One False Move

  Conclusion: There was not even the flimsy hint of a connection.

  At least not right then.

  Myron's throat went dry. He'd continued to read the article from the March 18, 1978, issue of the Jersey Ledger. The page one story finished up on page eight. Myron played with the knob on the microfiche machine. It screamed in protest but trudged forward.

  There it was. Near the bottom right-hand corner. One line. That was all. Nothing that anybody would notice: "Mrs. Bradford's body was first discovered on the brick back porch of the Bradford estate at 6:30 A.M. by a maid arriving for work."

  A maid arriving for work. Myron wondered what the maid's name was.

  Myron immediately called Mabel Edwards. "Do you remember Elizabeth Bradford?" he asked.

  There was a brief hesitation. "Yes."

  "Did Anita find her body?"

  A longer hesitation. "Yes."

  "What did she tell you about it?"

  "Wait a second. I thought you were trying to help Horace."

  "I am."

  "So why are you asking about that poor woman?" Mabel sounded slightly put out. "She died more than twenty years ago."

  "It's a little complicated."

  "I bet it is." He heard her take a deep breath. "I want the truth now. You're looking for her too, aren't you? For Anita?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Why?"

  Good question. But when you stripped it bare, the answer was pretty simple. "For Brenda."

  "Finding Anita ain't gonna help that girl."

  "You tell her that."

  She chuckled without humor. "Brenda can be headstrong," Mabel said.

  "I think it runs in the family."

  "Guess it does at that," she said.

  "Please tell me what you remember."

  "Not much to it, I guess. She came to work, and the poor woman was lying there like a broken rag doll. That's all I know."

  "Anita never said anything else about it?"

  "No."

  "Did she seem shaken up?"

  "Of course. She worked for Elizabeth Bradford for almost six years."

  "No, I mean beyond the shock of finding the body."

  "I don't think so. But she never talked about it. Even when the reporters called, Anita just hung up the phone."

  Myron computed this information, sorted in through his brain cells, came up with zippo. "Mrs. Edwards, did your brother ever mention a lawyer named Thomas Kincaid?"

  She thought a moment. "No, I don't think so."

  "Were you aware of him seeking legal advice on anything?"

  "No."

  They said their good-byes, and then he hung up. The phone was barely disconnected when it rang again. "Hello?"

  "Got something strange here, Myron."

  It was Lisa from the phone company.

  "What's up?"

  "You asked me to put a tracer on the phone in Brenda Slaughter's dorm."

  "Right."

  "Someone beat me to it."

  Myron nearly slammed on the brake. "What?"

  "There's already a tap on her phone."

  "For how long?"

  "I don't know."

  "Can you trace it back? See who put it on?"

  "Nope. And the number is blocked out."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I can't read anything on it. I can't get a trace or even look at old bills on the computer. My guess is, someone in law enforcement is behind it. I can poke around, but I doubt I'll come up with anything."

  "Please try, Lisa. And thanks."

  He hung up. A missing father, threatening phone calls, a possible car tail, and now a phone tap: Myron was starting to get nervous here. Why would someone--someone with authority--have a tap on Brenda's phone? Was that person part of the group making the threatening phone calls? Were they tapping her phone to track down her father or--

  Hold the phone.

  Hadn't one of the threatening calls told Brenda to call her mother? Why? Why would someone have said that? More important, if Brenda had obeyed the call--and if she had indeed known where her mother was hiding--the people behind the trace would have been able to find Anita too. Was that what this was really all about?

  Was someone looking for Horace ... or Anita?

  "We have a problem," Myron told her.

  They sat in the car. Brenda turned toward him and waited.

  "Your phone is bugged," he said.

  "What?"

  "Someone has been listening in to your calls. You're also being tailed by someone."

  "But--" Brenda stopped, shrugged. "Why? To find my father?"

  "That's the best bet, yes. Someone is anxious to get to Horace. They've already attacked your aunt. You might be next on their list."

  "So you think I'm in danger."

  "Yes."

  She watched his face. "And you have a suggested course of action."

  "I do," he said.

  "I'm listening."

  "First, I'd like to have your dorm room swept for bugs."

  "I have no problem with that."

  "Second, you have to get out of your dorm room. You're not safe there."

  She considered this for a moment. "I can stay with a friend. Cheryl Sutton. She's the other captain of the Dolphins."

  Myron shook his head. "These people know you. They've been following you, listening to your phone calls."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning they probably know who your friends are."

  "Including Ms. Sutton."

  "Yes."

  "And you think they'll look for me there?"

  "It's a possibility."

  Brenda shook her head and faced forward. "This is spooky."

  "There's more."

  He told her about the Bradford family and about her mother finding the body.

  "So what does that mean?" Brenda asked when he finished.

  "Probably nothing," Myron said. "But you wanted me to tell you everything, right?"

  "Right." She leaned back and chewed at her lower lip. After some time had passed, she asked, "So where do you think I should stay?"

  "Do you remember my mentioning my friend Win?"

  "The guy who owns Lock-Horne Securities?"

  "His family does, right. I'm supposed to go to his place tonight to discuss a business problem. I think you should come too. You can stay at his apartment."

  "You want me to stay with him?"

  "Just for tonight. Win has safe houses all over. We'll find you someplace."

  She made a face. "A preppy Mainliner who knows about safe houses?"

  "Win," Myron said, "is more than he appears."

  She crossed her arms under her chest. "I don't want to act like a jackass and hand you that phony crap about how I'm not going to let this interfere with my life. I know you're helping me, and I want to cooperate."

  "Good."

  "But," she added, "this league means a lot to me. So does my team. I'm not going to just walk away from that."

  "I understand."

  "So whatever we do, will I be able to go to practice? Will I be able to play in the opener Sunday?"

  "Yes."

  Brenda nodded. "Okay then," she said. "And thank you."

  They drove to her dorm room. Myron waited downstairs while she packed a bag. She had her own room, but she wrote a note to her suite mate that she was staying with a friend for a few days. The whole enterprise took her less than ten minutes.

  She came down with two bags over her shoulders. Myron relieved her of one. They were heading out the door when Myron spotted FJ standing next to his car.

  "Stay here," he told her.

  Brenda ignored him and kept pace. Myron looked to his left. Bubba and Rocco were there. They waved at him. Myron did not wave back. That'll show them.

  FJ leaned against the car, completely relaxed, almost too relaxed, like an old movie drunk against a lamppost.

  "Hello, Brenda," FJ said.

  "Hello, FJ."

  Then he nodded toward Myro
n. "And you too, Myron."

  His smile did more than lack warmth. It was the most purely physical smile Myron had ever seen, a byproduct strictly of the brain giving specific orders to certain muscles. It touched no part of him but his lips.

  Myron circled the car and feigned inspecting it. "Not a bad job, FJ. But next time put a little muscle into the hubcaps. They're filthy."

  FJ looked at Brenda. "This the famed Bolitar rapier wit I've heard so much about?"

  She shrugged sympathetically.

  Myron motioned at them with his hands. "You two know each other?"

  "But of course," FJ said. "We went to prep school together. At Lawrenceville."

  Bubba and Rocco lumbered a few steps closer. They looked like Luca Brasi Youth.

  Myron eased between Brenda and FJ. The protective move would probably piss her off, but tough. "So what can we do for you, FJ?"

  "I just want to make sure that Ms. Slaughter is honoring her contract with me."

  "I don't have a contract with you," Brenda said.

  "Your father--one Horace Slaughter--is your agent, no?"

  "No," Brenda said. "Myron is."

  "Oh?" FJ's eyes slithered toward Myron. Myron kept up the eye contact, but there was still nothing there, like looking into the windows of an abandoned building. "I'd been informed otherwise."

  Myron shrugged. "Life is change, FJ. Gotta learn to adapt."

  "Adapt," FJ said, "or die."

  Myron nodded and said, "Oooo."

  FJ kept the stare going a few more seconds. He had skin that looked like wet clay, as if it might dissolve under heavy rains. He turned back to Brenda. "Your father used to be your agent," he said. "Before Myron."

  Myron handled that one. "And what if he was?"

  "He signed with us. Brenda was going to bow out of the WPBA and join the PWBL. It's all spelled out in the contract."

  Myron looked at Brenda. She shook her head. "You have Ms. Slaughter's signature on those contracts?" he asked.

  "Like I said, her father--"

  "Who has no legal standing in this matter whatsoever. Do you have Brenda's signature or not?"

  FJ looked rather displeased. Bubba and Rocco moved closer still. "We do not."

  "Then you have nothing." Myron unlocked his car door. "But we've all enjoyed this too brief time together. I know I'm a better person for it."

  Bubba and Rocco started toward him. Myron opened the car door. His gun was under his car seat. He debated making a move. It would be dumb, of course. Someone--probably Brenda or Myron--would get hurt.

  FJ lifted a hand, and the two men stopped as though they'd been sprayed by Mr. Freeze. "We're not mobsters," FJ said. "We're businessmen."

  "Right," Myron said. "And Bubba and Rocco over there--they your CPAs?"

  A tiny smile came to FJ's lips. The smile was strictly reptilian, meaning it was far warmer than his other ones. "If you are indeed her agent," FJ said, "then it would behoove you to speak with me."

  Myron nodded. "Call my office, make an appointment," he said.

  "We'll talk soon then," FJ said.

  "Looking forward to it. And keep using the word behoove. It really impresses people."

  Brenda opened her car door and got in. Myron did likewise. FJ came around to Myron's window and knocked on the glass. Myron lowered the window.

  "Sign with us or don't sign with us," FJ said quietly. "That's business. But when I kill you, well, that will be for fun."

  Myron was about to crack wise again, but something--probably a fly-through of good sense--made him pause. FJ moved away then. Rocco and Bubba followed. Myron watched them disappear, his heart flapping in his chest like a caged condor.

  They parked on a lot on Seventy-first Street and walked to the Dakota. The Dakota remains one of New York's premier buildings, though it's still best known for John Lennon's assassination. A fresh bouquet of roses marked the spot where his body had fallen. Myron always felt a little weird crossing over it, as if he were trampling on a grave or something. The Dakota doorman must have seen Myron a hundred times by now, but he always pretended otherwise and buzzed up to Win's apartment.

  Introductions were brief. Win found Brenda a place to study. She broke out a medical textbook the size of a stone tablet and made herself comfortable. Win and Myron moved back into a living room semidecorated in the manner of Louis the Somethingteenth. There was a fireplace with big iron tools and a bust on the mantel. The substantial furniture looked, as always, freshly polished yet plenty old. Oil paintings of stern yet effeminate men stared down from the walls. And just to keep things in the proper decade, there was a big-screen TV and VCR front and center.

  The two friends sat and put their feet up.

  "So what do you think?" Myron asked.

  "She's too big for my tastes," Win said. "But nicely toned legs."

  "I mean, about protecting her."

  "We'll find a place," Win said. He laced his hands behind his neck. "Talk to me."

  "Do you know Arthur Bradford?"

  "The gubernatorial candidate?"

  "Yes."

  Win nodded. "We've met several times. I played golf with him and his brother once at Merion."

  "Can you set up a meet?"

  "No problem. They've been hitting us up for a sizable donation." He crossed his ankles. "So how does Arthur Bradford fit into all this?"

  Myron recapped the day's developments: the Honda Accord following them, the phone taps, the bloody clothes, Horace Slaughter's phone calls to Bradford's office, FJ's surprise visit, Elizabeth Bradford's murder, and Anita's role in finding the body.

  Win looked unimpressed. "Do you really see a link between the Bradfords' past and the Slaughters' present?"

  "Yeah, maybe."

  "Then let me see if I can follow your rationale. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong."

  "Okey-dokey."

  Win dropped his feet to the floor and steepled his fingers, resting his indexes against his chin. "Twenty years ago Elizabeth Bradford died under somewhat murky circumstances. Her death was ruled an accident, albeit a bizarre one. You do not buy that one. The Bradfords are rich, and thus you are extra-suspicious of the official rendering--"

  "It's not just that they're rich," Myron interrupted. "I mean, falling off her own balcony? Come on."

  "Yes, fine, fair enough." Win did the hand-steeple again. "Let us pretend that you are correct in your suspicions. Let us assume that something unsavory did indeed occur when Elizabeth Bradford plunged to her death. And I am further going to assume--as you no doubt have--that Anita Slaughter, in her capacity as maid or servant or what have you, happened upon the scene and witnessed something incriminating."

  Myron nodded. "Continue."

  Win spread his hands. "Well, my friend, that is where you reach an impasse. If the dear Ms. Slaughter did indeed see something that she was not supposed to, the issue would have been resolved immediately. I know the Bradfords. They are not people who take chances. Anita Slaughter would have been killed or forced to run immediately. But instead--and here is the rub--she waited a full nine months before disappearing. I therefore conclude that the two incidents are unrelated."

  Behind them Brenda cleared her throat. They both turned to the doorway. She stared straight at Myron. She did not look happy.

  "I thought you two were discussing a business problem," she said.

  "We are," Myron said quickly. "I, uh, mean we're going to. That's why I came here. To discuss a business problem. But we just started talking about this first, and well, you know, one thing led to another. But it wasn't intentional or anything. I mean, I came here to discuss a business problem, right, Win?"

  Win leaned forward and patted Myron's knee. "Smooth," he said.

  She crossed her arms. Her eyes were two drill bits--say, three-sixteenths of an inch, quarter inch tops.

  "How long have you been standing there?" Myron asked.

  Brenda gestured toward Win. "Since he said I had nicely toned legs," she said. "I missed t
he part about being too big for his tastes."

  Win smiled. Brenda did not wait to be asked. She crossed the room and grabbed an open chair. She kept her eyes on Win. "For the record, I don't buy any of this either," Brenda said to him. "Myron has trouble believing a mother would just abandon her little daughter. He has no trouble believing a father would do the same, just not a mother. But as I've explained to him, he's something of a sexist."

  "A snorting pig," Win agreed.

  "But," she continued, "if you two are going to sit here and play Holmes and Watson, I do see a way around your"--she made quote marks with her finger--"impasse."

  "Do tell," Win said.

  "When Elizabeth Bradford fell to her death, my mother may have seen something that appeared innocuous at first. I don't know what. Something bothersome maybe but nothing to get excited about. She continues to work for these people, scrubbing their floors and toilets. And maybe one day she opens a drawer. Or a closet. And maybe she sees something that coupled with what she saw the day Elizabeth Bradford died leads her to conclude that it wasn't an accident after all."

  Win looked at Myron. Myron raised his eyebrows.

  Brenda sighed. "Before you two continue your patronizing glances--the ones that say, 'Golly gee, the woman is actually capable of cogitation'--let me add that I'm just giving you a way around the impasse. I don't buy it for a second. It leaves too much unexplained."

  "Like what?" Myron asked.

  She turned to him. "like why my mother would run away the way she did. Like why she would leave that cruel note for my father about another man. Like why she left us penniless. Like why she would leave behind a daughter she theoretically loved."

  There was no quiver in the voice. Just the opposite, in fact. The tone was far too steady, straining too hard for normality.

  "Maybe she wanted to protect her daughter from harm," Myron said. "Maybe she wanted to discourage her husband from looking for her."

  She frowned. "So she took all his money and faked running away with another man?" Brenda looked at Win. "Does he really believe this crap?"

  Win held his hands palms up and nodded apologetically.

  Brenda turned back to Myron. "I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but it just doesn't add up. My mother ran away twenty years ago. Twenty years. In all that time couldn't she have done more than write a couple of letters and call my aunt? Couldn't she have figured out a way to see her own daughter? To set up a meet? At least once in twenty years? In all that time couldn't she have gotten herself settled and come back for me?"