Myron waited a beat. Then the left-field question: "What about Deanna Yeller?"
Puzzled. "Who?"
"Curtis Yeller's mother."
"What about her?"
"You have no relationship with her?"
More puzzled. "Of course not. Why would you ask something like that?"
"You never paid to keep her silent?"
"About what?"
"About the circumstances of her son's death."
"No. Why should I?"
"You know there was never an autopsy done on Curtis Yeller either. Strange, don't you think?"
"If you're insinuating that the police did not act strictly within regulations, I can't answer that because I don't know. I don't care either. Yes, I've wondered about the police shooting myself. Perhaps there was a second cover-up that night. If there was, I was not involved in it. And more important, I don't see what possible connection it could have with Valerie Simpson. In fact I don't see any connection in any of this with Valerie."
"She was at the party that night?"
"Valerie? Of course."
"Do you know where she was at the time Alexander was murdered?"
"No."
"Do you remember how she reacted to his death?"
"She was devastated. Her fiancé had just been killed in cold blood. She was distraught and angry."
"Did you approve of their relationship?"
"Yes, very much so. I thought Valerie was a bit troubled. A bit too sad. But I liked her. She and Alexander were good together."
"Valerie's name was never mentioned in connection with your son's murder. Why?"
The jowls were quivering big-time. "You know why," he said. "Valerie Simpson was still something of a celebrity from her tennis days. We felt that there was already enough scrutiny without adding her name to the mix. It wasn't a question of liking or not liking Valerie. We just wanted to minimize the story as much as possible. Keep it off the front pages."
"You got lucky then."
"What do you mean?"
"Yeller was killed. Swade vanished."
Cross blinked several times. "I'm not sure I understand."
"If they were alive there would have been a trial. More media attention. Maybe too much media attention for even your spin doctors to handle."
He smiled. "I see you've heard the rumors."
"Rumors?"
"That I had Errol Swade killed. That the mob did me a favor or some such nonsense."
"You have to admit, Senator, their fates made for a convenient little public relations package. No one to dispute your spin on things."
"I don't cry over the fate of Curtis Yeller, and if Errol Swade was murdered I doubt I'd shed too many tears about that either. But I don't know any mobsters. That may sound silly, but I wouldn't know the first thing about enlisting the mob's help. I did hire a detective agency to look for Swade."
"Did they find anything?"
"No. They believe that Swade is dead. So do the police. He was a punk, Myron. He wasn't on a path that led to a long life even before this incident."
Myron followed up with a few more questions, but there was nothing more to learn. A few minutes later the two men stood.
"Would you mind if I spoke to Gregory Caufield before I leave?" Myron asked.
"I'd prefer it if you didn't."
"If there's nothing to hide-"
"I don't want him knowing I told you this. Attorney-client privilege, remember? He won't speak honestly to you anyway."
"He will if you tell him to."
Cross shook his head. "Gregory's father controls him. He won't talk."
Myron shrugged. The senator was probably right. The only leverage he could apply on Gregory would be what Cross just told him. Cross had neatly arranged it so Myron couldn't do that. He'd have to think of a way to end-run that. Caufield was an eyewitness. He'd be worth a few questions.
The two men shook hands, both making serious eye contact. Was Senator Cross a sweet old codger, a grieving father trying to protect his son's memory? Or had he calculated that this would be the most effective strategy for dealing with Myron? Was he cagey or sympathetic or both?
Cross gave him the endearing off-center smile again. "I hope I've satisfied your curiosity," he said.
He hadn't. Not even close. But Myron didn't bother telling him that.
Chapter 20
Myron left the building and strolled down Madison Avenue. Traffic was at a standstill. Big surprise in Manhattan. Five lanes were merging into one on Fifty-fourth Street. The other four lanes were blocked by one of those purely New York construction sites with steam pouring up out of the streets. Very Dante. What was with all that steam anyway?
He was about to cut across Fifty-third Street when he felt a sharp stab in his ribs.
"Give me an excuse, asshole."
Myron recognized the voice before seeing the taped nose and the black eyes. Fishnet. He was pressing a gun against Myron's rib cage, using his body to hide the gun from any curious onlookers.
"You're wearing the same shirt," Myron said. "Jesus Christ, you didn't even change."
Fishnet gave him a little gun jab. "You're going to wish you were never born, asshole. Get in the car."
The car – the powder-blue Caddy with thick scratches on the side – pulled alongside of them. Jim, Fishnet's partner, was driving, but Myron barely noticed him. His eyes immediately locked on the familiar figure in the backseat. The figure smiled and waved.
"Hey, Myron," he called out. "How's it going?"
Aaron.
"Bring him here, Lee," Aaron said.
Fishnet Lee gave Myron a nudge with the gun. "Let's go, asshole."
Myron got in the backseat with Aaron. Fishnet Lee joined Jim in the front. The front seats were both covered with plastic where Win had dumped the maple syrup.
Aaron was dressed in his customary garb. Pure-snow-white suit, white shoes. No socks. No shirt. Aaron never wore a shirt, preferring to display his tan pectorals. They gleamed from some sort of oil or grease. He always looked fresh out of the wax salon, his body smooth as a baby's bottom. Aaron was a big man, six-six, two-forty. The weight lifter's build was not merely for show. Aaron moved with a speed and grace that defied the bulk. His black hair was slicked back and tied into a long ponytail.
He gave Myron a game-show-host grin and held it.
Myron said, "Nice smile, Aaron. Lots of teeth."
"Proper dental hygiene. It's a passion of mine."
"You should share your passion with Lee," Myron said.
Fishnet's head spun. "What the fuck did you say, asshole?"
"Turn around, Lee," Aaron said to Fishnet. Fishnet glared a few more daggers. Myron yawned. Jim drove. Aaron sat back. He said nothing, smiling brightly. Every part of him glistened in the sunlight. After two blocks of this Myron pointed at Aaron's cleavage. "Your electrolysis missed a chest hair."
To Aaron's credit he didn't look. "We need to chat, Myron."
"What about?"
"Valerie Simpson. For once I think we're on the same side."
"Oh?"
"You want to capture Valerie Simpson's killer. So do we."
"You do?"
"Yes. Mr. Ache is determined to bring her killer to justice."
"That Frank. Always the good Samaritan."
Aaron chuckled. "Still the funny man, eh, Myron? Well, I admit it sounds a bit bizarre, but we'd like to help you."
"How?"
"We both know that Roger Quincy killed Valerie Simpson. Mr. Ache is willing to use his considerable influence to help locate him."
"And in return?"
Aaron feigned shock. He put a manicured hand the size of a manhole cover to his chest. "Myron, you wound me. Really. We try to extend the hand of friendship and you slap it away with an insult."