else about Lucy Mayor. You can try a search on Lexis. The papers might have more detail.”

“Good idea, thanks. Listen, Bruce, I got another call coming in.”

“What? You’re just going to cut me loose?”

“That was our deal.”

“So why all the questions about the Mayors?”

“Like I said, I want to get a feel for them.”

“Does the phrase
what a crock
mean anything to you?”

“Good-bye, Bruce.”

“Wait.” Pause. Then Bruce said, “Something serious is going down here, right?”

“Clu Haid has been murdered. Esperanza’s been arrested for the crime. I’d say that’s pretty serious.”

“There’s more to it. Tell me that much. I won’t print it, I promise.”

“Truth, Bruce? I don’t know yet.”

“And when you do?”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“You really think Esperanza’s innocent? Even with all that evidence?”

“Yes.”

“Call me, Myron. If you need anything else. I like Esperanza. I want to help if I can.”

Myron hung up. He looked over at Win. Win seemed in
deep thought. He was tapping his chin with his index finger. They sat in silence for several seconds.

Win stopped tapping and asked, “Whatever happened to the King Family?”

“You mean the ones with the Christmas specials?”

Win nodded. “Every year you were supposed to watch the King Family Christmas Special. There must have been a hundred of the buggers—big Kings with beards, little Kings in knickers, Mommy Kings, Daddy Kings, Uncle and Aunt and Cousin Kings. Then one year—poof—they’re gone. All of them. What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“And what did the King clan do the rest of the year?”

“Prepared for the next Christmas special?”

“What a life, no?” Win said. “Christmas passes, and you start thinking about next Christmas. You live in a snow globe of Christmas.”

“I guess.”

“I wonder where they are now, all those suddenly unemployed Kings. Do they sell cars? Insurance? Are they drug dealers? Do they get sad every Christmas?”

“Yeah, poignant point, Win. By the way, did you come down here for a reason?”

“Discussing the King Family isn’t reason enough? Weren’t you the one who came up to my office because you didn’t understand the meaning of a Sheena Easton song?”

“You’re comparing the King Family to Sheena Easton?”

“Yes, well, in truth, I came up here to inform you that I quashed the subpoenas against Lock-Horne.”

Myron shouldn’t have been surprised. “The power of
payoffs,” he said with a shake of his head. “It never fails to amaze me.”

“
Payoff
is such an offensive term,” Win said. “I prefer the more politically correct
assisting the contribution-challenged.
” He sat back, crossed his legs in that way of his, folded his hands on his lap. He gestured at the phone and said, “Explain.”

So Myron did. He filled him in on everything, especially on the Lucy Mayor incident. When Myron was finished, Win said, “Puzzling.”

“Agreed.”

“But I am not sure I see a connection.”

“Someone mails me a diskette with Lucy Mayor’s image on it and a little while later Clu is murdered. You think that’s just a coincidence?”

Win mulled that over. “Too early to tell,” he concluded. “Let’s do a little recap, shall we?”

“Go ahead.”

“Let’s start with a straight time line: Clu gets traded to New York, he pitches well, he gets thrown out by Bonnie, he starts collapsing, he fails a drug test, he desperately searches for you, he comes to me and withdraws two hundred thousand dollars, he strikes Esperanza, he gets murdered.” Win stopped. “That sound fair?”

“Yes.”

“Now let’s explore some possible tangents from this line.”

“Let’s.”

“One, our old fraternity chum Billy Lee Palms appears to be missing. Clu purportedly contacted him shortly before the murder. Aside from that, is there any reason to tie Billy Lee into all this?”

“Not really. And according to his mother, Billy Lee isn’t the most dependable tool in the shed.”

“So maybe his disappearance has nothing to do with this.”

“Maybe.

“But that would be yet another bizarre coincidence,” Win said.

“It would at that.”

“Fine, let’s move on for the moment. Tangent two, this Take A Guess nightspot.”

“All we know is that Clu called them.”

Win shook his head. “We know a great deal more.”

“For example?”

“They overreacted to your visit. Tossing you out would have been one thing. Roughing you up a bit would have been one thing. But this sort of interrogation complete with knife slashes and electrocution—that’s overkill.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that you struck a nerve, poked the hive, stirred the nest, choose your favorite cliché.”