Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

Myron made a face. “You mind turning that off?”

“Lisa Goldstein,” Win said, motioning toward a mound of writhing flesh on the screen.

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

“I don’t think you ever met her.”

“Hard to tell,” Myron said. “I mean, I’m not even sure where her face is.”

“Lovely lass. Jewish, you know.”

“Lisa Goldstein? You’re kidding.”

Win smiled. He uncrossed his legs and stood in one fluid motion. He switched off the television, hit the EJECT button, put the tape back in a box marked L.G. He filed the box under the G’s in an oak cabinet. There were a lot of tapes already there.

“You realize,” Myron said, “that you’re quite deranged.”

Win locked the cabinet with a key. Dr. Discretion. “Every man needs a hobby.”

“You’re a scratch golfer. You’re a champion martial artist. Those are hobbies. This is deranged. Hobbies; deranged. See the difference?”

“Moralizing,” Win said. “How nice.”

Myron did not respond. They had been down this road many times since they were freshmen at Duke. It never led anywhere.

Win’s office was pure, elitist WASP. Paintings of a fox hunt adorned paneled walls. Burgundy leather chairs ideally complemented the deep forest-green carpeting. An antique wooden globe stood next to an oak desk that could double as a squash court. The effect—not a subtle one, at that—could be summed up in two words: Serious. Cash.

Myron sat in one of the leather chairs. “You got a minute?”

“Of course.” Win opened a cabinet in the bar behind his desk, revealing a small refrigerator. He took out a cold Yoo-Hoo and tossed it to Myron. Myron shook the can as per the instructions (Shake! It’s Great!) while Win mixed himself a very dry martini.

Myron started off by telling Win about the police visit to Duane Richwood. Win remained impassive, allowing himself a small smile when he heard how Dimonte had called him a psycho-yuppie. Then Myron told him about the powder-blue Cadillac. Win sat back and steepled. He listened without interrupting. When Myron finished, Win rose from his seat and picked up a putter.

“So our friend Mr. Richwood is holding something back.”

“We can’t be sure.”

Win raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you have any thoughts as to how Duane Richwood and Valerie Simpson are connected?”

“Nope. I was hoping you might.”

“Moi?”

“You knew her,” Myron said.

“She was an acquaintance.”

“But you have a thought.”

“About a connection between Duane and Valerie? No.”

“Then what?”

Win strolled to a corner. A dozen golf balls were all in a line. He began to putt. “Are you really intent on pursuing this? Valerie’s murder, I mean?”

“Yep.”

“It might be none of your business.”

“Might be,” Myron agreed.

“Or you might unearth something unpleasant. Something you would rather not find.”

“A distinct possibility.”

Win nodded, checked the carpet’s lie. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“No. Not the first time. Are you in?”

“There is nothing in this for us,” Win said.

“Maybe not,” Myron agreed.

“No financial gain.”

“None at all.”

“In fact there is never any profit in your holy crusades.”

Myron waited.

Win lined up another putt. “Stop making that face,” he said. “I’m in.”

“Good. Now tell me what you know about this.”

“Nothing really. It’s just a thought.”

“I’m listening.”

“You know, of course, about Valerie’s breakdown,” Win said.

“Yes.”

“It was six years ago. She was only eighteen. The official word was that she collapsed under the pressure.”

“The official word?”

“It may be the truth. The pressure on her was indeed awesome. Her rise had been nothing short of meteoric—but nowhere near as meteoric as the tennis world’s expectations of her. Her subsequent fall—at least, up until the time of the breakdown—was slow and painful. Not at all like yours. Your fall, if you don’t mind me using that word, was far swifter. Guillotinelike. One minute you were the Celtics’ number one draft pick. The next minute you were finished. The end. But unlike Valerie, you had a freak injury and were thereby blameless. You were pitied. You cut a sympathetic figure. Valerie’s demise, on the other hand, seemed to be of her own doing. She was a failure, ridiculed, but still no more than a child. To the world at large, the fickle finger of fate had ended the career of Myron Bolitar. But in the case of Valerie Simpson, she alone was culpable. In the eyes of the public she did not possess enough mental fortitude. Her fall, thus, was slow, torturous, brutal.”

“So what does this have to do with the murder?”

“Perhaps nothing. But I always found the circumstances surrounding Valerie’s mental collapse a bit disturbing.”

“Why?”

“Her game had slipped, that much was true. Her coach—that famous gentleman who plays with all the celebrities …”

“Pavel Menansi.”

“Whatever. He still believed Valerie could come back and win again. He said it all the time.”

“Thereby putting more pressure on her.”

Win hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said slowly. “But there is another factor. Do you remember the murder of Alexander Cross?”

“The senator’s son?”

“The senator from Pennsylvania,” Win added.

“He was killed by robbers at his country club. Five, six years ago.”

“Six. And it was a tennis club.”

“You knew him?”

“Of course,” Win said. “The Hornes have known every important Pennsylvania politician since William Penn. I grew up with Alexander Cross. We went to Exeter together.”

“So what does he have to do with Valerie Simpson?”

“Alexander and Valerie were, shall we say, an item.”

“A serious item?”

“Quite. They were about to announce their engagement when Alexander was killed. That night, as a matter of fact.”

Myron did some quick mathematics in his head. Six years ago. Valerie would have been eighteen. “Let me guess. Valerie’s breakdown took place right after his murder.”