Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

“But she’s dead now.”

Helen was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to worry about her being hurt anymore. She’s dead. You’re free to do as you please.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. “I have another daughter,” she managed. “I have a husband.”

“So then what was all that talk before about protecting Valerie?”

“It … I was trying …” Her voice churned to a silence.

“You took the hush money,” Myron said. He tried to remind himself that the woman who sat before him had buried her daughter today, but not even that fact could slow him down. If anything, it seemed to fuel him. “Don’t blame your husband. He’s a spineless worm. You were Valerie’s mother. You took money to protect a man who abused your daughter. And now you’ll keep taking money to protect a man who might have killed her.”

“You have no proof Pavel had anything to do with her murder.”

“The murder, no. His other crimes against Valerie—that’s a different story.”

She closed her eyes. “It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late. He’s still doing it, you know. Guys like Pavel don’t stop. They just find new victims.”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“I have a friend,” Myron said. “Her name is Jessica Culver. She’s a writer.”

“I know who she is.”

He handed her Jess’s card. “Tell her the story. She’ll write it up. Put it in a major publication. Sports Illustrated maybe. It’ll be out before Pavel’s people even know about it. They’re bad men, but they’re not wasteful or stupid. Once it’s published there’ll be no reason to go after your family anymore. It’ll end him.”

“I’m sorry.” She lowered her head. “I can’t do it.”

She was crumbling. Her whole body was slumped and shaking. Myron watched her, tried to muster up some pity, couldn’t do it. “You left her alone with him,” he continued. “You didn’t look after her. And when you had the chance to help her, you told her to bury it. You took money.”

Her body racked. Probably from a sob. Attacking a mother at her own daughter’s funeral, Myron thought. What could he do for an encore? Drown newborn kittens in the neighbor’s pool?

“Perhaps,” he went on, “Valerie wanted to tell the truth. Maybe she needed that to put it all behind her. And maybe that’s why she was murdered.”

Silence. Then without warning Helen Van Slyke raised her head. She stood and left without saying another word. Myron followed. When he reentered the living room he could hear her voice.

“Good of you to come. Thank you for coming.”

32

Lucinda Elright was big and warm with thick, jiggly arms and an easy laugh. The kind of woman that as a child you feared would hug you too hard and as an adult you wish like hell she would.

“Come on in,” she said, shooing several small children away from the door.

“Thank you,” Myron said.

“You want something to eat?”

“No thanks.”

“How about some cookies?” There were at least ten kids in the apartment. All black, none over the age of seven or eight. Some were using a paint set. Some were building a castle out of sugar cubes. One, a boy about six years old, was sticking his tongue out at Myron. “Not homemade, you understand. I can’t cook worth spit.”

“Actually, cookies sound good.”

She smiled. “I do day care now that I’m retired. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Mrs. Elright went into the kitchen. The little boy waited until she was out of the room. Then he stuck his tongue out again. Myron stuck his tongue out back. Mr. Mature. The kid giggled.

“Now sit, Myron. Right over there.” She knocked various paraphernalia off the sofa. The plate was full of the classics. Oreos. Chips Ahoys. Fig Newtons.

“Eat,” she said.

Myron reached for a cookie. The little boy stood behind Mrs. Elright so he couldn’t be seen. He stuck his tongue out again. Without so much as a backward glance Mrs. Elright said, “Gerald, you stick your tongue out one more time, I’ll cut it off with my pruning shears.”

Gerald rolled his tongue back. “What’s pruning shears?”

“Never you mind. Just go over there and play now, you hear? And don’t you be causing no trouble.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When he was out of earshot Mrs. Elright said, “I like them better at this age. They break my heart when they get a little older.”

Myron nodded, pulled apart an Oreo. He didn’t lick out the cream. Very adult.

“Your friend Esperanza,” Mrs. Elright began, grabbing a Fig Newton. “She said you wanted to talk about Curtis Yeller.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He handed her the article. “Were you correctly quoted in this article?”

She lifted her half-moon reading glasses from her hefty bosom and scanned the page. “Yes, I said that.”

“Did you mean it?”

“This wasn’t just talk, if that’s what you’re getting at. I taught high school for twenty-seven years. I’ve seen lots of kids go to jail. I’ve seen lots of kids die in the streets. Never said a word to the newspapers about any of them. See this scar?” She pointed to an immense, fleshy bicep.

Myron nodded.

“Knife wound. From a student. I got shot at once too. I’ve confiscated more weapons than any damn metal detector.” She put her arm down. “That’s what I mean when I say I like them younger. Before they get like that.”

“But Curtis was different?”

“Curtis was more than just a good boy,” she said. “He was one of the best students I ever had. He was always polite and friendly and never caused a lick of trouble. But he wasn’t a sissy either, you understand. He was still popular with the other boys. Good at all kinds of sports. I’m telling you, the boy was one in a million.”

“What about his mother?” Myron asked. “What was she like?”

“Deanna?” Lucinda sat a little straighter. “Fine woman. Like so many of them young mothers today. Single. Proud. Did whatever she had to to get by. But Deanna was smart. She set rules. Curtis had a curfew. Kids today don’t even know what curfew means anymore. Couple nights ago, a ten-year-old boy got shot at three in the morning. Now you tell me, Myron—what’s a ten-year-old boy doing out on the streets at three in the morning?”