One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (36 page)

Chance was still trying to stem the blood flow. “Who are you going to believe? Me or—”

Arthur pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed Chance’s knee, splintering the joint. Blood spurted. Chance howled in agony. Arthur aimed the gun at the other knee.

“Tell me,” he said.

“You were insane!” Chance shouted. Then he gritted his teeth. His eyes grew small yet strangely clear, as though the pain were sweeping the debris away. “Did you really think Father was going to let you just run off like that? You were going to destroy everything. I tried to make you see that. I talked to you. Like a brother. But you didn’t want to listen. So I went to see Anita. Just to talk. I wanted her to see how destructive this whole idea was. I meant her no harm. I was just trying to help.”

Chance’s face was a bloody mess, but Arthur’s was a far more horrid sight. The tears were still there, still
flowing freely. But he was not crying. His skin was gray-white, his features contorted like a death mask. Something behind his eyes had been short-circuited by his rage. “What happened?”

“I found her room number. And when I got there, the door was ajar. I swear, Anita was like that when I arrived. I swear it, Arthur. I didn’t touch her. At first I thought maybe you had done it. That maybe you two had a fight. But either way, I knew it would be a mess if it leaked out. There were too many questions, too many loose ends. So I called Father. He arranged the rest. Sam came over. He cleaned the place up. We took the ring and forged that note. So you’d stop looking.”

“Where is she now?” Myron asked.

Chance looked at him, puzzled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Did you take her to a doctor? Give her money? Did you—”

“Anita was dead,” Chance said.

Silence.

Arthur let out a harrowing, primitive wail. He collapsed to the floor.

“She was dead when I got there, Arthur. I swear it.”

Myron felt his heart sink into deep mud. He tried to speak, but no words came out. He looked over at Sam. Sam nodded. Myron met his eye. “Her body?” he managed.

“I get rid of something,” Sam said, “it’s gone for good.”

Dead. Anita Slaughter was dead. Myron tried to take it in. All these years Brenda had felt unworthy for nothing.

“So where is Brenda?” Myron asked.

The adrenaline was starting to wear off, but Chance still managed to shake his head. “I don’t know.”

Myron looked over at Sam. Sam shrugged.

Arthur sat up. He hugged his knees and lowered his head. He began to cry.

“My leg,” Chance said. “I need a doctor.”

Arthur did not move.

“We also need to kill him,” Chance said through a clenched jaw. “He knows too much, Arthur. I know you’re grief-stricken, but we can’t let him ruin everything.”

Sam nodded at that. “He’s right, Mr. Bradford.”

Myron said, “Arthur.”

Arthur looked up.

“I’m your daughter’s best hope.”

“I don’t think so,” Sam said. He aimed the gun. “Chance is right, Mr. Bradford. It’s too risky. We just admitted covering up a murder. He has to die.”

Sam’s walkie-talkie suddenly squeaked. Then a voice came through the tinny speaker: “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Win.

Sam frowned at the walkie-talkie. He turned a knob, changed frequency. The red digital readout changed numbers. Then he pressed the talk button. “Someone got to Forster,” Sam said. “Move in and take him out.”

The response was Win’s best
Star Trek
Scottie: “But I can’t hold her, Captain. She’s breaking up!”

Sam remained calm. “How many radios you got, buddy?”

“Collect all four, now in specially marked packages.”

Sam whistled his appreciation. “Fine,” he said. “So we got ourselves a stalemate. Let’s talk it through.”

“No.” This time it wasn’t Win speaking. It was Arthur Bradford. He fired twice. Both bullets hit Sam in the chest. Sam slumped to the floor, twitched, and then lay still.

Arthur looked at Myron. “Find my daughter,” he said. “Please.”

Win and Myron rushed back to the Jag. Win drove. Myron did not ask about the fate of the men who once possessed those four walkie-talkies. He didn’t much care.

“I searched the entire grounds,” Win said. “She’s not here.”

Myron sat and thought. He remembered telling Detective Wickner at the Little League field that he would not stop digging. And he remembered Wickner’s response:
“Then more people are going to die.”

“You were right,” Myron said.

Win kept driving.

“I didn’t keep my eye on the prize. I pushed too hard.”

Win said nothing.

When Myron heard the first ring, he reached for his
cellular. Then he remembered that Sam had taken it from him back at the estate. The ringing was coming from Win’s car phone. Win answered it. He said, “Hello.” He listened for a full minute without nodding or speaking or making any noise whatsoever. Then he said, “Thank you,” and hung up. He slowed the car’s speed and pulled over to the side of the road. The car glided to a stop. He shifted into park and snapped off the ignition.

Win turned toward Myron, his gaze as heavy as the ages.

For a fleeting moment Myron was puzzled. But only for a moment. Then his head fell to one side, and he let out a small groan. Win nodded. And something inside Myron’s chest dried up and blew away.

Peter Frankel, a six-year-old boy from Cedar Grove, New Jersey, had been missing for eight hours. Frantic, Paul and Missy Frankel, the boy’s parents, called the police. The Frankels’ backyard was up against a wooded water reservation area. The police and neighbors formed search parties. Police dogs were brought in. Neighbors even brought their own dogs along. Everyone wanted to help.

It did not take long to find Peter. Apparently the boy had crawled into a neighbor’s toolshed and fallen asleep. When he woke up, he pushed at the door, but it was stuck. Peter was scared, of course, but no worse for wear. Everyone was relieved. The town fire whistle blew, signaling that all searchers should return.

One dog didn’t heed the whistle. A German shepherd named Wally ran deeper into the woods and
barked steadily until Officer Craig Reed, new with the canine corps, came to see what had upset Wally so.

When Reed arrived, he found Wally barking over a dead body. The medical examiner was called in. His conclusion: The victim, a female in her twenties, had been dead less than twenty-four hours. Cause of death: two contact gunshot wounds to the back of the head.

An hour later Cheryl Sutton, cocaptain of the New York Dolphins, positively identified the body as belonging to her friend and teammate Brenda Slaughter.

The car was still parked in the same place.

“I want to take a drive,” Myron said. “Alone.”

Win wiped his eyes with two fingers. Then he stepped out of the car without a word. Myron slid into the driver’s seat. His foot pressed down on the accelerator. He passed trees and cars and signs and shops and homes and even people taking late-night walks. Music came from the car speakers. Myron did not bother turning it off. He kept driving. Images of Brenda tried to infiltrate, but Myron parried and sidestepped.

Not yet.

By the time he reached Esperanza’s apartment, it was one in the morning. She sat alone on the stoop, almost as though she were expecting him. He stopped and stayed in the car. Esperanza approached. He could see that she had been crying.

“Come inside,” she said.

Myron shook his head. “Win talked about leaps of faith,” he began.

Esperanza stayed still.

“I didn’t really understand what he meant. He kept
talking about his own experiences with families. Marriage led to disaster, he said. It was that simple. He had seen countless people get married, and in almost every case they ended up crippling one another. It would take a huge leap of faith to make Win believe otherwise.”

Esperanza looked at him and kept crying. “You loved her,” she said.

He closed his eyes hard, waited, opened them. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about us. Everything I know—all my past experience—tells me that our partnership is doomed. But then I look at you. You are the finest person I know, Esperanza. You are my best friend. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said.

“You’re worth taking the leap. I want you to stay.”

She nodded. “Good, because I can’t leave anyway.” She stepped closer to the car. “Myron, please come inside. We’ll talk, okay?”

He shook his head.

“I know what she meant to you.”

Again he closed his eyes tight. “I’ll be at Win’s in a few hours,” he said.

“Okay. I’ll wait for you there.”

He drove off before she could say more.

By the time Myron reached his third destination, it was almost four in the morning. A light was still on. No surprise really. He rang the doorbell. Mabel Edwards opened it. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe over a flannel nightgown. She started crying and reached out to hug him.

Myron stepped back.

“You killed them all,” he said. “First Anita. Then Horace. And then Brenda.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You don’t mean that.”

Myron took out his gun and placed it against the older woman’s forehead. “If you lie to me, I’ll kill you.”

Mabel’s gaze veered quickly from shock to cold defiance. “You wired, Myron?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t matter. You have a gun pointed to my head. I’ll say whatever you want.”

The gun nudged her back into the house. Myron closed the door. The photograph of Horace was still on the fireplace mantel. Myron looked at his old friend for a brief moment. Then he turned back to Mabel.

“You lied to me,” he said. “From the very beginning. Everything you told me was a lie. Anita never called you. She’s been dead for twenty years.”

“Who told you that?”

“Chance Bradford.”

She made a scoffing noise. “You shouldn’t believe a man like that.”

“The phone taps,” Myron said.

“What?”

“Arthur Bradford tapped your phone. For the last twenty years. He hoped Anita might call you. But we all know she never did.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Mabel said. “Maybe he just missed those calls.”

“I don’t think so. But there’s more. You told me that Horace called you last week while he was hiding. He gave you this dire warning about not trying to look for him. But again Arthur Bradford had a tap on your phone. He was looking for Horace. Why didn’t he know anything about it?”

“Guess he messed up again.”

Myron shook his head. “I just paid a visit to a dumb thug named Mario,” he went on. “I surprised him while he was sleeping, and I did some things to him I’m not proud of. By the time I was through, Mario admitted to all kinds of crimes—including trying to get
information from you with his skinny partner, just like you told me. But he swears he never punched you in the eye. And I believe him. Because it was Horace who hit you.”

Brenda had called him a sexist, and he had been wondering lately about his own race issues. Now he saw the truth. His semilatent prejudices had twisted on him like a snake seizing its own tail. Mabel Edwards. The sweet old black lady. Butterfly McQueen. Miss Jane Pittman. Knitting needles and reading glasses. Big and kind and matronly. Evil could never lurk in so politically correct a form.