Her smile seemed to fade when she saw him. "Can I help you?"
"Mrs. Yeller?"
She nodded slowly, as though not sure.
"My name is Myron Bolitar. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
The smile fled completely. "What about?" Her diction was different now. Less suburban civil. More street suspicious.
"Your son."
"I ain't got a son."
"Curtis," Myron said.
Her eyes narrowed. "You a cop?"
"No."
"I ain't got the time. I'm on my way out."
"It won't take long."
She put her hands on her hips. "What's in it for me?"
"Pardon me?"
"Curtis is dead."
"I realize that."
"So what good is talking about it gonna do? He still gonna be dead, right?"
"Please, Mrs. Yeller, if I could just come in for a moment."
She thought about it a second or two, glanced around, then shrugged in tired surrender. She checked her watch. Piaget, Myron noticed. Could be a fake, but he doubted it
The decor was basic. Lot of white. Lot of pinewood. Torchère lamps. Very Ikea. There were no photographs on the shelves or coffee table. Nothing personal at all. Deanna Yeller didn't sit. She didn't invite Myron to either.
Myron offered up his warmest, most trustworthy smile. One part Harry Smith, two parts John Tesh.
She crossed her arms. "What the hell you grinning at?"
Yep, another minute and she'd be curled up in his lap.
"I want to ask you about the night Curtis died," Myron said.
"Why? What's this got to do with you?"
"I'm investigating."
"Investigating what?"
"What really happened the night your son died."
"You a private eye?"
"No. Not really."
Silence.
"You got two minutes," she said. "That's it."
"According to the police your son drew a gun on a police officer."
"So they say."
"Did he?"
She shrugged. "Guess so."
"Did Curtis own a gun?"
Another shrug. "Guess he did."
"Did you see it that night?"
"I don't know."
"Did you ever see it before that night?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
Boy, was this helpful. "Why would your son and Errol break into the Old Oaks Club?"
She made a face. "You serious?"
"Yes."
"Why you think? To rob the place."
"Did Curtis do that a lot?"
"Do what?"
"Rob places."
Another shrug. "Places, people, whatever." Her tone was matter-of-fact No shame, no embarrassment, no surprise, no revulsion.
"Curtis didn't have a record," Myron said.
Yet another shrug. Her shoulders would tire soon. "Guess I raised a smart boy," she said. "Until that night, anyhow." She made a show of looking at her watch again. "I gotta go now."
"Mrs. Yeller, have you heard from your nephew Errol Swade?"
"No."
"Do you know where he went after your son was shot?"
"No."
"What do you think happened to Errol?"
"He's dead." Again matter-of-fact "I don't know what you want here, but this thing is finished. Finished a long time ago. No one cares anymore."
"How about you, Mrs. Yeller? Do you care?"
"It's done. Closed."
"You were there when the police shot your son?"
"No. I got there right after." Her voice sort of faded away.
"And you saw your son on the ground?"
She nodded.
Myron handed her his business card. "If you remember anything else…"
She didn't take it. "I won't."
"But if you do…"
"Curtis is dead. Nothing you can do can change that. Best to just forget it."
"It's that easy?"
"Been six years. Not like anybody misses Curtis."
"How about you, Mrs. Yeller? Do you miss him?"
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "Not like Curtis was a good kid or nothing. He was trouble."
"Doesn't mean he should have been killed," Myron said.
She looked up at him, held his gaze. "Don't matter. Dead is dead. Can't change that."
Myron said nothing.
"Can you change that, Mr. Bolitar?" she asked, challenging.
"No."
Deanna Yeller nodded, turned away, picked up her purse. "I have to go now," she said. "Best if you leave now too."
Chapter 14
Henry Hobman was the only one in the players' box.
"Hi, Henry," Myron said.
No one was playing yet, but Henry was still in his coach repose. Without turning away from the court, Henry muttered, "Heard you had a meeting with Pavel Menansi last night."
"So?"
"You unhappy with Duane's coaching?"
"No."
Henry almost nodded. End of conversation.
Duane and his opponent, a French Open finalist named Jacques Potiline, came onto the court Duane looked himself. No signs of strain. He gave Myron and Henry a big smile, nodded. The weather was perfect for tennis. The sun was out, but a cool breeze gently purled through Stadium Court, staving off the humidity.
Myron glanced around courtside. There was a rather buxom blonde in the next box. She was packed into a white tank top. The word for today, boys and girls, is cleavage. Plenty of men ogled. Not Myron, of course. He was far too worldly. The blonde suddenly turned and caught Myron's eye. She smiled coyly, gave him a little wave. Myron waved back. He wasn't going to do anything about it, but yowzer!
Win materialized in the chair next to Myron. "She's smiling at me, you know."
"Dream on."
"Women find me irresistible," Win said. "They see me, they want me. It's a curse I live with every day of my life."
"Please," Myron said. "I just ate."
"Envy. It's so unattractive."
"So go for it, stud."
Win looked over at her. "Not my type."
"Gorgeous blondes aren't your type?"
"Her chest is too big. I have a new theory on that."
"What theory?"
"The bigger the breasts, the lousier the lay."
"Pardon me?"
"Think about it," Win said. "Well-endowed women – I am referring here to ones with mega-fronts – have a habit of laying back and relying on their, er, assets. The effort isn't always what it should be. What do you think?"
Myron shook his head. "I have several reactions," he replied, "but I think I'll stick with my initial one."
"Which is?"
"You're a pig."
Win smiled, sat back. "So how was your visit with Ms. Yeller?"
"She's hiding something too."
"Well, well. The plot doth thicken."
Myron nodded.
"In my experience," Win said, "there is only one thing that can silence the mother of a dead boy."
"And that is?"
"Cash. A great deal of it."
Mr. Warmth. But in truth the same thought had crossed Myron's mind. "Deanna Yeller lives in Cherry Hill now. In a house."
Win leapt on that one. "A single widow from the dumps of west Philadelphia moving to the 'burbs? Pray tell, how does she afford it?"
"Do you really think she's being bought?"
"Is there another explanation? According to what we know, the woman has no solid means of support. She spent her life in an impoverished area. Now all of a sudden she's Miss Better Homes and Gardens."
"Could be something else."
"For example?"
"A guy."
Win made a scoffing noise. "A forty-two-year-old ghetto woman does not find that kind of sugar daddy. It just doesn't happen."
Myron said nothing.
"Now," Win continued, "add into that equation Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke, the grieving parents of another dead child."
"What about them?"