Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

“Oh?”

Jess chewed daintily. Even the way she chewed food was a thing to behold. “Seeing Duane in that hotel room with Curtis Yeller’s mother,” she replied. “That’s what’s got to you.”

“You must admit it’s a hell of a coincidence,” he said.

“Do you have a theory?” she asked.

Myron thought a moment. “No.”

Jessica forked another piece of chicken. “You could ask Duane,” she said.

“Sure. I could just say, ‘Gee, Duane, I was following you around and noticed you’re shacking up with an older woman. Care to tell me about it?’ ”

“Yeah, that could be a problem,” she agreed. “Of course, you could approach it from the other direction.”

“Deanna Yeller?”

Jessica nodded.

Myron took a taste of his chicken. Before Jess finished the whole thing. “Worth a try,” he said. “You want to come along?”

“I’ll scare her off,” Jess said. “Just drop me off at my place.”

They finished eating. Myron even ate the eggplant. It was pretty good. Peter brought them a rich chocolate dessert—the kind of dessert you could gain weight just looking at. Jess dove in. Myron held back. They drove back over the George Washington Bridge to the Henry Hudson and down the west side. He dropped her off at her loft on Spring Street in Soho. She leaned back into the car.

“You’ll come by after?” she said.

“Sure. Put on that little French maid’s uniform and wait.”

“I don’t have a French maid’s uniform.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe we can pick one up in the morning,” she said. “In the meantime I’ll find something suitable.”

“Groovy,” Myron said.

Jess got out of the car then. She made her way up the stairs to the third floor. Her loft took up half the floor. She turned the key and entered. When she flicked on the lights she was startled to see Aaron lounging on her couch.

Before she could move, another man—a man with a fishnet shirt—came up behind her and put a gun to her temple. A third man—a black man—locked the door and turned the dead bolt. He too had a gun.

Aaron smiled at her. “Hello, Jessica.”

34

Myron’s car phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Bubbe, it’s your aunt Clara. Thanks for the referral.”

Clara wasn’t really his aunt. Aunt Clara and Uncle Sidney were just longtime friends of his parents. Clara had gone to law school with Myron’s mom. Myron had set her up to represent Roger Quincy.

“How’s it going?” Myron asked.

“My client wanted me to give you an important message,” Clara said “He stressed that I, his attorney, should treat this as my number one priority.”

“What?”

“Mr. Quincy said you promised him an autograph of Duane Richwood. Well, he’d like it to be an autographed picture of Duane Richwood, not just an autograph. Color picture, if that’s not too much trouble. And he’d like it inscribed to him, thank you very much. By the way, did he tell you he was a tennis fan?”

“I think he might have mentioned it. Fun guy, huh?”

“A constant party. Laughs galore. My sides are aching from all the laughing. It’s like representing Jackie Mason.”

“So what do you think?” Myron asked.

“In legal terms? The man is a major fruitcake. But is he guilty of murder—and more important, can the D.A. prove it?—that’s a different kettle of gefilte.”

“What do they have?”

“Circumstantial nothings. He was at the Open. Big deal, so were a zillion other people. He has a weird past. So what, he never made any overt threats that I’m aware of. No one saw him shoot her. No tests link him to the gun or that Feron’s bag with the bullet hole. Like I said, circumstantial nothings.”

“For what’s it worth,” Myron said, “I believe him.”

“Uh-huh.” Clara wouldn’t say if she believed him or not. It didn’t matter. “I’ll speak to you later, doll-face. Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

He hung up and dialed Jake.

A gruff voice said, “Sheriff Courter’s office.”

“It’s me, Jake.”

“What the fuck do you want now?”

“My, what a charming salutation,” Myron said. “I must use it sometime.”

“Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass.”

“You know,” Myron said, “I can’t for the life of me understand why you’re not invited to more parties.”

Jake blew his nose. Loudly. Geese in the tristate area scattered. “Before I’m left mortally wounded by your caustic wit,” he said, “tell me what you want.”

“You still have your copy of the Cross file?” Myron asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to meet the coroner on the case and the cop who shot Yeller,” Myron said. “Think you can set it up?”

“I thought there was no autopsy.”

“Nothing formal, but the senator said someone did some work on him.”

“Yeah, all right,” Jake said. “But I know the cop who did the shooting. Jimmy Blaine. A good man, but he ain’t gonna talk to you.”

“I’m not interested in bringing him down.”

“That’s a big comfort,” Jake said.

“I just want some information.”

“Jimmy won’t see you, I’m sure of it. Why do you need all this anyway?”

“I see a connection between Valerie’s murder and Alexander Cross’s.”

“What connection?”

Myron explained. When he finished, Jake said, “I still don’t see it, but I’ll call you if I get something.”

He hung up.

Myron lucked out and found a spot within two blocks of the hotel. He walked in like he belonged and took the elevator to the third floor. He stopped in front of room 322 and knocked.

“Who is it?” Deanna Yeller’s voice was cheerful, singsong.

“Bellhop,” Myron said. “Flowers for you.”

She flung open the door with a wide smile. Just like the first time they’d met. When she saw no flowers—and more to the point, when she saw Myron—the smile fled. Again, just like the first time.

“Enjoying your stay?” Myron said.

She didn’t bother hiding her exasperation. “What do you want?”