The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (164 page)

“Too many,” Myron admitted.

“I wonder, Myron.” She sat up a bit, more clear-eyed now. “I wonder if we all did him a disservice. Maybe if we weren’t always there to save him, he would have had to change. Maybe if I had dumped him years ago, he would have straightened himself out and survived all this.”

Myron said nothing, not bothering to point out the inherent contradiction in her statement: She finally did dump him and he ended up dead.

“Did you know about the two hundred thousand dollars?” Myron asked.

“I heard about it from the police.”

“Do you have any idea where it might be?”

“No.”

“Or why he might have needed it?”

“No.” Her voice was far away now, her gaze drifting over his shoulder.

“Do you think it was for drugs?”

“The papers said he tested positive for heroin,” she said.

“That’s my understanding.”

“That would be a new one for Clu. I know it’s an expensive addiction, but two hundred thousand seems extreme.”

Myron agreed. “Was he in any trouble?”

She looked at him.

“I mean, besides the usual. Loan sharks or gambling or something like that?”

“It’s possible, I guess.”

“But you don’t know.”

Bonnie shook her head, still looking off at nothing. “You know what I was thinking about?”

“What?”

“Clu’s first year as a pro. Class A with the New England Bisons. Right after he asked you to negotiate his contract. Do you remember that?”

Myron nodded.

“And again, I wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“That was the first time we all banded together to save his ass.”

The late-night phone call. Myron swimming out of sleep and clutching the receiver. Clu crying, almost incoherent. He had been driving with Bonnie and his old Duke roommate, Billy Lee Palms, the Bisons’ catcher. Drunk driving, to be more precise. He had smashed the car into a pole. Billy Lee’s injuries were minor, but Bonnie had been rushed to the hospital. Clu, not a scratch on him, of course,
had been arrested. Myron had hurried out to western Massachusetts, plenty of cash in hand.

“I remember,” Myron said.

“You’d just signed Clu to that big chocolate milk endorsement. Drunk driving was bad enough, but with an injury to boot, well, it would have destroyed him. But we took care of him. The right people were bought off. Billy Lee and I made a statement about some pickup truck cutting us off. We saved him. And now I wonder if we did the right thing. Maybe if Clu had paid a price right then and there, maybe if he’d gone to jail instead of skating by …”

“He wouldn’t have gone to jail, Bonnie. A suspended license maybe. Some community service.”

“Whatever. Life is about ripples, Myron. There are some philosophers who think that everything we do changes the world forever. Even simple acts. Like if you left your house five minutes later, if you took a different route to work—it changes everything for the rest of your life. I don’t necessarily buy that, but when it comes to the big things, yeah, sure, I think the ripples last. Or maybe it started before that. When he was a child. The first time he learned that because he could throw a white sphere with amazing velocity, people treated him special. Maybe we just continued the conditioning that day. Or brought it up to an adult level. Clu learned that someone would always save him. And we did. We got him off that night, and then there were the assault charges and the lewd behavior and the failed drug tests and whatever else.”

“And you think his murder was the inevitable result?”

“Don’t you?”

“No,” Myron said. “I think the person who shot him three times is responsible. Period.”

“Life is rarely that simple, Myron.”

“But murder usually is. In the end someone shot him. That’s how he died. He didn’t die because we helped him through some self-destructive excesses. Someone murdered him. And that person—not you or me or those who cared about him—is to blame.”

She thought about it. “Maybe you’re right.” But she didn’t look convinced.

“Do you know why Clu would strike Esperanza?”

She shook her head. “The police asked me that too. I don’t know. Maybe he was high.”

“Did he get violent when he got high?”

“No. But it sounds like he was under a lot of pressure. Maybe he was just frustrated that she wouldn’t tell him where you were.”

Another wave of guilt. He waited for it to recede.

“Who else would he have gone to, Bonnie?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said he was needy. I wasn’t around. You weren’t talking to him. So where would Clu go next?”

She thought about it. “I’m not sure.”

“Any friends, teammates?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How about Billy Lee Palms?”

She shrugged an I-don’t-know.

Myron tossed out a few more questions, but nothing of consequence was batted back to him. After a while Bonnie feigned a check at the time. “I have to get back to the kids,” she said.

He nodded, rose from his chair. This time she did not stop him. He hugged her and she hugged him back, gripping him fiercely.

“Do me one favor,” she said.

“Name it.”

“Clear your friend,” she said. “I understand why you
need to do that. And I wouldn’t want her to go to jail for something she didn’t do. But then let it be.”

Myron pulled back a bit. “I don’t understand.”

“Like I said before, you’re a noble guy.”

He thought about the Slaughter family and how it all ended; something inside him was crushed anew. “College was a long time ago,” he said softly.

“You haven’t changed.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“You still need justice and neat endings and to do the right thing.”

He said nothing.

“Clu can’t give you that,” Bonnie said. “He wasn’t a noble man.”

“He didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Save your friend, Myron. Then let Clu go.”

Myron took the elevator up two floors to the nerve center of Lock-Horne Securities and Investments. Exhausted white men—there were women and minorities too, more and more each year, but the overall numbers were still woefully inadequate—darted about, particles under blaring heat, gray phones tethered to their ears like life-sustaining umbilical cords. The noise level and the open space reminded Myron of a Vegas casino, though the toupees were better. People cried out in joy and agony. Money was won and lost. Dice were rolled and wheels were spun and cards were dealt. The men constantly glanced up at an electronic ticker, awe in their faces, ardently watching the stock prices like gamblers waiting for the wheel to settle on a number or ancient Israelites peering up at Moses and his new stone tablets.

These were the trenches of finance, armed soldiers crowded together, each trying to survive in a world where earning low six figures meant cowardice and probably death. Computer terminals twinkled through an onslaught of yellow Post-It notes. The warriors drank coffee and buried framed family photos under a volcanic outpouring
of stock analyses and financial statements and corporate reviews. They wore white button-down shirts and Windsor-knotted ties, their suit jackets neatly arrayed on the backs of chairs as though the chairs were a tad chilly or preparing for lunch at Le Cirque.

Win did not sit out here, of course. The generals in this war—the rainmakers, big producers, heavy hitters, what have you—were tented on the perimeter, their offices running along the windows, cutting off from the foot soldiers any hint of blue sky or fresh air or any element endemic to human beings.

Myron headed up a carpeted incline and toward the left corner suite. Win was usually alone in his office. Not today. Myron stuck his head in the door, and a bunch of suitheads swiveled toward him. Lots of suits. Myron couldn’t say how many. Might have been six, maybe eight. They were a lumpy blur of gray and blue with streaks of tie-and-hankie red, like the aftermath of a Civil War reenactment. The older ones, distinguished white-haired guys with manicures and cuff links, sat in the burgundy leather chairs closest to Win’s desk and nodded a lot. The younger ones were squeezed onto the couches against the wall, heads down, scratching notes on legal pads as though Win were divulging the secret of eternal life. Every once in a while the younger men would peer up at the older men, glimpsing their glorious future, which would basically consist of a more comfortable chair and less note taking.

The legal pads gave it away. These were attorneys. The older men probably over four hundred bucks an hour, the younger ones two-fifty. Myron didn’t bother with the math, mostly because it would take too much effort to count how many suits were in the room. Didn’t matter. Lock-Horne Securities could afford it. Redistributing
wealth—that is, the act of moving money around without creation or production or making anything new—was incredibly profitable.

Myron Bolitar, Marxist Sports Agent.

Win clapped his hands and the men were dismissed. They rose as slowly as possible—attorneys billed by the minute, sort of like 900 sex lines minus the guaranteed, er, payoff—and filed out the office door. The older men departed first, the younger men trailing not unlike Japanese brides.

Myron stepped inside. “What’s going on?”

Win signaled for Myron to sit. Then he leaned back and did the steeple thing with his hands. “This situation,” he said, “has me troubled.”

“You mean Clu’s cash withdrawal?”

“In part, yes,” Win said. He bounced the fingertips before resting the indexes on his lower lip. “I become very unhappy when I hear the words
subpoena
and
Lock-Horne
in the same sentence.”

“So? You have nothing to hide.”

Win smiled thinly. “Your point being?”

“Let them look at your records. You’re a lot of things, Win. Honest being chief among them.”

Win shook his head. “You are so naive.”

“What?”

“My family runs a financial securities firm.”

“So?”

“So even the whiff of innuendo can destroy said firm.”

“I think you’re overreacting,” Myron said.

Win arched an eyebrow, put a hand to his ear. “Pardon
moi
?”

“Come on, Win. There’s always some Wall Street scandal or other going on. People barely notice anymore.”

“Those are insider trading scandals mostly.”

“So?”

Win paused, looked at him. “Are you being purposely obtuse?”

“No.”

“Insider trading is a completely different animal.”

“How so?”

“Do you really need me to explain this to you?”

“Guess so.”

“Fine then. Stripping it bare, insider trading is cheating or stealing. My clients do not care if I cheat or steal—as long it is done for their benefit. In fact, if a certain illegal act were to increase their portfolios, most clients would probably encourage it. But if their financial adviser is playing games with their personal accounts—or equally awful, if his banking institution is merely involved in something that will give the government the right to subpoena records—clients become understandably nervous.”

Myron nodded. “I can see where there might be a problem.”

Win strummed the top of his desk with his fingers. For him, this was major agitation. Hard to believe, but for the first time Win actually appeared a touch unnerved. “I have three law firms and two publicity firms working on the matter,” he continued.

“Working on it how?”

“The usual,” Win said. “Calling in political favors, preparing a lawsuit against the Bergen County DA’s office for libel and slander, planting positive spins in the media, seeing what judges will be running for reelection.”

“In other words,” Myron said, “who can you pay off.”

Win shrugged. “You say tomato, I say tomahto.”

“The files haven’t been subpoenaed yet?”

“No. I plan on quashing the possibility before any judge even thinks of issuing them.”

“So maybe we should take the offensive.”

Win resteepled. His big mahogany desk was polished to the point where his reflection was near-mirror clear, like something out of an old dish detergent commercial where a housewife gets waaaaay too excited about seeing herself in a dinner plate. “I’m listening.”

He recounted his conversation with Bonnie Haid. The red phone on Win’s credenza—his Batphone, so enamored with the old Adam West vehicle that he actually kept it under what looked like a glass cake cover—interrupted him several times. Win had to take the calls. They were mostly from attorneys. Myron could hear the lawyerly panic travel through the earpiece and all the way across the desk. Understandable. Windsor Horne Lockwood III was not the kind of guy you wanted to disappoint.

Win remained calm. His end of the conversation could basically be broken down into two words:
How.
And
much.

When Myron finished, Win said, “Let’s make a list.” He didn’t reach for a pen. Neither did Myron. “One, we need Clu’s phone records.”

“He was staying at an apartment in Fort Lee,” Myron said.

“The murder scene.”

“Right. Clu and Bonnie rented the apartment when he first got traded in May.” To the Yankees. A huge deal that gave Clu, an aging veteran, one last chance to squander. “They moved into the house in Tenafly in July, but the apartment’s lease ran for another six months. So when Bonnie threw him out, that’s where he ended up.”

“You have the address?” Win asked.

“Yep.”

“Fine then.”

“Send the records down to Big Cyndi. I’ll have her check through it.”

Getting a phone record was frighteningly easy. Don’t believe it? Open your local yellow pages. Choose a private investigator at random. Offer to pay him or her two grand for anyone’s monthly phone bill. Some will simply say yes, but most will try to up you to three thousand, half the fee going to whatever phone company minion they bribe.

Myron said, “We also need to check out Clu’s credit cards, his checkbook, ATM, whatever, see what he’s been up to lately.”

Win nodded. In Clu’s case, this would be doubly easy. His entire financial portfolio was held by Lock-Horne Securities. Win had set up a separate management account for Clu so that he could manage his finances easier. It included a Visa debit card, electronic payments of monthly bills, and a checkbook.