Chapter 37
Myron tried to drive like Win, but that was beyond his capabilities. He sped, but he still hit construction on Route 95. You always hit construction on Route 95. It was a Connecticut state law. He listened to the radio. He made phone calls. He felt frightened.
Hester Crimstein was a senior partner in a high-rise, higher-bill, mega New York law firm. The attractive receptionist had clearly been expecting him. She led him down a hallway lined with what looked like mahogany wallpaper and into a conference room. There was a rectangular table big enough to seat twenty, pens and legal pads in front of each chair, billable no doubt to some unsuspecting client at wildly inflated prices. Hester Crimstein sat next to Bonnie Haid, their backs to the window. They started to rise when he entered.
“Don’t bother,” he said.
Both women stopped.
“What’s this all about?” Hester asked.
Myron ignored her and looked at Bonnie. “You almost told me, didn’t you, Bonnie? When I first came back. You said you wondered if we did Clu a disservice by helping him. You wondered if our sheltering him and protecting him had eventually led to his death. I said you were wrong. The only person to blame is the person who shot him. But I didn’t know everything, did I?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Hester said.
“I want to tell you a story,” he said.
“What?”
“Just listen, Hester. You might find out what you’ve gotten yourself involved in.”
Hester closed her mouth. Bonnie kept silent.
“Twelve years ago,” Myron said, “Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms were minor-league players for a team called the New England Bisons. They were both young and reckless in the way athletes tend to be. The world was their oyster, they thought they were the cat’s pajamas, you know the fairy tale. I won’t insult you by going into details.”
Both women slid back into their seats. Myron sat across from them and continued.
“One day Clu Haid drove drunk—well, he probably drove drunk more than once, but on this occasion he wrapped his car around a tree. Bonnie”—he gestured to her with his chin—“was injured in the accident. She suffered a bad concussion and spent several days in the hospital. Clu was unhurt. Billy Lee broke a finger. When it happened, Clu panicked. A drunk driving charge could ruin a young athlete, even as little as twelve years ago. I had just signed him to several profitable endorsement deals. He was going to move up to the majors in a matter of months. So he did what a lot of athletes did. He found someone who’d get him out of trouble. His agent. Me. I drove up to the scene like a madman. I met with the arresting officer, a guy named Eddie Kobler, and the town sheriff, Ron Lemmon.”
Hester Crimstein said, “I don’t understand any of this.”
“Give me time, you will,” Myron said. “The officers and I came to an understanding. It happens all the time with big-time athletes. Matters like this are swept under the rug. Clu was a good kid, we all agreed. No reason to destroy his life over this little incident. It was a somewhat victimless crime—the only person hurt was Clu’s own wife. So money changed hands, and an agreement was reached. Clu wasn’t drunk. He swerved to avoid another car. That’s what caused the accident. Billy Lee Palms and Bonnie would swear to it. Incident over and forgotten.”
Hester wore her annoyed-but-curious scowl. Bonnie’s face was losing color fast.
“It’s twelve years later now,” Myron said. “And the incident is almost like one of those mummy curses. The drunk driver, Clu, is murdered. His best friend and passenger, Billy Lee Palms, is shot to death—I won’t call that murder because the shooter saved my life. The sheriff I bought off—he died of prostate cancer. Nothing too strange about that or perhaps God got to him before the mummy. And as for Eddie Kobler, the other officer, he was caught last year taking bribes in a big drug string. He was arrested and plea-bargained down. His wife left him. His kids won’t talk to him. He lives alone in a bottle in Wyoming.”
“How do you know about this Kobler guy?” Hester Crimstein asked.
“A local cop named Hobert told me what happened. A reporter friend confirmed it.”
“I still don’t see the relevance,” Hester said.
“That’s because Esperanza kept you in the dark,” Myron said. “I was wondering how much she told you. Apparently not much. Probably just insisted that I be kept totally out of this, right?”
Hester gave him the courtroom eyes. “Are you saying Esperanza has something to do with all this?”
“No.”
“You’re the one who committed a crime here, Myron. You bribed two police officers.”
“And there’s the rub,” Myron said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Even that night something struck me as odd about the whole incident. The three of them in the car together. Why? Bonnie didn’t much care for Billy Lee Palms. Sure, she’d go out with Clu and Clu would go out with Billy Lee and maybe they’d even double-date or something. But why were the three of them in that car so late at night?”
Hester Crimstein stayed the lawyer. “Are you saying one of them wasn’t in the car?”
“No. I’m saying that there were four people in the car, not three.”
“What?”
They both looked at Bonnie. Bonnie lowered her head.
“Who were the four?” Hester asked.
“Bonnie and Clu were one couple.” Myron tried to meet Bonnie’s eyes, but she wouldn’t look up. “Billy Lee Palms and Lucy Mayor were the other.”
Hester Crimstein looked as if she’d been hit with a two-by-four. “Lucy Mayor?” she repeated. “As in the missing Mayor girl?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Myron kept his eyes on Bonnie. Eventually she raised her head. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
Hester Crimstein said, “She’s not talking.”
“Yes,” Bonnie said. “It’s true.”
“But you never knew what happened to her, did you?”
Bonnie hesitated. “Not then, no.”
“What did Clu tell you?”
“That you bought her off too,” Bonnie said. “Like with the police. He said you paid her to keep silent.”
Myron nodded. It made sense. “There’s one thing I don’t get. There was a ton of publicity about Lucy Mayor a few years back. You must have seen her picture in the paper.”