Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

Myron arched a skeptical eyebrow. He’d learned the technique from Win.

“It’s true,” Roger insisted. “She said she was in danger. She said she needed to get in and see you.”

“She mentioned me by name?”

“Yes. I’m telling you, she was desperate. She pleaded with the guard, but he wouldn’t listen. So I came up with an idea.”

“What was that?”

“Scalp a ticket,” he answered. He was clearly pleased with himself. “There were dozens of scalpers hanging around the subway entrance. I found one. A black man. Nice enough fellow. He wanted a hundred and fifty dollars. I told him that was way too much. They always start high. The scalpers, I mean. You have to negotiate with them. They expect it. But Valerie would have none of that. She just accepted his price. That’s Valerie. No head for money. If we’d gotten married, I would have had to handle the finances. She’s too impulsive.”

“Focus with me, Roger. What happened after you bought the ticket?”

His face went soft and dreamy. “She thanked me,” he said, like he’d seen a burning bush. “It was the first time she ever opened up to me. I knew then that my patience had won out. After all this time I’d finally cracked the face. Funny, isn’t it? For years I tried so hard to make her love me. And then when I least expect it, boom!—love crashed into my life.”

I, me, I, me, I, me. Even Valerie’s murder he could only see in terms of himself. “What did she do then?” Myron asked.

“I escorted her through the gates. She asked me if I knew what you looked liked. I said, you mean Myron Bolitar the basketball player? She said yes. I said yes, I knew. She said she needed to find you.” He leaned forward. Earnest. “You see what I mean? If I had known you were Duane’s agent I would have known exactly where you were. I would have led her right to you. Then everything would have been all right. I’d have gotten a bigger thank-you and that priceless Valerie Simpson smile all for me. I’d have saved her life. I would have been her hero.” He shook his head for what might have been. “It would have been perfect.”

“But instead?” Myron tried.

“We split up. She asked me to cover the outside courts while she searched the Food Court and the stadium area. We were going to meet back by the Perrier booth every fifteen minutes. I took off and began my search. I was anxious. Finding you would have proved my undying love—”

“Yeah, I got that part.” This guy must have been gobs of fun for ol’ Rolly to interrogate. “What happened next?”

“I heard a gunshot,” Quincy continued. “Then I heard screams. I ran back toward the Food Court. By the time I got there a crowd had formed. You were running toward the body. She was on the ground. So still. You bent down and cradled her body. My dreams. My life. My happiness. Dead. I knew what the police would think. They tormented me for courting her. Called me names. Heck, they threatened to put me in jail for asking her out—what were they going to think now? They never understood the bond between us. The attraction.”

“So you ran,” Myron said.

“Yes. I went to my place and packed a bag. Then I took out the maximum amount on my MAC card. I saw on TV once how the police tracked a guy down by where he used his credit cards, so I wanted to make sure I had enough cash. Smart, huh?”

“Ingenious,” Myron agreed. But he felt his heart sink. Valerie Simpson had had no one. She’d been alone. When danger struck she turned to Myron, a man she barely knew. And someone had murdered her. A painful pang consumed him.

“I stayed in crummy motels and used fake names,” Quincy rambled. “But someone must have recognized me. Well, you know the rest. When they caught me, I asked for you. I thought you’d be able to explain to them what really happened.” Quincy leaned forward, whispered conspiratorially. “That Detective Dimonte can be rather hostile.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The only time he smiled was when I mentioned your name.”

“Oh?”

“I told him you and I were friends. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Myron said.

24

Myron faced Dimonte and sidekick Krinsky in the adjoining interrogation room. It was identical to the other one in every way. Dimonte was still gleeful.

“Would you care for an attorney?” he asked sweetly.

Myron looked at him. “Your face is positively beaming, Rolly. New moisturizer?”

The smile stayed. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Of course not. Have a seat. Care for a drink?”

“Sure.”

“What would you like?” Quite the host, that Rolly. “Coke? Coffee? Orange juice?”

“Got any Yoo-Hoo?”

Dimonte looked at Krinsky. Krinsky shrugged and went to check. Dimonte folded his hands and put them on the table. “Myron, why did Roger Quincy ask for you?”

“He wanted to speak to me.”

Dimonte smiled. Mr. Patience. “Yes, but why you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

“Can’t,” Dimonte said. “Or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I think it falls under attorney-client privilege. I have to check.”

“Check with who?”

“With whom,” Myron said.

“What?”

“Check with whom. Not who, whom. Prepositional phrase.”

Dimonte nodded. “So it’s going to be like that, is it?”

“Like what?”

His voice was a little rougher now. “You’re a suspect, Bolitar. No, check that. You’re the suspect.”

“What about Roger?”

“He’s the trigger man. I’m sure of that. But he’s too much of a nut job to have done it on his own. Way we figure it, you set the whole thing up. Had him do the dirty work.”

“Uh-huh. And my motive?”

“Valerie Simpson was having an affair with Duane Richwood. That’s why his phone number was in her book. A white girl with a black guy. How would the sponsors have reacted to that?”

“It’s the nineties, Rolly. There’s even a mixed marriage on the Supreme Court.”

Dimonte put a boot up on a chair and leaned on the raised knee. “Times may change, Bolitar, but sponsors still don’t like black boys boffing white chicks.” He tickled his chin with two fingers. “Let me run this by you, see how it sounds: Duane is a bit of a coonhound. He sniffs out white meat. He nails Valerie Simpson, but she doesn’t fancy the idea of being a one-nighter. We know she’s a bit of a fruitcake, spent time in an asylum. Probably a bunny burner to boot.”