One False Move

  They both were too smart to bite and say, "Disappeared?," but Myron decided to wait them out anyway. People hate silence and often jump in just to break it. This was an old cop trick: Say nothing and let them dig their own graves with explanations. With politicians the results were always interesting: They were smart enough to know they should keep their mouths shut, yet genetically incapable of doing so.

  "I'm sorry," Arthur Bradford said at last. "As I explained earlier, Mother handled these matters."

  "Then maybe I should talk to her," Myron said.

  "Mother is not well, I'm afraid. She's in her eighties, poor dear."

  "I'd still like to try."

  "I'm afraid that won't be possible."

  There was just a hint of steel in his voice now.

  "I see," Myron said. "Do you know who Horace Slaughter is?"

  "No," Arthur said. "I assume he's a relative of Anita's?"

  "Her husband." Myron looked over at Chance. "You know him?"

  "Not that I recall," Chance said. Not that I recall. Like he was on a witness stand, needing to leave himself the out.

  "According to his phone records, he's been calling your campaign headquarters a lot lately."

  "Many people call our campaign headquarters," Arthur said. Then he added with a small chuckle, "At least I hope they do."

  Chance chuckled too. Real yucksters, these Bradford boys.

  "Yeah, I guess." Myron looked at Win. Win nodded. Both men stood up.

  "Thank you for your time," Win said. "We'll show ourselves out."

  The two politicians tried not to look too stunned. Chance finally cracked a bit. "What the hell is this?" Arthur silenced him with a look. He rose to shake hands, but Myron and Win were already at the door.

  Myron turned and did his best Columbo. "Funny."

  "What?" Arthur Bradford said.

  "That you don't remember Anita Slaughter better. I thought you would."

  Arthur turned his palms upward. "We've had lots of people work here over the years."

  "True," Myron said, stepping through the portal. "But how many of them found your wife's dead body?"

  The two men turned to marble--still and smooth and cool. Myron did not wait for more. He released the door and followed Win out.

  As they drove through the gate, Win said, "What exactly did we just accomplish?"

  "Two things. One, I wanted to find out if they had something to hide. Now I know they do."

  "Based on?"

  "Their outright lies and evasiveness."

  "They're politicians," Win said. "They'd lie and evade if you asked them what they had for breakfast."

  "You don't think there's something there?"

  "Actually," Win said, "I do. And thing two?"

  "I wanted to stir them up."

  Win smiled. He liked that idea. "So what next, Kemo Sabe?"

  "We need to investigate Elizabeth Bradford's premature demise," Myron said.

  "How?"

  "Hop onto South Livingston Avenue. I'll tell you where to make the turn."

  The Livingston Police Station sat next to the Livingston Town Hall and across the street from the Livingston Public Library and Livingston High School. A true town center. Myron entered and asked for Officer Francine Neagly. Francine had graduated from the high school across the street the same year as Myron. He'd hoped to get lucky and catch her at the station.

  A stem-looking desk sergeant informed Myron that Officer Neagly was "not present at this particular time"--that's how cops talk--but that she had just radioed in for her lunch break and would be at the Ritz Diner.

  The Ritz Diner was truly ugly. The formerly workmanlike brick structure had been spray-painted seaweed green with a salmon pink door--a color scheme too gaudy for a Carnival Cruise ship. Myron hated it. In its heyday, when Myron was in high school, the diner had been a run-of-the-mill, unpretentious eatery called the Heritage. It'd been a twenty-four-hour spot back then, owned by Greeks naturally--this seemed to be a state law--and frequented by high school kids grabbing burgers and fries after a Friday or Saturday night of doing nothing. Myron and his friends would don their varsity jackets, go out to a variety of house parties, and end up here. He tried now to remember what he did at those parties, but nothing specific came to mind. He didn't imbibe in high school--alcohol made him sick--and was prudish to the point of Pollyanna when it came to the drug scene. So what did he do at these things? He remembered the music, of course, blaring the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan and Supertramp, gleaning deep meaning from the lyrics of Blue Oyster Cult songs ("Yo, man, what do you think Eric really means when he says, 'I want to do it to your daughter on a dirt road'?"). He remembered occasionally making out with a girl, rarely more, and then their avoiding each other at all costs for the rest of their scholastic lives. But that was pretty much it. You went to the parties because you were afraid you'd miss something. But nothing ever happened. They were all an indistinguishable, monotonous blur now.

  What he did remember--what, he guessed, would always remain vivid in the old memory banks--was coming home late and finding his dad feigning sleep in the recliner. It didn't matter what time it was. Two, three in the morning. Myron did not have a curfew. His parents trusted him. But Dad still stayed up every Friday and Saturday night and waited in that recliner and worried and when Myron put his key in the lock, he faked being asleep. Myron knew he was faking. His dad knew Myron knew. But Dad still tried to pull it off every time.

  Win elbowed him back to reality. "Are you going to go in, or are we just going to marvel at this monument to nouveau tackiness?"

  "My friends and I used to hang out here," Myron said. "When I was in high school."

  Win looked at the diner, then at Myron. "You guys were the balls."

  Win waited in the car. Myron found Francine Neagly at the counter. He sat on the stool next to her and fought off the desire to spin it.

  "That police uniform," Myron said, and gave a little whistle. "It's quite the turn-on."

  Francine Neagly barely looked up from her burger. "Best part is, I can also use it to strip at bachelor parties."

  "Saves on the overhead."

  "Right-o." Francine took a bite out of a burger so rare it screamed ouch. "As I live and breathe," she said, "the local hero appears in public."

  "Please don't make a fuss."

  "Good thing I'm here, though. If the women get out of control, I can shoot them for you." She wiped very greasy hands. "I heard you moved out of town," she said.

  "I did."

  "Been the opposite around here lately." She grabbed another napkin out of the dispenser. "Most towns, all you hear about is how people want to grow up and move away. But here, well, everyone's coming back to Livingston and raising their own families. Remember Santola? He's back. Three kids. And Friedy? He lives in the Weinbergs' old house. Two kids. Jordan lives by St. Phil's. Fixed up some old piece of shit. Three kids, all girls. I swear, half our class got married and moved back to town."

  "How about you and Gene Duluca?" Myron asked with a little smile.

  She laughed. "Dumped him my freshman year of college. Christ, we were gross, huh?"

  Gene and Francine had been the class couple. They spent lunch hours sitting at a table, French-kissing while eating cafeteria food, both wearing debris-enmeshed braces.

  "Gross City," Myron agreed.

  She took another bite. "Wanna order something gooey and suck face? See what it was like?"

  "If only I had more time."

  "That's what they all say. So what can I do for you, Myron?"

  "Remember that death at the Bradford place when we were in high school?"

  She stopped mid-bite. "A little," she said.

  "Who would've handled it for the department?"

  She swallowed. "Detective Wickner."

  Myron remembered him. Ever-present reflector sunglasses. Very active in Little League. Cared about winning waaaaay too much. Hated the kids once they got into high school and stopped worshiping
him. Big on speeding tickets for young drivers. But Myron had always liked the man. Old Americana. As dependable as a good tool set.

  "He still on the force?"

  Francine shook her head. "Retired. Moved to a lake cabin upstate. But he still comes to town a lot. Hangs out at the fields and shakes hands. They named a backstop after him. Had a big ceremony and everything."

  "Sorry I missed that," Myron said. "Would the case file still be at the station?"

  "How long ago this happen?"

  "Twenty years."

  Francine looked at him. Her hair was shorter than in high school, and the braces were gone, but other than that, she looked exactly the same. "In the basement maybe. Why?"

  "I need it."

  "Just like that."

  He nodded.

  "You're serious?"

  "Yep."

  "And you want me to get it for you."

  "Yep."

  She wiped her hands with a napkin. "The Bradfords are powerful folks."

  "Don't I know it."

  "You looking to embarrass him or something? He running for governor and all."

  "No."

  "And I guess you have a good reason for needing it?"

  "Yep."

  "You want to tell me what it is, Myron?"

  "Not if I don't have to."

  "How about a teensy-weensy hint?"

  "I want to verify that it was an accident."

  She looked at him. "You have anything that says otherwise?"

  He shook his head. "I barely have a suspicion."

  Francine Neagly picked up a fry and examined it. "And if you do find something, Myron, you'll come to me, right? Not the press. Not the bureau boys. Me."

  "Deal," Myron said.

  She shrugged. "Okay. I'll take a look for it."

  Myron handed her his card. "Good seeing you again, Francine."

  "Likewise," she said, swallowing another bite. "Hey, you involved with anyone?"

  "Yeah," Myron said. "You?"

  "No," she said. "But now that you mention it, I think I kinda miss Gene."

  Myron hopped back into the Jaguar. Win started it up and pulled out.

  "Your Bradford plan," Win said. "It involved prodding him into action, did it not?"

  "It did."

  "Then congratulations are in order. The two gentlemen from the Bradfords' foyer did a pass by while you were inside."

  "Any sign of them now?"

  Win shook his head. "They're probably covering the ends of the road. Someone will pick us up. How would you like to play it?"

  Myron thought a moment. "I don't want to tip them off yet. Let them follow us."

  "Where to, O wise one?"

  Myron checked his watch. "What's your schedule look like?"

  "I need to get back to the office by two."

  "Can you drop me off at Brenda's practice? I'll get a ride back."

  Win nodded. "I live to chauffeur."

  They took Route 280 to the New Jersey Turnpike. Win turned on the radio. A commercial voice-over sternly warned people not to buy a mattress over the phone but, rather, to go to Sleepy's and "consult your mattress professional." Mattress professional. Myron wondered if that was a master's program or what.

  "Are you armed?" Win asked.

  "I left my gun in my car."

  "Open the glove compartment."

  Myron did. There were three guns and several boxes of ammunition. He frowned. "Expecting an armed invasion?"

  "My, what a clever quip," Win said. He gestured to a weapon. "Take the thirty-eight. It's loaded. There's a holster under the car seat."

  Myron feigned reluctance, but the truth was, he should have been carrying all along.

  Win said, "You realize, of course, that young FJ will not back down."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "We have to kill him. There is no choice."

  "Kill Frank Ache's son? Not even you could survive that."

  Win sort of smiled. "Is that a challenge?"

  "No," Myron said quickly. "Just don't do anything yet. Please. I'll come up with something."

  Win shrugged.

  They paid a toll and drove past the Vince Lombardi rest stop. In the distance Myron could still see the Meadowlands Sports Complex. Giants Stadium and the Continental Arena floated above the vast swampland that was East Rutherford, New Jersey. Myron stared off at the arena for a moment, silent, remembering his recent shot at playing pro basketball again. It hadn't worked out, but Myron was over that now. He had been robbed of playing the game he loved, but he'd accepted it, come to terms with reality. He'd put it behind him, had moved on, had let go of his anger.

  So what if he still thought about it every day?

  "I've done a bit of digging," Win said. "When young FJ was at Princeton, a geology professor accused him of cheating on an exam."

  "And?"

  "Na, na, na. Na, na, na. Hey, hey, hey. Good-bye."

  Myron looked at him. "You're kidding, right?"

  "Never found the body," Win said. "The tongue, yes. It was sent to another professor, who'd been considering leveling the same charges."

  Myron felt something flitter in his throat. "Might have been Frank, not FJ."

  Win shook his head. "Frank is psychotic but not wasteful. If Frank had handled it, he would have used a few colorful threats perhaps punctuated by a few well-placed blows. But this kind of overkill--it's not his style."

  Myron thought about it. "Maybe we can talk to Herman or Frank," he said. "Get him off our back."

  Win shrugged. "Easier to kill him."

  "Please don't."

  Another shrug. They kept driving. Win took the Grand Avenue exit. On the right was an enormous complex of town houses. During the mid-eighties, approximately two zillion such complexes had mushroomed across New Jersey. This particular one looked like a staid amusement park or the housing development in Poltergeist.

  "I don't want to sound maudlin," Myron said, "but if FJ does manage to kill me--"

  "I'll spend several fun-filled weeks spreading slivers of his genitalia throughout New England," Win said. "After that, I'll probably kill him."

  Myron actually smiled. "Why New England?"

  "I like New England," Win said. Then he added, "And I would be lonely in New York without you."

  Win pushed the MODE button, and the CD player spun to life. The music from Rent. The lovely Mimi was asking Roger to light her candle. Great stuff. Myron looked at his friend. Win said nothing more. To most people, Win seemed about as sentimental as a meat locker. But the fact was, Win just cared for very few people. With those select few, he was surprisingly open; much like his lethal hands, Win struck deep and hard and then backed off, ready to elude.

  "Horace Slaughter only had two credit cards," Myron said. "Could you check them out?"

  "No ATM?"

  "Only off his Visa."

  Win nodded, took the card numbers. He dropped Myron off at Englewood High School. The Dolphins were running through a one-on-one defensive drill. One player dribbled in a zigzag formation up the court while the defender bent low and worked on containment. Good drill. Tiring as all hell, but it worked the quads like no other.

  There were about a half dozen people in the stands now. Myron took a seat in the front row. Within seconds the coach beelined toward him. She was husky with neatly trimmed black hair, a knit shirt with the New York Dolphins logo on the breast, gray sweatpants, a whistle, and Nike high-tops.

  "You Bolitar?" the coach barked.

  Her spine was a titanium bar, her face as unyielding as a meter maid's.

  "Yes."

  "Name's Podich. Jean Podich." She spoke like a drill sergeant. She put her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels a bit. "Used to watch you play, Bolitar. Friggin' awesome."

  "Thank you." He almost added sir.

  "Still play at all?"

  "Just pickup games."

  "Good. Had a player go down with a twisted ankle. Need someone to fill in for the scrimmage."
r />   "Pardon me?" Coach Podich was not big on using pronouns.

  "Got nine players here, Bolitar. Nine. Need a tenth. Plenty of gym clothes in the equipment room. Sneakers too. Go suit up."

  This was not a request.

  "I need my knee brace," Myron said.

  "Got that too, Bolitar. Got it all. The trainer will wrap you up good and tight. Now hustle, man."

  She clapped her hands at him, turned, walked away. Myron stayed still for a second. Great. This was just what he needed.

  Podich blew her whistle hard enough to squeeze out an internal organ. The players stopped. "Shoot foul shots, take ten," she said. "Then scrimmage."

  The players drifted off. Brenda jogged toward him.

  "Where you going?" she asked.

  "I have to suit up."

  Brenda stifled a smile.

  "What?" he said.

  "The equipment room," Brenda said. "All they have is yellow Lycra shorts."

  Myron shook his head. "Then somebody should warn her."

  "Who?"

  "Your coach. I put on tight yellow shorts, no way anybody's going to concentrate on basketball."

  Brenda laughed. "I'll try to maintain a professional demeanor. But if you post me down low, I may be forced to pinch your butt."

  "I'm not just a plaything," Myron said, "here for your amusement."

  "Too bad." She followed him into the equipment room. "Oh, that lawyer who wrote to my dad," she said. "Thomas Kincaid."

  "Yes."

  "I remember where I heard his name before. My first scholarship. When I was twelve years old. He was the lawyer in charge."

  "What do you mean, in charge?"

  "He signed my checks."

  Myron stopped. "You received checks from a scholarship?"

  "Sure. The scholarship covered everything. Tuition, board, schoolbooks. I wrote out my expenses, and Kincaid signed the checks."

  "What was the name of the scholarship?"

  "That one? I don't remember. Outreach Education or something like that."

  "How long did Kincaid administer the scholarship?"

  "It covered through my high school years. I got an athletic scholarship to college, so basketball paid the freight."

  "What about medical school?"

  "I got another scholarship."

  "Same deal?"

  "It's a different scholarship, if that's what you mean."

  "Does it pay for the same stuff? Tuition, board, the works?"

  "Yep."

  "Handled by a lawyer again?"

  She nodded.

  "Do you remember his name?"

  "Yeah," she said. "Rick Peterson. He works out of Roseland."