Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

“And you agree with that?”

“Not always. But I understand it. Win’s moral code is not mine. We’ve both known that for a long time. But he’s my best friend and I’d trust him with my life.”

“Or mine,” she said.

“Right.”

“So what is your moral code?” she asked.

“It’s flexible. Let’s leave it at that.”

Jessica nodded. She lay her head back down on his chest. The warmth of her felt good against his heartbeat. “Their heads,” she said. “They just exploded like melons.”

“Win doctors the bullets to maximize impact.”

“Where did he take the bodies?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Will they be found?”

“Only if he wants them to be.”

A few minutes later Jessica’s eyes closed and her breathing grew deep. Myron watched her drift into a sound sleep. She cuddled closer to him, looking small and frail. He knew what would happen tomorrow. She’d still be in some form of shock—not a dazed shock as much as a denial. She’d go about her day as though nothing had happened, straining extra-hard for normalcy but falling just short of achieving it. Everything would be just a little different than yesterday. Nothing drastic, just the little things. Her food would taste a little different. The air would smell a little different. Colors would have an almost indiscernibly different hue.

At six in the morning, Myron got out of bed and showered. When he came back she was sitting up. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To see Pavel Menansi.”

“This early?”

“They’ll think Aaron took care of the problem last night. I might catch them off guard.”

She pulled the covers over her. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night at dinner. About the connection to the Alexander Cross murder.”

“And?”

“Suppose you’re right. Suppose something else happened that night six years ago.”

“Like?”

She sat upright, leaning against the headboard. “Suppose Errol Swade didn’t kill Alexander Cross,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, suppose Valerie saw what really happened to Alexander Cross. And suppose that whatever she saw pushed her already battered psyche over the edge. She had already been weakened by what Pavel Menansi did to her. But now suppose whatever she saw was the ultimate cause of her breakdown.”

Myron nodded. “Go on.”

“And now suppose years pass. Valerie gets stronger. She makes a remarkable recovery. She even wants to play tennis again. But most of all, she wants to face up to her darkest fear: the truth of what really happened that night.”

He saw where she was going with this. “She’d have to be silenced,” he said.

“Yes.”

Myron slipped a pair of pants on. Over the past few months his clothes had begun a slow migration to Jess’s loft. About a third of his wardrobe now resided here. “If you’re right,” he said, “we now have two people who want to silence Valerie: Pavel Menansi and whoever killed Alexander Cross.”

“Or someone who wants to protect those two.”

He finished dressing. Jess hated his tie and told him to change it. He complied. When he was ready to leave, Myron said, “You’ll be safe this morning, but I want to move you someplace out of town for a little while.”

“For how long?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Few days. Maybe longer. Just until I can get this situation under control.”

“I see,” she said.

“Are you going to fight me on this?”

She got out of bed and pattered across the room. She wore no clothes. Myron’s mouth went a little dry. He stared. He could stare all day. She walked with the ease of a panther. Every movement was supple and marvelous and rawly sensual. She slipped into a silk robe. “I know this is the part where I’m supposed to get all indignant and say that I’m not going to change my life,” she said. “But I’m scared. I’m also a writer who could use a few days of solitude. So I’ll go. No arguments.”

He hugged her. “You’re always a surprise,” he said.

“What?”

“Being reasonable. Who would have thought?”

“I’m trying to keep the mystery alive,” she said.

They kissed. Passionately. Her skin felt wonderfully warm.

“Why don’t you stay a little longer?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I want to get to Pavel before Ache realizes what happened.”

“One more kiss then.”

He stepped away. “Not unless you want to pack me in ice.” He blew her a kiss and left the bedroom area. Clumps of blood were stuck to the exposed brick wall by the door. Courtesy of Fishnet Lee’s head.

Outside, Win was nowhere in sight, but Myron knew he was there. Jess would be safe until they moved her.

Pavel Menansi was staying at the Omni Park Central on Seventh Avenue, across the street from Carnegie Hall. Myron would have preferred to go in with backup, but it was better Win wasn’t there. There had been a bond between Win and Valerie—more than just the family-friend variety. Myron didn’t know what that bond was. Win cared about very few people, but for those select few he would go to any lengths. The rest of the world meant nothing to him. Somehow Valerie had entered that protective circle. Myron would have enough trouble keeping his own rage in check. If Win were here—if Win were to question Pavel about his “affair” with Valerie—it wouldn’t be a very pretty sight.

Pavel was staying in room 719. Myron checked his watch. Six-thirty. Not much activity in the lobby. The floor was being mopped. An exhausted family was checking out. Three kids, all whining. The parents looked like they could use a vacation. Myron walked purposefully onto an elevator, like he belonged. He pressed the button for the seventh floor.

The corridor was empty. When Myron reached the door to Pavel’s room, he knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He tried once again. Nothing. He was about to go downstairs and try the house phone when a sound made him stop. He listened again. The sound was barely perceptible. He pressed his ear against the door.

“Hello?” he called out.

Crying. Faint. Growing stronger. The cries of a little girl.

Myron pounded the door this time. The crying picked up a little steam now, becoming more a sob. “Are you okay?” Myron asked. More crying, but still no words. A minute or so more of this and Myron began to look for the familiar sight of the maid cart and her passkey. But it was six-thirty in the morning. The maid wasn’t on her run yet.