“Did she ever mention Alexander Cross?”
“Yeah, a couple of times. They dated or something.”
“Did you get the impression they were serious?”
He shrugged. The guard checked their passes and let them enter. “Not really. Tennis was her life. Boyfriends were peripheral.”
“Tell me more about Pavel’s academy. What was it like for Valerie?”
“What was it like?” Eddie grinned sadly, shook his head. “It was like one big game of King of the Mountain. Every kid is trying to knock off every other kid.”
“And Valerie was king of the women’s side?”
Eddie nodded. “The undisputed king.”
“Did Pavel and Valerie get along?”
“Yeah. At first anyway. He motivated Val like no one else could. She would practice for hours with his assistants, and just when you thought she couldn’t take one more step Pavel would come out and boom! it was like an energy boost. Val was a great player, but Pavel knew how to get her competitive juices really flowing. When he was there, she blew away everyone else. Diving, stretching, running down every lob. She was incredible.”
“So when did things start going wrong?”
Eddie shrugged. “When she started losing.” He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” He stopped again, thinking. “She stopped caring, I guess. It happens to a lot of the players. They burn out. Too much pressure too fast.”
“What did Pavel do?”
“He tried all his old tricks. You see, Pavel fostered the whole dog-eat-dog atmosphere. It weeded out the weak, he told me. But Valerie wasn’t responding anymore. She still beat most of the girls. But when she played against the game’s greats—Steffi, Monica, Gabriela, Martina—she didn’t have the heart to beat them anymore.”
Eddie sat in a chair in front of his locker. Very few people were around. The floor, carpeted in an office-brown, was littered with little pieces of wrap and bandaging. Myron sat down next to him. “You told me you saw Valerie a few days before she died.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “In the lobby of the Plaza.” He took off his shirt. The kid was bony. The kind of bony where it appears the chest concaves into the heart. “I hadn’t seen her in a long time.”
“What did she say to you?”
“She was going to make a comeback. She seemed pretty excited about the idea, kinda like the old Val. Then she gave me your number and told me to stay away from Pavel and TruPro.”
“Did she say why you should stay away?”
“No.”
“Did she say anything else?”
He paused, his mind flashing back. “Not really. She was kinda in a hurry. She said she had to go out and settle something.”
“Settle what?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”
“What day was this?” Myron asked.
“Thursday, I think.”
“Do you remember the time?”
“Must have been around six.”
Valerie had called Duane’s apartment Thursday at six-fifteen. Settle something. Settle what? Settle her relationship with Duane? Or expose it? And what if she did threaten that? Would Duane kill her to stop her? Myron didn’t think so, especially in light of the fact that Duane was serving a tennis ball in front of several thousand people when she was shot.
Eddie slipped out of his sneakers and socks.
“I got two tickets to the Yankees for Wednesday night,” Myron said. “You want to go?”
Eddie smiled. “I thought you didn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That ass-kissing stuff.”
“I do. Every agent does. I’m not above it. But in this case I actually thought it might be fun.”
Eddie stood. “Should I be skeptical of your motives?” he asked.
“Only if you’re smart.”
Duane liked to be alone before a match. Win had taught him meditation techniques, sans the dirty videotapes, and you could usually find him curled up in a corner, sitting in the lotus position with his eyes closed. He didn’t like to be disturbed, which was good. Myron wasn’t sure he wanted to see him right now anyway. His main responsibility, he knew, was still to help his client perform his best—especially on this, the most important day of Duane’s career. Raising the issue of Duane’s late-night rendezvous with Deanna Yeller would be a distraction. A major distraction.
It would have to wait.
The crowd was huge. Everyone had been waiting for this match between the upstart American Duane Richwood and the cool Czech Michel Brishny, a former number one player now ranked fifth. Myron and Jessica took their seats in the front row. Jess looked incredible in a simple yellow sundress. Spectators gaped. Nothing new there. Without a doubt, the TV cameras would be getting plenty of shots of the box today. Between Jess’s beauty and her fame in the literary world they wouldn’t be able to resist.
Myron debated having her hold up one of his business cards. Nah. Too tacky.
A bevy of favorites was already in their seats. Ned Tunwell and other Nike VIPs crowded a corner box. Ned waved like a windmill on LSD. Myron gave a small wave back. Two boxes behind them sat chubby Roy O’Connor, the rotund president of TruPro. Sitting with him was Aaron. Aaron had his face tilted to the sun, soaking up the rays. He was garbed in his usual attire—white suit, no shirt. Across the way Myron also spotted Senator Cross in a box jammed with gray-haired lawyer types—the exception being Gregory Caufield. Myron still wanted to talk to Gregory. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself after the match. The buxom blonde from the other day was back in the same seat. The shapely lass gave Myron another small wave. He didn’t wave back.
Myron turned to Jessica. She smiled at him.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
“More beautiful than the blonde with the big boobs?” she asked.
“Who?” Myron said.
“The Silicone She-Beast giving you the eye.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Then: “How do you know they’re silicone?”
The players took the court for warm-ups. Two minutes later Pavel Menansi made his grand entrance. There was a smattering of applause. Pavel displayed his gratitude with a circular hand gesture. Very popelike. He wore tennis whites, with a green sweater tied around his neck. The smile was on full blast. Pavel made his way toward the TruPro box. Aaron rose, let him in, then sat back down. Pavel and Roy O’Connor shook hands.