"You contacted Higgins at Treasury?" Win asked.
"Yes. He's tracing those serial numbers."
"That could help."
"We also need to get ahold of the telephone records from the Parkview Diner. See who Carla called."
They fell back into silence and kept walking. They didn't want to hail a taxi too close to the scene.
"Win?"
"Yes?"
"Why didn't you want to go to the game the other night?"
Win kept on walking. Myron kept pace. After some time, Win said, "You've never watched a replay of it, have you?"
He knew he meant the knee injury. "No."
"Why not?"
Myron shrugged. "No point."
"No, there is a point." Win kept walking.
"Mind telling me what that is?" Myron said.
"Watching what happened to you might have meant dealing with it. Watching it might have meant closure."
"I don't understand," Myron said.
Win nodded. "I know."
"I remember you watched it," Myron said. "I remember you watched it over and over."
"I did that for a reason," Win said.
"For vengeance."
"To see if Burt Wesson injured you on purpose," Win corrected.
"You wanted to pay him back."
"You should have let me. Then you might have been able to put it behind you."
Myron shook his head. "Violence is always the answer for you, Win."
Win frowned. "Stop sounding melodramatic. A man committed a vile act upon you. Squaring things would have helped put it behind you. It's not about vengeance. It's about equilibrium. It's about man's basic need to keep the scales balanced."
"That's your need," Myron said, "not mine. Hurting Burt Wesson wouldn't have fixed my knee."
"But it might have given you closure."
"What does that mean, closure? It was a freak injury. That's all."
Win shook his head. "You never watched the tape."
"It wouldn't have mattered. The knee was still ruined. Watching a tape wouldn't have changed that."
Win said nothing.
"I don't understand this," Myron continued. "I went on after the injury. I never complained, did I?"
"Never."
"I didn't cry or curse the gods or do any of that stuff."
"Never," Win said again. "You never let yourself be a burden on any of us."
"So why do you think I needed to relive it?"
Win stopped and looked at him. "You've answered your own question, but you choose not to hear it."
"Spare me the Kung-Fu-grasshopper philosophical bullshit," Myron shot back. "Why didn't you go to the game?"
Win started walking again. "Watch the tape," he said.
Chapter 19
Myron didn't watch the tape. But he had the dream.
In the dream he could see Burt Wesson bearing down on him. He could see the gleeful, almost giddy violence in Burt's face as he drew closer and closer. In the dream, Myron had plenty of time to step out of harm's way. Too much time really. But in this dream--as in many--Myron could not move. His legs would not respond, his feet mired in thick, dream-world quicksand while the inevitable approached.
But in reality, Myron had never seen Burt Wesson coming. There had been no warning. Myron had been pivoting on his right leg when the blinding collision befell him. He heard rather than felt a snap. At first there had been no pain, just wide-eyed astonishment. The astonishment had probably lasted less than a second, but it was a frozen second, a snapshot Myron only took out in dreams. Then came the pain.
In the dream Burt Wesson was almost on him now. Burt was a huge man, an enforcer-type player, the basketball equivalent of a hockey goon. He did not have much talent, but he had tremendous bulk and he knew how to use it. It had gotten him far, but this was the pros now. Burt would be cut before the start of the season--poetic irony that neither he nor Myron would play in a real professional basketball game. Until two nights ago anyway.
In the dream Myron watched Burt Wesson approach and waited. Somewhere in his subconscious, he knew that he would awaken before the collision. He always did. He lingered now in that cusp between nightmare and being awake--that tiny window where you are still asleep but you know it is a dream and even though it may be terrifying, you want to go on and see how it will end because it is only a dream and you are safe. But reality would not keep that window open for long. It never did. As Myron swam to the surface, he knew that whatever the answer was, he would not find it in any nocturnal voyage to the past.
"Phone for you," Jessica said.
Myron blinked his eyes and rolled onto his back. Jessica was already dressed. "What time is it?" he asked.
"Nine."
"What? Why didn't you wake me?"
"You needed the sleep." She handed him the phone. "It's Esperanza."
He took it. "Hello."
"Christ, don't you ever sleep in your own bed?" Esperanza said.
He was hardly in the mood. "What is it?"
"Fred Higgins from Treasury is on the line," she said. "I thought you'd want it."
"Pass it through." A click. "Fred?"
"Yeah, how you doing, Myron?"
"I'm okay. You got anything on those serial numbers?"
There was a brief hesitation. "You stumbled into some heavy shit, Myron. Some very heavy shit."
"I'm listening."
"People don't want this out, you understand? I had to jump through all kinds of hoops to get this."
"Mum's the word."
"Okay then." Higgins took a deep breath. "The bills are from Tucson, Arizona," he said. "More specifically, First City National Bank of Tucson, Arizona. They were stolen in an armed bank heist."
Myron shot up in the bed. "When?"
"Two months ago."
Myron remembered a headline, and his blood turned cold.
"Myron?"
"The Raven Brigade," Myron managed. "That was one of theirs, right?"
"Right. You ever work on their case with the feds?"
"No, never." But he remembered. Myron and Win had worked on cases with a special and almost contradictory nature: high profile with the need for undercover. They had been perfect for such situations--who, after all, would suspect a former basketball star and a rich, Main Line prep of being undercover agents? They could travel in whatever circles they wanted to and not raise suspicion. Myron and Win didn't have to create a cover; their reality was the best one the agency had. But Myron was never full-time with them. Win was their fair-haired boy; Myron was more a utility fielder Win called in when he thought it necessary.
But of course he knew about the Raven Brigade. Most people with even a passing familiarity with sixties extremism knew about them. Started by a charismatic leader named Cole Whiteman, the Ravens had been yet another splinter group of the Weather Underground. They were very much like the Symbionese Liberation Army, the group that kidnapped Patty Hearst. The Ravens, too, attempted a high-profile kidnapping, but the victim ended up dead. The group had gone underground. Four of them. Despite the FBI's best efforts, the four escapees--including Cole Whiteman, who with his Win-like blond hair and Waspy background never looked the part of an extremist--had remained hidden for nearly a quarter century.
Dimonte's bizarre questions about radical politics and "perversives" no longer seemed so bizarre.
"Was the victim one of the Ravens?" Myron asked.
"I can't say."
"You don't have to," Myron said. "I know it was Liz Gorman."
There was another brief hesitation. Then: "How the hell did you know that?"
"The implants," Myron said.
"What?"
Liz Gorman, a fiery redhead, had been one of the founding members of the Raven Brigade. During their first "mission"--a failed attempt to burn down a university chemistry lab--the police had picked up a code name on the scanner: CD. It was later revealed that the male members of the Brigade called her CD, short for Carpenter's Drea
m, because she was "flat as a board and easy to screw." Sixties radicals, for all their so-called progressive thoughts, were some of the world's biggest sexists. Now the implants made sense. Everyone Myron had interviewed remembered one thing about "Carla"--her cup size. Liz Gorman had been famous for her flat chest--what better disguise than oversized breast implants?
"The feds and cops are cooperating on this one," Higgins said. "They're trying to keep this quiet for a while."
"Why?"
"They got her place under surveillance. They're hoping to maybe draw out another member."
Myron felt completely numb. He had wanted to learn more about the mystery woman and now he had: she was Liz Gorman, a famous radical who had not been seen since 1975. The disguises, the various passports, the implants--they all added up now. She wasn't a drug dealer, she was a woman on the run.
But if Myron had hoped learning the truth about Liz Gorman would help clarify his own investigation, he had been sadly mistaken. What possible connection could there be between Greg Downing and Liz Gorman? How had a professional basketball player gotten enmeshed with a wanted extremist who had gone underground when Greg was still a kid? It made absolutely no sense.
"How much did they get in the bank heist?" Myron asked.
"Hard to say," Higgins answered. "About fifteen thousand in cash, but they also blew open the safe-deposit boxes. Over a half million in goods have been declared for insurance purposes, but a lot of it is bullshit. A guy gets robbed, all of a sudden he was keeping ten Rolexes in the box instead of one--trying to rip off the insurance company, you know how it is."
"On the other hand," Myron said, "anyone keeping illegal dollars in there wouldn't declare it. They'd just have to swallow the loss." Back to drugs and drug money. The extremists in the underground needed resources. They'd been known to rob banks, blackmail former followers who had gone mainstream, deal drugs, whatever. "So it could have been even more."
"Right, hard to say."
"You got anything else on this?"
"Nothing," Higgins said. "It's being kept sealed tight, and I'm not in the loop. I can't tell you how hard it was to get this, Myron. You owe me big."
"I already promised you the tickets, Fred."
"Courtside?"
"I'll do my best."
Jessica came back into the room. When she saw Myron's face, she stopped and looked a question at him. Myron hung up and told her. She listened. Remembering Esperanza's crack, Myron realized that he had now spent four nights in a row here--a post-breakup world and Olympic record. He worried about that. It wasn't that he didn't like staying here. He did. It wasn't that he feared commitment or any of that other drivel; to the contrary, he craved it. But part of him was still afraid--old wounds that wouldn't heal and all that.
Myron had a habit of exposing too much of himself. He knew that. With Win or Esperanza it was okay. He trusted them absolutely. He loved Jessica with all his heart, but she had hurt him. He wanted to be tentative. He wanted to hold back, to not leave himself so open, but the heart don't know from stop. At least, Myron's didn't. Two primal internal forces were at odds here: his natural instinct to give all he had when it came to love vs. the survival instinct of pain avoidance.
"This whole thing," Jessica said when he had finished, "is just too weird."
"Yep," he said. They had barely talked last night. He had assured her that he was all right and they had both gone to sleep. "I guess I should thank you."
"For what?"
"You were the one who called Win."
She nodded. "After those goons jumped you."
"I thought you said you weren't going to interfere."
"Wrong. I said I wasn't going to try to stop you. There's a difference."
"True enough."
Jessica started chewing on her bottom lip. She was wearing jeans and a Duke sweatshirt several sizes too large on her. Her hair was still wet from a recent shower. "I think you should move in," she said.
Her words hit him square in the jaw. "What?"
"I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that," she said. "I'm not very good at beating around the bush."
"That's my job anyway," he said.
She shook her head. "You pick the strangest times to be crude."
"Yeah, I'm sorry."
"Look, I'm not good at this stuff, Myron. You know that."
He nodded. He knew.
She tilted her head to the side, shrugged, smiled nervously. "It's just that I like having you here. It feels right."
His heart soared and sung and quivered in fear. "It's a big step."
"Not really," she said. "You're here most of the time anyway. And I love you."
"I love you, too."
The pause lingered a bit longer than it should. Jessica jumped into it before it could do irreparable harm. "Don't say anything now," she said, rushing the words out in a gush. "I want you to think about it. It was a dumb time to bring it up, with all this stuff going on. Or maybe that's why I chose now, I don't know. But don't say anything. Just think about it. Don't call me today. Or tonight. I'm going to your game, but then I'm taking Audrey out for a few drinks. It's her birthday. Sleep at your house tonight. Maybe we'll talk tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Myron agreed.
Chapter 20
Big Cyndi sat at the reception desk. "Sat" was probably the wrong word. Talk about the proverbial camel trying to squeeze through the eye of the needle. The desk's four legs were off the floor, the top teetering on Big Cyndi's knees like a seesaw. Her coffee mug disappeared into fleshy hands that resembled couch cushions. Her short spikes of hair had more of a pinkish hue today. Her makeup reminded him of a childhood incident involving melted Crayola crayons. She wore white lipstick, like something out of an Elvis documentary. Her size-3XL T-shirt read CLUB SODA NOT SEALS. It took Myron a few seconds to get it. Politically correct but cute.
Usually she growled when she saw Myron. Today she smiled sweetly and batted her eyes at him. The sight was far more frightening, like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, only on steroids. Big Cyndi pointed up her middle finger and bounced it up and down.
"Line one?" he tried.
She shook her head. The up and down gesture became more hurried. She looked up at the ceiling. Myron followed her gaze but he saw nothing. Cyndi rolled her eyes. The smile was frozen on her face, like a clown's.
"I don't get it," he said.
"Win wants to see you," she said.
It was the first time Myron had heard her voice, and it startled him. She sounded like one of those perky hostesses on a cable shopping network, the one where people call up and describe in far too much detail how much their lives were improved by purchasing a green vase shaped like Mount Rushmore.
"Where's Esperanza?" he asked.
"Win's cute."
"Is she here?"
"Win seemed to think it was important."
"I'm just--"
"You're going to see Win," Cyndi interrupted. "You're certainly not checking up on your most valued associate." The sweet smile.
"I'm not checking up. I just want to know--"
"Where Win's office is. It's two stories up." She made a sound with her coffee that some might loosely label "slurping." Moose in the tri-state area scattered in search of mates.
"Tell her I'll be back," Myron said.
"But of course." She batted her eyelashes. They looked like two tarantulas in death throes. "Have a nice day."
Win's corner office faced Fifty-second Street and Park Avenue. Major league view for Lock-Horne Securities' golden boy. Myron sank into one of the lush burgundy leather chairs. There were several paintings of fox hunts on the richly paneled walls. Dozens of manly men on horseback, dressed in black hats, red blazers, white pants, black boots, rode out armed with only rifles and dogs to chase down a small furry creature until they caught and killed it. Ah, gamesmanship. A tad overkill maybe. Like using a flamethrower to light a cigarette.
Win typed on a lapt
op computer that looked lonely on the mono-expanse he called a desk. "I found something of interest on the computer disks we made at Greg's house."
"Oh?"
"It appears our friend Mr. Downing had an e-mail address with America Online," Win said. "He downloaded this particular piece of mail on Saturday." Win spun the laptop around so Myron could read the screen:
Subj: Sex!
Date: 3-11 14:51:36 EST
From: Sepbabe
To: Downing22
Meet you tonight at ten. The place we discussed. Come. I promise you the greatest night of ecstasy imaginable.
--F
Myron looked up. "Greatest night of ecstasy imaginable?"
"She has quite the writing flair, no?" Win said.
Myron made a face.
Win put a sincere hand to his heart. "Even if she could not live up to such a promise," he continued, "one has to admire her ability to take risk, her dedication to her craft."
"Uh huh," Myron said. "So who is F?"
"There is no profile for the screen name Sepbabe on line," Win explained. "That doesn't mean anything, of course. Many users don't have a profile. They don't want everyone knowing their real name. I would assume however that F is yet another alias for our dearly departed friend Carla."
"We have Carla's real name now," Myron said.
"Oh?"
"Liz Gorman."
Win arched an eyebrow. "Pardon?"
"Liz Gorman. As in the Raven Brigade." He told Win about Fred Higgins's call. Win leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. As usual his face gave away nothing.
When Myron finished, Win said, "Curiouser and curiouser."
"It comes down to this," Myron said. "What connection could there possibly be between Greg Downing and Liz Gorman?"
"A strong one," Win said, nodding toward the screen. "The possibility of the greatest night of ecstasy imaginable, if one is to buy into the hyperbole."
"But with Liz Gorman?"
"Why not?" Win almost sounded defensive. "You shouldn't discriminate on the basis of age or implants. It wouldn't be right."
Mr. Equal Rights. "It's not that," Myron said. "Let's pretend that Greg has the hots for Liz Gorman, even though nobody described her as much of a looker..."