Deal Breaker (Myron Bolitar 1)

“Why don’t you get it,” she said.

“My legs,” he said. “They can’t move. I may never walk again.”

Another knock.

“I’m not dressed,” she said.

“And what am I, ready for a press conference?”

“Bet you’d get good coverage.”

Myron moaned at the joke.

Another knock.

“Come on, Myron. Just throw a towel around your shapely ass and get moving.”

The second woman to mention his ass in the same day. Yowzer. He grabbed the bath towel and headed for the door. Another knock.

“One second.”

He opened the door. It wasn’t their food.

“Maid service,” Win said. “May I turn down your bed?”

“Didn’t you see the Do Not Disturb sign?”

Win glanced at the doorknob. “Sorry. No speaka da English.”

“How the hell did you find us?”

“I traced down your charge card,” he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “You checked in here at eight twenty-two P.M.” Win leaned his head in the doorway. “Hello, Jessica.”

From the bathroom. “Hi, Win.” Myron heard her stepping out of the Jacuzzi. The image of water cascading down her naked body came to him like a deep punch.

“Come on in,” he grumbled.

“Thank you.” Win handed him a manila folder. “Thought you might want to take a look at this.”

Jessica came in from the bathroom. The robe was tied tighter. She was drying her hair with a towel. “What’s up?” she asked.

“The police rap sheet of one Fred Nickler, aka Nick Fredericks,” Win said.

“Imaginative alias,” Myron said.

“For an imaginative fellow.”

Jessica sat on the bed. “He’s the porno publisher, right?”

Myron nodded. The rap sheet was not very long. He started with the most recent dates. Traffic violations, two DWIs, one arrest for mail fraud.

“Nineteen seventy-eight,” Win said.

Myron skipped down. June 30, 1978. Fred Nickler had been arrested for endangering the welfare of a child. Charges dropped.

“So?”

“Mr. Nickler was involved in kiddie porn,” Win explained. “He was only a small-time photographer back then. But he was nabbed with his hand, so to speak, in the cookie jar. More precisely, taking photographs of an eight-year-old boy.”

Jessica said, “Jesus.”

Myron remembered their meeting. “ ‘Just an honest guy trying to make an honest buck.’ ”

“Indeed.”

Jessica asked, “Why were the charges dropped?”

“Ah,” Win said, pointing a finger in the air, “that’s where things get interesting. In many ways it’s not an uncommon story. Fred Nickler was only the photographer. A little fish. The authorities wanted the bigger fish. The little fish ratted out the big fish in exchange for leniency.”

“And they dropped the charges completely?” Myron said “Not even a misdemeanor?”

“Not even. It seems that Mr. Nickler also agreed to help out the police from time to time.”

“So what’s the significance?”

“This entire arrangement was negotiated between Nickler and the officer in charge of the investigation,” Win said. He shot a quick glance at Jessica.

“The officer in charge of the investigation was your friend Paul Duncan.”

Chapter 38

“That’s our man,” Win said. “Mr. Junior Horton.”

Horty looked like an ex–football player. Big and wide, all veins and bulges. His arms looked like corded wood. He was dressed for a rap video. His button-down St. Louis Cardinals baseball shirt was untucked. His baggy shorts reached down past his knees. No socks. Black Reebok high-tops. A Chicago White Sox baseball cap. Dark sunglasses and lots of jewelry.

It was nine in the morning. One Hundred Thirty-second Street in Manhattan. The street was quiet. Horty was making a drug deal. He had been in and out of jail plenty of times, his one long stint of freedom during his time at Reston U. Drugs, mostly. Armed robbery, once. Two sexual assault charges. Twenty-four years old and a complete punk. Like most inmates he had spent his prison time lifting weights. Pumping iron. Our penal institutions develop violent men’s physical strength, so when they get out, they’ll be able to intimidate and maim with far greater skill. Nice system.

Jessica was not with them. She was packing her father’s office—that is, the morgue—and checking for any additional bombshells. Myron had managed to talk her out of confronting Paul Duncan until they knew a little more. She listened grudgingly, but that was how Jessica usually listened anyway.

Horty finished the transaction with a kid who looked no older than twelve, slapped him five, headed west. He wasn’t wearing a Walkman, but he walked as though he were. Very jittery. His eyes were red. Every few steps he would snort the air and wipe his nose with the back of his hand.

“Boys and girls, can you say ‘Cokehead’?”

“Probably has the flu,” Win said.

“The Colombian strain.”

They ducked out of sight as he approached. When Horty reached the lip of the alley, Myron stepped in front of him.

“Junior Horton?”

Horty gave him a scornful street glare. “Who the fuck wants to know?”

“Snappy comeback,” Myron said.

“Get the fuck out of my way or I kick your ass.” He spotted Win. “Both your ass.”

“Asses,” Win corrected. “One ass. Two asses. Plural.”

“What the fuck—”

“We want to talk to you,” Myron said.

“Hey, fuck you, man.”

Myron turned to Win. “He’s a real badass.”

“Indeed,” Win said. “I may wet myself.”

Horty stepped toward Win. He had at least six inches and sixty pounds on him. Horty probably thought he was being clever, going after and intimidating the little guy. Myron tried not to smile when Horty spat, “Gonna fuck you up big-time.”

“If you curse again,” Win said in the tone of a preschool teacher, “I will be forced to silence you.”

“You?” Horty laughed heartily. He flexed for a moment and then lowered his nose until it almost touched Win’s. Win did not move. “Little piece of upper-crust whitebread gonna shut me up? Fuck—”

Win barely moved. His arm shot up, delivered a palm strike to the solar plexus, and was back at his side in what seemed like a tenth of a second. Horty stumbled back, gasping, unable to get any oxygen into his lungs.