"Hello, Myron," she said.
"Hello, Jessica. You're looking well."
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"My office is upstairs. I practically live here."
She smiled. "Oh, that's right. You represent athletes now, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Better than working all that undercover stuff?"
Myron did not bother answering. She glanced at him but did not hold the gaze.
"I'm waiting for someone," Jessica said suddenly.
"A male someone?"
"Myron ..."
"Sorry. Old reflex." He looked at her left hand. His heart back-flipped when he saw no rings. "You never married what's-his-name?" he asked.
"Doug."
"That's right. Doug. Or was it Dougie?"
"You're making fun of someone's name?"
Myron shrugged. She had a point. "So what happened to him?"
Her eyes studied a beer ring on the bar. "It wasn't about him," she said. "You know that."
He opened his mouth and then closed it. Rehashing the bitter past was not going to do any good. "So what brings you back to the city?"
"I'm going to be teaching a semester at NYU."
His heart sped up again. "You moved back to Manhattan?"
"Last month."
"I'm really sorry about your father's--"
"We got your flowers," she interrupted.
"I wanted to do more."
"Better you didn't." She finished her drink. "I have to go. It was nice seeing you."
"I thought you were meeting someone."
"My mistake, then."
"I still love you, you know."
She stood, nodded.
"Let's try again," he said.
"No."
She walked away.
"Jess?"
"What?"
He considered telling her about her sister's picture in the magazine. "Can we have lunch sometime?" he asked. "Just talk, okay?"
"No."
Jessica turned and left him. Again.
Windsor Horne Lockwood III listened to Myron's story with his fingers steepled. Steepling looked good on Win, a lot better than on Myron. When Myron finished, Win said nothing for a few moments, doing more of that steepled-hands-concentration thing. Finally he rested his hands on the desk.
"My, my, haven't we had a special day?"
Myron rented his space from his old college roommate, Windsor Horne Lockwood III. People often said that Myron looked nothing like his name--an observation Myron took as high praise; Windsor Horne Lockwood III, however, looked exactly like his name. Blond hair, perfect length, parted on the right side. His features were classical patrician, almost too handsome, like something crafted in porcelain.
His attire was always thoroughbred prep--pink shirts, polo shirts, monogrammed shirts, khaki pants, golf (read, ugly) pants, white bucks (Memorial Day to Labor Day) or wing tips (Labor Day to Memorial Day) on his feet. Win even had that creepy accent, the one that did not originate from any particular geographical location as much as from certain prep schools like Andover and Exeter. (Win had gone to Exeter.) He played a mean game of golf. He had a three handicap and was the fifth-generation member of stuffy Merion Golf Club in Philadelphia and third-generation at equally stuffy Pine Valley in southern New Jersey. He had a perennial golf tan, one of those where the color could be found only on the arms (short-sleeve shirts) and a V-shape in the neck (open alligator shirt), though Win's lily-white skin never tanned. It burned.
Win was full-fledged whitebread. He made star quarterback Christian Steele look like a Mediterranean houseboy.
Myron had hated Windsor on sight. Most people did. Win was used to it. People liked to form and keep an immediate impression. In Win's case that impression was old money, elitist, arrogant--in a phrase, a flaming asshole. There was nothing Win could do about it. People who relied solely on first impressions meant little to him.
Win gestured to the magazine on his desk. "You chose not to tell Jessica about this?"
Myron stood, paced, and then sat back down. "What was I going to say? 'Hi, I love you, come back to me, here's a photo of your supposedly dead sister advertising a sex phone in a porno mag?' "
Win thought a moment. "I'd refine the wording a bit," he said.
He flipped through the porno rag, his eyebrow arched as if to say Hmmm. Myron watched. He had decided not to tell Win about Chaz Landreaux or the incident in the garage. Not yet anyway. Win had a funny way of reacting when someone tried to hurt Myron. It wasn't always pretty. Better to save it for later, when Myron would know exactly how he wanted to handle Roy O'Connor. And Aaron.
Win dropped the magazine on his desk. "Shall we begin?"
"Begin what?"
"Investigating. That is what you planned for us, correct?"
"You want to help?"
Win smiled. "But of course." He turned his phone around so that it faced Myron. "Dial."
"The number in the magazine?"
"Well, golly, Myron, I thought we'd call the White House," Win said dryly. "See if we can get Hillary to talk dirty."
Myron took hold of the phone. "You ever call one of these lines?"
"I?" Win feigned shock. "The Debutantes' Darling? The Society Stud? Surely you jest."
"Neither have I."
"Perhaps you'd like to be alone, then," Win said. "Loosen your belt, pull down your trousers, that kind of thing."
"Very funny."
Myron dialed the 900 number under Kathy's photograph. He had made thousands of investigative calls, both during his years in the FBI and in his private work for team owners and commissioners. But this was the first time he'd felt self-conscious.
An awful beeping noise blasted his ear, followed by an operator: "We're sorry. Your call is being blocked."
Myron looked up. "The call won't go through."
Win nodded. "I forgot. We have a block on all 900 calls. Employees were calling them all the time and ringing up quite a bill--not just the sex phones but astrologers, sports lines, psychics, recipes, even dial-a-prayers." He reached behind him and pulled out another phone. "Use this one. It's my private line. No blocks."
Myron redialed. The phone rang twice before being picked up. A woman's voice on tape husked, "Hello, there. You've reached the fantasy phone line. If you're under eighteen or do not wish to pay for this call, please hang up now." Less than a second passed before she continued. "Welcome to the fantasy phone line, where you can talk to the sexiest, most willing, most beautiful, most desirous women in the world."
Myron noticed that the taped voice was speaking far more slowly now, as if she were reading to a kindergarten class. Each word was its own sentence.
"Welcome. To. The. Fantasy ..."
"In a moment you will talk directly to one of our wondrous, gorgeous, voluptuous, hot girls who are here to heighten your pleasure to new boundaries of ecstasy. One-on-one private conversation. Discreetly billed to your phone. You will talk live with your personal fantasy girl." The voice droned on with its own form of iambic pentameter. Finally the tape gave instructions: "If you have a touch-tone phone, press one if you'd like to talk about the secret confessions of a naughty schoolteacher. Press two if ..."
Myron looked up at Win. "How long have I been on?"
"Six minutes."
"Twenty-four dollars already," Myron said. "Does the term 'total scam' mean anything to you?"
Win nodded. "Talk about jerking off."
Myron pressed a button, anything to get off this revolving tape. The phone rang ten times--Christ, they knew how to stretch the time--before he heard another female voice say, "Hi, there. How are you today?"
Her voice was exactly what Myron had expected. Low and husky.
"Uh, hi," Myron fumbled. "Look, I'd like--"
"What's your name, honey?" she asked.
"Myron." He slapped his forehead and held back a profanity. Had he really been stupid enough to use his real name?
"Mmmmm, Myro
n," she said as if testing it out. "I like that name. It's so sexy."
"Yeah, well, thanks--"
"My name is Tawny."
Tawny. Sure.
"How did you get my number, Myron?"
"I saw it in a magazine."
"What magazine, Myron?"
The constant use of his name was beginning to unnerve him. "Nips."
"Oooo. I like that magazine. It makes me so, you know."
A way with words. "Listen, uh, Tawny, I'd like to ask you about your ad."
"Myron?"
"Yes."
"I love your voice. You sound really hot. Do you want to know what I look like?"
"No, not real--"
"I have brown eyes. I have long brown hair, kinda wavy. I'm five-six. And I'm a 36-24-36. C cup. Sometimes a D."
"You must be very proud but--"
"What do you like to do, Myron?"
"Do?"
"For fun."
"Look, Tawny, you seem very nice, really, but can I talk to the girl in the ad?"
"I am the girl in the ad," she said.
"No, I mean, the girl whose picture is in the magazine on top of this phone number."
"That's me, Myron. I'm that girl."
"The girl in the photo is a blonde with blue eyes," Myron said. "You said you had brown eyes and brown hair."
Win gave him a thumbs-up, scoring one for the detailed eye of Myron Bolitar, ace investigator.
"Did I say that?" Tawny asked. "I meant blonde with blue eyes."
"I need to talk to the girl in the ad. It's very important."
Her voice went down another octave. "I'm better, Myron. I'm the best."
"I don't doubt that, Tawny. You sound very professional. But right now I need to talk to the girl in the ad."
"She's not here, Myron."
"When will she be back?"
"I'm not sure, Myron. But just sit back and relax. We're going to have fun--"
"I don't want to be rude, but I'm really not interested. Can I talk to your boss?"
"My boss?"
"Yes."
Her tone was different now. More matter-of-fact. "You're kidding, right?"
"No. I'm serious. Please put your boss on."
"Okay, then," she said. "Hold on a second."
A minute passed. Then two. Win said, "She's not coming back. She's just going to see how long the chump will stay on the line and pour dollars down her pants."
"I don't think so," Myron said. "She liked my voice, said I sounded hot."
"Oh, I didn't realize. Probably the first time she's ever said that."
"My thinking exactly." A few minutes later Myron put the receiver back in its cradle. "How long was I on for?"
Win looked at his watch. "Twenty-three minutes." He grabbed a calculator. "Twenty-three minutes times three ninety-nine per minute." He punched in the numbers. "That call cost you ninety-one dollars and seventy-seven cents."
"A rare bargain," Myron said. "You want to hear something weird? She never said anything dirty."
"What?"
"The girl on the phone. She never said anything dirty."
"And you're disappointed."
"Don't you find that a bit strange?"
Win shrugged, skimming through the magazine. "Have you looked through this at all?"
"No."
"Half the pages are advertisements for sex phones. This is clearly big business."
"Safe sex," Myron said. "The safest."
There was a knock on the door.
"Enter," Win called out.
Esperanza opened the door. "Call for you. Otto Burke."
"Tell him I'll be right there."
She nodded and left.
"I have some time on my hands," Win said. "I'll try to find out who placed the ad. We'll also need a sample of Kathy Culver's handwriting for comparison."
"I'll see what I can come up with."
Win resteepled his hands, bouncing the fingertips gently against one another. "You do realize," he began, "that this photograph probably means nothing. Chances are there is a very simple explanation for all this."
"Maybe," Myron agreed, rising from his chair. He had been telling himself the same thing for the past two hours. He no longer believed it.
"Myron?"
"What?"
"You don't think it was a coincidence--Jessica being in the bar downstairs, I mean."
"No," Myron said. "I guess I don't."
Win nodded. "Be careful," he said. "A word to the wise."
Chapter 4
Damn him.
Jessica Culver sat in her family's kitchen, in the very seat she had sat in innumerable times as a child.
She should have known better. She should have thought it through, should have come prepared for any occurrence. But what had she done instead? She had gotten nervous. She had hesitated. She had stopped for a drink in the bar below his office.
Stupid, stupid.
But that wasn't all. He had surprised her, and she had panicked.
Why?
She should have told Myron the truth. She should have told him in a plain unemotional voice the real reason she was there. But she hadn't. She had been drinking unaware, and suddenly he had appeared, looking so handsome and yet so hurt and--
Oh shit, Jessie, you are one fucked-up chick.
She nodded to herself. Yup. Fucked-up. Self-destructive. And a few other hyphenated words she couldn't come up with right now. Her publisher and agent did not see it that way, of course. They loved her "foibles" (their term--Jessie preferred "fuck-ups"), even encouraged them. They were what made Jessica Culver such an exceptional writer. They were what gave Jessica Culver's writing that certain "edge" (again, their term).
Perhaps that was so. Jessie really couldn't say. But one thing was certain: These foibling fuck-ups had turned her life to shit.
Oh, pity the suffering artist! Thy heart bleeds for such torment!
She dismissed the mocking tone with a shake of her head. She was unusually introspective today, but that was understandable. She had seen Myron, and that had led to a lot of "what if-ing"--a verifiable avalanche of useless "what if-ing" from every conceivable height and angle.
What if. She pondered it yet again.
In her typically self-centered way, she had seen the "what if-ing" only in terms of herself, not Myron. Now she wondered about him, about what his life had really been like since the world crumbled down upon him--not all at once--but in small, decaying bits. Four years. She had not seen him in four years. She had shoved Myron into some back closet in her mind and locked the door. She'd thought (hoped?) that would be the end of it, that the door could stand up to a little pressure without opening. But seeing him today, seeing the kind, handsome face high above those broad shoulders, seeing the still why-me stare in his eyes--the door had blown off its hinges like something in a gas explosion.
Jessica had been overwhelmed by her feelings. She wanted to be with him so badly that she knew she had to get out right away.
Makes sense, she thought, if you're a total fuck-up.
Jessica glanced out the window. She was waiting for Paul's arrival. Bergen County police Lieutenant Paul Duncan--Uncle Paul to her, since infancy--was two years away from retirement. He had been her father's closest friend, the executor of Adam Culver's will. They had both worked in law enforcement--Paul as a cop, Adam as the county medical examiner--for more than twenty-five years.
Paul was coming to finalize the details for her father's memorial service. No funeral for Adam Culver. He wouldn't hear of it. But Jessica wanted to talk to Paul about another matter. Alone. She did not like what was going on.
"Hi, honey."
She turned to the voice. "Hi, Mom."
Her mother came up through the basement. She was wearing an apron, her fingers fiddling with the large wooden cross around her neck. "I put his chair in storage," she explained in a forced matter-of-fact tone. "Just cluttering space up here."
For the first time Jessica rea
lized that her father's chair--the one her mother must have been referring to--was gone from the kitchen table. The simple unpadded four-legged chair her father had sat in for as long as Jessica could remember, the one closest to the refrigerator, so close that her father could turn around, open the door, and stretch for the milk on the top shelf without getting up, had been taken away, stored in some cob-webbed corner of the basement.
But not so Kathy's.
Jessie's gaze touched down on the chair to her immediate right. Kathy's chair. It was still here. Her mother had not touched it. Her father, well, he was dead. But Kathy--who knew? Kathy could, in theory, walk through the back door right this very minute, banging it against the wall as she always did, smile brightly, and join them for dinner. The dead were dead. When you lived with a medical examiner, you understood just how useless the dead were. Dead and buried. The soul, well, that was another matter. Jessie's mom was a devout Catholic, attending mass every morning, and during crises like these her religious tenacity paid off--like someone who spent time in a gym finally finding a use for their new muscles. She could believe without question in a divine and joyous afterlife. Such a comfort. Jessica wished she could do the same, but over the years her religious fervor had become a strict couch potato.
Except, of course, Kathy might not be dead. Ergo the chair--Mom's lantern kept lit to guide her youngest back home.
Jessica awoke most mornings bolting upright in her bed, thinking about--no, inventing new possibilities for--her younger sister. Was Kathy lying dead in a pit somewhere? Buried under brush in the woods? A skeleton gnawed on by animals and inhabited by maggots? Was Kathy's corpse stuck in some cement foundation? Was it weighed down in the bottom of some river like the little undersea man in the living-room aquarium? Had she died painlessly? Had she been tortured? Had her body been chopped into small bits, burned, broken down with acid ...
Or was she still alive?
That eternal spring.
Had Kathy possibly been kidnapped? Was she living in white slavery under the thumb of some Middle East sheikh? Or was she living chained to a radiator on a farm in Wisconsin like something on Geraldo? Could she have banged her head, forgotten who she was, and was now living as a street person with amnesia? Or had she simply run away to a different world?