“What time?”
“I don’t remember. Two, three o’clock. I was told you were at the tennis match and to get over there right away.”
That would have been almost immediately after Valerie’s murder.
“That’s all I know. I swear to God. That’s it.”
“Bull,” Win said. But Myron waved him off. Fishnet knew nothing more of any real significance.
“Let him go,” Myron said.
13
Myron woke up early. He grabbed some cold cereal from the pantry. Something called Nutri-Grain. Yummy name. He read on the back of the box about the importance of fiber. Snore.
Myron longed for his childhood cereals: Cap’n Crunch, Froot Loops, Quisp. Quisp cereal. Who could forget Quisp, the cute alien who competed on TV commercials with some coal-miner loser named Quake? Quisp vs. Quake. Extraterrestrial vs. Mr. Blue-collar. Interesting concept. What happened to those two rivals? Has even lovable Quisp gone the way of the Motels?
Myron sighed. He was far too young for such bouts of nostalgia.
Esperanza had managed to track down an address for Curtis Yeller’s mother. Deanna Yeller lived alone in a recently purchased house in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, a suburb outside Philadelphia. Myron made his way to his car. If he started out now, there would be time to drive to Cherry Hill, meet with Deanna Yeller, and get back to New York in time for Duane’s match.
But would Deanna Yeller be home? Best to make sure.
Myron picked up the car phone and dialed. A woman’s voice—probably Deanna Yeller—answered. “Hello?”
“Is Orson there?” Myron asked.
Warning: Clever deductive technique coming up. Those desiring professional pointers should pay strict attention.
“Who?” the woman asked.
“Orson.”
“You have the wrong number.”
“I’m sorry.” Myron hung up.
Deduction: Deanna Yeller was home.
He pulled up to a modest but modern home on a classic New Jersey suburban street. Every house was more or less the same. Different colors maybe. The kitchen might be on the right instead of the left. But genetically they were clones. Nice. A sprinkling of kids on the street. A sprinkling of multicolored bicycles. Couple of squirrels. A far cry from west Philadelphia. It made him wonder.
Myron walked up the little brick walk and knocked on the door. A very attractive black woman answered, a pleasant smile at the ready. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, emphasizing the high cheekbones. Age lines around the eyes and mouth, but nothing drastic. She was well dressed, kind of conservative. Anne Klein II. Her jewelry was noticeable but not too flashy. The overall impression: classy.
Her smile seemed to fade when she saw him. “Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Yeller?”
She nodded slowly, as though not sure.
“My name is Myron Bolitar. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The smile fled completely. “What about?” Her diction was different now. Less suburban civil. More street suspicious.
“Your son.”
“I ain’t got a son.”
“Curtis,” Myron said.
Her eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”
“No.”
“I ain’t got the time. I’m on my way out.”
“It won’t take long.”
She put her hands on her hips. “What’s in it for me?”
“Pardon me?”
“Curtis is dead.”
“I realize that.”
“So what good is talking about it gonna do? He still gonna be dead, right?”
“Please, Mrs. Yeller, if I could just come in for a moment.”
She thought about it a second or two, glanced around, then shrugged in tired surrender. She checked her watch. Piaget, Myron noticed. Could be a fake, but he doubted it.
The decor was basic. Lot of white. Lot of pinewood. Torchère lamps. Very Ikea. There were no photographs on the shelves or coffee table. Nothing personal at all. Deanna Yeller didn’t sit. She didn’t invite Myron to either.
Myron offered up his warmest, most trustworthy smile. One part Harry Smith, two parts John Tesh.
She crossed her arms. “What the hell you grinning at?”
Yep, another minute and she’d be curled up in his lap.
“I want to ask you about the night Curtis died,” Myron said.
“Why? What’s this got to do with you?”
“I’m investigating.”
“Investigating what?”
“What really happened the night your son died.”
“You a private eye?”
“No. Not really.”
Silence.
“You got two minutes,” she said. “That’s it.”
“According to the police your son drew a gun on a police officer.”
“So they say.”
“Did he?”
She shrugged. “Guess so.”
“Did Curtis own a gun?”
Another shrug. “Guess he did.”
“Did you see it that night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever see it before that night?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
Boy, was this helpful. “Why would your son and Errol break into the Old Oaks Club?”
She made a face. “You serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why you think? To rob the place.”
“Did Curtis do that a lot?”
“Do what?”
“Rob places.”
Another shrug. “Places, people, whatever.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. No shame, no embarrassment, no surprise, no revulsion.
“Curtis didn’t have a record,” Myron said.
Yet another shrug. Her shoulders would tire soon. “Guess I raised a smart boy,” she said. “Until that night, anyhow.” She made a show of looking at her watch again. “I gotta go now.”
“Mrs. Yeller, have you heard from your nephew Errol Swade?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he went after your son was shot?”
“No.”
“What do you think happened to Errol?”
“He’s dead.” Again matter-of-fact. “I don’t know what you want here, but this thing is finished. Finished a long time ago. No one cares anymore.”
“How about you, Mrs. Yeller? Do you care?”
“It’s done. Closed.”
“You were there when the police shot your son?”
“No. I got there right after.” Her voice sort of faded away.