His voice had changed. He was a cop again, reading from a notepad he had read too many times in the past. "Henry and I followed the vehicle down an alley not far from Hunting Park Avenue, off Broad. The chase then proceeded on foot. At the time we had no identification on the two youths and thus no address. We only had the car. The chase proceeded for several blocks. As we turned a corner, the driver drew a firearm. My partner told him to freeze and drop his weapon. Yeller responded by aiming the firearm at Henry. I then fired two shots. The youth fell or stumbled out of sight beyond the next corner. By the time Henry and I turned the same corner, there was no sign of either youth. We figured that they were hiding in the nearby vicinity and awaited backup before proceeding. We secured the area as best we could. But the cops didn't get there first. The so-called secret service guys did."
"Senator Cross's men?"
Blaine nodded. "They called themselves 'national security,' but they were probably mob guys."
"Senator Cross told me he had no mob connections," Myron said.
Jimmy Blaine raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"
"Yes."
"The mob owns Bradley Cross," Blaine said. "More specifically, the Perretti family. Cross is a major gambler. I know he's also been arrested twice with prostitutes. One of his early opponents--this is back when he was just a congressman--ended up in the river during the primaries."
"And you traced it back to Cross?"
"Nothing anyone could prove. But we knew."
Myron considered this for a moment. Clearly, the beloved senator had lied to him. Big surprise. He had played Myron for a sucker. Another big surprise. Win was right. Myron always went astray when he believed the best about people. "So what happened next?"
"The senator's hoods were at the scene almost immediately. Been monitoring our radio. We'd been told over the air to cooperate with them one hundred percent. A real community effort finding these two kids. I'm surprised we spotted them first. Mob goons are usually better at this stuff than we are, you know?"
Myron knew. The mob had all the advantages over the police. They were closer to the city's underbelly. They could pay top dollar. They didn't have to worry about rules or laws or constitutional rights. They could inspire genuine fear.
"So what happened?" Myron asked.
"We started combing the area with flashlights, checking garbage Dumpsters, the whole bit. Cops and goons hand in hand. We found nothing for a while. Then we heard some gunshots. Henry and I ran to some dumpy apartment adjacent to where I'd shot Yeller. But Senator Cross's men were already there."
Blaine stopped. He leaned and gave Fred a good ear scratch. Fred still didn't move except for the thumping tail. Still scratching his dog, Blaine said, "Well, you know what we found." His voice was low and dead. "Yeller was dead. His mother was cradling him in her arms. She went through all these stages. First she just kept calling out his name over and over. Sweetly sometimes. Like she was trying to wake him up for school. Then she stroked the back of his head and rocked him and told him to go back to sleep. We all stood around and watched. Even the goons didn't bother her."
"What about the other gunshots?" Myron asked.
"What about them?"
"Didn't you wonder where they had come from?"
"I guess I did," he replied. "But I figured the security guys had shot after Swade. I didn't think they'd be dumb enough to admit it, but that's what I thought."
"It never crossed your mind they might have shot Yeller?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I told you the mother went through stages."
"Right."
"Once she realized her boy wasn't waking up again, she started pointing fingers and screaming. She wanted to know who had shot her boy. She wanted to look the killer in the eyes, the murderer who had shot her son on the street in cold blood. She said that Swade had dragged her boy in like that. Already shot up and dead."
"She said all that? That Swade dragged him in and that he was already shot?"
"Yes."
Silence. No water rippling. No birds chirping. Not even whittling. Several minutes passed before Blaine looked up and squinted. Then he said, "Cold."
"What?" Myron asked.
"That mother. If she was lying about who killed her boy. I always wondered why there were no repercussions. The mother never made a fuss. She didn't go to the newspapers. She didn't press charges. She didn't demand an explanation." He shook his head. "But what could have made her do that to her own flesh and blood? How could they have gotten to her so fast? With money? With threats? What?"
"I don't know," Myron said.
Jimmy Blaine finished whittling. It was a rabbit. Pretty good one too. A bird finally chirped, but it wasn't a pretty sound. More like a caw than a melody. Blaine spun his wheelchair around. "You want something to eat?" he asked. "I'm about to make lunch."
Myron looked at his watch. It was getting late. He had to get back to the office for his meeting with Ned Tunwell. "Thanks, but I really have to get going."
"Some other time then. When you're all done with this."
"Yes," Myron said.
Blaine blew the wood dust off the rabbit. "Still don't get it," he said.
"What?"
He stared at his finished handiwork, turning the rabbit over in his hand, studying it from every angle. "Could the mother have really been that frosty?" he asked. "How much money did they offer her? How much fright did they put into her? Hell, is there enough money or frights in the world for a mother to do that to her son?" He shook his head, dropped the wooden rabbit into his lap. "I just don't get it."
Myron didn't get it either.
41
Myron got back into his Ford Taurus and headed east. He drove several miles without seeing a car. Mostly he saw trees. Lots of trees. Yes, the great outdoors. Myron was not an outdoors kind of guy. He didn't hunt or fish or do any of that. The appeal seemed clear, but it just wasn't for him. Something about being alone in the woods always reminded him of Ned Beatty in Deliverance. He needed people. He needed movement. He needed noise. City noise--as opposed to squeal-like-a-pig noise.
He now knew a lot more about the deaths of both Alexander Cross and Curtis Yeller than he'd known twenty-four hours ago, but he still didn't know if any of it was relevant to what happened to Valerie Simpson. And that was what he was after. Digging into a sensational six-year-old murder might be fun, but it was beside the point. He wanted Valerie Simpson's murderer. He wanted to find the person who had decided to snuff out that young, tortured life. Call it righting a wrong. Call it having a rescue or hero complex. Call it chivalry. Didn't matter. It was far simpler to Myron: Valerie deserved better.
The roads were still abandoned. The foliage on both sides of the road blurred into green walls. He started putting together what he knew. Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller had been spotted by Jimmy Blaine and his partner. A chase had ensued. Leaving aside the question of whether it was a legitimate shooting or not, Jimmy Blaine fired at Curtis Yeller. One of Blaine's bullets probably hit Curtis Yeller in the ribs, but the key fact is that somebody else shot Yeller in the head at close range. Somebody who was using a different caliber gun. Somebody who was not a cop.
So who shot Curtis Yeller?
The answer now seemed fairly obvious. Senator Cross's men--thugs or security forces or whatever they were--had been carrying firearms. Both Amanda West and Jimmy Blaine had confirmed that. They certainly had the opportunity. They certainly had the motive. It didn't matter if Cross had lied to Myron or not. Either way it would be in the senator's best interest for Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade to end up dead. Live suspects could talk. Live suspects could tell tales of drug use. Live suspects could counter the claim that Alexander Cross had died a hero. Dead men tell no tales. More important, dead men do not dispute spin doctors.
As for Errol Swade--the mysterious "escapee"--he'd almost assuredly been killed, probably in that gunfire Jimmy Blaine heard. The senator's men could have hid the body and d
umped it later. Not definite, but again most likely. Errol Swade had a lot working against him. He was no genius. He was six-four. Myron knew from personal experience it was difficult to hide when you were that big. The odds of Swade eluding the police dragnet for so long--not to mention the mob's underworld army--were, as they say, statistically insignificant.
The sun was beginning to lower. The beams were now positioned in that one spot high enough to be in Myron's eyes but still low enough to avoid the sun visor. Myron squinted and slowed. His mind shifted gears again, this time to the aftermath of the Yeller shooting. Somehow Curtis Yeller ended up in his mother's arms, and somehow somebody got to her. Through either money or fear of reprisal--probably a combination of both--Deanna Yeller had been convinced to let the death of her son slide.
There were problems with this scenario, of course. For example, the money. Deanna Yeller's son had been murdered six years ago--yet the first big deposit in her account had occurred five months ago. Why the time lapse? She could have been biding her time, hiding the money under a mattress or something. But that didn't feel right. On the other hand, if the money was indeed new, the questions became more focused: why, all of a sudden, was Deanna getting this money? Why, all of a sudden, had Valerie been murdered? And how did Pavel fit in?
Good questions. No answers yet, but good questions. Maybe Ned Tunwell would know something useful.
Something caught Myron's eye. He glanced up. A car grew suddenly large in the rearview mirror. A big car. Black with a tinted windshield so you couldn't see inside. The license plate was New York.
The black car moved to its right, disappearing from the rearview mirror and appearing in the passenger-side mirror. Myron watched its progress. The imprint in the mirror reminded him that objects may be closer than they appear. Thanks for the clue. The black car picked up a little speed. As it came alongside of him, Myron could see it was a stretch limousine. A Lincoln Continental stretch. Extra-long stretch. The side windows too were tinted so you couldn't look in. It was like staring into a pair of giant aviator sunglasses. Myron could see himself in the reflection. He smiled and waved. His reflection smiled and waved back. Handsome devil.
The limo was dead-even with Myron's car now. The back window on the driver's side began to slide open. Myron half expected an elderly man to stick his head out and ask for Grey Poupon. Imagine his surprise when, instead, a gun appeared.
Without warning the gun fired twice, hitting the front and back tires on the passenger side of Myron's car. Myron swerved. He fought to regain control. The car veered off the road. Myron twisted the wheel and skidded away from a tree. The Ford Taurus came to a stop with a thud.
Two men jumped out of the limousine and headed toward him. Both wore blue suits. One also wore a Yankees cap. Business suit, baseball cap--an interesting fashion combo. They also carried guns. Their faces were stern and ready. Myron felt his heart in his throat. He was unarmed. He didn't like carrying guns, not for some moral reason but because they were bulky and uncomfortable and he so rarely ever used one. Win had warned him, but who listens to Win on a subject like this? But Myron had been careless. He was pissing off some powerful people and he should have been better prepared. He should have at least kept one in the glove compartment.
A little late for self-admonishments. Then again he might never have the chance again.
The two men approached. Not knowing what else to do, Myron ducked out of sight. He started dialing the car phone.
"Get your ass out of the car," one of the men barked.
Myron said, "Take another step and I'll drop you where you stand." Mr. Bluff.
Silence.
Myron dialed furiously and hit the send button. At that exact moment, he heard a sound like a twig breaking and then static. The goon with the Yankees cap had snapped off his antenna. This wasn't good. Myron kept himself low. He opened the glove compartment and reached inside. Nothing but maps and registration. His eyes searched the floor anxiously for some sort of weapon. The only thing he saw was the car cigarette lighter. Somehow he doubted that it would be effective against two armed goons. Maps, registration card, cigarette lighter. Unless Myron suddenly became MacGyver, he was in serious trouble.
He could hear footsteps shuffling about now. Myron's mind raced for an answer. Nothing came to him. Then he heard the car door of the limo open again. A quiet curse followed. Sounded like "Shit." Then a deep sigh.
"Bolitar, I ain't here to play no fucking games."
The voice sent a chill through Myron. Something hardened in his chest. New York accent. More specifically, a Bensonhurst accent. Frank Ache.
This was not good.
"Get the fuck out of the car now, ass-wipe. I ain't here to kill you."
"Your men just shot out my tires," Myron called back.
"Right, and if I wanted you dead, they would have shot out your fucking head."
Myron mulled that one over. "Good point," he said.
"Yeah, how about this one? I got two AK's sitting in the back here. If I wanted you dead, I could have Billy and Tony spray-paint this piece of shit you call a car with them."
"Another good point," Myron said.
"Now get the fuck out here," Frank barked. "I don't got all goddamn day. Ass-wipe."
Myron didn't really have a choice. He opened the car and stood. Frank Ache ducked back into the backseat. Billy and Tony scowled at him.
"Get in here," Frank called out.
Myron walked to the car. Billy and Tony blocked his path. "Give me your gun," the one with the Yankees cap said.
"Are you Billy or Tony?"
"The gun. Now."
Myron squinted at the baseball cap. "Wait a second, I get it. Plugs, right?"
"What?"
"Wearing a baseball cap with a suit. You're covering up new hair plugs."
The two men exchanged a glance. Bingo, Myron thought.
"Now, ass-wipe," the cap man said. "The gun."
Ass-wipe. The goon word of the week. "You didn't say please."
Frank's voice came from inside the car. "Jesus Christ, Billy, he don't have no piece. He was just yanking your hardware."
Billy's scowl grew angrier. Myron smiled, turned his palms to the sky, shrugged.
Tony opened the door. Myron slid into the backseat. Tony and Billy moved into the front. Frank pressed a button and a partition slid up, separating the back compartment from the front seats. The limo had a wet bar and television with VCR. The inside was sort of a royal red, blood-red actually, which, knowing Frank's history, probably helped cut down on the cost of cleanings.
"Nice wheels, Frank," Myron said.
Frank wore his customary garb--a velour sweat suit a couple of sizes too small. This one was green with yellow trim. The front zipper was down midway, like those guys in the seventies wore at discos. His gut was enormous enough to be mistaken for a multiple gestation. He was bald. He stared at Myron for several seconds before he spoke.
"You enjoy crawling up my ass crack, Bolitar?"
Myron blinked. "Gee, Frank, there's an appetizing thought."
"You're a crazy fuck, you know that? Why you always trying to piss me off? Huh?"
"Hey, I'm not the one who sent goons to rape his girlfriend," Myron said.
Frank pointed his finger at Myron's chest. "And what--you didn't have that coming? You didn't ask for that?"
Myron remained still. Stupid to raise Jessica with this man. Impossible as it seemed, you couldn't let it get personal. You had to separate, to stop thinking of Frank as the man who tried to do grievous harm to the love of your life. To think such thoughts would be at best counterproductive. At worst, suicide.
"I warned you," Frank continued. "I even sent Aaron so you'd know I was serious. You know what Aaron costs per day?"
"Not much anymore," Myron said.
"Ho, ho, I'm dying of laughter," Frank countered, but he wasn't laughing. "I tried to be reasonable with you. I let you have that Crane kid. And how do you thank me? By fucking around
with my business."
"I'm trying to find a killer," Myron said.
"And I'm supposed to give a rat's ass? You want to go play fucking Batman, fine, do it without costing me any money. Once you cost me money, you cross the line. Pavel meant money to me."
"Pavel also slept with underage girls," Myron said.
Frank held up his hands. "Hey, what a guy does in the privacy of his own bedroom, that don't concern me."
"You're so progressive, Frank. You voting Democratic now?"
"Look, ass-wipe, you want to hear I knew about Pavel? Fine, I knew. I knew Pavel fucked kiddies. So what? I work with guys who make Pavel Menansi looked like Mother Teresa. I can't go picking and choosing in my line of work. So I ask myself one simple question: Is the guy making me money? If the answer is yes, then that's it. That's my rule. Pavel was making me money. End of story."
Myron said nothing. He was waiting for Ache to get to the point, which he sincerely hoped was not a bullet in the skull.
Frank took out a packet of chewing gum. Dentyne. He popped one in his mouth. "But I ain't here to get in no philosophy talk with you. Fact is, Pavel is dead. He's not making me money anymore, so my rule don't apply no more. You see?"
"Yes."
"I'm a simple businessman," Frank went on. "Pavel can't make me money no more. That means you and me don't have a beef no more. So you get to live. Wasting you would no longer be profitable to me. You understand?"
Myron nodded. "Are we having a tender moment, Frank?"
Frank leaned forward. His eyes were small and black. "No, ass-wipe, we're not. Next time I ain't gonna fuck around. Hiding your girlfriend won't help you. I'll find her. Or I'll waste someone else instead. Your mommy, your daddy, your friends--hell, even your fucking barber."
"His name is Pierre. And he prefers the term 'beauty technician.'"
Frank looked him square in the eye. "You fucking joking with me?"
"You just threatened my parents," Myron said. "What's the proper way to respond?"
Frank nodded slowly and sat back. "It's over. For now." He pressed a button and the partition slid down.