Drop Shot

  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.

  Picking locks was not Myron's forte. Win was a lot better at it. Plus he didn't have the tools. Another cry from the room. "Open the door," he shouted. The only answer was more cries.

  To hell with it, he thought.

  Leading with his shoulder, Myron pile-drove his body into the door. It stung him pretty good, but the lock gave way. The cries were still muffled, but for a moment Myron forgot about them. Sprawled across the bed was Pavel Menansi. His eyes were wide open but unseeing. His mouth was frozen in a surprised oval. Dried, dark blood was caked on his chest where the bullet had entered.

  He was naked.

  Myron stared for a few moments before the renewed cries snapped him out of it. He turned to his right. The sound emanated from behind the bathroom door. Myron moved toward it. There was a plastic Feron's bag on the floor. The same kind they used at the U.S. Open. The same kind they found at Val's murder.

  The bag had a bullet hole in it.

  In front of the bathroom door, jammed under the knob, was a chair. Myron kicked it out of the way and opened the door. A young girl was sitting on the tile, her knees pulled up to her chest. She was huddled in a corner against the toilet. Myron recognized her right away. It was Janet Koffman, Pavel's newest protegee. Fourteen years old.

  She too was naked.

  Janet looked up at him. Her eyes were large and red and puffy. Her lower lip quivered. "We were just talking tennis," she said in a dead voice. "He's my coach. We were just talking about a match. That's all."

  Myron nodded. Janet started to cry again. He bent down and wrapped a towel around her. He reached out, but she shrank away.

  "It's okay now," he said, not knowing what else to say. "You're going to be okay."

  37

  Janet Koffman had stopped crying. She was sitting on the loveseat by the window. Her back was to the bed and hence Pavel's corpse. From what Myron could get out of her she had been in the bathroom when someone locked her in with the chair and killed Pavel. She hadn't seen a thing. She was still sticking to her other story too: she and her coach had been talking tennis. Myron chose not to probe into the small details--like why, for example, they would have this particular discussion in the nude.

  He had called the police. They'd be here any minute now. The question was, what should he do with Janet? On the one hand, he wanted to protect her from all of this; on the other, he knew she had to deal with what she had been through, that she couldn't just pretend nothing had happened to her. So what should Myron do--tamper with a police investigation or expose her to the brutish ways of the cops and worse, the press? What message of shame would hiding the truth send her? Then again, what would happen to this young girl if the story hit the airwaves?

  Myron didn't have a clue.

  "He was a good coach," Janet said softly.

  "You did nothing wrong," Myron said, again realizing how lame he sounded. "Whatever else happens, remember that. You did absolutely nothing wrong."

  She nodded slowly, but Myron wasn't sure if she'd even heard him.

  Ten minutes later the police arrived, led by Dimonte. Rolly looked like something the proverbial cat had dragged in. He was unshaven. His shirt was untucked and buttoned wrong. His hair was all over the place. He had sleep-buggers in both eyes. Still, the boots were nicely polished. He charged up to Myron. "Returning to the scene of the crime, asshole?"

  "Yeah," Myron said, "that's it."

  The press rounded the corner. Flashbulbs started strobing. "Keep those assholes downstairs!" Dimonte hollered. Some uniformed cops pushed them back. "Downstairs, I said! No one on this floor."

  Dimonte turned back to Myron. Krinsky came in and stood next to him. His pad was out.

  "Hey, Krinsky," Myron said.

  Krinsky nodded.

  "So what the hell happened?" Dimonte demanded.

  "I came up to see him. I found him like this."

  "Stop fucking with me, asshole."

  Myron didn't bother with a retort. Cops were all over the place. The coroner was slitting a hole in Pavel's torso with a surgical scalpel. The liver area, Myron knew. Trying to get a liver temperature reading to find out time of death.

  Dimonte spotted the Feron's bag on the floor. "You touch this?"

  Myron shook his head.

  Dimonte bent down and looked at the bullet hole. "Cute," he said.

  "You going to let Roger Quincy go now?"

  "Why should I?"

  "You didn't have squat on him before. Now you have less than squat."

  Dimonte shrugged. "Could just be a copycat. Or"--he snapped his fingers--"or it could be someone who wants to get Quincy off." A smile. "Someone like you, Bolitar."

  "Yeah," Myron said, "that's it."

  Dimonte stepped closer. He gave Myron the tough-guy glare again. Then, as though suddenly remembering it, he quickly whipped out his toothpick and put it in his mouth. He glared again and gnawed the toothpick.

  "I was wrong before," Myron said.

  "What?"

  "About the toothpick being cliche. It's actually very intimidating."

  "Keep it up, funny man."

  "It's too early for this, Rolly."

  "Listen, asshole, I want to know what you're doing here."

  "I told you. I came to see Pavel."

  "Why?"

  "To talk about him coaching a player of mine."

  "At six-thirty in the morning?"

  "I'm an early riser. It's why they call me Mr. Sunbeam."

  "They should call you Mister Lying Sack of Shit."

  "Oooo," Myron said. "That hurt."

  Dimonte started gnawing on the toothpick with renewed vigor. You could almost hear something churn inside his head. "So tell me, Bolitar," he said with the beginnings of a smile, "you came to the hotel to talk business. You took the elevator up to see our victim here. You knocked on the door. No one answered. Right so far?"

  "Yep."

  "So then you kicked the door in, right?"

  Myron said nothing.

  Dimonte turned to Krinsky. "That make sense to you, Krinsky? Kicking in the door like that?"

  Krinsky looked up from his pad, shook his head, looked back down.

  "You always do that when no one answers a door, asshole? Kick it down?"

  "I didn't kick it. I used my shoulder."

  "Don't bullshit me, Bolitar. You didn't come here to talk business. And you didn't kick down the door just because no one answered."

  The coroner tapped Dimonte on the shoulder. "Bullet to the heart. Clean shot. Death was instantaneous."

  "Time of death?" Rolly asked.

  "He's been dead six, maybe seven hours."

  Dimonte looked at his watch. "It's seven now. That would mean he was killed between midnight and one."

  Myron turned to Krinsky. "And he didn't even see you use his fingers."

  Krinsky almost smiled.

  Dimonte tossed out another glare. "You got an alibi, Bolitar?"
/>
  "I was with a lady friend."

  "That Jessica Culver?"

  "Correct." Myron waited for Krinsky to look up. When he did, Myron said, "Her number is 555-8420."

  Krinsky wrote it down.

  "All right, Bolitar, now stop busting my balls. Why did you kick down the door?"

  Myron hesitated. He looked at Dimonte. Dimonte looked back and said, "Well?"

  "Come with me," Myron said in a quiet voice. He began to leave the room.

  "Hey, where the fuck do you think you're going?"

  "For once, Rolly, don't be an ass. Just shut up and follow me."

  To Myron's surprise Dimonte kept quiet. They went down the corridor in silence. Krinsky stayed at the crime scene. Myron stopped in front of a door, took out a key, and opened it. Janet Koffman was sitting on the bed. She was wearing a hotel bathrobe. If she realized they were there, she didn't show it. Janet rocked back and forth, humming to herself.

  Dimonte looked a question at Myron.

  "Her name is Janet Koffman."

  "The tennis player?"

  Myron nodded. "The killer locked her in the bathroom before he shot Menansi. I heard her crying when I knocked on the door. That's why I kicked it in."

  Dimonte looked at Myron. "You mean she and Menansi were...?"

  Myron nodded.

  "Christ, how old is she?"

  "Fourteen, I think."

  Dimonte closed his eyes. "We have someone down at the precinct," he said softly. "A doctor. She's good with this stuff. I'll talk to the Manhattan cop in charge about sneaking her out, see if he can keep the press away. I'll try to keep the victim's name out of the papers for a while."

  "Thank you."

  "I've seen this kinda thing before, Bolitar. The girl is going to need help."

  "I know."

  "Any chance she offed him herself? Frankly I wouldn't give a shit but..."

  Myron shook his head. "She was locked in from the outside with a chair. It couldn't have been her."

  Dimonte gave the toothpick a little chew. "Thoughtful killer," he said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "He didn't want the girl to see what happened. He made sure she had an alibi by locking her in with the chair. And most of all he saved her from going through any more of Menansi's hell." He looked at Myron. "I'd probably pin a medal on the guy if he hadn't also killed Valerie Simpson."

  Myron said, "Me too." It made him wonder.

  38

  The office was only about ten blocks away. Myron decided to walk it. Cars sat completely still on Sixth Avenue, though the lights were green and there was no visible construction. Everyone honked their horns. Like this ever does any good. A well-groomed man got out of a taxi. He wore a pin-striped suit, a gold Tag Heuer watch, and Gucci shoes. He also wore a green pinwheel hat and plastic Spock ears. New York--my kind of town.

  Myron ignored the fumes and tried to think the whole thing through. The popular theory--the main theory, if you will--had gone something like this: Valerie Simpson had been abused by Pavel Menansi. Regaining her mental strength, she had decided to expose him. This exposure would have been detrimental to the financial well-being of TruPro and the Ache brothers. So they eliminated her before she could do any damage. It all added up. It all made sense.

  Until this morning.

  A major monkey wrench had been tossed into the main theory: Pavel Menansi had been murdered too, in a fashion similar to Valerie Simpson. Under the main theory, the murders of Valerie Simpson and Pavel Menansi were at cross-purposes. Why kill Valerie Simpson to protect Pavel Menansi, only to go ahead and kill Pavel Menansi? It didn't mesh. It wasn't profitable for TruPro or the Aches.

  Of course, there was the possibility that Frank Ache had decided Menansi was too big a risk, that exposure was imminent and losses might as well be cut right now. But if Frank had wanted Pavel dead, he would have had Aaron do it. Pavel had been murdered between midnight and one. Aaron was dead by midnight. Myron mulled this over a bit and decided that Aaron's being dead made it extremely unlikely he was the killer. And moreover, if Frank had intended to kill Pavel, there would have been no reason to scare Myron off with the attack on Jessica.

  On the street in front of him a pale woman with a bullhorn screamed that she had recently met Jesus face-to-face. She stuffed a pamphlet into Myron's hand.

  "Jesus sent me back with this message," she said.

  Myron nodded, glanced down at the ink smears on the pamphlet. "Too bad he didn't give you a decent printer."

  She gave him a funny look and went back to her bullhorn. Myron stuffed the pamphlet into his pocket and continued walking. His mind returned to the problem at hand.

  Frank Ache wasn't behind Pavel's murder, he thought. To the contrary, Frank Ache wanted Pavel saved because Pavel meant mucho dinero to TruPro. Frank Ache had even brought Aaron in to protect Pavel. He had ordered Aaron to harm Jessica and to protect Pavel. Killing TruPro's main tennis drawing card would make no sense.

  So what did that leave us?

  Two possibilities. One, we were dealing with two separate killers with two separate agendas. Seeing an opportunity, Pavel's killer had left behind a Feron's bag to put the blame on Valerie's killer. Or two, there was some other linkage between Valerie and Pavel, one that was not readily apparent. Myron favored this possibility, and of course it led back to Myron's earlier obsession: The murder of Alexander Cross.

  Both Valerie Simpson and Pavel Menansi had been at the Old Oaks tennis club that night six years ago. Both had been attending the party for Alexander Cross. But so what? Let's suppose Jessica had been right this morning. Suppose Valerie Simpson had seen something that night, maybe even the identity of the real murderer. Suppose she'd been about to reveal the truth. Suppose that was why she'd been killed. How would that tie in to Pavel Menansi? Even if he had seen the same thing, he hadn't opened his mouth in years. Why would Pavel start now? It's not as though he'd come forward to help poor Valerie. So what is the connection? And what about Duane Richwood? How did he fit into this equation, if at all? And Deanna Yeller? And where was Errol Swade? Was he still alive?

  He headed east three blocks and then turned down Park Avenue. The majestic (if not ostentatious) Helmsley Palace or Helmsley Castle or Helmsley Whatever sat straight ahead, seemingly in the middle of the street; the MetLife building huddled over it like a protective parent. For eons the MetLife building had been something of a New York landmark known as the Pan Am building. Myron couldn't get used to the change. Every time he turned the corner he still expected to see the Pan Am logo.

  Activity was brisk in the front of Myron's building. He headed past the modern sculpture that adorned the entrance. The sculpture was hideous. It looked very much like a giant intestinal tract. Myron had looked for a name on the sculpture once, but in a typical New York move, someone had pried off the name plaque. What someone did with an ugly sculpture's name plaque was beyond comprehension. Maybe they sold it. Maybe there was an underground market for name plaques from works of art--for those who couldn't afford actual stolen artworks and thus settled for the plaques.

  Interesting theory.

  He entered the lobby. Three Lock-Horne hostesses sat on stools behind a tall counter, smiling plastically. They wore enough makeup to double as cosmetic counter girls at Bloomies. Of course, they didn't wear the official white lab coat of genuine Bloomie counter girls, so you could tell they weren't professional makeup people. Still, all three were attractive--model wannabes who found this more enjoyable (and put them in touch with more potential bigwigs) than waiting tables. Myron walked past them, smiled, nodded. None gave him the eye. Hmm. They must know how committed he was to Jessica. Yeah, that must be it.

  When the elevator opened on his floor, he walked toward Esperanza. Her white blouse was a nice contrast against her dark, flawless skin. She'd have been great on one of those Bain de Soleil commercials. The Santa Fe tan without any sun.

  "Hi," he said.

  Esperanza cupped the phone aga
inst her shoulder. "It's Jake. You want to take it?"

  He nodded. She handed him the phone.

  "Hey, Jake."

  "Some girl did a partial autopsy on Curtis Yeller," Jake said. "She'll see you."

  Myron said, "Some girl?"

  "Mea culpa for not being politically sensitive," Jake said. "Sometimes I still refer to myself as black."

  "That's because you're too lazy to say African American," Myron said.

  "Is it African or Afro?"

  "African now," Myron said.

  "When in doubt," Jake said, "ask a honky."

  "Honky," Myron repeated. "Now there's a word you don't hear much anymore."

  "Damn shame too. Anyway, the assistant M.E. is Amanda West. She seemed anxious to talk." Jake gave him the address.

  "What about the cop?" Myron asked. "Jimmy Blaine?"

  "No dice."

  "He still with force?"

  "Nope. He retired."

  "You have his address?"

  "Yes," Jake said.

  Silence. Esperanza kept her eyes on her computer screen.

  "Could you give it to me?" Myron asked.

  "Nope."

  "I won't hassle him, Jake."

  "I said no."

  "You know I can find the address on my own."

  "Fine, but I'm not giving it to you. Jimmy is one of the good guys, Myron."

  "So am I," Myron said.

  "Maybe. But sometimes the innocent get hurt in your little crusades."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing. Just leave him alone."

  "And why so defensive?" Myron continued. "I just want to ask him a couple of questions."

  Silence. Esperanza didn't look up.

  Myron continued, "Unless he did something he shouldn't have."

  "Don't matter," Jake said.

  "Even if he--"

  "Even if. Good-bye, Myron."

  The phone went dead. Myron stared at it a second. "That was bizarre."

  "Uh-huh." Esperanza still stared at her computer screen. "Messages on your desk. Lots of them."

  "Have you seen Win?"

  Esperanza shook her head.