Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

“Hi, Ned. Have a seat.”

Ned’s smile dropped at Myron’s tone. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Duane, is there?”

“No.”

Still standing but his voice was panicky. “He’s not hurt?”

“No, Duane is fine.”

“Great.” The smile was back. Tough to keep a good man down. “That match yesterday—he was fantastic. Fantastic, Myron. I tell you, the way he came back—it’s all anyone’s talking about. The exposure was awesome. Simply awesome. We couldn’t have scripted it better. I practically wet myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sit down, Ned.”

“Sure.” Ned sat. Myron hoped he wouldn’t leave a stain on the seat. “Just a few hours away, Myron. The big day. The Saturday Semis. Big live crowd, huge TV audience. You think Duane’s got a shot against Craig? Papers don’t seem to think so.”

Thomas Craig, the second seed and the game’s premier serve-and-volley player, was currently playing his career-best tennis. “Yes,” Myron said. “I think Duane’s got a shot.”

Ned’s eyes were bright. “Wow. If he could somehow pull it off …” He stopped and just shook his head and grinned.

“Ned?”

He looked up. Wide-eyed. “Yes?”

“How well did you know Valerie Simpson?”

Ned hesitated. The eyes dulled a bit. “Me?”

Myron nodded.

“A little, I guess.”

“Just a little?”

“Yeah.” He flashed a nervous smile, struggled to hold it. “Why, what’s up?”

“I heard differently.”

“Oh?”

“I heard you were the one who got Nike to sign her. That you handled her account.”

He squirmed a bit. “Yeah, well, I guess so.”

“So you must have known her pretty well then.”

“Maybe, I guess. Why are you asking me this, Myron? What’s the big deal?”

“Do you trust me, Ned?”

“With my life, Myron. You know that. But this subject is painful for me. You understand?”

“You mean her dying and all?”

Ned made a lemon-sucking face. “No,” he said. “I mean her career plummet. She was the first person I signed for Nike. I thought she’d launch me to the top. Instead she set me back five years. It was painful.”

Another Mr. Sensitive.

“When she flopped,” Ned continued, “guess who took the fall? Go ahead, guess.”

Myron thought the question was rhetorical, but Ned waited with that expectant face of his. Myron finally said, “Would that be you, Ned?”

“Damn straight, me. I was thrown to the bottom. Just dumped there. I had to start climbing up all over again. Because of Valerie and her collapse. Don’t get me wrong, Myron. I’m doing okay now—knock wood.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk.

Myron knocked wood too. The sarcasm was lost on Ned. “Did you know Alexander Cross?” Myron asked.

Both Ned’s eyebrows jumped. “Hey, what’s the deal here?”

“Trust me, Ned.”

“I do, Myron, really, but come on.…”

“It’s a simple question: Did you know Alexander Cross?”

“I may have met him once, I don’t remember. Through Valerie, of course. They were something of an item.”

“How about you and Valerie?”

“What about me and Valerie?”

“Were you two an item?”

He put his hand out in a gesture of stop. “Hey, hold up. Look, Myron, I like you, I really do. You’re an honest Joe. A straight shooter just like me—”

“No, Ned, you’re not a straight shooter. You’re jerking me around. You knew Alexander Cross. In fact you were at the Old Oaks tennis club the night he was murdered.”

Ned opened his mouth but no sounds came out. He managed to shake his head no.

“Here.” Myron stood and handed him the party guest list. “In yellow highlighter. E. Tunwell. Edward né Ned.”

Ned looked down at the paper, looked up, looked down again. “This was a long time ago,” he said. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Why are you lying about it?”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re hiding something, Ned.”

“No, I’m not.”

Myron stared down at him. Ned’s eyes scattered, searching for safe haven and finding none. “Look, Myron, it’s not what you think.”

“I don’t think anything.” Then: “Did you sleep with her?”

“No!” Ned finally looked up and held a steady gaze. “That damn rumor almost ended my career. It’s a lie that slimeball Menansi made up about me. It’s a lie, Myron, I swear.”

“Pavel Menansi told people that?”

Ned nodded. “He is a sick son of a bitch.”

“Was.”

“What?”

“Pavel Menansi is dead. Someone killed him last night. Shot in the chest. Very similar to what happened to Valerie.” Myron waited two beats. Then he pointed his finger at Ned. “Where were you last night?”

Ned’s eyes were two golf balls. “You can’t think …”

Myron shrugged. “If you’ve got nothing to hide …”

“I don’t!”

“Then tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Ned?”

“It was nothing, Myron. I swear—”

Myron sighed. “You admit Valerie Simpson severely damaged your career. You admit you’re still ‘pained’ by what she did. You’ve also told me that Pavel Menansi spread rumors about you. In fact you referred to a recent murder victim as—and I quote—‘a sick son of a bitch.’ ”

“Hey, come on, Myron, that was just talk.” Ned tried to smile his way out of it, but Myron kept his face stern. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I wonder how your superiors at Nike are going to react to the publicity.”

The smile stayed in place, but there was nothing behind it. “Hey, you can’t be serious. You can’t go around spreading rumors like that.”

“Why?” Myron asked. “You going to kill me too?”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” Ned shouted.

Myron feigned fear. “I don’t know …”