One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (23 page)

“I’ll drive myself over, if you don’t mind.”

The skinny guy spread his arms. “Suit yourself.”

Myron started to get into his Taurus.

“You don’t know what you’re up against,” Skinny said.

“I keep hearing that.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But now you’ve heard it from me.”

Myron nodded. “Consider me scared.”

“Ask your father, Myron.”

That made him pull up. “What about my father?”

“Ask him about Arthur Bradford.” The smile of a mongoose gnawing on a neck. “Ask him about me.”

Icy water flooded Myron’s chest. “What does my father have to do with any of this?”

But Skinny was not about to answer. “Hurry now,” he said. “The next governor of New Jersey is waiting for you.”

Myron put a call in to Win. He quickly told him what’d happened.

“Wasteful,” Win agreed.

“He hit a woman.”

“Then shoot him in the knee. Permanently injure him. A kick in the scrotum is wasteful.”

Proper Payback Etiquette
by Windsor Home Lockwood III. “I’m going to leave the cellular on. Can you get down here?”

“But of course. Please refrain from further violence until I am present.”

In other words: Save some for me.

The guard at Bradford Farms was surprised to see Myron alone. The gate was open, probably in expectation of a threesome. Myron did not hesitate. He drove through without stopping. The guard panicked. He jumped out of his booth. Myron gave him a little finger
wave, like Oliver Hardy used to do. He even scrunched up his face into that same Hardy smile. Heck, if he had a bowler, he would have gotten that into the act too.

By the time Myron parked at the front entrance, the old butler was already standing in the doorway. He bowed slightly.

“Please follow me, Mr. Bolitar.”

They headed down a long corridor. Lots of oils on the walls, mostly of men on horses. There was one nude. A woman, of course. No horse in this one. Catherine the Great was truly dead. The butler made a right at the hallway. They entered a glass corridor that resembled a passageway in the Biosphere or maybe Epcot Center. Myron figured that they must have traveled close to fifty yards already.

The manservant stopped and opened a door. His face was perfect butler deadpan.

“Please enter, sir.”

Myron smelled the chlorine before he heard the tiny splashes.

The manservant waited.

“I didn’t bring my bathing suit,” Myron said.

The manservant looked at him blankly.

“I usually wear a thong,” Myron said. “Though I can make due with bikini mesh.”

The manservant blinked.

“I can borrow yours,” Myron continued, “if you have an extra.”

“Please enter, sir.”

“Right, well, let’s stay in touch.”

The butler or whatever left. Myron went inside. The room had that indoor-pool mustiness. Everything was
done in marble. Lots of plant life. There were statues of some goddess at each corner of the pool. What goddess, Myron did not know. The goddess of indoor pools, he surmised. The pool’s sole occupant sliced through the water with nary a ripple. Arthur Bradford swam with easy, almost lazy movements. He reached the edge of the pool near Myron and stopped. He was wearing swimming goggles with dark blue lenses. He took them off and ran his hand across his scalp.

“What happened to Sam and Mario?” Bradford asked.

“Mario.” Myron nodded. “That has to be the big guy, right?”

“Sam and Mario were supposed to escort you here.”

“I’m a big boy, Artie. I don’t need an escort.” Bradford had of course sent them to intimidate; Myron needed to show him that the move had not produced the desired effect.

“Fine then,” Bradford replied, his voice crisp. “I have six more laps to go. Do you mind?”

Myron waved a dismissal. “Hey,” he said. “Please go ahead. I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure than watching another man swim. Hey, here’s an idea. Why not film a commercial here? Slogan: Vote for Art, He’s Got an Indoor Pool.”

Bradford almost smiled. “Fair enough.” He pushed himself out of the pool in one lax motion. His body was long and lean and looked sleek when wet. He grabbed a towel and signaled to two chaise longues. Myron sat in one but did not lean back. Arthur Bradford did likewise.

“It’s been a long day,” Arthur said. “I’ve already
made four campaign stops, and I have three more this afternoon.”

Myron nodded through the small talk, encouraging Bradford to move on. Bradford picked up the hint. He slapped his thighs with his palms. “Well, then, you’re a busy man. I’m a busy man. Shall we get to it?”

“Sure.”

Bradford leaned in a bit. “I wanted to talk to you about your previous visit here.”

Myron tried to keep his face blank.

“You’ll agree, will you not, that it was all rather bizarre?”

Myron made a noise. Sort of like “Uh-huh” but more neutral.

“Put simply, I’d like to know what you and Win were up to.”

“I wanted the answers to some questions,” Myron said.

“Yes, I realize that. My question is, why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you asking about a woman who hasn’t been in my employ for twenty years?”

“What’s the difference? You barely remember her, right?”

Arthur Bradford smiled. The smile said that they both knew better. “I would like to help you,” Bradford said. “But I must first question your motives.” He opened his arms. “This is, after all, a major election.”

“You think I’m working for Davison?”

“You and Windsor come to my home under false pretenses. You start asking bizarre questions about my past. You pay off a police officer to steal a file on my
wife’s death. Yon are connected with a man who recently tried to blackmail me. And you’ve been seen conversing with known criminal associates of Davison’s.” He gave the political smile, the one that couldn’t help being a touch condescending. “If you were I, what would you think?”

“Back up,” Myron said. “One, I didn’t pay off anybody to steal a file.”

“Officer Francine Neagly. Do you deny meeting with her at the Ritz Diner?”

“No.” Too long to explain the truth, and what was the point? “Okay, forget that one for now. Who tried to blackmail you?”

The manservant entered the room. “Iced tea, sir?”

Bradford thought it over. “Lemonade, Mattius. Some lemonade would be divine.”

“Very well, sir. Mr. Bolitar?”

Myron doubted that Bradford stocked much Yoo-Hoo. “Same here, Mattius. But make mine
extra
divine.”

Mattius the Manservant nodded. “Very well, sir.” He slid back out the door.

Arthur Bradford wrapped a towel around his shoulders. Then he lay back on the chaise. The lounges were long so that his legs would not hang over the ends. He closed his eyes. “We both know that I remember Anita Slaughter. As you implied, a man does not forget the name of the person who found his wife’s body.”

“That the only reason?”

Bradford opened one eye. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen pictures of her,” Myron said simply. “Hard to forget a woman who looked like that.”

Bradford reclosed the eye. For a moment he did not speak. “There are plenty of attractive women in the world.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You think I had a relationship with her?”

“I didn’t say that. I just said she was attractive. Men remember attractive women.”

“True,” Bradford agreed. “But you see, that is the sort of false rumor Davison would love to get his hands on. Do you understand my concern? This is politics, and politics is spin. You wrongly think that my concerns for this matter prove that I have something to hide. But that’s not the case. The truth is, I am worried about perception. Just because I didn’t do anything does not mean my opponent won’t try to make it look like I did. Do you follow?”

Myron nodded. “Like a politician after graft.” But Bradford had a point. He was running for governor. Even if there were nothing there, he would snap into a defensive stance. “So who tried to blackmail you?”

Bradford waited a second, internally calculating, adding up the pros and cons of telling Myron. The internal computer worked down the scenarios. The pros won.

“Horace Slaughter,” he said.

“With what?” Myron asked.

Bradford didn’t answer the question directly. “He called my campaign headquarters.”

“And he got through to you?”

“He said he had incriminating information about Anita Slaughter. I figured it was probably a crackpot, but the fact that he knew Anita’s name bothered me.”

I bet
, Myron thought. “So what did he say?”

“He wanted to know what I’d done with his wife. He accused me of helping her run away.”

“Helping her how?”

He waved his hands. “Supporting her, helping her, chasing her away. I don’t know. He was rambling.”

“But what did he say?”

Bradford sat up. He swung his legs across the side of the chaise. For several seconds he looked at Myron as if he were a hamburger he wasn’t sure it was time to flip. “I want to know your interest in this.”

Give a little, get a little. Part of the game. “The daughter.”

“Excuse me?”

“Anita Slaughter’s daughter.”

Bradford nodded very slowly. “Isn’t she a basketball player?”

“Yes.”

“Do you represent her?”

“Yes. I was also friendly with her father. You heard he was murdered?”

“It was in the newspaper,” Bradford said. In the newspaper. Never a straight yes or no with this guy. Then he added, “So what is your connection with the Ache family?”

Something in the back of Myron’s head clicked. “Are they Davison’s ‘criminal associates’?” Myron asked.

“Yes.”

“So the Aches have an interest in his winning the election?”

“Of course. That’s why I’d like to know how you’re connected to them.”

“No connection,” Myron said. “They’re setting up a rival women’s basketball league. They want to sign Brenda.” But now Myron was wondering. The Aches had been meeting with Horace Slaughter. According to FJ, he had even signed his daughter to play with them. Next thing you know, Horace was pestering Bradford about his deceased wife. Could Horace have been working with the Aches? Fodder for thought.

Mattius returned with the lemonades. Fresh squeezed. Cold. Delicious, if not divine. Again the rich. When Mattius left the room, Bradford fell into the feigning-deep-thought look he’d displayed so often at their previous meeting. Myron waited.

“Being a politician,” Bradford began, “it’s a strange thing. All creatures fight to survive. It’s instinctive, of course. But the truth is, a politician is colder about it than most. He can’t help it. A man has been murdered here, and all I see is the potential for political embarrassment. That’s the plain truth. My goal is simply to keep my name out of it.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Myron said. “No matter what you or I might want.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The police are going to link you into this the same way I did.”

“I’m not following you.”

“I came to you because Horace Slaughter called you. The police will see those same phone records. They’ll have to follow up.”

Arthur Bradford smiled. “Don’t worry about the police.”

Myron remembered Wickner and Pomeranz and the power of this family. Bradford might be right. Myron thought about this. And decided to turn it to his advantage.

“So you’re asking me to keep quiet?” Myron said.

Bradford hesitated. Chess time. Watching the board and trying to figure out Myron’s next move. “I am asking you,” he said, “to be fair.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you have no real evidence that I am involved in anything illicit.”

Myron tilted his head back and forth. Maybe yes, maybe no.

“And if you are telling the truth, if you do not work for Davison, then you would have no reason to damage my campaign.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Myron said.

“I see.” Again Bradford tried to read the tea leaves. “I assume then that you want something in exchange for your silence.”

“Perhaps. But it’s not what you think.”

“What is it then?”

“Two things. First, I want the answer to some questions. The real answers. If I suspect you are lying or worried about how it will look, I’ll hang you out to dry. I’m not out to embarrass you. I don’t care about this election. I just want the truth.”

“And the second thing?”

Myron smiled. “We’ll get to that. First I need the answers.”

Bradford waited a beat. “But how can you expect me to agree to a condition I don’t even know?”

“Answer my questions first. If I am convinced that you are telling the truth, then I’ll give you the second condition. But if you’re evasive, the second condition becomes irrelevant.”

Bradford didn’t like it. “I don’t think I can agree to that.”

“Fine.” Myron rose. “Have a nice day, Arthur.”

His voice was sharp. “Sit down.”

“Will you answer my questions?”

Arthur Bradford looked at him. “Congressman Davison is not the only one who has unsavory friends.”

Myron let the words hang in the air.

“If you are to survive in politics,” Bradford continued, “you must align yourself with some of the state’s more sordid elements. That’s the ugly truth, Myron. Am I making myself clear?”