Dimonte gave a dramatic sigh. “Bolitar, do you think all cops are morons?”
“No.”
“You think you’re the only one who thought of that?”
“Well,” Myron said, “I have been called gifted.”
“Not in today’s sports section.”
Touché. “So what did you find out?”
“She rented the place from some whacko, fanatic, leftist, commie, pinko so-called Columbia professor named Sidney Bowman.”
“You’re so tolerant, Rolly.”
“Yeah, well, I lose touch when I keep missing those ACLU meetings. Anyway, this pinko won’t talk. He says she just rented from him and paid in cash. We all know he’s lying. The feds grilled him, but he got a team of faggot, liberal lawyers down here to spring him. Called us a bunch of Nazi pigs and stuff.”
“That’s not a compliment, Rolly. In case you don’t know.”
“Thanks for clueing me in. I got Krinsky tailing him right now, but he’s got nothing. I mean, this Bowman’s not a retard. He’s got to know we’re watching.”
“What else have you got on him?”
“Divorced. No kids. He teaches a class in existential, worthless-in-the-real-world bullshit. According to Krinsky he spends most of his time helping the homeless. That’s supposed to be his daily ritual—hanging out with hobos in parks and shelters. Like I said, a whacko.”
Win entered the office without knocking. He headed straight for the corner and opened the closet door, revealing a full-length mirror. He checked his hair. Patted it though every strand was perfect. Then he spread his legs a bit and put his arms straight down. Pretending to be gripping a golf club. Win slowly began to turn into a backswing, watching his motion in the mirror, making sure the front arm remained straight, the grip relaxed. He did this all the time, sometimes stopping in front of store windows while walking down the street. This was the golf equivalent, Myron surmised, to the weight lifters who flex whenever they happen past their reflection. It was also annoying as all hell.
“Got anything else, Rolly?”
“No. You?”
“Nothing. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Can hardly wait, Hutch,” Dimonte said. “You know something? Krinsky’s so young he doesn’t even remember the show. Sad, ain’t it?”
“Today’s youth,” Myron said. “They got no culture.”
Myron hung up. Win continued to study his shot in the mirror. “Fill me in please,” he said. Myron did. When he finished, Win said, “This Fiona, the ex-playmate. She sounds like a perfect candidate for a Windsor Horne Lockwood III interrogation.”
“Uh huh,” Myron said. “But why don’t you first tell me about the Windsor Horne Lockwood III interrogation of Thumper?”
Win frowned at the mirror, adjusted his grip. “She is rather close mouthed,” he said. “So I took a distinctive tack.”
“What tack is that?”
Win told him about their conversation. Myron just shook his head. “So you followed her?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And there is not much to report. She went to TC’s house after the game. She slept over. No calls of any consequence were made from his residence. Either she was not rattled by our conversation, or she doesn’t know anything.”
“Or,” Myron added, “she knew she was being followed.”
Win frowned again. He either didn’t like Myron’s suggestion or he’d spotted a problem with his swing. Probably the latter. He turned away from the mirror and glanced at Myron’s desk. “Is that the Raven Brigade?”
“Yes. One of them looks like you.” Myron pointed to Cole Whiteman.
Win studied it for a moment. “While the man is indeed handsome, he lacks both my sense of style and my striking, debonair good looks.”
“Not to mention your humility.”
Win put out his hand. “Then you understand.”
Myron looked at the picture again. He thought again about what Dimonte said about Professor Sidney Bowman’s daily routine. Then it came to him all at once. Ice flooded his veins in a gush. In his mind he changed around Cole’s features a bit, imagined distortions from plastic surgery and twenty years of aging. It didn’t fit exactly, but it was close enough.
Liz Gorman had disguised herself by perverting her most distinguishing characteristic. Wouldn’t it make sense to assume that Cole Whiteman had done the same?
“Myron?”
He looked up. “I think I know where to find Cole Whiteman.”
Chapter 30
Hector was not thrilled to see Myron back at the Parkview Diner.
“We think we found Sally’s accomplice,” Myron said.
Hector cleaned the counter with a rag.
“His name is Norman Lowenstein. Do you know him?”
Hector shook his head.
“He’s a homeless man. He hangs out in the back and uses your pay phone.”
Hector stopped cleaning. “You think I’d let a homeless man in my kitchen?” he said. “And we don’t even have a back. Take a look.”
The answer did not surprise Myron. “He was sitting at the counter when I was here the other day,” he tried. “Unshaven. Long black hair. Tattered beige overcoat.”
Still working the rag over the Formica, Hector nodded. “I think I know who you mean. Black sneakers?”
“Right.”
“He comes in a lot. But I don’t know his name.”
“Did you ever see him talk to Sally?”
Hector shrugged. “Maybe. When she was his waitress. I really don’t know.”
“When was he here last?”
“I haven’t seen him since the day you came in,” Hector said.
“And you never met him?”
“No.”
“Or know anything about him?”
“No.”
Myron wrote down his phone number on a scrap of paper. “If you see him, please call. There’s a thousand-dollar reward.”
Hector studied the phone number. “This your work number? At AT&T?”
“No. It’s my personal phone.”
“Uh huh,” Hector said. “I called AT&T after you left last time. There’s no such thing as Y511 and there’s no employee named Bernie Worley.” He did not look particularly upset, but he wasn’t dancing the hula either. He just waited, watching Myron with steady eyes.