The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (29 page)

2

“Maybe you should just let it go,” Win said.

He whipped his Jaguar XJR onto the FDR Drive and headed south. The radio was tuned to WMXV, 105.1 FM. They played something called “Soft Rock.” Michael Bolton was on. He was doing a remake of an old Four Tops classic. Painful. Like Bea Arthur doing a remake of a Marilyn Monroe film.

Maybe Soft Rock meant Really Bad Rock.

“Mind if I put on a cassette?” Myron said.

“Please.”

Win swerved into a lane change. Win’s driving could most kindly be described as creative. Myron tried not to look. He pushed in a cassette from the original production of
How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.
Like Myron, Win had a huge collection of old Broadway musicals. Robert Morse sang about a girl named Rosemary. But Myron’s mind remained fixed on a girl named Valerie Simpson.

Valerie was dead. One bullet to the chest. Someone had shot her in the Food Court of the United States Tennis Association National Tennis Center during the opening round of America’s sole Grand Slam event. Yet no one had seen a thing. Or at least no one was talking.

“You’re making that face,” Win said.

“What face?”

“The I-want-to-help-the-world face,” Win said. “She wasn’t a client.”

“She was going to be.”

“A large distinction. Her fate does not concern you.”

“She called me three times today,” Myron said. “When she couldn’t reach me, she showed up at the tennis center. And then she was gunned down.”

“A sad tale,” Win said. “But one that does not concern you.”

The speedometer hovered about eighty. “Uh, Win?”

“Yes.”

“The left side of the road. It’s for oncoming traffic.”

Win spun the wheel, cut across two lanes, and swerved onto a ramp. Minutes later the Jag veered into the Kinney lot on Fifty-second Street. They gave the keys to Mario, the parking attendant. Manhattan was hot. City hot. The sidewalk scorched your feet right through your shoes. Exhaust fumes got stuck in the humidity, hanging in the air like fruit on a tree. Breathing was a chore. Sweating was not. The secret was to keep the sweat to a minimum while walking, hoping that the air-conditioning would dry off your clothes without giving you pneumonia.

Myron and Win walked south down Park Avenue toward the high-rise of Lock-Horne Investments & Securities. Win’s family owned the building. The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. Myron stepped out. Win stayed inside. His office at Lock-Horne was two floors up.

Before the elevator closed Win said, “I knew her.”

“Who?”

“Valerie Simpson. I sent her to you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“No reason to.”

“Were you close?”

“Depends on your definition. She’s old money Philadelphia. Like my family. We were members of the same clubs, the same charities, that sort of thing. Our families occasionally summered together when we were kids. But I hadn’t heard from her in years.”

“She just called you out of the blue?” Myron asked.

“You could say that.”

“What would you say?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“No. Do you have any thoughts on who killed her?”

Win stood perfectly still. “We’ll chat later,” he said. “I have some business matters I must attend to first.”

The elevator door slid closed. Myron waited for a moment, as though expecting the elevator to open again. Then he crossed the corridor and opened a door that read MB SportsReps Inc.

Esperanza looked up from her desk. “Jesus, you look like hell.”

“You heard about Valerie?”

She nodded. If she felt guilty about calling her the Ice Queen moments before the murder, she didn’t show it. “You have blood on your jacket.”

“I know.”

“Ned Tunwell from Nike is in the conference room.”

“I guess I’ll see him,” Myron said. “No use moping around.”

Esperanza looked at him. No expression.

“Don’t get so upset,” he continued. “I’m okay.”

“I’m putting on a brave front,” she said.

Ms. Compassion.

When Myron opened the conference room door, Ned Tunwell charged like a happy puppy. He smiled brightly, shook hands, slapped Myron on the back. Myron half-expected him to jump in his lap and lick his face.

Ned Tunwell looked to be in his early thirties, around Myron’s age. His entire persona was always upbeat, like a Hare Krishna on speed—or worse, a
Family Feud
contestant. He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, khaki pants, loud tie, and of course, Nike tennis shoes. The new Duane Richwood line. His hair was yellow-blond and he had one of those milk-stain mustaches.

Ned finally calmed down enough to hold up a videotape. “Wait till you see this!” he raved. “Myron, you are going to love it. It’s fantastic.”

“Let’s take a look.”

“I’m telling you, Myron, it’s fantastic. Just fantastic. Incredible. It came out better than I ever thought. Blows away the stuff we did with Courier and Agassi. You’re gonna love it. It’s fantastic. Fantastic, I tell you.”

The key word here:
fantastic
.

Tunwell flipped the television on and put the tape in the VCR. Myron sat down and tried to push away the image of Valerie Simpson’s corpse. He needed to concentrate. This—Duane’s first national television commercial—was crucial. Truth was, an athlete’s image was made more by these commercials than anything else—including how well he played or how he was portrayed by the media. Athletes became defined by the commercials. Everyone knew Michael Jordan as Air Jordan. Most fans couldn’t tell you Larry Johnson played for the Charlotte Hornets, but they knew all about his Grandmama character. The right campaign made you. The wrong one could destroy you.

“When is it going to air?” Myron asked.

“During the quarter finals. We’re gonna blitz the networks in a very big way.”

The tape finished rewinding. Duane was on the verge of becoming one of the most highly paid tennis players in the world. Not from winning matches, though that would help. But from endorsements. In most sports, the big-name athletes made more money from sponsors than from their teams. In the case of tennis, a lot more. A hell of a lot more. The top ten players made maybe fifteen percent of the money from winning matches. The bulk was from endorsements, exhibition matches, and guarantees—money paid big names to show up at a given tournament no matter how they fared.

Tennis needed new blood, and Duane Richwood was the most exhilarating transfusion to come along in years. Courier and Sampras were about as exciting as dry dog food. The Swedish players were always a snooze-a-thon. Agassi’s act was growing wearisome. McEnroe and Connors were history.

So enter Duane Richwood. Colorful, funny, slightly controversial, but not yet hated. He was black and he was from the streets, but he was perceived as “safe” street, “safe” black, the kind of guy even racists could get behind to show they are not really racists.

“Just check this baby out, Myron. This spot, I’m telling you, it’s … it’s just …” Tunwell looked up, as though searching for the word.

“Fantastic?” Myron tried.

Ned snapped his fingers and pointed. “Just wait till you see. I get hard watching it. Shit, I get hard just
thinking
about it. Swear to Christ, it’s that good.”

He pressed the
PLAY
button.

Two days ago Valerie Simpson had sat in this very room, coming in on the heels of his meeting with Duane Richwood. The contrast was striking. Both were in their twenties, but while one career was just blossoming, the other had already dried up and blown away. Twenty-four years old and Valerie had long been labeled a “has-been” or “never-was.” Her behavior had been cold and arrogant (ergo Esperanza’s Ice Queen comment), or perhaps she’d just been distant and distracted. Hard to know for sure. And yes, Valerie had been young, but she had not exactly been—to quote a cliché—full of life. Eerie to say it now, but her eyes seemed to have more life in death—more animated while frozen and staring—than when she’d sat across from him in this very room.

Why, Myron wondered, would someone want to kill Valerie Simpson? Why had she tried so desperately to reach him? Why had she gone to the tennis center? To check out the competition? Or to find Myron?

“Watch this, Myron,” Tunwell repeated yet again. “It’s so fantastic, I came. Really, swear to God. Right in my pants.”

“Sorry I missed that,” Myron said.

Ned whooped with pleasure.

The commercial finally began. Duane appeared, wearing his sunglasses, dashing back and forth on a tennis court. Lots of quick cuts, especially to his sneakers. Lots of bright colors. Pounding beat, mixed in with the sound of tennis balls being blasted across the net. Very MTV-like. Could have been a rock video. Then Duane’s voice came on:

“Come to my court …”

A few more hard ground strokes, a few more quick cuts. Then everything suddenly stopped. Duane vanished. The color faded to black and white. Silence. Scene change. A stern-looking judge glared down from his bench. Duane’s voice returned:

“… and stay away from his court.”

The rock music started up again. The color returned. The screen cut back to Duane hitting the ball, smiling through his sweat, his sunglasses reflecting the light. A Nike symbol appeared with the words C
OME TO
D
UANE’S
C
OURT
below them.

Fade to black.

Ned Tunwell groaned—actually groaned—in satisfaction.

“You want a cigarette?” Myron asked.

Tunwell’s smile doubled in wattage. “What did I tell you, Myron? Huh? Fantastic or what?”

Myron nodded. It was good. Very good. Hip, well-made, responsible message but not too preachy. “I like it,” he said.

“I told you. Didn’t I tell you? I’m hard again. Swear to God, that’s how much I like it. I might just come again. Right here, right now. As we speak.”

“Good to know.”

Tunwell broke into a seizurelike fit of laughter. He slapped Myron’s shoulder.

“Ned?”

Tunwell’s laughter faded away like the end of a song. He wiped his eyes. “You kill me, Myron. I can’t stop laughing. You really kill me.”

“Yeah, I’m a scream. Did you hear about Valerie Simpson’s murder?”

“Sure. It was on the radio. I used to work with her, you know.” He was still smiling, his eyes wide and bright.

“She was with Nike?” Myron asked.

“Yep. And let me tell you, she cost us a bundle. I mean, Valerie seemed like a sure thing. She was only sixteen years old when we signed her and she’d already reached the finals of the French Open. Plus she was good-looking, all-American, the works. And she was already developed, if you know what I mean. She wasn’t a cute little kid who might turn into a beast when she got a little older. Like Capriatti. Valerie was a babe.”

“So what happened?”

Ned Tunwell shrugged. “She had a breakdown. Shit, it was in all the papers.”

“What caused it?”

“Hell if I know. Lot of rumors.”

“Like?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I forget.”

“You forget?”

“Look, Myron, most people thought it was just too much, you know? All that pressure. Valerie couldn’t hack it. Most of these kids can’t. They get it all, you know, reach such big heights and then poof, it’s gone. You can’t imagine what it’s like to lose everything like … uh …” Ned stammered to a stop. Then he lowered his head. “Ah, shit.”

Myron remained silent.

“I can’t believe I said that, Myron. To you of all people.”

“Forget it.”

“No. I mean, look, I can pretend I didn’t just put my foot in my mouth like that, but …”

Myron waved him off. “A knee injury isn’t a mental breakdown, Ned.”

“Yeah, I know but still …” He stopped again. “When the Celts drafted you, were you a Nike guy?”

“No. Converse.”

“They dump you? I mean, right away?”

“I have no complaints.”

Esperanza opened the door without knocking. Nothing new there. She never knocked. Ned Tunwell’s smile quickly returned. Hard to keep the man down. He stared at Esperanza. Appreciatively. Most men did.

“Can I see you for second, Myron?”

Ned waved. “Hi, Esperanza.”

She turned and looked right through him. One of her many talents.

Myron excused himself and followed her out. Esperanza’s desk was bare except for two photographs. One was of her dog, an adorable shaggy pooch named Chloe, winning a dog show. Esperanza was into dog shows—a sport not exactly dominated by inner-city Latinos, though she seemed to do pretty well. The desk’s other picture showed Esperanza wrestling another woman. Professionally wrestling, that is. The lovely and lithe Esperanza had once wrestled professionally under the name Little Pocahontas, the Indian Princess. For three years Little Pocahontas had been a crowd favorite of the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling organization, popularly known as FLOW (someone had once suggested calling it the Beautiful Ladies of Wrestling, but the acronym was a problem for the networks). Esperanza’s Little Pocahontas was a scantily clad (basically a suede bikini) sexpot whom fans cheered and leered at as she bravely took on enormous evil, cheating nemeses every week. A morality play, some called it. A classic reenactment of Good vs. Evil. But to Myron the weekly action was more like those women-in-prison films. Esperanza played the beautiful, naive prisoner stuck in cell block C. Her opponent was Olga, the sadistic prison matron.