Deal Breaker (Myron Bolitar 1)

“A few months ago. He never told me about it. But of course I knew by the way he was acting. I checked the attic. The pictures were gone. Adam assumed that Kathy had hidden them up there. He had no idea she’d sent them to me. Or maybe he did. Maybe that’s how he became suspicious of Paul and me. I don’t know.”

“Do you know what your husband did with those pictures, Mrs. Culver?”

“No. They were so awful. So painful to look at. I think Adam destroyed them.”

Myron doubted it. They both sat in silence for several minutes. Finally Myron said, “Jessica is going to want to know.”

Carol Culver nodded. “You tell her, Myron.”

She showed him to the door. He stopped at his car and turned back around. He studied the gray Victorian house. Twenty-six years ago a young family had moved in. They’d put up swings in the backyard and a basketball hoop in the driveway. They’d owned a station wagon, carpooled to Little League and choir practice, attended PTA meetings, hosted birthday parties. Myron could almost see it all happening, like a life insurance commercial playing in his head.

He slid into his car and drove away.

Chapter 42

Myron was thinking about threads again.

Threads like Gary Grady. Dean Gordon. Nancy Serat. Carol Culver. Christian Steele. Fred Nickler. Paul Duncan. Ricky Lane. Horty and the thugs. But there was one thread he had overlooked.

Otto Burke.

Suppose Jake was right. Suppose the magazines had been sent out to wreak vengeance or maybe to satisfy some misguided or irrational anger. Either way, it meant that everyone who had received a copy of Nips was in some way connected to Kathy Culver.

Except Otto Burke.

How did he fit in? Otto hadn’t even known Kathy Culver.

Or had he?

Myron got off Route 4 at the Garden State Plaza Mall and took Route 17 south to Route 3. New Jersey, land of routes. He pulled into the Meadowlands and parked near the Titans’ executive offices. He found the general manager’s office and asked for Larry Hanson.

He was let in almost immediately. He quickly explained the reason for his visit.

Larry Hanson watched him without expression. His huge hands were folded on his desk. His neck strained the top button. Larry was about fifty, but he hadn’t gone to flab. He looked, Myron thought not for the first time, like Sergeant Rock in the old comic strips. Should have been chewing on a big cigar.

The office was adorned with trophies. Larry had been named league MVP twice. He’d been All-Pro twelve times. He had been elected into the Football Hall of Fame on the first ballot. There were plenty of his old football photos, from high school through college and into the pros. Black-and-whites and colors. Same crew cut. Same gritty smile. Different poses, including plenty of knee-up, straight-arm favorites from yesteryear.

When Myron finished, Larry studied his big hands for a minute, as if they were something he’d never noticed before.

“Why ask me?” he said. “Why don’t you ask Otto Burke about the magazine?”

“Because he won’t tell me.”

“And what makes you think I will?”

“Because you’re not a complete asshole.”

Larry’s mouth twitched toward a smile, but he caught himself. “Coming from you,” he said, “that really means a lot.”

Myron said nothing.

“This is important, huh?”

Myron nodded.

Larry sat back. “Burke didn’t get the magazine in the mail. He heard about it from a private detective.”

Myron shifted in his chair. “Otto was having Christian investigated?”

Larry’s tone was flat. “A man of Otto Burke’s unquestionable integrity would never stoop to such a level.”

“Under the desk,” Myron said, “you’re crossing your fingers.”

Again the twitch/smile. “This doesn’t leave this room, Bolitar. You understand?”

“Cross my heart.” Myron motioned such with his hand.

“Burke has a whole security division,” Larry explained. “They poke into everyone on the payroll. Including yours truly. They also have a source network all over the place. The credo is pretty simple: If you got dirt on a Titan, Burke will pay top dollar for it. So one of these sources came across the magazine.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s a steady reader.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Brian Sanford. A true sleazeball. He works out of Atlantic City. The casino route. Spies on gamblers, that kind of thing. A Titan puts a quarter in a slot machine, he reports it, especially since that whole Michael Jordan thing started. Burke likes to be kept informed. Gives him the edge in negotiating.”

Myron stood. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, Bolitar. This don’t make us buddies or nothing. We talk again, I still hate your guts. You got it?”

Myron said, “We’re having a warm moment now, aren’t we, Larry?”

Hanson leaned his elbows on the desk, pointing a finger at Myron. “I still think you’re a little pissant piece of dog shit. And next time I see you, I’ll prove it.”

Myron spread his arms. “Come on, Larry. How about that hug now?”

“Wiseass.”

“Does that mean no?”

“Do me a favor, Bolitar.”

“Name it, bright eyes.”

“Get the fuck out of my office.”

Chapter 43

Myron called Brian Sanford. Answering machine. Myron said he had a real big case, one that paid ten grand, and he’d stop by his office tonight at seven o’clock. Brian Sanford would be there. For ten grand, a guy like Sanford would let his mother take a bullet in the gut.

Myron dialed his office.

Esperanza said, “MB SportReps.”

“Did you show Lucy the photo?”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“You found your buyer.”

Myron said, “Lucy was sure?”

“Positive.”

“Thanks.”

He hung up. An hour to kill. Myron headed over to the county medical examiner’s office—Dr. Adam Culver’s old office. Just a hunch, but worth checking out.

The building was a one-level brick building. Institutional, almost like a small elementary school. The furniture was metal chairs with thin padding, again like a schoolteacher’s. The waiting room magazines were pre-Watergate. The tiled floor was worn and yellowed with age, like the “before” shot on a Mr. Clean commercial. There was nothing even remotely decorative.