Wickner's shoulders slumped, relaxing a bit. "I should have guessed they'd have a tap on the phone," he said.
"Who?"
Wickner seemed not to hear him. "Thing is, you can't approach this house without my knowing. Forget the gravel out there. I got motion sensors all over the place. House lights up like a Christmas tree if you approach from any direction. Use it to scare away the animals--otherwise they get in the garbage. But you see, they knew that. So they sent someone I would trust. My old partner."
Myron was trying to keep up. "Are you saying Pomeranz came here to kill you?"
"No time for your questions, Myron. You wanted to know what happened. Now you will. And then ..." He looked away, the rest of the sentence vaporizing before reaching his lips.
"The first time I encountered Anita Slaughter was at the bus stop on the corner of Northfield Avenue, where Roosevelt School used to be." His voice had fallen into a cop monotone, almost as though he were reading back a report. "We'd gotten an anonymous call from someone using the phone booth at Sam's across the street. They said a woman was cut up bad and bleeding. Check that. They said a black woman was bleeding. Only place you saw black women in Livingston was by the bus stop. They came in to clean houses, or they didn't come here at all. Just that simple. If they were there for other reasons in those days, well, we politely pointed out the errors in their ways and escorted them back on the bus.
"Anyway, I was in the squad car. So I took the call. Sure enough, she was bleeding pretty good. Someone had given her a hell of a beating. But I tell you what struck me right away. The woman was gorgeous. Dark as coal, but even with all those scratches on her face, she was simply stunning. I asked her what happened, but she wouldn't tell me. I figured it was a domestic dispute. A spat with the husband. I didn't like it, but back in those days you didn't do anything about it. Hell, not much different today. Anyway I insisted on taking her to St. Barnabas. They patched her up. She was pretty shook up, but she was basically okay. The scratches were pretty deep, like she'd been attacked by a cat. But hey, I did my bit and forgot all about it--until three weeks later, when I got the call about Elizabeth Bradford."
A clock chimed and echoed. Eli lowered the shotgun and looked off. Myron checked his cuffed wrist. It was secure. The chair was heavy. Still no chance.
"Her death wasn't an accident, was it, Eli?"
"No," Wickner said. "Elizabeth Bradford committed suicide." He reached out on his desk and picked up an old baseball. He stared at it like a Gypsy reading fortunes. A Little League ball, the awkward signature of twelve-year-olds scrawled over the surface.
"Nineteen seventy-three," the old coach said with a pained smile. "The year we won the state championship. Hell of a team." He put down the ball. "I love Livingston. I dedicated my life to that town. But every good place has a Bradford family in it. To add temptation, I guess. Like the serpent in the Garden of Eden. It starts small, you know? You let a parking ticket go. Then you see one of them speeding and you turn the other way. Like I said, small. They don't openly bribe you, but they have ways of taking care of people. They start at the top. You drag a Bradford in for drunk driving, someone above you just springs them anyway, and you get unofficially sanctioned. And other cops get pissed off because the Bradfords gave all of us tickets to a Giants game. Or they paid for a weekend retreat. Stuff like that. But underneath we all know it's wrong. We justify it away, but the truth is, we did wrong. I did wrong." He motioned to the mass of flesh on the ground. "And Roy did wrong. I always knew it would come back and get us one day. Just didn't know when. Then you tapped me on the shoulder at the ball field and well, I knew."
Wickner stopped, smiled. "Getting off the subject a bit, aren't I?"
Myron shrugged. "I'm not in any hurry."
"Unfortunately I am." Another smile that twisted Myron's heart. "I was telling you about the second time I encountered Anita Slaughter. Like I said, it was the day Elizabeth Bradford committed suicide. A woman identifying herself as a maid called the station at six in the morning. I didn't realize it was Anita until I arrived. Roy and I were in the midst of the investigation when the old man called us into that fancy library. You ever seen it? The library in the silo?"
Myron nodded.
"The three of them were there--the old man, Arthur, and Chance. Still in these fancy silk pajamas and bathrobes, for chrissake. The old man asked us for a little favor. That's what he called it. A little favor like he was asking us to help him move a piano. He wanted us to report the death as an accident. For the family reputation. Old Man Bradford wasn't crass enough to put a dollar amount on doing this, but he made it clear we would be well compensated. Roy and I figured, What's the harm? Accident or suicide--in the long run, who really cares? That kind of stuff is changed all the time. No big deal, right?"
"Then you believed them?" Myron said.
The question nudged Wickner out of his daze. "What do you mean?"
"That it was a suicide. You took their word?"
"It was a suicide, Myron. Your Anita Slaughter confirmed it."
"How?"
"She saw it happen."
"You mean she found the body."
"No, I mean she saw Elizabeth Bradford leap."
That surprised him.
"According to Anita's statement, she arrived at work, walked up the driveway, spotted Elizabeth Bradford standing alone on the ledge, and watched her dive on her head."
"Anita could have been coached," Myron said.
Wickner shook his head. "Nope."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because Anita Slaughter made this statement before the Bradfords got to her--both on the phone and when we first got there. Hell, most of the Bradfords were still getting out of bed. Once the spin control began, Anita changed her story. That's when she came up with that stuff about finding the body when she arrived."
Myron frowned. "I don't get it. Why change the time of the jump? What difference could it make?"
"I guess they wanted it to be at night so it would look more like an accident. A woman inadvertently slipping off a wet balcony late at night is an easier sell than at six in the morning."
Myron thought about this. And didn't like it.
"There was no sign of a struggle," Wickner continued. "There was even a note."
"What did it say?"
"Mostly gibberish. I don't really remember. The Bradfords kept it. Claimed it was private thoughts. We were able to confirm it was her handwriting. That's all I cared about."
"You mentioned in the police report that Anita still showed signs of the earlier assault."
Wickner nodded.
"So you must have been suspicious."
"Suspicious of what? Sure, I wondered. But I didn't see any connection. A maid suffers a beating three weeks before the suicide of her employer. What's one thing got to do with the other?"
Myron nodded slowly. It made sense, he guessed. He checked the clock behind Wickner's head. Fifteen minutes more, he estimated. And then Win would have to approach carefully. Making his way around the motion detectors would take time. Myron took a deep breath. Win would make it. He always did.
"There's more," Wickner said.
Myron looked at him and waited.
"I saw Anita Slaughter one last time," Wickner said. "Nine months later. At the Holiday Inn."
Myron realized that he was holding his breath. Wickner put down the weapon on the desk--well out of Myron's reach--and grabbed hold of a whiskey bottle. He took a swig and then picked up the shotgun again.
He aimed it at Myron.
"You're wondering why I'm telling you all this." Wickner's words came out a bit more slurred now. The barrel was still pointed at Myron, growing larger, an angry dark mouth trying to swallow him whole.
"The thought crossed my mind," Myron said.
Wickner smiled. Then he let loose a deep breath, lowered his aim a bit, and started in again. "I wasn't on duty that night. Neither was Roy. He called me at home and said the Bradfor
ds needed a favor. I told him the Bradfords could go to hell, I wasn't their personal security service. But it was all bluster.
"Anyway, Roy told me to put on a uniform and meet him at the Holiday Inn. I went, of course. We hooked up in the parking lot. I asked Roy what was up. He said that one of the Bradford kids had screwed up again. I said, screwed up how? Roy said he didn't know the details. It was girl trouble. He had gotten fresh, or they had taken too many drugs. Something like that. Understand now that this was twenty years ago. Terms like date rape didn't exist back then. You go back to a hotel room with a guy, well, let's just say you got what you got. I'm not defending it. I'm just saying it was the way that it was.
"So I asked him what we were supposed to do. Roy said that we just had to seal off the floor. See, there was a wedding going on and a big convention. The place was mobbed, and the room was in a fairly public spot. So they needed us to keep people away so they could clean up whatever mess there was. Roy and I positioned ourselves at either end of the corridor. I didn't like it, but I didn't really think I had much of a choice. What was I going to do, report them? The Bradfords already had their hooks into me. The payoff for fixing the suicide would come out. So would all the rest. And not just about me but about my buddies on the force. Cops react funny when they're threatened." He pointed to the floor. "Look what Roy was willing to do to his own partner."
Myron nodded.
"So we cleared the floor. And then I saw Old Man Bradford's so-called security expert. Creepy little guy. Scared the piss out of me. Sam something."
"Sam Richards," Myron said.
"Yeah, right, Richards. That's the guy. He spewed out the same dribble I'd already heard. Girl trouble. Nothing to worry about. He'd clean it up. The girl was a little shaky, but they'd get her patched up and pay her off. It would all go away. That's how it is with the rich. Money cleans all spills. So the first thing this Sam guy does is carry the girl out. I wasn't supposed to see it. I was supposed to stay down at the end of the corridor. But I looked anyway. Sam had her wrapped in a sheet and carried her over his shoulder like a fireman. But for a split second I saw her face. And I knew who it was. Anita Slaughter. Her eyes were closed. She hung over his shoulder like a bag of oats."
Wickner took a plaid handkerchief out of his pocket. He unfolded it slowly and wiped his nose as if he were buffing a fender. Then he folded it up again and put it back in his pocket. "I didn't like what I saw," he said. "So I ran over to Roy and told him we had to stop it. Roy said, how would we explain even being here? What would we say, that we were helping Bradford cover up a smaller crime? He was right, of course. There was nothing we could do. So I went back to the end of the corridor. Sam was back in the room by now. I heard him using a vacuum. He took his time and cleaned the entire room. I kept telling myself it was no big deal. She was just a black woman from Newark. Hell, they all did drugs, right? And she was gorgeous. Probably partying with one of the Bradford boys and it got out of hand. Maybe she OD'd. Maybe Sam was going to take her someplace and get her some help and give her money. Just like he said. So I watched Sam finish cleaning up. I saw him get in the car. And I saw him drive away with Chance Bradford."
"Chance?" Myron repeated. "Chance Bradford was there?"
"Yes. Chance was the boy in trouble." Wickner sat back. He stared at the gun. "And that's the end of my tale, Myron."
"Wait a second. Anita Slaughter checked into that hotel with her daughter. Did you see her there?"
"No."
"Do you have any idea where Brenda is now?"
"She probably got tangled up with the Bradfords. Like her mother."
"Help me save her, Eli."
Wickner shook his head. "I'm tired, Myron. And I got nothing more to say."
Eli Wickner lifted the shotgun.
"It's going to come out," Myron said. "Even if you kill me, you can't cover it all up."
Wickner nodded. "I know." He didn't lower the weapon.
"My telephone is on," Myron continued quickly. "My friend has heard every word. Even if you kill me--"
"I know that too, Myron." A tear slid out of Eli's eye. He tossed Myron a small key. For the handcuffs. "Tell everyone I'm sorry."
Then he put the shotgun in his mouth.
Myron tried to bolt from the chair, the cuff holding him back. He yelled, "No!" But the sound was drowned out by the blast of the shotgun. Bats squealed and flew away. Then all was silent again.
Win arrived a few minutes later. He looked down at the two bodies and said, "Tidy."
Myron did not reply.
"Did you touch anything?"
"I already wiped the place down," Myron said.
"A request," Win said.
Myron looked at him.
"Next time a gun is fired under similar circumstances, say something immediately. A good example might be 'I'm not dead.'"
"Next time," Myron said.
They left the cabin. They drove to a nearby twenty-four-hour supermarket. Myron parked the Taurus and got in the Jag with Win.
"Where to?" Win asked.
"You heard what Wickner said?"
"Yes."
"What do you make of it?"
"I'm still processing," Win said. "But clearly the answer lies within Bradford Farms."
"So most likely does Brenda."
Win nodded. "If she's still alive."
"So that's where we should go."
"Rescuing the fair maiden from the tower?"
"If she's even there, which is a big if. And we can't go in with guns blazing. Someone might panic and kill her." Myron reached for his phone. "Arthur Bradford wants an update. I think I'll give him one. Now. In person."
"They may very well try to kill you."
"That's where you come in," Myron said.
Win smiled. "Bitching." His word of the week.
They turned onto Route 80 and headed east.
"Let me bounce a few thoughts off you," Myron said.
Win nodded. He was used to this game.
"Here's what we know," Myron said. "Anita Slaughter is assaulted. Three weeks later she witnesses Elizabeth Bradford's suicide. Nine months pass. Then she runs away from Horace. She empties out the bank account, grabs her daughter, and hides out at the Holiday Inn. Now here is where things get murky. We know that Chance Bradford and Sam end up there. We know they end up taking an injured Anita off the premises. We also know that sometime before that Anita calls Horace and tells him to pick up Brenda--"
Myron broke off and looked at Win. "What time would that have been?"
"Pardon?"
"Anita called Horace to pick up Brenda. That had to be before Sam arrived on the scene, right?"
"Yes."
"But here's the thing. Horace told Mabel that Anita called him. But maybe Horace was lying. I mean, why would Anita call Horace? It makes no sense. She's running away from the man. She's taken all his money. Why would she then call Horace and give away her location? She might call Mabel, for example, but never Horace."
Win nodded. "Go on."
"Suppose...suppose we're looking at this all wrong. Forget the Bradfords for the moment. Take it from Horace's viewpoint. He gets home. He finds the note. Maybe he even learns that his money is gone. He'd be furious. So suppose Horace tracked Anita down at the Holiday Inn. Suppose he went there to take back his child and his money."
"By force," Win added.
"Yes."
"Then he killed Anita?"
"Not killed. But maybe he beat the hell out of her. Maybe he even left her for dead. Either way, he takes Brenda and the money back. Horace calls his sister. He tells her that Anita called him to pick up Brenda."
Win frowned. "And then what? Anita hides from Horace for twenty years--lets him raise her daughter by himself--because she was scared of him?"
Myron didn't like that. "Maybe," he said.
"And then, if I follow your logic, twenty years later Anita becomes aware that Horace is looking for her. So is she the one who killed him? A final s
howdown? But then who grabbed Brenda? And why? Or is Brenda in cahoots with her mother? And while we've dismissed the Bradfords for the sake of hypothesizing, how do they factor into all this? Why would they be concerned enough to cover up Horace Slaughter's crime? Why was Chance Bradford at the hotel that night in the first place?"
"There are holes," Myron admitted.
"There are chasms of leviathan proportions," Win corrected.
"There's another thing I don't get. If the Bradfords have had a tap on Mabel's phone this whole time, wouldn't they have been able to trace Anita's calls?"
Win mulled that one over. "Maybe," he said, "they did."
Silence. Myron flipped on the radio. The game was in the second half. The New York Dolphins were getting crushed. The announcers were speculating on the whereabouts of Brenda Slaughter. Myron turned the volume down.
"We're still missing something," Myron said.
"Yes, but we're getting close."
"So we still try the Bradfords."
Win nodded. "Open the glove compartment. Arm yourself like a paranoid despot. This may get ugly."
Myron did not argue. He dialed Arthur's private line. Arthur answered midway through the first ring. "Have you found Brenda?" Arthur asked.
"I'm on my way to your house," Myron said.
"Then you've found her?"
"I've be there in fifteen minutes," Myron said. "Tell your guards."
Myron hung up. "Curious," he said to Win.
"What?"
And then it hit Myron. Not slowly. But all at once. A tremendous avalanche buried him in one fell swoop. With a trembling hand Myron dialed another number into the cell phone.
"Norm Zuckerman, please. Yes, I know he's watching the game. Tell him it's Myron Bolitar. Tell him it's urgent. And tell him I want to talk with McLaughlin and Tiles too."
The guard at Bradford Farms shone a flashlight into the car. "You alone, Mr. Bolitar?"
"Yes," Myron said.
The gate went up. "Please proceed to the main house."
Myron drove in slowly. Per their plan, he slowed on the next curve. Silence. Then Win's voice came through the phone: "I'm out."
Out of the trunk. So smooth Myron had not even heard him.
"I'm going on mute," Win said. "Let me know where you are at all times."
The plan was simple: Win would search the property for Brenda while Myron tried not to get himself killed.