One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (34 page)

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 Bradfords 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 showdown? 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.

He continued up the drive, both hands on the wheel. Part of him wanted to stall; most of him wanted
to get at Arthur Bradford immediately. He knew the truth now. Some of it anyway. Enough to save Brenda.

Maybe.

The grounds were silk black, the farm animals silent. The mansion loomed above him, floating almost, only tenuously connected with the world beneath it. Myron parked and got out of the car. Before he reached the door, Mattius the Manservant was there. It was ten o’clock at night, but Mattius still displayed fall butler garb and rigid spine. He said nothing, waiting with almost inhuman patience.