"No, ma'am."
"It's a private clinic. He finished his fourth trip to Rockwell not two months ago. But he couldn't stay clean. When you're in college or even in your twenties, you can survive it. When you're a big star and people are looking out for you, you can get away with it. But Billy Lee wasn't good enough to reach that level. So he had no one to fall back upon. Except me. And I'm not that strong."
Myron swallowed. "Do you know why Clu came to see Billy Lee?"
"For old times' sake, I guess. They went out. Maybe they had a few beers and chased women. I really don't know."
"Did Clu visit Billy Lee a lot?"
"Well, Clu's been out of town," she said, a little too defensively. "He was only traded back to this area a few months ago. But of course, you know that."
"So this was just a casual visit?"
"I thought so at the time."
"And now?"
"Now my son is missing and Clu is dead."
Myron thought about it. "Where does he usually go when he runs off like this?"
"Wherever. Billy Lee is a bit of a nomad. He goes off, he does whatever horrible thing he does to himself, and when he hits rock bottom, he comes back here."
"So you don't know where he is?"
"That's right."
"Any idea at all?"
"No."
"No favorite haunts?"
"No."
"A girlfriend maybe?"
"No one I know about anyway."
"Any close friends he might stay with?"
"No," she said slowly. "He has no friends like that." Myron took out his card and handed it to her. "If you hear from him, Mrs. Palms, could you please let me know?"
She studied the card as they moved out of the room and back down the stairs.
Before she opened the door, Mrs. Palms said, "You were the basketball player."
"Yes."
"The one who hurt his knee."
First preseason game as a pro. Myron had been the Boston Celtics' first-round draft pick. A terrible collision and his career was over. Just like that. Finished before it started. "Yes."
"You managed to put it behind you," she said. "You managed to get on with your life and be happy and productive." She cocked her head. "Why couldn't Billy Lee?"
Myron had no answer--in part because he was not sure her supposition was entirely accurate. He said his good-byes and left her alone with her ghosts.
CHAPTER
14
Myron checked his watch. Dinnertime. Mom and Dad were expecting him. He'd hit the Garden State Parkway when the cell phone rang again.
"Are you in the car?" Win asked. Always with the pleasantries.
"Yes."
"Flip on 1010 WINS. I'll call back."
One of New York's all-news radio stations. Myron did as he was told. The guy in the helicopter was finishing up the traffic report. He handed it back to the woman at the news desk. She provided the teaser: "The latest bombshell in the murder of baseball superstar Clu Haid. In sixty seconds."
It was a long sixty seconds. Myron had to put up with a truly annoying Dunkin' Donuts commercial, and then some excited bozo had a way of turning five thousand dollars into twenty thousand dollars, though a softer, fast-speaking voice added that it didn't work all the time and in fact you could lose money too and probably would and you'd have to be a major moron to take investment advice from a radio ad. Finally the woman at the news desk came back on. She told the audience her name--like anyone cared--the name of her male counterpart, and the time. Then: "ABC is reporting from an anonymous source in the Bergen County district attorney's office that hairs and quote other bodily materials unquote matching the murder suspect Esperanza Diaz have been found at the murder scene. According to the source, DNA tests are pending, but preliminary tests show a clear match with Ms. Diaz. The source also says that the hairs, some small, were found in various locations throughout the house."
Myron felt a flutter beneath his heart. Small hairs, he thought. Euphemism for pubic.
"No further details are available, but the district attorney's office clearly believes that Mr. Clu Haid and Ms. Esperanza Diaz were having a sexual relationship. Stay tuned to 1010 WINS for all the details."
The cell phone rang. Myron picked it up. "Jesus Christ."
"Not even close," Win said.
"I'll call you right back." Myron hung up. He called Hester Crimstein's office. The secretary said that Ms. Crimstein was unavailable. Myron stressed that this was urgent. Ms. Crimstein was still unavailable. But, Myron asked, doesn't Ms. Crimstein have a cell phone? The secretary disconnected the call. Myron hit the memory button. Win picked up.
"What's your take on this?" Myron asked.
"Esperanza was sleeping with him," Win said.
"Maybe not."
"Yes, of course," Win said. "Perhaps someone planted Esperanza's pubic hairs at the murder scene."
"It could be a false leak."
"Could be."
"Or maybe she visited his apartment. To talk business."
"And left stray pubic hairs behind?"
"Maybe she used the bathroom. Maybe she--"
"Myron?"
"What?"
"Please don't go into further detail, thank you. There is something else to consider."
"What?"
"The E-Z Pass records."
"Right," Myron said. "She crossed the Washington Bridge an hour after the murder. We know that. But maybe that fits now. Esperanza and Clu have a big argument at the parking garage. Esperanza wants to clear the air. So she drives out to his apartment."
"And when she gets there?"
"I don't know. Maybe she saw the body and panicked."
"Yes, of course," Win said. "So she ripped out a few pubic hairs and ran."
"I didn't say it was her first visit out there."
"Indeed not."
"What do you mean?"
"The E-Z Pass records for the Ford Taurus. According to the bill that arrived last week, the car crossed the bridge eighteen times in the past month."
Myron frowned. "You're kidding."
"Yes, I am a mirthful fellow. I also took the liberty of checking the month before. Sixteen crosses of the Washington Bridge."
"Maybe she had another reason for going out to North Jersey."
"Yes, of course. The malls in Paramus are quite an attraction."
"Okay," Myron said. "Let's assume they were having an affair."
"That would seem most prudent, especially since it offers a reasonable explanation for much that has happened."
"How's that?"
"It would explain Esperanza's silence."
"How?"
"Lovers always make wonderful suspects," Win said. "If, for example, Esperanza and Clu were dancing the sheet mambo, then we can assume that the altercation in the parking garage was something of a lovers' tiff. All in all, this development looks bad for her. She would want to hide it."
"But from us?" Myron countered.
"Yes."
"Why? She trusts us."
"Several reasons come to mind. Her attorney probably ordered her not to say anything."
"That wouldn't stop her."
"It might. But more important, Esperanza was probably embarrassed. You have recently promoted her to partner. She was in charge of the entire operation. I know that you believe Esperanza is too tough to care about such things, but I do not think she would relish your disapproval."
Myron mulled that one over. It made some sense, but he wasn't sure he bought it entirely. "I still think we're missing something."
"That's because we're ignoring the strongest motive for her keeping silent."
"That being?"
"She killed him."
Win hung up on that cheery note. Myron took Northfield Avenue toward Livingston. The familiar landmarks of his hometown popped into view. He thought about the news report and what Win had said. Could Esperanza be the mystery woman, the reason for Clu and Bonnie's breakup? If so, why wou
ldn't Bonnie say that? Maybe she didn't know. Or maybe--
Hold the phone.
Maybe Clu and Esperanza met up at Take A Guess. Did they go there together or just bump into each other? Is that how the affair started? Did they go there and participate in--in whatever? Maybe it was an accident. Maybe they both arrived there in disguise and didn't realize who they were until, well, it was too late to stop? Did that make sense?
He made the right at Nero's Restaurant and onto Hobart Gap Road. Not far now. He was in the land of his childhood--check that, his entire life. He had lived here with his parents until a year or so ago, when he finally severed the apron strings and moved in with Jessica. Psychologists and psychiatrists and the like, he knew, would have a field day with the fact that he had lived with his parents into his thirties, theorizing all kinds of unnatural preoccupations that kept him so close to Mom and Dad. Maybe they'd be right. But for Myron, the answer had been far simpler. He liked them. Yes, they could be pests--what parents weren't?--and they liked to pry. But most of the pestering and prying were over the incidentals. They had given him privacy yet made him feel cared for and wanted. Was that unhealthy? Maybe. But it seemed a damn sight better than his friends who thrived on blaming their parents for any unhappiness in their lives.
He turned onto his street. The old neighborhood was wholly unspectacular. There were thousands like it in New Jersey, hundreds of thousands throughout the US of A. This was suburbia, the backbone of this country, the battleground of the fabled American Dream. Corny to say, but Myron loved it here. Sure, there was unhappiness and dissatisfaction and fights and all that, but he still thought that this was the "realest" place he had ever been. He loved the basketball court in the driveway and the training wheels on the new two-wheelers and the routine and the walking to school and the caring too much about the color of the grass. This was living. This was what it was all about.
In the end Myron guessed that he and Jessica had broken up for all the classic reasons, albeit with a gender twist. He wanted to settle down, buy a house in the 'burbs, raise a family; Jessica, fearing commitment, did not. He pulled into the driveway now, shaking his head. Too simple an explanation. Too pat. The commitment stuff had been an ongoing source of tension, no question, but there was more to it. There was the recent tragedy, for one thing.
There was Brenda.
Mom rushed out the door, sprinting toward him with her arms spread wide. She always greeted him like he was a recently released POW, but today was something extra special. She threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him over. Dad trailed behind, equally excited but playing it cool. Dad had always been about balance, the total love without the smothering, the caring without pushing. An amazing man, his father. When Dad reached him, there was no handshake. The two men hugged fiercely and without any hint of embarrassment. Myron kissed his father's cheek. The familiar feel of Dad's rough skin made him understand a bit what Mrs. Palms was trying to accomplish with the wallpapered images.
"Are you hungry?" Mom asked. Always her opening gambit.
"A little."
"You want me to fix something?"
Everyone froze. Dad made a face. "You're going to cook?"
"What's the big deal?"
"Let me make sure I have the number of poison control."
"Oh, Al, that's so funny. Ha-ha, I can't stop laughing. What a funny man your father is, Myron."
"Actually, Ellen, go ahead and cook something. I need to drop a few pounds."
"Wow, what a knee slapper, Al. You're killing me here."
"Better than a fat farm."
"Ho-ho."
"Just the thought is better than an appetite suppressor."
"It's like being married to Shecky Greene." But she was smiling.
They were in the house now. Dad took Mom's hand. "Let me show you something, Ellen," Dad said. "See that big metal box over there? That's called an oven. O-v-e-n. Oven. See that knob, the one with all the numbers on it? That's how you turn it on."
"You're funnier than a sober Foster Brooks, Al."
But they were all smiling now. Dad was speaking the truth. Mom didn't cook. Almost never did. Her culinary skills could cause a prison riot. When he was a kid, Myron's favorite home-cooked dinner was Dad's scrambled eggs. Mom was an early career woman. The kitchen was a place to read magazines.
"What do you want to eat, Myron?" Mom asked. "Chinese maybe. From Fong's?"
"Sure."
"Al, call Fong's. Order something."
"Okay."
"Make sure you get shrimp with lobster sauce."
"I know."
"Myron loves Fong's shrimp with lobster sauce."
"I know, Ellen. I raised him too, remember?"
"You might forget."
"We've been ordering from Fong's for twenty-three years. We always order shrimp with lobster sauce."
"You might forget, Al. You're getting old. Didn't you forget to pick up my blouse at the laundry two days ago?"
"It was closed."
"So you never picked up my blouse, am I right?"
"Of course not."
"I rest my case." She looked at her son. "Myron, sit. We need to talk. Al, call Fong's."
The men obeyed her orders. As always. Myron and Mom sat at the kitchen table.
"Listen to me closely," Mom said. "I know Esperanza is your friend. But Hester Crimstein is a fine lawyer. If she told Esperanza not to talk to you, it's the right thing."
"How do you know--"
"I've known Hester for years." Mom was a defense attorney, one of the best in the state. "We've worked cases together before. She called me. She said you're interfering."
"I'm not interfering."
"Actually she said you're bothering her and to butt out."
"She talked to you about this?"
"Of course. She wants you to leave her client alone."
"I can't."
"Why can't you?"
Myron squirmed a bit. "I have some information that might be important."
"Such as?"
"According to Clu's wife, he was having an affair."
"And you think Hester doesn't know that? The DA thinks he was having an affair with Esperanza."
"Wait a second." It was Dad. "I thought Esperanza was a lesbian."
"She's a bisexual, Al."
"A what?"
"Bisexual. It means she likes both boys and girls."
Dad thought about that. "I guess that's a good thing to be."
"What?"
"I mean, it gives you double the options of everyone else."
"Great, Al, thanks for the insight." She rolled her eyes and turned back to Myron. "So Hester already knows that. What else?"
"Clu was desperate to find me before he was killed," Myron said.
"Most logically, bubbe, to say something incriminating about Esperanza."
"Not necessarily. Clu came to the loft. He told Jessica that I was in danger."
"And you think he meant it?"
"No, he was probably exaggerating. But shouldn't Hester Crimstein judge the significance?"
"She already has."
"What?"
"Clu came here too, darling." Her voice was suddenly soft. "He told your father and me the same thing he told Jessica."
Myron didn't push it. If Clu had told his parents the same thing he told Jessica, if he had used all that death talk when Mom and Dad didn't know where Myron was ...
As though reading his mind, Dad said, "I called Win. He said you were safe."
"Did he tell you where I was?"
Mom took that one. "We didn't ask."
Silence.
She reached over and put a hand on his arm. "You've been through a lot, Myron. Your father and I know that."
They both looked at him with the deep-caring eyes. They knew part of what happened. About his breakup with Jessica. About Brenda. But they would never know it all.
"Hester Crimstein knows what's she doing," Mom went on. "You have to let her do her job.
"
More silence.
"Al?"
"What?"
"Hang up the phone," she said. "Maybe we should go out to eat."
Myron checked his watch. "It'll have to be quick. I have to get back to the city."
"Oh?" Mom raised an eyebrow. "You have a date already?"
He thought about Big Cyndi's description of Take A Guess.
"Not likely," he said. "But you never know."
CHAPTER
15
From the outside Take A Guess looked pretty much like your standard Manhattan cantina-as-pickup-joint. The building was brick, the windows darkened to highlight the neon beer signs. Above the door, faded lettering spelled out Take A Guess. That was it. No "Bring Your Perversions." No "The Kinkier the Better." No "You Better Like Surprises." Nothing. A suit trudging home might happen by here, stop in, lay down his briefcase, spot something attractive, buy it a drink, make a few quasi-smooth moves warmed over from college mixers, take it home. Surprise, surprise.
Big Cyndi met him at the front door dressed like Earth, Wind, and Fire--not so much any one member as the entire group. "Ready?"
Myron hesitated, nodded.
When Big Cyndi pushed open the door, Myron held his breath and ducked in behind her. The interior too was not what he'd visualized. He had expected something ... blatantly wacko, he guessed. Like the bar scene in Star Wars maybe. Instead Take A Guess just had the same neodesperate feel and stench of a zillion other singles' joints on a Friday night. A few patrons were colorfully dressed, but most wore khakis and business suits. There were also a handful of outrageously clad cross-dressers and leather devotees and one babe-a-rama packed into a vinyl catsuit, but nowadays you'd be hard pressed to find a Manhattan nightspot that didn't have any of that. Sure, some folks were in disguise, but when it came right down to it, who didn't wear a facade at a singles' bar?
Whoa, that was deep.
Heads and eyes swerved in their direction. For a moment Myron wondered why. But only for a moment. He was, after all, standing next to Big Cyndi, a six-six three-hundred-pound multihued mass blanketed with more sparkles than a Siegfried and Roy costume party. She drew the eye.
Big Cyndi seemed flattered by the attention. She lowered her eyes, playing demure, which was like Ed Asner playing coquettish. "I know the head bartender," she said. "His name is Pat."
"Male or female?"
She smiled, punched him on the arm. "Now you're getting the hang of it."
A jukebox played the Police's "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic." Myron tried to count how many times Sting repeated the words every little. He lost count at a million.