Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

“Oh shit,” Jessica said. “You were sleeping, right?”

“Sleeping?” Myron squinted at his digital. “At four-thirteen in the morning? Captain Midnight? Surely you jest.”

“Sorry. I forgot about the time difference.”

He sat up. “Where are you?”

“Greece,” she said. “I miss you.”

“You’re just horny.”

“Well, there’s that.”

“Captain Midnight is willing to help,” he said.

“My fearless hero. I suppose you’re not even a little horny.”

“Captain Midnight lives chastely.”

“Part of his image?”

“Exactly,” he said.

“It’s no fun,” she said. “Being away from you.”

His heart soared. “So come home.”

“I am.”

“When?”

“Soon.” Jessica Culver, Miss Specific USA. “Tell me what’s been going on,” she said.

“You hear about the shooting at the Open?”

“Sure. The hotel has CNN.”

Myron told her about Valerie Simpson. When he finished, her first comment was, “You didn’t have to bend that clod’s thumb back.”

“But it was all very macho,” Myron said.

“A real turn-on, I’m sure.”

“Guess you had to be there,” he said.

“Guess so. So are you going to find the killer?”

“I’m going to try.”

“For Valerie’s sake? Or for Wanda and Duane?”

“For all of them, I guess. But mostly Valerie. You should have seen her, Jess. She tried so hard to be sullen and unpleasant. A girl that young shouldn’t have to try that hard.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Of course. First, I’m going to visit Valerie’s mother tomorrow morning. In Philadelphia.”

“And then?”

“Well, the plan isn’t really that well developed. But I’m working on it.”

“Please be careful.”

“Captain Midnight is always careful.”

“It’s not just Captain Midnight I’m worried about it. It’s his alter ego.”

“And who might that be?”

“My Love Muffin.”

Myron grinned into the receiver. “Hey, Jess, did you know Joan Collins was on Batman?”

“Of course,” Jessica said. “She played the Siren.”

“Oh yeah? Well, who did Liberace play?”

8

Myron spent the rest of the night dreaming about Jessica, though as usual he could only remember meaningless scraps in the morning. Jessica was in his life again, but it was still new to him. Too new. He needed to hold back, to tread gently. He was afraid of being crushed under her heel again, of having his heart slammed in the door of love.

Door of love. Christ. He sounded like a bad country song.

He motored south on the famed New Jersey Turnpike. The powder-blue Cadillac with the canary-yellow top was four cars behind him. More than anything else, this stretch of roadway had made New Jersey the butt of so many jokes. He passed Newark Airport. Kind of ugly, but what airport isn’t? Then he drove by the turnpike’s pièce de résistance, its cause célèbre if you will—an enormous industrial power plant between exits 12 and 13 that closely resembled the futuristic nightmare world in the beginning of the Terminator movies. Thick smoke sprung from every orifice. Even in the bright sunshine the place looked dark, metallic, menacing, foreboding.

On the radio a rock group called the Motels were repeatedly singing the ingenious line Take the L out of lover, and it’s over. Deep. Literal, but still deep. The Motels. Whatever happened to them?

Myron picked up the cellular phone and dialed. A familiar voice answered.

“Sheriff Courter speaking.”

“Hey, Jake, it’s Myron.”

“I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number. Bye.”

“Good one,” Myron said. “Guess those night-school comedy courses are finally starting to pay off.”

“What do you want, Myron?”

“Can’t a friend just call and say hello?”

“So this is just a social call?” Jake said.

“Yes.”

“I feel so blessed.”

“Wait. It gets better. I’m going to be in your neck of the woods in a couple of hours.”

“Be still my heart.”

“I thought maybe we could meet for lunch. I’m buying.”

“Uh-huh. You bringing Win?”

“No.”

“Then okay. Guy gives me the creeps.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“Cool by me. Now what do you want, Myron? This may be a surprise to you, but I work for a living.”

“You still have friends on the Philadelphia force?”

“Sure.”

“Can you get someone to fax you a homicide file?”

“Recent homicide?”

“Er, not exactly.”

“How old?”

“Six years,” Myron said.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“It gets worse. The victim was Alexander Cross.”

“The senator’s kid?”

“Right.”

“What the hell do you want that for?”

“I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”

“Someone is going to want to know why.”

“Make something up.”

Jake chewed on something that sounded like tree bark. “Yeah, all right. What time will you be here?”

“Probably around one. I’ll call you.”

“You’re going to owe me, Myron. Owe me big.”

“Didn’t I mention I was buying lunch?”

Jake hung up.

Myron headed off at exit 6. The toll was almost four dollars. He was tempted to pay the Caddy’s toll, but four dollars was a bit steep for the gesture. Myron handed the clerk the money. “I only wanted to drive on the road,” Myron said. “Not buy it.”

Not even a sympathetic smile. Complaining about toll prices. One of those signs you’re becoming your father. Next thing you know Myron’d be screaming at someone for turning up the thermostat.

Altogether the trip to Philadelphia’s wealthiest suburb took two hours. Gladwynne was old money. Plymouth Rock old money. Bloodlines were as important as credit lines. The house Valerie Simpson had grown up in was Gatsby-esque with signs of fray. The lawn was not quite manicured. The shrubbery was slightly overgrown. The paint was chipped in certain places. The ivy crawling along the walls seemed a tad too thick.