The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (46 page)

32

Lucinda Elright was big and warm with thick, jiggly arms and an easy laugh. The kind of woman that as a child you feared would hug you too hard and as an adult you wish like hell she would.

“Come on in,” she said, shooing several small children away from the door.

“Thank you,” Myron said.

“You want something to eat?”

“No thanks.”

“How about some cookies?” There were at least ten kids in the apartment. All black, none over the age of seven or eight. Some were using a paint set. Some were building a castle out of sugar cubes. One, a boy about six years old, was sticking his tongue out at Myron. “Not homemade, you understand. I can’t cook worth spit.”

“Actually, cookies sound good.”

She smiled. “I do day care now that I’m retired. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Mrs. Elright went into the kitchen. The little boy waited until she was out of the room. Then he stuck his tongue out again. Myron stuck his tongue out back. Mr. Mature. The kid giggled.

“Now sit, Myron. Right over there.” She knocked various paraphernalia off the sofa. The plate was full of the classics. Oreos. Chips Ahoys. Fig Newtons.

“Eat,” she said.

Myron reached for a cookie. The little boy stood behind Mrs. Elright so he couldn’t be seen. He stuck his tongue out again. Without so much as a backward glance Mrs. Elright said, “Gerald, you stick your tongue out one more time, I’ll cut it off with my pruning shears.”

Gerald rolled his tongue back. “What’s pruning shears?”

“Never you mind. Just go over there and play now, you hear? And don’t you be causing no trouble.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When he was out of earshot Mrs. Elright said, “I like them better at this age. They break my heart when they get a little older.”

Myron nodded, pulled apart an Oreo. He didn’t lick out the cream. Very adult.

“Your friend Esperanza,” Mrs. Elright began, grabbing a Fig Newton. “She said you wanted to talk about Curtis Yeller.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He handed her the article. “Were you correctly quoted in this article?”

She lifted her half-moon reading glasses from her hefty bosom and scanned the page. “Yes, I said that.”

“Did you mean it?”

“This wasn’t just talk, if that’s what you’re getting at. I taught high school for twenty-seven years. I’ve seen lots of kids go to jail. I’ve seen lots of kids die in the streets. Never said a word to the newspapers about any of them. See this scar?” She pointed to an immense, fleshy bicep.

Myron nodded.

“Knife wound. From a student. I got shot at once too. I’ve confiscated more weapons than any damn metal detector.” She put her arm down. “That’s what I mean when I say I like them younger. Before they get like that.”

“But Curtis was different?”

“Curtis was more than just a good boy,” she said. “He was one of the best students I ever had. He was always polite and friendly and never caused a lick of trouble. But he wasn’t a sissy either, you understand. He was still popular with the other boys. Good at all kinds of sports. I’m telling you, the boy was one in a million.”

“What about his mother?” Myron asked. “What was she like?”

“Deanna?” Lucinda sat a little straighter. “Fine woman. Like so many of them young mothers today. Single. Proud. Did whatever she had to to get by. But Deanna was smart. She set rules. Curtis had a curfew. Kids today don’t even know what curfew means anymore. Couple nights ago, a ten-year-old boy got shot at three in the morning. Now you tell me, Myron—what’s a ten-year-old boy doing out on the streets at three in the morning?”

“I wish I knew.”

She waved a hand at the air. “Anyway you don’t want to hear no old woman rambling on.”

“I got time.”

“You’re a sweet man, but you’re here for a reason. A good reason, I think.”

She looked at Myron. He nodded but said nothing.

“Now,” she continued, slapping her thighs with her palms, “what were we talking about?”

“Deanna Yeller.”

“That’s right. Deanna. You know, I think about her a lot too. She was such a caring mother. She came to every open house. She loved parent-teacher conferences. She basked in all that praise we heaped on her boy.”

“Did you talk to her after his death?”

“Nope.” She shook her head hard and let out a sigh. “Never heard from Deanna again, poor woman. No funeral. No nothing. I called her a couple of times, but nobody ever answered. Like she fell off the face of the earth. But I understood. She’d always had it rough. From the start. She used to be a street girl, you know.”

“I didn’t know. When?”

“Oh, a long time ago. She doesn’t even know who Curtis’s father really was. But she quit. Got herself cleaned up. Worked like a dog, any job she could get. All for her boy. And then, just like that …” She shook her head. “Gone.”

“Did you know Errol Swade?” Myron asked.

“Just enough to know he was trouble. In and out of prison his whole life. He was Deanna’s sister’s boy. The sister was a junkie. Ended up dying of an overdose. Deanna had to take Errol in. He was family. She was a responsible woman.”

“How did Errol get along with Curtis?”

“Actually, they got along pretty good—considering how different they were.”

“Well, maybe they weren’t so different,” Myron said.

“What do you mean?”

“Errol got him to break into that tennis club.”

Lucinda Elright watched him a moment before she picked up a cookie and began to nibble. A small smile toyed with her lips. “Come on, Myron, you know better than that,” she said. “You’re a smart boy. So was Curtis. What would he want to steal way out there? It don’t make sense, robbing a place like that at night. Think about it.”

Myron had already. He was glad to see someone else had the same trouble with the official scenario. “So what do you think happened?”

“I’ve thought a lot about it, but I don’t really know. Nothing makes much sense to me about that whole night. But I do think Curtis and Errol were set up. Even if Curtis decided to steal—and even if he was dumb enough to break in to this club—I can’t believe he’d shoot at a police officer. A boy can change, but that’s like the tiger changing his stripes. It’s just too incredible.” She sat up, adjusting herself on the couch. “I think some fool thing happened at the rich white club and they needed a couple of black boys to take the fall. Now, I’m not that way. I’m not one of those who think the white man is always plotting against the black man. It’s just not in my nature. But in this case I don’t know what else could have happened.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Elright.”

“Lucinda. And Myron, do me a favor.”

“What?”

“When you find out what really happened to Curtis, let me know.”

33

Myron and Jessica drove out to New Jersey for dinner at Baumgart’s. They ate there at least twice a week. Baumgart’s was a strange combination. For half a century it had been a popular soda fountain and deli, the kind of place neighbors went for lunch and Archie took Veronica for an after-school smooch. Eight years ago a Chinese immigrant named Peter Li bought the place and turned it into the best Chinese around—but without getting rid of the old soda fountain. You could still twirl on a stool at the counter, surrounded by chrome and blenders and ice-cream scoops in hot water. You could order a milkshake with your dim sum and have french fries with your General Tso’s chicken. When they first lived together, Myron and Jess had come at least once a week. Now that they were back together, the tradition had resumed.

“It’s the Alexander Cross murder,” Myron said. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Before Jess could answer, Peter Li arrived. Myron and Jess never ordered. Peter chose for them. “Coral shrimp for the beautiful lady,” he said, putting down her plate, “and Baumgart’s Szechuan chicken and eggplant for the man not fit to grovel at her feet.”

“Good one,” Myron said. “Very funny.”

Peter bowed. “In my country they consider me a man of great humor.”

“Must be a lot of laughs in your country.” Myron looked down at his plate. “I hate eggplant, Peter.”

“You’ll eat it and beg for more,” he said. He smiled at Jess. “Enjoy.” He left.

“Okay,” Jess said, “so what about Alexander Cross?”

“It’s not Alexander, per se. It’s actually Curtis Yeller. Everyone says he was a great kid. His mom was very involved, loved him like mad, the whole nine yards. Now she acts like nothing happened.”

“ ‘There’s a grief that can’t be spoken,’ ” Jessica replied. “ ‘There’s a pain goes on and on.’ ”

Myron thought a second. “
Les Mis
?” The ongoing game of Guess the Quote.

“Correct, but what character said it?”

“Valjean?”

“No, sorry. Marius.”

Myron nodded. “Either way,” he said, “it’s a lousy quote.”

“I know. I was listening to the tape in the car,” she said. “But it might not be that far off the mark.”

“A grief that can’t be spoken?”

“Yes.”

He took a sip of water. “So it makes sense to you, the mother acting like nothing happened.”

Jessica shrugged. “It’s been six years. What do you want her to do—break down and cry every time you come around?”

“No,” Myron said, “but I’d think she’d want to know who killed her son.”

Before touching her shrimp, Jessica reached across the table and forked a piece of Myron’s chicken. Not the eggplant. The chicken. “Maybe she already knows,” Jess said.

“What, you think she’s being bought off too?”

Jess shrugged. “Maybe. But that’s not what’s really bugging you.”

“Oh?”

Jess chewed daintily. Even the way she chewed food was a thing to behold. “Seeing Duane in that hotel room with Curtis Yeller’s mother,” she replied. “That’s what’s got to you.”

“You must admit it’s a hell of a coincidence,” he said.

“Do you have a theory?” she asked.

Myron thought a moment. “No.”

Jessica forked another piece of chicken. “You could ask Duane,” she said.

“Sure. I could just say, ‘Gee, Duane, I was following you around and noticed you’re shacking up with an older woman. Care to tell me about it?’ ”

“Yeah, that could be a problem,” she agreed. “Of course, you could approach it from the other direction.”

“Deanna Yeller?”

Jessica nodded.

Myron took a taste of his chicken. Before Jess finished the whole thing. “Worth a try,” he said. “You want to come along?”

“I’ll scare her off,” Jess said. “Just drop me off at my place.”

They finished eating. Myron even ate the eggplant. It was pretty good. Peter brought them a rich chocolate dessert—the kind of dessert you could gain weight just looking at. Jess dove in. Myron held back. They drove back over the George Washington Bridge to the Henry Hudson and down the west side. He dropped her off at her loft on Spring Street in Soho. She leaned back into the car.

“You’ll come by after?” she said.

“Sure. Put on that little French maid’s uniform and wait.”

“I don’t have a French maid’s uniform.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe we can pick one up in the morning,” she said. “In the meantime I’ll find something suitable.”

“Groovy,” Myron said.

Jess got out of the car then. She made her way up the stairs to the third floor. Her loft took up half the floor. She turned the key and entered. When she flicked on the lights she was startled to see Aaron lounging on her couch.

Before she could move, another man—a man with a fishnet shirt—came up behind her and put a gun to her temple. A third man—a black man—locked the door and turned the dead bolt. He too had a gun.

Aaron smiled at her. “Hello, Jessica.”

34

Myron’s car phone rang.

“Hello.”

“
Bubbe
, it’s your aunt Clara. Thanks for the referral.”

Clara wasn’t really his aunt. Aunt Clara and Uncle Sidney were just longtime friends of his parents. Clara had gone to law school with Myron’s mom. Myron had set her up to represent Roger Quincy.

“How’s it going?” Myron asked.

“My client wanted me to give you an important message,” Clara said “He stressed that I, his attorney, should treat this as my number one priority.”

“What?”

“Mr. Quincy said you promised him an autograph of Duane Richwood. Well, he’d like it to be an autographed
picture
of Duane Richwood, not just an autograph.
Color
picture, if that’s not too much trouble. And he’d like it inscribed to him, thank you very much. By the way, did he tell you he was a tennis fan?”

“I think he might have mentioned it. Fun guy, huh?”

“A constant party. Laughs galore. My sides are aching from all the laughing. It’s like representing Jackie Mason.”

“So what do you think?” Myron asked.

“In legal terms? The man is a major fruitcake. But is he guilty of murder—and more important, can the D.A. prove it?—that’s a different kettle of gefilte.”

“What do they have?”

“Circumstantial nothings. He was at the Open. Big deal, so were a zillion other people. He has a weird past. So what, he never made any overt threats that I’m aware of. No one saw him shoot her. No tests link him to the gun or that Feron’s bag with the bullet hole. Like I said, circumstantial nothings.”

“For what’s it worth,” Myron said, “I believe him.”

“Uh-huh.” Clara wouldn’t say if she believed him or not. It didn’t matter. “I’ll speak to you later, doll-face. Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

He hung up and dialed Jake.

A gruff voice said, “Sheriff Courter’s office.”

“It’s me, Jake.”

“What the fuck do you want now?”

“My, what a charming salutation,” Myron said. “I must use it sometime.”

“Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass.”

“You know,” Myron said, “I can’t for the life of me understand why you’re not invited to more parties.”

Jake blew his nose. Loudly. Geese in the tristate area scattered. “Before I’m left mortally wounded by your caustic wit,” he said, “tell me what you want.”

“You still have your copy of the Cross file?” Myron asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to meet the coroner on the case and the cop who shot Yeller,” Myron said. “Think you can set it up?”

“I thought there was no autopsy.”

“Nothing formal, but the senator said someone did some work on him.”

“Yeah, all right,” Jake said. “But I know the cop who did the shooting. Jimmy Blaine. A good man, but he ain’t gonna talk to you.”

“I’m not interested in bringing him down.”

“That’s a big comfort,” Jake said.

“I just want some information.”

“Jimmy won’t see you, I’m sure of it. Why do you need all this anyway?”

“I see a connection between Valerie’s murder and Alexander Cross’s.”

“What connection?”

Myron explained. When he finished, Jake said, “I still don’t see it, but I’ll call you if I get something.”

He hung up.

Myron lucked out and found a spot within two blocks of the hotel. He walked in like he belonged and took the elevator to the third floor. He stopped in front of room 322 and knocked.

“Who is it?” Deanna Yeller’s voice was cheerful, singsong.

“Bellhop,” Myron said. “Flowers for you.”

She flung open the door with a wide smile. Just like the first time they’d met. When she saw no flowers—and more to the point, when she saw Myron—the smile fled. Again, just like the first time.

“Enjoying your stay?” Myron said.

She didn’t bother hiding her exasperation. “What do you want?”

“I can’t believe you came to town and didn’t call me. A less mature man would be insulted.”

“I got nothing to say to you.” She began to close the door.

“Guess who I just spoke to?”

“I don’t care.”

“Lucinda Elright.”

The door stopped. With Deanna looking slightly dazed, Myron slid through the opening.

Deanna recovered. “Who?”

“Lucinda Elright. One of your son’s teachers.”

“I don’t remember none of his teachers.”

“Oh but she remembers you. She said you were a wonderful mother to Curtis.”

“So?”

“She also said that Curtis was a wonderful student, one of the best she ever had. She said he had a bright future. She said he never got into trouble.”

Deanna Yeller put her hand on her hips. “There a point to all this?”

“Your son had no police record. He had a perfect school record, not so much as a detention. He was one of the top students in his class, if not
the
top student. You were clearly involved in his activities. You were an excellent mother, raising an excellent young man.”

She looked away. She might have been looking out the window, except the blinds were drawn. The TV was humming softly. A commercial for men’s pickup trucks featuring a soap opera star. Soap opera star, pickup trucks—what advertising genius came up with that combo?

“This is none of your business,” she whispered.

“Did you love your son, Ms. Yeller?”

“What?”

“Did you love your son?”

“Get out. Now.”

“If you cared about him at all, help me find out what happened to him.”

She glared at him. “Don’t give me that,” she countered. “You don’t care about my boy. You’re trying to find out who killed that white girl.”

“Maybe. But Valerie Simpson’s death and your son’s are connected. That’s why I need your help.”

She shook her head. “You don’t listen too good, do you? I told you before: Curtis is dead. Can’t change that.”

“Your son wasn’t the type to rob. He wasn’t the type to carry a gun or threaten the police with one. That’s just not the boy you raised.”

“Don’t matter,” she said. “He’s dead. Can’t bring him back.”

“What was he doing at the tennis club that night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where did you suddenly get all your money?”

Pow. Deanna Yeller looked up, startled. The old change-topic attention-getter. Works every time. “What?”

“Your house in Cherry Hills,” Myron said. “It was a cash deal four months ago. And your bank account at First Jersey. All cash deposits within the past half year. Where did the money come from, Deanna?”

Her face grew angry. Then suddenly she relaxed and smiled eerily. “Maybe I stole it,” she said, “just like my son. You gonna report me?”

“Or maybe it’s a payoff.”

“A payoff? For what?”

“You tell me.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t have to tell you nothing. Get out.”

“Why are you here in New York?”

“To see the sights. Now leave.”

“One of those sights Duane Richwood?”

Double pow. She stopped. “What?”

“Duane Richwood. The man who was in your room the other night.”

She stared at him. “You were following us?”

“No. Just him.”

Deanna Yeller looked horror-stricken. “What kind of man are you?” she said slowly. “You get off on that kind of thing, watching other people and all? Checking their bank accounts? Following them around like a Peeping Tom?” She opened the door. “Don’t you have no shame at all?”

The argument was a little too close for comfort. “I’m trying to find a killer,” Myron argued, but his tone rang lamely in his own ears. “Maybe the person who killed your son.”

“And it don’t matter who you hurt to do it, right?”

“That’s not true.”

“If you really want to do some good, then just drop this whole thing.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She shook her head. “Curtis is dead. So is Valerie Simpson. Errol …” She stopped. “It’s enough.”

“What’s enough? What about Errol?”

But she kept shaking her head. “Just let it go, Myron. For everyone’s sake. Just let it go.”