"Have it by yourself," O'Connor said. "It's on my tab."
"Won't be the same without your company."
"Yet somehow you'll muddle through."
Myron picked up the menu. "I'll try."
Chapter 17
Who else to call?
The answer, Jessica realized, was obvious.
Nancy Serat. Kathy's roommate and closest friend.
Jessica sat at her father's desk. The lights were turned off, the shades were pulled down, but the sunlight was still strong enough to sneak through and cast shadows.
Adam Culver had done everything he could to make his home office radically different from the cement, institutional, macabre feel of the county morgue. The results were mixed. The converted bedroom had bright yellow walls, plenty of windows, silk flowers, white Formica desk. Teddy bears encircled the room. William Shakesbear. Rhett Beartler with Scarlett O'Beara. Bear Ruth. Bearlock Holmes. Humphrey Beargart with Lauren Bearcall. The whole atmosphere was cheerful, albeit a forced cheerful, like a clown you laugh at but find a little scary.
She took her phone book from her purse. Nancy had sent the family a card a few weeks ago. She had won some fellowship and was staying on campus to work in admissions. Jessica looked up her number and dialed.
On the third ring the answering machine picked up. Jessica left a message and hung up. She was about to start going through the drawers when a voice stopped her.
"Jessica."
She looked up. Her mother stood in the doorway. Her eyes were sunken, her face a skeletal death mask. Her body swayed as though she were about to topple over.
"What are you doing in here?" Carol asked.
"Just looking around," she said.
Carol nodded, her head bobbing on the string that was her neck. "Find anything?"
"Not yet."
Carol sat down. She stared straight ahead, her eyes unfocused. "She was always such a happy child," she said slowly. Her fingers fiddled with prayer beads, her gaze still far off. "Kathy never stopped smiling. She had such a wonderful, happy smile. It lit up any room she entered. You and Edward, well, you were both more brooding. But Kathy--she had a smile for everyone and everything. Do you remember?"
"Yes," Jessica said. "I remember."
"Your father used to joke that she had the personality of a born-again cheerleader," Carol added, chuckling at the memory. "Nothing ever brought her down." She stopped, the chuckle fading away. "Except, I guess, me."
"Kathy loved you, Mom."
She sighed deeply, her chest heaving as though even a sigh took great effort. "I was a strict mother with you girls. Too strict, I guess. I was old-fashioned."
Jessica did not reply.
"I just didn't want you or your sister to ..." She lowered her head.
"To what?"
She shook her head. Her fingers moved across the beads at a more fervid pace. For a long time neither of them spoke. Then Carol said, "You were right before, Jessica. Kathy changed."
"When?"
"Her senior year."
"What happened?"
Tears sprang to Carol's eyes. Her mouth tried to form words, her hands moving in gestures of helplessness. "The smile," she replied with something like a shrug. "One day it was gone."
"Why?"
Her mother wiped her eyes. Her lower lip quivered. Jessica's heart reached out to her, but for some reason the rest of her couldn't. She sat and watched her suffering, strangely uninvolved, as if she were watching a late-night tearjerker on cable.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," Jessica said. "I just want to find Kathy."
"I know, sweetheart."
"I think," Jessica continued, "that whatever changed Kathy is connected to her disappearance."
Her mother's shoulders sagged. "Merciful God."
"I know it hurts," Jessica said. "But if we can find Kathy, if we can find who killed Dad--"
Carol's head shot up. "Your father was killed in a robbery."
"I don't think so. I think it's all connected. Kathy's disappearance, Dad's murder, everything."
"But--how?"
"I don't know yet. Myron is helping me find out."
The doorbell rang.
"That'll be Uncle Paul," her mother said, heading for the door.
"Mom?"
Carol stopped but did not turn around.
"What's going on? What are you afraid to tell me?"
The doorbell rang again.
"I better get that," Carol said. She hurried down the stairs.
*
"So," Win began, "Frank Ache wants to kill you."
Myron nodded. "Seems so."
"A shame."
"If he'd only get to know me. The real me."
They sat in the front row at Titans Stadium. Out of the goodness of his heart, Otto had agreed to let Christian practice. That, and the fact that veteran quarterback Neil Decker was beyond horrendous.
The morning session had been a lot of wind sprints and walking through plays. The afternoon session, however, was a bit of a surprise. The players were in full gear, almost unheard of this early on in the year.
"Frank Ache is not a kind fellow," Win said.
"He likes torturing animals."
"Excuse me?"
"A friend of mine knew him growing up," Myron explained. "Frank Ache's favorite hobby was to chase down cats and dogs and bash in their heads with a baseball bat."
"I bet that impressed the girls," Win said.
Myron nodded.
"I assume, then, that you will be in need of my unique services."
"For a few days, anyway," Myron replied.
"Goodie. May I also assume that you have a plan?"
"I'm working on it. Feverishly."
Christian jogged out on the field. He moved in that effortless way great athletes do. He got into the huddle, broke it, and approached the line of scrimmage.
"Full contact!" a coach yelled out.
Myron looked at Win. "I don't like this."
"What?"
"Full contact on the first day."
Christian started calling out numbers. Then he gave a few hut-huts before the ball was snapped to him. He faded back to pass.
"Oh, shit," Myron said.
Tommy Lawrence, the Titans' All-Pro linebacker, charged forward unblocked. Christian saw him too late. Tommy placed his helmet into Christian's sternum and slammed him to the ground--the kind of tackle that hurts like hell but doesn't do any permanent damage. Two other defenders piled on.
Christian got up, wincing and holding his chest. Nobody helped him.
Myron stood.
Win stopped him with a shake of his head. "Sit down, Myron."
Otto Burke came down the stairs, entourage in tow.
Myron glared at him. Otto smiled brightly. He made a tsk-tsk noise. "I traded a lot of popular veterans to get him," he said. "It looks like some of the guys aren't too thrilled."
"Sit down, Myron," Win repeated.
Myron hesitated, then complied.
Christian limped back to the huddle. He called the next play and again approached the line of scrimmage. He surveyed the defense, yelled out numbers and hut-huts, then took the snap from the center. He stepped back. Tommy Lawrence blitzed again over left guard, completely untouched. Christian froze. Tommy bore down on him. He leaped like a panther, his arms stretched out for a bone-crushing tackle. Christian moved at the very last moment. Not a big move. Just a slight shift, actually. Tommy flew by him and landed on the ground. Christian pumped and threw a bomb.
Complete pass.
Myron turned around, grinning. "Hey, Otto?"
"What?"
"Kiss my grits."
Otto's smile did not falter. Myron wondered how he did that, if his mouth was frozen that way, like the threat a little kid hears from his mom when he's making faces. Otto nodded and walked away. His entourage followed in a row, like a family of mallard ducks.
Win looked at Myron "Kiss my grits?"
Shrug. "Paying
homage to Flo on Alice."
"You watch too much television."
"Listen, I've been thinking."
"Oh?"
"About Gary Grady," Myron said.
"What about him?"
"He has an affair with a student. She vanishes a year or so later. Time passes and her picture ends up in a porno ad he runs."
"Your point being?"
"It's crazy."
"So is everything about this case."
Myron shook his head. "Think about it. Grady admits having an affair with Kathy, right? So what would be the last thing he'd want to do?"
"Publicize it."
"Yet her picture ends up in his ad."
"Ah." Win nodded. "You believe someone is setting him up."
"Exactly."
"Who?"
"Fred Nickler would be my bet," Myron said.
"Hmm. He did hand over Grady's p.o. box without much debate."
"And he has the power to switch photos in his own magazine."
"So what do you suggest?" Win asked.
"I'd like you to check out Mr. Fred Nickler very thoroughly Maybe talk to him again. Talk," Myron repeated. "Not visit."
On the field Christian was fading back again. For the third straight time Tommy Lawrence blitzed over left guard untouched. In fact, the left guard stood with his hands on his hips and watched.
"Christian's own lineman is setting him up," Myron said.
Christian side-stepped Tommy Lawrence, cocked his arms, and whipped the ball with unearthly velocity directly into his left guard's groin. There was a short oomph sound. The left guard collapsed like a folding chair.
"Ouch," Win said.
Myron almost clapped. "The Longest Yard revisited."
The left guard was, of course, wearing a cup. But a cup was far from full protection against a speeding missile. He rolled on the ground, back curved fetal-like, eyes wide. Every man in the general vicinity gave a collective, sympathetic "Ooo."
Christian walked over to his left guard--a man weighing in excess of 275 pounds--and offered him a hand. The left guard took it. He limped back to the huddle.
"Christian has balls," Myron said.
Win nodded. "But can the same be said of the left guard?"
Chapter 18
As soon as Myron entered the Reston University campus, his car phone rang.
"Listen, putz, I got what you want," P.T. said. "My friend's name is Jake Courter. He's the town sheriff."
"Sheriff Jake," Myron said. "You're kidding, right?"
"Hey, don't let the title fool you. Jake used to work homicide in Philly, Boston, and New York. Good man. He said he'd meet with you today at three."
Myron checked his watch. It was one o'clock now. The station was five minutes away. "Thanks, P.T."
"Can I ask you something, Myron?"
"Shoot."
"Why you looking into this?"
"It's a long story, P.T."
"This have to do with her sister? That great piece of tail you used to nail?" He cackled.
"You're all class, P.T."
"Hey, Myron, I want to hear about it sometime. The whole story."
"It's a promise."
Myron parked the car and headed into the old athletic center. The corridor was a bit more beaten up than Myron had expected. Three rows of framed photographs of past athletic teams--some from as far back as a hundred years ago--lined the walls. Myron approached a beaded-glass door that looked like something out of an old Sam Spade film. The word FOOTBALL was stenciled in black. He knocked.
The voice was like an old tire on an unpaved road. "What?"
Myron stuck his head. "Busy, Coach?"
Reston University football coach Danny Clarke looked up from his computer. "Who the hell are you?" he rasped.
"Fine, thanks. But let's dispense with the pleasantries."
"That supposed to be funny?"
Myron tilted his head. "You didn't think so?"
"I'll ask one more time: Who the hell are you?"
"Myron Bolitar."
The coach's scowl did not change. "Am I supposed to know you?"
It was a hot summer day, the campus was practically empty, and here sat the school's legendary football coach wearing a suit and tie, watching videotapes of high school prospects. A suit and tie and no air conditioning. If the heat bothered Danny Clarke, it didn't show. Everything about him was well groomed and tidy. He was shelling and eating peanuts, but no mess was visible. His jaw muscles bunched as he chewed, making little knobs appear and disappear near his ears. He had a prominent vein in his forehead.
"I'm a sports agent."
He flicked his eyes away like a ruler dismissing an underling. "Get out of here. I'm busy."
"We need to talk."
"Out of here, asshole. Now."
"I just--"
"Listen up, shithead." He pointed a coach finger at Myron. "I don't talk to bottom-feeders. Ever. I run a clean program with clean players. I don't take payoffs from so-called agents or any of that bullshit. So if you got an envelope stuffed with green, you can go shove it up your ass."
Myron clapped. "Beautiful. I laughed, I cried, it became a part of me."
Danny Clarke looked up sharply. He wasn't used to having his orders questioned, but part of him seemed almost amused by it. "Get the hell out of here," he growled, but more gently now. He turned back to the television. On the screen a young quarterback threw a long, tight spiral. Caught. Touchdown.
Myron decided to disarm him with tact. "The kid looks pretty good," he said.
"Yeah, well, it's a good thing you're a scum-sucking leech and not a scout. The kid can't play a lick. Now take a hike."
"I want to talk to you about Christian Steele."
That got his attention. "What about him?"
"I'm his agent."
"Oh," Danny Clarke said. "Now I remember. You're the old basketball player. The one who hurt his knee."
"At your service," Myron said.
"Is Christian okay?"
Myron tried to look noncommittal. "I understand he didn't get along with his teammates."
"So? You his social coordinator?"
"What was the problem?"
"I can't see how it matters now," he said.
"Then humor me."
It took the coach some time to relax his glare. "It was a lot of things," he said. "But I guess Horty was the main problem."
"Horty?" Clever interrogation techniques. Pay attention.
"Junior Horton," he explained. "A defensive lineman. Good speed, good size, good talent. The brains of a citrus beverage."
"So what does this Horty have to do with Christian?"
"They didn't see eye to eye."
"How come?"
Danny Clarke thought a moment. "I don't know. Something to do with that girl who disappeared."
"Kathy Culver?"
"Right. Her."
"What about her?"
He turned back to the VCR and changed tapes. Then he typed something on his computer. "I think maybe she dated Horty before Christian. Something like that."
"So what happened?"
"Horty was a bad apple from the get-go. In his senior year I found out he was pushing drugs to my players: cocaine, dope, Lord knows what else. So I bounced him. Later, I heard he'd been supplying the guys with steroids for three years."
Later my ass, Myron thought. But for once he kept the thought to himself. "So what does this have to do with Christian?"
"Rumors started circulating that Christian had gotten Horty thrown off the team. Horty fueled them, you know, telling the guys that Christian was turning them all in for using steroids, stuff like that."
"Was that true?"
"Nope. Two of my best players showed up game day so stoned, they could barely see. That's when I took action. Christian had nothing to do with it. But you know how it is. They all figured Christian was the star. If he wanted his ass wiped, the coaches asked Charmin or Downy."
"Did you tell your
guys Christian had nothing to do with it?"
He made a face. "You think that would have helped? They would have thought I was covering for him, protecting him. They would have hated him even more. As long as it didn't affect their play--and it didn't--it was not my concern. I just let it be."
"You're a real character developer, Coach."
He gave Myron his best intimidate-the-freshman glare. The forehead vein started pulsing. "You're out of line, Bolitar."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"I care about my boys."
"Yeah, I can tell. You let Horty stay as long as he pumped your boys with dangerous albeit play-enhancing drugs. When he graduated to the big leagues--to the stuff that had a negative on-the-field impact--all of a sudden you became a righteous drug czar."
"I don't have to listen to this bullshit," Danny Clarke ranted. "Especially from a no-good, bloodsucking vampire. Get the hell out of my office. Now."
Myron said, "You want to catch a movie together sometime? Maybe a Broadway show?"
"Out!"
Myron left. Another day, another friend. Charm was the key.
He had plenty of time to kill before he visited Sheriff Jake, so he decided to take a stroll. The campus was like a ghost town, except no tumbleweeds were skittering along the ground. The students were gone for summer break. The buildings stood lifeless and sad. In the distance a stereo was playing Elvis Costello. Two girls appeared. Co-ed types wearing crotch-riding shorts and halter tops. They were walking a hairy, little dog--a Shih Tzu. It looked like Cousin It after one too many spins in the dryer. Myron smiled and nodded as the girls passed him. Neither one fainted or disrobed. Astonishing. The little dog, however, snarled at him. Cujo.
He was nearly at his car when he spotted the sign:
CAMPUS POST OFFICE
He stopped, looked around the grounds, saw nobody. Hmm. It was worth a try.
The inside of the post office was painted institutional green, the same color as the school bathroom. A long V-shaped corridor was wallpapered with p.o. boxes. He heard the distant sound of a radio. He couldn't make out the song, just a strong, monotonous bass beat.
Myron approached the mail window. A kid sat with his feet up. The music was coming from the kid's ears. He was listening to one of those Walkman clones with the minispeakers that bypass the ears and plug directly into the cerebrum. His black high-tops rested on a desk, his baseball hat tipped down like a sombrero at siesta time. There was a book on his lap. Philip Roth's Operation Shylock.
"Good book," Myron said.
The kid did not look up.
"Good book," Myron said again, this time yelling.
The kid pulled the speakers out of his ears with a sucking pop. He was pale and red-haired. When he took off his hat, his hair was Afro-wild. Bernie from Room 222.