Drop Shot

  "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?"

  "I can't believe you came to town and didn't call me. A less mature man would be insulted."

  "I got nothing to say to you." She began to close the door.

  "Guess who I just spoke to?"

  "I don't care."

  "Lucinda Elright."

  The door stopped. With Deanna looking slightly dazed, Myron slid through the opening.

  Deanna recovered. "Who?"

  "Lucinda Elright. One of your son's teachers."

  "I don't remember none of his teachers."

  "Oh but she remembers you. She said you were a wonderful mother to Curtis."

  "So?"

  "She also said that Curtis was a wonderful student, one of the best she ever had. She said he had a bright future. She said he never got into trouble."

  Deanna Yeller put her hand on her hips. "There a point to all this?"

  "Your son had no police record. He had a perfect school record, not so much as a detention. He was one of the top students in his class, if not the top student. You were clearly involved in his activities. You were an excellent mother, raising an excellent young man."

  She looked away. She might have been looking out the window, except the blinds were drawn. The TV was humming softly. A commercial for men's pickup trucks featuring a soap opera star. Soap opera star, pickup trucks--what advertising genius came up with that combo?

  "This is none of your business," she whispered.

  "Did you love your son, Ms. Yeller?"

  "What?"

  "Did you love your son?"

  "Get out. Now."

  "If you cared about him at all, help me find out what happened to him."

  She glared at him. "Don't give me that," she countered. "You don't care about my boy. You're trying to find out who killed that white girl."

  "Maybe. But Valerie Simpson's death and your son's are connected. That's why I need your help."

  She shook her head. "You don't listen too good, do you? I told you before: Curtis is dead. Can't change that."

  "Your son wasn't the type to rob. He wasn't the type to carry a gun or threaten the police with one. That's just not the boy you raised."

  "Don't matter," she said. "He's dead. Can't bring him back."

  "What was he doing at the tennis club that night?"

  "I don't know."

  "Where did you suddenly get all your money?"

  Pow. Deanna Yeller looked up, startled. The old change-topic attention-getter. Works every time. "What?"

  "Your house in Cherry Hills," Myron said. "It was a cash deal four months ago. And your bank account at First Jersey. All cash deposits within the past half year. Where did the money come from, Deanna?"

  Her face grew angry. Then suddenly she relaxed and smiled eerily. "Maybe I stole it," she said, "just like my son. You gonna report me?"

  "Or maybe it's a payoff."

  "A payoff? For what?"

  "You tell me."

  "No," she said. "I don't have to tell you nothing. Get out."

  "Why are you here in New York?"

  "To see the sights. Now leave."

  "One of those sights Duane Richwood?"

  Double pow. She stopped. "What?"

  "Duane Richwood. The man who was in your room the other night."

  She stared at him. "You were following us?"

  "No. Just him."

  Deanna Yeller looked horror-stricken. "What kind of man are you?" she said slowly. "You get off on that kind of thing, watching other people and all? Checking their bank accounts? Following them around like a Peeping Tom?" She opened the door. "Don't you have no shame at all?"

  The argument was a little too close for comfort. "I'm trying to find a killer," Myron argued, but his tone rang lamely in his own ears. "Maybe the person who killed your son."

  "And it don't matter who you hurt to do it, right?"

  "That's not true."

  "If you really want to do some good, then just drop this whole thing."

  "What so you mean by that?"

  She shook her head. "Curtis is dead. So is Valerie Simpson. Errol..." She stopped. "It's enough."

  "What's enough? What about Errol?"

  But she kept shaking her head. "Just let it go, Myron. For everyone's sake. Just let it go."

  35

  Jessica felt the cold barrel of the gun against her temple.

  "What do you want?" she asked.

  Aaron signaled. The man behind her covered her mouth with his free hand. He pressed her hard against him. Jessica could feel hot spittle on her neck. It was hard to breathe. She twisted her head back and forth. Her chest hitched as she scrambled for more air. Panic seized her.

  Aaron rose off the couch. The black man moved a step closer, his gun still pointed at her.

  "No reason for preliminaries," Aaron said calmly. He took off his white jacket. He wore no shirt underneath, revealing instead the hairless, bodybuilder physique. He flexed a little. His pectoral muscles made ripples, like a stadium crowd doing the wave. "If you can still speak when we're through, make sure you tell Myron it was me." He cracked his knuckles. "I'd hate for my work to go unaccredited."

  "Should I break her jaw?" the man with the fishnet asked. "So she can't yell or nothing."

  Aaron thought a moment. "No," he said. "I kind of enjoy a good yell now and again."

  All three men laughed.

  "I go second," the black man said.

  "Like hell," the man with the fishnet countered.

  "You always go before me," the black man whined.

  "All right, we'll flip for it."

  "You got a coin? I never carry change."

  "Shut up," Aaron said.

  Silence.

  Jessica struggled feverishly, but the man in the fishnet was too strong. She bit down and managed to skim one of his fingers. He yelped and called her a bitch. Then he bent her head back in a way it was never supposed to go. Pain shot down her spine. Her eyes widened.

  Aaron was about to unbutton his pants when it happened.

  A gunshot. Or more than one gunshot. It sounded to Jessica like only one, but it had to be more. The hand pressed hard against her mouth slackened and slid off. The gun against her temple dropped to the floor. She turned just enough to see the man behind her no longer had a face or even much of a head. He was dead well before his legs realized it and let him cave onto the floor.

  At seemingly the same time, the back half of the black man's head flew across the room. He too fell to the floor in a bloody heap.

  Aaron's speed was uncanny. Seemingly before the first bullet even hit its target he had rolled into a crouch and whipped out a gun. Everything--the shots, the men going down, Aaron rolling to safety--had taken less than two seconds. Aaron came up aiming his gun at Win, who aimed his right back
. Jessica stood frozen. Win must have come in through the terrace window, though how he could have gotten there and how long he'd been there Jessica could not say.

  Win smiled casually and gave a half-nod. "My, my, Aaron, you're looking rather buff."

  "I try to stay in shape," Aaron said. "Nice of you to notice."

  The two men continued to aim their guns at each other. Neither blinked. Neither stopped smiling. Jessica had not moved. Her body quaked as though from fever. She felt something sticky on her face and realized it was probably brain matter from the man at her feet.

  "I have an idea," Aaron said.

  "An idea?"

  "For how to end this deadlock. One I think you'll like, Win."

  "Do tell," Win said.

  "We both put our guns down at the same time."

  "So far it doesn't sound very appealing," Win said.

  "I'm not finished."

  "How rude of me. Please continue."

  "We've both killed men with our bare hands," Aaron said. "We both know we like it. A lot. We both know there are very few worthy adversaries in this world. We both know we are rarely if ever seriously challenged."

  "So?"

  "So I'm suggesting the ultimate test." Aaron's grin grew brighter. "You and me. Man to man, hand-to-hand combat. What do you say?"

  Win chewed on his upper lip. "Intriguing," he said.

  Jessica tried to say something, but her tongue would not obey. She just stood there, stone-faced; the thing that used to wear fishnet shirts bled without a twitch.

  "One condition," Win said.

  "What's that?"

  "No matter who wins, Jessica goes free."

  Aaron shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Frank will get her some other time."

  "Maybe. But not tonight."

  "Fine then," Aaron said. "But she can't leave until it's over."

  Win nodded at her. "Wait by the door, Jessica. When the fight ends, run."

  "But you have to wait until it's over," Aaron added.

  Jessica found her voice. "How will I know when it's over?"

  "One of us will be dead," Win said.

  She nodded numbly. She couldn't stop shaking. Both men were still pointing the guns at one another.

  "You know the drill?" Aaron asked.

  "Of course."

  Still holding the guns, both men placed their hand on the floor. At the same time, they twisted their weapons so that the barrel was no longer pointing at the other man. They both released their weapons at the same time. They both stood at the same time. They both kicked the weapons into a corner at the same time.

  Aaron grinned. "It's done," he said.

  Win nodded.

  They approached each other slowly. Aaron's grin spread into something fully maniacal. He got into some weird fighting position--dragon or grasshopper or something--and beckoned with his left hand. His body was sleek, all muscle. He towered over Win. "You forgot the basic premise of the martial arts," Aaron said.

  "What's that?" Win asked.

  "A good big man will always beat a good little man."

  "And you forgot the basic premise of Windsor Horne Lockwood III."

  "Oh?"

  "He always carries two guns."

  Almost nonchalantly, Win reached into his leg holster, took out his gun, and fired. Aaron ducked, but the bullet still hit him in the head. The second bullet also hit Aaron's head. So too, Jessica guessed, did the third.

  The big man fell to the ground. Win walked over and studied the still figure, tilting his head from side to side like a dog hearing a strange sound.

  Jessica watched him in silence.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  Win continued to look down. He shook his head and made a tsk, tsk noise.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  Win turned to her, an almost shy smile toying with his lips. He gave a half-shrug. "I guess I'm not much for fair fights."

  He looked back down at the body and started to laugh.

  36

  Jessica didn't want to talk about it. She wanted to make love. Myron understood. Death and violence do that to a person. The fine line. There was definitely something to that "reaffirming life" stuff after facing down the Grim Reaper.

  When they were spent, Jessica lay her head on his chest, her hair a wonderful fan. For a long time she didn't say anything. Myron stroked her back. Finally she spoke. "He enjoys it, doesn't he?"

  Myron knew she meant Win. "Yes."

  "Do you?" she asked.

  "Not like Win."

  She lifted her head and looked at him. "That sounded a tad evasive."

  "Part of me hates it more than you can imagine."

  "And another part of you?" she prompted.

  "It's the ultimate test. There's an undeniable rush to that. But it's not like what happens with Win. He craves it. He needs it."

  "And you don't?"

  "I like to think I loathe it."

  "But do you?"

  "I don't know," Myron said.

  "It was scary," she said. "Win was scary."

  "He also saved your life."

  "Yes."

  "It's what Win does. He's good at it--the best I've ever seen. Everything with him is black and white. He has no moral ambiguities. If you cross the line, there is no reprieve, no mercy, no chance to talk your way out of it. You're dead. Period. Those men came to harm you. Win wasn't interested in rehabilitating them. They made their choice. The moment they entered your apartment they were doomed."

  "It sounds like the theory of massive retaliation," she said. "You kill one of ours, we kill ten of yours."

  "Colder," Myron said. "Win's not interested in teaching a lesson. He sees it as extermination. They're no more than pestering fleas to him."

  "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 alrea
dy 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.