“It’s Duane,” Esperanza said.
Myron took the call at her desk. “Hey, Duane. What’s up?”
His voice came fast. “Get over here, man. Like now.”
“What’s the matter?”
“The cops are in my face. They’re asking me all kinds of shit.”
“About what?”
“That girl who got shot today. They think I got something to do with it.”
3
“Let me speak to the police officer,” Myron told Duane.
Another voice came on the line. “This is homicide detective Roland Dimonte,” the voice barked with pure cop impatience. “Who the hell is this?”
“I’m Myron Bolitar. Mr. Richwood’s attorney.”
“Attorney, huh? I thought you were his agent.”
“I’m both,” Myron said.
“That a fact?”
“Yes.”
“You got a law degree?”
“It’s hanging on my wall. But I can bring it if you’d like.”
Dimonte made a noise. Might have been a snicker. “Ex-jock. Ex-fed. And now you tell me you’re a goddamn lawyer?”
“I’m what you might call a Renaissance man,” Myron said.
“Yeah? Tell me, Bolitar, what law school would let in someone like you?”
“Harvard,” Myron said.
“Whoa, aren’t we a big shot.”
“You asked.”
“Well, you got half an hour to get here. Then I drag your boy to the precinct. Got me?”
“I’ve really enjoyed this little chat, Rolly.”
“You got twenty-nine minutes. And don’t call me Rolly.”
“I don’t want my client questioned until I’m present. Understood?”
Roland Dimonte didn’t answer.
“Understood?” Myron repeated.
Pause. Then: “Must be a bad connection, Bolitar.” Dimonte hung up.
Pleasant guy.
Myron handed the phone back to Esperanza. “Mind getting rid of Ned for me?”
“Done.”
Myron took the elevator to the ground floor and sprinted toward the Kinney lot. Someone shouted, “Go, O.J.!” at him. In New York everyone’s a comedian. Mario tossed Myron the keys without glancing up from his newspaper.
Myron’s car was parked on the ground floor. Unlike Win, Myron was not what one would label a “car guy.” A car was a mode of transportation, nothing more. Myron drove a Ford Taurus. A gray Ford Taurus. When he cruised down the street, chicks did not exactly swarm.
He’d driven about twenty blocks when he spotted a powder-blue Cadillac with a canary-yellow roof. Something about it bothered Myron. The color maybe. Powder blue with a yellow roof? In Manhattan? A retirement community in Boca Raton, okay, driven by some guy named Sid who always had his left blinker on. Myron could see that. But not in Manhattan. And more to the point, Myron remembered sprinting past the exact same car on his way to the garage.
Was he being followed?
A possibility, though not a great one. This was midtown Manhattan and Myron was heading straight down Seventh Avenue. About a million other cars were doing the same. Could be nothing. Probably was. Myron made a quick mental note and proceeded.
Duane had recently rented a place on the corner of Twelfth Street and Sixth Avenue. The John Adams Building, on the fringe of Greenwich Village. Myron illegally parked in front of a Chinese restaurant on Sixth, got passed through by the doorman, and took the elevator to Apartment 7G.
A man who had to be Detective Roland Dimonte answered the door. He was dressed in jeans, paisley green shirt, black leather vest. He also had on the ugliest pair of snakeskin boots—snow-white with flecks of purple—Myron had ever seen. His hair was greasy. Several strands were matted to his forehead like to flypaper. A toothpick—an actual toothpick—was jutting out of his mouth. His eyes were set deep in a pudgy face, like someone had stuck two brown pebbles in at the last minute.
Myron smiled. “Hi, Rolly.”
“Let’s get one thing straight, Bolitar. I know all about you. I know all about your glory days with the feds. I know all about how you like to play cop now. But I don’t give a shit about none of that. Nor do I give a shit that your client is a public figure. I gotta job to do. You hear what I’m saying?”
Myron put his hand to his ear. “Must be a bad connection.”
Roland Dimonte crossed his arms and gave Myron his most withering glare. The snakeskin boots had a high platform of some sort, pushing his height over six foot, but Myron still had a good three or four inches on him. A minute passed. Roland still glared. Then another minute. Roland gnawed on the toothpick. The glare persisted without a blink.
“On the inside,” Myron said, “I’m quaking in fear.”
“Go fuck yourself, Bolitar.”
“Chewing the toothpick is a nice touch. A little cliché perhaps, but it works for you.”
“Just keep it up, smart-ass.”
“Mind if I come in,” Myron said, “before I wet my pants?”
Dimonte moved out of the way. Slowly. The death glare was still locked on autopilot.
Myron found Duane sitting on the couch. He was wearing his Ray•Bans, but that was not surprising. He stroked his closely cropped beard with his left hand. Wanda, Duane’s girlfriend, stood by the kitchen. She was tall, five-ten or so. Her figure was what was commonly referred to as tight or hard rather than muscular, and she was a stunner. Her eyes kept darting about like birds moving from branch to branch.
It was not a huge apartment. The decor was standard New York rental. Duane and Wanda had moved in only a few weeks ago. Month-to-month lease. No reason to fix the place up. With the money Duane was about to start making they could live anywhere they wanted to soon.
“Did you say anything to them?” Myron asked.
Duane shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Want to tell me what’s going on?”
Duane shook his head again. “I don’t know.”
There was another cop in the room. A younger guy. Much younger. He looked to be about twelve. Probably just made detective. He had his pad out, his pen at the ready.
Myron turned to Roland Dimonte. Dimonte had his hands on his hips, emanating self-importance from every pore. “What’s this all about?” Myron asked.
“We just want to ask your client a few questions.”
“About what?”
“The murder of Valerie Simpson.”
Myron looked over at Duane. “I don’t know nothing,” Duane said.