"It's not like that."
"So what's it like?"
Myron opened his mouth, closed it. Then he said, "Do you want to get married?"
Jessica blinked, but she didn't step back. "Is this a proposal?"
"I'm asking you a question. Do you want to get married?"
"If that's what it takes, yeah, I want to get married."
Myron smiled. "My, what enthusiasm."
"What do you want me to say, Myron? Whatever you want me to say, I'll say. Yes, no, whatever will keep you here with me."
"This isn't a test, Jess."
"Then why are you raising marriage all of a sudden?"
"Because I want to be with you forever," he said. "And I want to buy a house. And I want to have kids."
"So do I," she said. "But life is so good right now. We've got our careers, our freedom. Why spoil it? There'll be time for all that later."
Myron shook his head.
"What?" she said.
"You're stalling."
"No, I'm not."
"Having a family is not something I want to fit into a convenient time block."
"But now?" Jessica put up her hands. "Right now? This is what you really want? A house in the suburbs like your parents? The Saturday night barbecues? The backyard hoop? The PTA meetings? The back-to-school shopping at the mall? That's what you really want?"
Myron looked at her, and he felt something deep within him crumble. "Yes," he said. "That's exactly what I want."
They both stood and stared at each other. There was a knock on the door. Neither one of them moved. Another knock. Then Win's voice: "Open it."
Win was not one for casual interruptions. Myron did as he asked. Win glanced at Jessica and gave her a slight nod. He handed Myron his cellular. "It's Norm Zuckerman," Win said. "He's been trying to reach you."
Jessica turned and left the room. Quickly. Win watched her, but he kept his expression even. Myron took the phone. "Yeah, Norm."
Norm's voice was pure panic. "It's almost game time."
"So?"
"So where the hell is Brenda?"
Myron felt his heart leap into his throat. "She told me she was riding on the team bus."
"She never got on it, Myron."
Myron flashed back to Horace on the morgue slab. His knees almost buckled. Myron looked at Win.
"I'll drive," Win said.
They took the Jag. Win did not slow for red lights. He did not slow for pedestrians. Twice Win veered up on sidewalks to bypass heavy traffic.
Myron looked straight ahead. "What I said before. About your going too far."
Win waited.
"Forget it," Myron said.
For the rest of the ride, neither man spoke.
Win screeched the car into an illegal spot on the southeast corner of Thirty-third Street and Eighth Avenue. Myron sprinted toward the Madison Square Garden employee entrance. A police officer sauntered toward Win with major attitude. Win ripped a hundred-dollar bill and handed one half to the officer. The officer nodded and tipped his cap. No words needed to be exchanged.
The guard at the employee entrance recognized Myron and waved him through.
"Where's Norm Zuckerman?" Myron asked.
"Press room. Other side of the--"
Myron knew where it was. As he bounded up the stairs, he could hear the pregame hum of the crowd. The sound was oddly soothing. When he reached court level, he veered to his right. The press room was on the other side of the floor. He ran out onto the playing surface. The crowd, he was surprised to see, was enormous. Norm had told him how he planned to darken and close off the top sections--that is, drape a black curtain over the unused seats so as to give the arena a more crowded yet intimate feel. But sales had far surpassed expectations. A sellout crowd was finding its seats. Many fans held up banners: DAWN OF AN ERA, BRENDA RULES, WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF BRENDA, NOW IT'S OUR TURN, SISTERS ARE DOING IT FOR THEMSELVES, YOU GO, GIRLS! Stuff like that. Sponsors' logos dominated the landscape like the work of a mad graffiti artist. Giant images of a stunning Brenda flashed across the overhead scoreboard. A highlight reel of some kind. Brenda in her college uniform. Loud music started up. Hip music. That was what Norm wanted. Hip. He'd been generous with the comp tickets too. Spike Lee was courtside. So were Jimmy Smits and Rosie O'Donnell and Sam Waterston and Woody Allen and Rudy Giuliani. Several ex-MTV hosts, the biggest sort of has-beens, mugged for cameras, desperate to be seen. Supermodels wore wire-rimmed glasses, trying a little too hard to look both beautiful and studious.
They were all here to toast New York's latest phenom: Brenda Slaughter.
This was supposed to be her night, her chance to shine in the pro arena. Myron had thought that he understood Brenda's insistence on playing the opener. But he hadn't. This was more than a game. More than her love for basketball. More than a personal tribute. This was history. Brenda had seen that. In this era of jaded superstars she relished the chance to be a role model and shape impressionable kids. Corny, but there you have it. Myron paused for a moment and looked at the Jumbo-tron screen above his head. The digitally enlarged Brenda was driving hard to the hoop, her face a mask of determination, her body and movements fiercely splendid and graceful and purposeful.
Brenda would not be denied.
Myron picked up the sprint again. He left the court and dipped down the ramp and back into a corridor. In a matter of moments he reached the press room. Win was coming up behind him. Myron opened the door. Norm Zuckerman was there. So were Detectives Maureen McLaughlin and Dan Tiles.
Tiles made a point of checking his watch. "That was fast," he said. He may have been smirking under the hinterlands that doubled as his mustache.
"Is she here?" Myron asked.
Maureen McLaughlin gave him the on-your-side smile. "Why don't you sit down, Myron?"
Myron ignored her. He turned to Norm. "Has Brenda shown up?"
Norm Zuckerman was dressed like Janis Joplin guest-starring on Miami Vice, "No," he said.
Win trotted in behind Myron. Tiles didn't like the intrusion. He crossed the room and gave Win the tough guy scrutiny. Win let him. "And who might this be?" Tiles asked.
Win pointed at Tiles's face. "You got some food stuck in your mustache. Looks like scrambled eggs."
Myron kept his eyes on Norm. "What are they doing here?"
"Sit down, Myron." It was McLaughlin again. "We need to chat."
Myron glanced over at Win. Win nodded. He moved toward Norm Zuckerman and put his arm around his shoulders. The two of them headed for a corner.
"Sit," McLaughlin said again. There was just a hint of steel this time.
Myron slid into a chair. McLaughlin did likewise, maintaining oodles of eye contact along the way. Tiles stayed standing and glared down at Myron. He was one of those idiots who believed that head level equaled intimidation.
"What happened?" Myron asked.
Maureen McLaughlin folded her hands. "Why don't you tell us, Myron?"
He shook his head. "I don't have time for this, Maureen. Why are you here?"
"We're looking for Brenda Slaughter," McLaughlin said. "Do you know where she is?"
"No. Why are you looking for her?"
"We'd like to ask her some questions."
Myron looked around the room. "And you figured the best time to ask them would be right before the biggest game of her life?"
McLaughlin and Tiles sneaked an obvious glance. Myron checked out Win. He was still whispering with Norm.
Tiles stepped up to the plate. "When did you last see Brenda Slaughter?"
"Today," Myron said.
"Where?"
This was going to take too long. "I don't have to answer your questions, Tiles. And neither does Brenda. I'm her attorney, remember? You got something, let me know. If not, stop wasting my time."
Tiles's mustache seemed to curl up in a grin. "Oh, we got something, smart guy."
Myron did not like the way he said that. "I'm listening."
McLaughl
in leaned forward, again with the earnest eyes. "We got a search warrant this morning for the college dormitory of Brenda Slaughter." Her tone was all police official now. "We found on the premises one weapon, a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight, the same caliber that killed Horace Slaughter. We're waiting for a ballistics test to see if it's the murder weapon."
"Fingerprints?" Myron asked.
McLaughlin shook her head. "Wiped clean."
"Even if it is the murder weapon," Myron said, "it was obviously planted."
McLaughlin looked puzzled. "How do you know that, Myron?"
"Come on, Maureen. Why would she wipe the weapon clean and then leave it where you could find it?"
"It was hidden under her mattress," McLaughlin countered.
Win stepped away from Norm Zuckerman. He started dialing on his cell phone. Someone answered. Win kept his voice low.
Myron shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Is that all you got?"
"Don't try to snow us, asshole." Tiles again. "We have a motive: she feared her father enough to get a restraining order. We found the murder weapon hidden under her own mattress. And now we have the fact that she's clearly on the lam. That's a shitload more than enough to make an arrest."
"So that's why you're here?" Myron countered. "To arrest her?"
Again McLaughlin and Tiles exchanged a glance. "No," Mclaughlin said as though pronouncing the word took great effort. "But we would very much like to speak with her again."
Win disconnected the call. Then he beckoned Myron with a nod.
Myron rose. "Excuse me."
Tiles said, "What the hell!"
"I need to converse with my associate for a moment. I'll be right back."
Myron and Win ducked into a corner. Tiles lowered his eyebrows to half-mast and put his fists on his hips. Win stared back for a moment. Tiles kept up the scowl. Win put his thumbs in his ears, stuck out his tongue, wiggled his fingers. Tiles did not follow suit.
Win spoke softly and quickly. "According to Norm, Brenda received a call at practice. She took the call and ran out. The team bus waited awhile, but Brenda ended up being a no-show. When the bus left, an assistant coach waited with her car. The coach is still at the practice site. That's all Norm knew. I then called Arthur Bradford. He knew about the search warrant. He claimed that by the time you two made your arrangement vis-a-vis protecting Brenda, the warrant had been acted upon and the gun had been found. He has since contacted some friends in high places, and they have agreed to move very slowly on Ms. Slaughter."
Myron nodded. That explained the semidiplomacy going on here. McLaughlin and Tiles clearly wanted to arrest her, but the higher-ups were holding them back. "Anything else?"
"Arthur was very concerned about Brenda's disappearance."
"I bet."
"He wants you to call him immediately."
"Well, we don't always get what we want," Myron said. He glanced back at the two detectives. "Okay, I got to clear out of here."
"You have a thought?"
"The detective from Livingston. A guy named Wickner. He almost cracked at the Little League field."
"And you think perhaps he'll crack this time?"
Myron nodded. "He'll crack."
"Would you like me to come along?"
"No, I'll handle it. I need you to stay here. McLaughlin and Tiles can't legally hold me, but they might try. Stall them for me."
Win almost smiled. "No problem."
"See also if you can find the guy who answered the phone at the practice. Whoever called Brenda might have identified themselves. Maybe one of her teammates or coaches saw something."
"I'll look into it." Win handed Myron the ripped hundred and his car keys. He motioned toward his cell phone. "Keep the line open."
Myron did not bother with good-byes. He suddenly bounded out of the room. He heard Tiles call after him, "Stop! Son of a--" Tiles started running after him. Win stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "What the f--" Tiles never finished the expletive. Myron continued to run. Win closed the door. Tiles would not get out.
Once out on the street, Myron tossed the bill to the waiting cop and hopped into the Jag. Eli Wickner's lake house was listed in directory assistance. Myron dialed the number. Wickner answered on the first ring.
"Brenda Slaughter is missing," Myron told him.
Silence.
"We need to talk, Eli."
"Yes," the retired detective said. "I think we do."
The ride took an hour. Night had firmly set in by now, and the lake area seemed extra dark, the way lake areas often do. There were no streetlights. Myron slowed the car. Old Lake Drive was narrow and only partially paved. At the end of the road his headlights crossed a wooden sign shaped like a fish. The sign said THE WICKNERS. Wickners. Myron remembered Mrs. Wickner. She had overseen the food stand at the Little League field. Her scmiblond hair had been overtreated to the point where it resembled hay, her laugh a constant, deep throttle. Lung cancer had claimed her ten years ago. Eli Wickner had retired to this cabin alone.
Myron pulled into the driveway. His tires chewed the gravel. Lights came on, probably by motion detector. Myron stopped the car and stepped into the still night. The cabin was what was often called saltbox. Nice. And right on the water. There were boats in the dock. Myron listened for the sound of the lapping water, but there was none. The lake was incredibly calm, as if someone had put a glass top on it for night protection. Scattered lights shone off the glacial surface, still and without deviation. The moon dangled like a loose earring. Bats stood along a tree branch like the Queen's Guards in miniature.
Myron hurried to the front door. Lamps were on inside, but Myron saw no movement. He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. Then he felt the shotgun barrel against the back of his skull.
"Don't turn around," Eli said.
Myron didn't.
"You armed?"
"Yes."
"Assume the position. And don't make me shoot you, Myron. You've always been a good kid."
"There's no need for the gun, Eli." It was a dumb thing to say, of course, but he had not said it for Wickner's benefit. Win was listening in on the other end. Myron did some quick calculating. It had taken him an hour to get here. It would take Win maybe half that.
He needed to stall.
As Wickner patted him down, Myron smelled alcohol. Not a good sign. He debated making a move, but this was an experienced cop, and he was, per Wickner's request, in the position. Hard to do much from there.
Wickner found Myron's gun immediately. He emptied the bullets onto the ground and pocketed the gun.
"Open the door," Wickner said.
Myron turned the knob. Wickner gave him a little nudge. Myron stepped inside. And his heart dropped to his knees. Fear constricted his throat, making it very hard to breathe. The room was decorated as one might expect a fishing cabin to be decorated: taxidermy catches above a fireplace, wood-paneled walls, a wet bar, cozy chairs, firewood piled high, a worn semishag carpet of beige. What wasn't expected, of course, were the dark red boot prints slashing a path through the beige.
Blood. Fresh blood that filled the room with a smell like wet rust.
Myron turned to look at Eli Wickner. Wickner kept his distance. The shotgun was leveled at Myron's chest. Easiest target. Wickner's eyes were open a bit too wide and even more red-rimmed than at the Little League field. His skin was like parchment paper. Spider veins had nestled into his right cheek. There may have been spider veins on his left cheek too, but it was hard to tell with the spray of blood on it.
"You?"
Wickner remained silent.
"What's going on, Eli?"
"Walk into the back room," Wickner said.
"You don't want to do this."
"I know that, Myron. Now just turn around and start walking."
Myron followed the bloody prints as though they'd been painted there for this reason--a macabre Freedom Trail or something. The wall was lined with Little League team photographs,
the early ones dating back some thirty-odd years. In each picture Wickner stood proudly with his young charges, smiling into the powerful sun on a clear day. A sign held by two boys in the front row read FRIENDLY'S ICE CREAM SENATORS or BURRELLES PRESS CLIPPING TIGERS or SEYMOUR'S LUNCHEONETTE INDIANS. Always sponsors. The children squinted and shifted and smiled toothlessly. But they all basically looked the same. Over the past thirty years the kids had changed shockingly little. But Eli had aged, of course. Year by year the photographs on the wall checked off his life. The effect was more than a little eerie.
They headed into the back room. An office of some kind. There were more photos on the wall. Wickner receiving Livingston's Big L Award. The ribbon cutting when the backstop was named after him. Wickner in his police uniform with ex-Governor Brendan Byrne. Wickner winning the Raymond J. Clarke Policeman of the Year award. A smattering of plaques and trophies and mounted baseballs. A framed document entitled "What Coach Means to Me" given to him by one of his teams. And more blood.
Cold fear wrapped around Myron and drew tight.
In the corner, lying on his back, his arms extended as though readying himself for crucifixion, was Chief of Detectives Roy Pomeranz. His shirt looked like someone had squeezed out a bucket of syrup over it. His dead eyes were frozen open and sucked dry.
"You killed your own partner," Myron said. Again for Win. In case he arrived too late. For posterity or to incriminate or some such nonsense.
"Not more than ten minutes ago," Wickner said.
"Why?"
"Sit down, Myron. Right there, if you don't mind."
Myron sat in an oversize chair with wooden slats.
Keeping the gun at chest level, Wickner moved to the other side of a desk. He opened a drawer, dropped Myron's gun in it, then tossed Myron a set of handcuffs. "Cuff yourself to the side arm. I don't want to have to concentrate so hard on watching you."
Myron looked at his surroundings. It was pretty much now or never. Once the cuffs were in place, there would not be another chance. He looked for a way. Nothing. Wickner was too far away, and a desk separated them. Myron spotted a letter opener on the desk. Oh, right, like maybe he would just reach out and throw it like some martial arts death star and hit the jugular. Bruce Lee would be so proud.
As though reading his mind, Wickner raised the gun a bit.
"Put them on now, Myron."
No chance. He would just have to stall. And hope Win arrived in time. Myron clicked the cuff on his left wrist. Then he closed the other end around the heavy chair arm.