The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (179 page)

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he said.

“You don’t know a lot of things about me, Myron.”

Touché. He looked at her profile, and again he saw that young coed heading into the fraternity basement. He flashed back to that very moment, to the sound of Clu’s sharp intake of air when he first laid eyes on her. Suppose she’d come down a little later, after Clu had passed out or hooked up with another woman. Suppose she had gone to another frat party that night. Dumb thoughts—life’s arbitrary forks in the road, the series of what ifs—but there you go.

“So what makes you think I was the one having an affair?” she said.

“Clu told Enos.”

“Clu lied.”

“No,” Myron said.

They kept walking. Bonnie took a last drag and tossed the cigarette on the ground. “My property,” she said. “I’m allowed.”

Myron said nothing.

“Did Clu tell Enos who he thought I was sleeping with?”

“No.”

“But you think you know who this mystery lover is.”

“Yes,” Myron said. “It’s Esperanza.”

Silence.

“Would you believe me if I insisted you were wrong?” she said.

“You’d have a lot of explaining to do.”

“How’s that?”

“Let’s start with you coming to my office after Esperanza was arrested.”

“Okay.”

“You wanted to know what they had on her—that was the real reason. I wondered why you warned me away from finding the truth. You told me to clear my friend but not dig too hard.”

She nodded. “And you think I said that because I didn’t want you to know about this affair?”

“Yes. But there’s more. Like Esperanza’s silence, for one thing. Win and I theorized that she didn’t want us to know about her affair with Clu. It would look bad on several levels to be having an affair with a client. But to be having an affair with a client’s wife? What could be dumber than that?”

“That’s hardly evidence, Myron.”

“I’m not finished. You see, all the evidence that points to an affair between Esperanza and Clu actually points to an affair between you two. The physical evidence, for example. The pubic hairs and DNA found at the Fort Lee apartment. I started thinking about that. You and Clu lived there for a short time. Then you moved into this house. But you still had the lease on the apartment. So before you threw him out, it was empty, right?”

“Right.”

“What better place to meet for a tryst? It wasn’t Clu and Esperanza meeting there. It was you two.”

Bonnie said nothing.

“The E-Z Pass records—most of the bridge crossings were on days when the Yankees were out of town. So Esperanza wasn’t coming out to see Clu. She was coming out to see you. I checked the office phone records. She never called the apartment after you threw Clu out—only this house. Why? Clu wasn’t living here. You were.”

She took out another cigarette and struck a match.

“And lastly, the fight in the garage when Clu struck Esperanza. That bothered the hell out of me. Why would he hit her? Because she broke off an affair? That didn’t make sense. Because he wanted to find me or was crazed from taking drugs? Again, no. I couldn’t figure it out. But now the answer is obvious. Esperanza was having an affair with his wife. He blamed her for breaking up the marriage. Enos said the breakup shook him to the core. What could be worse for a psyche as fragile as Clu’s than his wife having an affair with a woman?”

Her voice was sharp. “Are you blaming me for his death?”

“Depends. Did you kill him?”

“Would it help if I said no?”

“It would be a start.”

She smiled, but there was no joy in it. Like the house, it was beautiful and sterile and almost soulless. “Do you want to hear something funny?” she said. “Clu’s beating the drugs and the drinking didn’t help our marriage—it ended it. For so long Clu was … I don’t know … a work in progress. I blamed his shortcomings on the drugs and drinking and all that. But once he finally exorcised his demons, what was left was just”—she lifted her palms and shrugged—“just him. I saw Clu clearly for the first time, Myron, and you know what I realized? I didn’t love him.”

Myron said nothing.

“And don’t blame Esperanza. It wasn’t her fault. I held on purely for the sake of my kids, and when Esperanza came along—” Bonnie stopped, and this time her smile seemed more genuine. “You want to hear something else funny? I’m not a lesbian. I’m not even a bisexual. It’s just … she treated me tenderly. We had sex, sure, but it was never about sex. I know that sounds weird, but her gender was irrelevant. Esperanza is just a beautiful person, and I fell in love with that. Does that make sense?”

“You know how this looks,” Myron said.

“Of course I know how it looks. Two dykes got together and offed the husband. Why do you think we’re trying so hard to keep it secret? The weakness in their case right now is motive. But if they find out we were lovers—”

“Did you kill him?”

“What do you expect me to say to that, Myron?”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“No, we didn’t kill him. I was leaving him. Why would I throw him out and start filing papers if I planned on killing him?”

“To prevent a scandal that would surely hurt your kids.”

She made a face. “Come on, Myron.”

“So how do you explain the gun in the office and the blood in the car?”

“I can’t.”

Myron thought about it. His head hurt—from the physical altercation or this latest revelation, he couldn’t say. He tried to concentrate through the haze. “Who else knows about the affair?”

“Just Esperanza’s lawyer, Hester Crimstein.”

“No one else?”

“No one. We were very discreet.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because,” Myron said, “if I were going to murder Clu and I wanted to frame someone for it, his wife’s lover would be my first choice.”

Bonnie saw where he was heading. “So you think the killer knew about us?”

“It might explain a lot.”

“I didn’t tell anyone. And Esperanza said she didn’t either.”

Pow. Right between the eyes. “You couldn’t have been too careful,” Myron said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Clu found out, didn’t he?”

She thought about it, nodded.

“Did you tell him?” he asked.

“No.”

“What did you say when you threw him out?”

She shrugged. “That there was no one else. That was true in a sense. It wasn’t about Esperanza.”

“So how did he find out?”

“I don’t know. I assumed he became obsessed. That he followed me.”

“And he found out the truth?”

“Yes.”

“And then he went after Esperanza and attacked her?

“Yes.”

“And before he has a chance to tell anyone else about this, before it has a chance of getting out and hurting either of you, he ends up dead. And the murder weapon ends up with Esperanza. And Clu’s blood ends up in the car she’s been driving. And the E-Z Pass records show Esperanza came back to New York an hour after the murder.”

“Again, yes.”

Myron shook his head. “It doesn’t look good, Bonnie.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she said. “If even you won’t believe us, how do you think a jury is going to react?”

There was no need to answer. They headed back to the house then. The two young boys were still at play, oblivious of what was going on around them. Myron watched for a moment.
Fatherless
, he thought, shuddering at the word. With one last look he turned and walked away.

Thrill, not Nancy Sinclair, met him outside a bar called the Biker Wannabee. Honesty in advertising. Nice to see.

“Howdy,” Myron said. Tex Bolitar.

Her smile was full of pornographic promise. Totally into Thrill mode now. “Howdy yourself, pardner,” she cooed. With some women, every syllable is cooed. “How do I look?”

“Mighty tasty, ma’am. But I think I prefer you as Nancy.”

“Liar.”

Myron shrugged, not sure if he was telling the truth or not. This whole thing reminded him of when Barbara Eden would play her evil sister on
I Dream of Jeannie.
He was often torn back then too, not sure if Larry Hagman should stay with Jeannie or run off with the enticingly evil sister. But hey, talk about your great dilemmas.

“I thought you were bringing backup,” Thrill said.

“I am.”

“Where is he?”

“If things go well, you won’t see him.”

“How mysterious.”

“Isn’t it?”

They headed inside and grabbed a corner booth in the back. Yep, biker wanna-be. Lots of guys aiming for that hairy, Vietnam vet–cum–hit-the-road look. The jukebox played “God Only Knows (What I’d Be Without You)”—the Beach Boys, but unlike anything else the Beach Boys did. The song was a plaintive wail, and despite its pop misgivings, it always struck Myron to the bone, the trepidation of what the future might hold so naked in Brian’s voice, the words so hauntingly simple. Especially now.

Thrill was studying his face. “You okay?” she asked.

“Fine. So what happens next?”

“We order a drink, I guess.”

Five minutes passed. “Lonely Boy” came on the jukebox. Andrew Gold. Serious seventies AM bubble gum. Chorus: “Oh, oh, oh … oh what a lonely boy … oh what a lonely boy … oh what a lonely boy.” By the time the chorus was repeated for the eighth time, Myron had it down pat so he sang along. Megamemory. Maybe he should do an infomercial.

Men at nearby tables checked out Thrill, some surreptitiously, most not. Thrill’s smile was practically a leer now, sinking deeper into the role.

“You get into this,” Myron said.

“It’s a part, Myron. We’re all actors on a stage and all that.”

“But you enjoy the attention.”

“So?”

“So I was just saying.”

She shrugged. “I find it fascinating.”

“What’s that?”

“What a large bosom does to a man. They get so obsessed.”

“You just reached the conclusion that men are mammary-obsessed? I hate to break this to you, Nancy, but the research has been done.”

“But it’s weird when you think about it.”

“I try not to.”

“Bosoms do weird things to men, no doubt,” she said, “but I don’t like what they do to women either.”

“How’s that?”

Thrill put her palms on the table. “Okay, everyone knows that we women put too much of our self-worth into our bodies. Old news, right?”

“Right.”

“I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. And unlike my more feminist sisters, I don’t blame men for this.”

“You don’t?”

“
Mademoiselle, Vogue, Bazaar, Glamour
—those are run by women and have a totally female clientele. They want to change the image, start there. Why ask the men to change a perception that women themselves won’t change?”

“Refreshing viewpoint,” Myron noted.

“But bosoms do funny things to people. Men, okay, that’s obvious. They become brain-dead. It’s as if the nipples shoot out like two grapefruit spoons, dig into their frontal lobe, and scrape away all cognitive thought.”

Myron looked up, the imagery giving him pause.

“But for women, well, it starts when you’re young. A girl develops early. Adolescent boys start lusting after her. How do her girlfriends react? They take it out on her. They’re jealous of the attention or feeling inadequate or whatever. But they take it out on the young girl who can’t help what her body is going through. With me?”

“Yes.”

“Even now. Look at the glances the women in here
give me. Pure hatred. You get a group of women together and a chesty counterpart walks by and they all sigh, ‘Oh, please.’ Professional women, for example, feel the urge to dress down—not just because of leering men but because of women. Because of how women treat them. A businesswoman sees a big-chested businesswoman with a better title—well, she got the job because of her tits. Plain and simple. Might be true, might not be. Is this animosity spawned again from dormant jealousy or a misplaced feeling of inadequacy or because they unfairly equate bosoms with stupidity? Any way you look at it, it’s an ugly thing.”

“I never really thought about it,” Myron said.

“And finally I don’t like what it does to me.”

“Your reaction to seeing a big chest or having one?”

“The latter.”

“Why?”

“Because the big-breasted woman gets used to it. She takes it for granted. She uses them to her advantage.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, so?”

“All attractive people do that,” Myron said. “It’s not just bosoms. If a woman is beautiful, she knows it and uses it. Nothing wrong with that. Men use it too, if they can. Sometimes—I’m ashamed to admit this—even I shake my little tush to get my way.”

“Shocking.”

“Well, not really. Because it never works.”

“I think you’re being modest. But either way, don’t you see anything wrong with that?”

“With what?”

“With using a physical attribute to get your way.”

“I didn’t say there was nothing wrong with it. I’m simply noting that what you’re talking about is not merely a mammarial phenomenon.”

She made a face. “Mammarial phenomenon?”

Myron shrugged, and mercifully the waitress came over. Myron made a point of not looking anywhere near her chest, which was tantamount to telling yourself not to scratch that irksome itch. The waitress had a pen behind her ear. Her overtreated hair aimed for on-the-farm strawberry blond but landed far closer to fell-at-the-4H-fair cotton candy.

“Get you?” she said. Skipping the preliminaries like “Hello” and “What can I …?”

“Rob Roy,” Thrill said.

The pen came out of the ear holster, jotted it down, back in the holster. Wyatt Earp. “You?” she said to Myron.

Myron doubted that they had any Yoo-Hoo. “A diet soda, please.”

She looked at him as if he’d ordered a bedpan.

“Maybe a beer,” Myron said.

She clacked her gum. “Bud, Michelob, or some pansy brew?”

“Pansy would be fine, thank you,” Myron said. “And do you have any of those little cocktail umbrellas?”

The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away.

They chatted for a while. Myron had just started relaxing and yes, even enjoying himself when Thrill said, “Behind you. By the door.”