Myron didn't have a clue.
"He was a good coach," Janet said softly.
"You did nothing wrong," Myron said, again realizing how lame he sounded. "Whatever else happens, remember that. You did absolutely nothing wrong."
She nodded slowly, but Myron wasn't sure if she'd even heard him.
Ten minutes later the police arrived, led by Dimonte. Rolly looked like something the proverbial cat had dragged in. He was unshaven. His shirt was untucked and buttoned wrong. His hair was all over the place. He had sleep-buggers in both eyes. Still, the boots were nicely polished. He charged up to Myron. ''Returning to the scene of the crime, asshole?"
"Yeah," Myron said, "that's it."
The press rounded the corner. Flashbulbs started strobing. "Keep those assholes downstairs!" Dimonte hollered. Some uniformed cops pushed them back. "Downstairs, I said! No one on this floor."
Dimonte turned back to Myron. Krinsky came in and stood next to him. His pad was out.
"Hey, Krinsky," Myron said.
Krinsky nodded.
"So what the hell happened?" Dimonte demanded.
"I came up to see him. I found him like this."
"Stop fucking with me, asshole."
Myron didn't bother with a retort. Cops were all over the place. The coroner was slitting a hole in Pavel's torso with a surgical scalpel. The liver area, Myron knew. Trying to get a liver temperature reading to find out time of death.
Dimonte spotted the Feron's bag on the floor. "You touch this?"
Myron shook his head.
Dimonte bent down and looked at the bullet hole. "Cute," he said.
"You going to let Roger Quincy go now?"
"Why should I?"
"You didn't have squat on him before. Now you have less than squat"
Dimonte shrugged. "Could just be a copycat. Or" – he snapped his fingers – "or it could be someone who wants to get Quincy off." A smile. "Someone like you, Bolitar."
"Yeah," Myron said, "that's it."
Dimonte stepped closer. He gave Myron the tough-guy glare again. Then, as though suddenly remembering it, he quickly whipped out his toothpick and put it in his mouth. He glared again and gnawed the toothpick.
"I was wrong before," Myron said.
"What?"
"About the toothpick being cliché. It's actually very intimidating."
"Keep it up, funny man."
"It's too early for this, Rolly."
"Listen, asshole, I want to know what you're doing here."
"I told you. I came to see Pavel."
"Why?"
"To talk about him coaching a player of mine."
"At six-thirty in the morning?"
"I'm an early riser. It's why they call me Mr. Sunbeam."
"They should call you Mister Lying Sack of Shit."
"Oooo," Myron said. "That hurt."
Dimonte started gnawing on the toothpick with renewed vigor. You could almost hear something churn inside his head. "So tell me, Bolitar," he said with the beginnings of a smile, "you came to the hotel to talk business. You took the elevator up to see our victim here. You knocked on the door. No one answered. Right so far?"
"Yep."
"So then you kicked the door in, right?"
Myron said nothing.
Dimonte turned to Krinsky. "That make sense to you, Krinsky? Kicking in the door like that?"
Krinsky looked up from his pad, shook his head, looked back down.
"You always do that when no one answers a door, asshole? Kick it down?"
"I didn't kick it. I used my shoulder."
"Don't bullshit me, Bolitar. You didn't come here to talk business. And you didn't kick down the door just because no one answered."
The coroner tapped Dimonte on the shoulder. "Bullet to the heart. Clean shot. Death was instantaneous."
"Time of death?" Rolly asked.
"He's been dead six, maybe seven hours."
Dimonte looked at his watch. "It's seven now. That would mean he was killed between midnight and one."
Myron turned to Krinsky. "And he didn't even see you use his fingers."
Krinsky almost smiled.
Dimonte tossed out another glare. "You got an alibi, Bolitar?"
"I was with a lady friend."
"That Jessica Culver?"
"Correct." Myron waited for Krinsky to look up. When he did, Myron said, "Her number is 555-8420."
Krinsky wrote it down.
"All right, Bolitar, now stop busting my balls. Why did you kick down the door?"
Myron hesitated. He looked at Dimonte. Dimonte looked back and said, "Well?"
"Come with me," Myron said in a quiet voice. He began to leave the room.
"Hey, where the fuck do you think you're going?"
"For once, Rolly, don't be an ass. Just shut up and follow me."
To Myron's surprise Dimonte kept quiet They went down the corridor in silence. Krinsky stayed at the crime scene. Myron stopped in front of a door, took out a key, and opened it. Janet Koffman was sitting on the bed. She was wearing a hotel bathrobe. If she realized they were there, she didn't show it. Janet rocked back and forth, humming to herself.
Dimonte looked a question at Myron.
"Her name is Janet Koffman."
"The tennis player?"
Myron nodded. "The killer locked her in the bathroom before he shot Menansi. I heard her crying when I knocked on the door. That's why I kicked it in."
Dimonte looked at Myron. "You mean she and Menansi were…?"
Myron nodded.
"Christ, how old is she?"
"Fourteen, I think."
Dimonte closed his eyes. "We have someone down at the precinct," he said softly. "A doctor. She's good with this stuff. I'll talk to the Manhattan cop in charge about sneaking her out, see if he can keep the press away. I'll try to keep the victim's name out of the papers for a while."
"Thank you."
"I've seen this kinda thing before, Bolitar. The girl is going to need help."
"I know."
"Any chance she offed him herself? Frankly I wouldn't give a shit but…"
Myron shook his head. "She was locked in from the outside with a chair. It couldn't have been her."
Dimonte gave the toothpick a little chew. "Thoughtful killer," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"He didn't want the girl to see what happened. He made sure she had an alibi by locking her in with the chair. And most of all he saved her from going through any more of Menansi's hell." He looked at Myron. "I'd probably pin a medal on the guy if he hadn't also killed Valerie Simpson."
Myron said, "Me too." It made him wonder.
Chapter 38
The office was only about ten blocks away. Myron decided to walk it. Cars sat completely still on Sixth Avenue, though the lights were green and there was no visible construction. Everyone honked their horns. Like this ever does any good. A well-groomed man got out of a taxi. He wore a pin-striped suit, a gold Tag Heuer watch, and Gucci shoes. He also wore a green pinwheel hat and plastic Spock ears. New York – my kind of town.
Myron ignored the fumes and tried to think the whole thing through. The popular theory – the main theory, if you will – had gone something like this: Valerie Simpson had been abused by Pavel Menansi. Regaining her mental strength, she had decided to expose him. This exposure would have been detrimental to the financial well-being of TruPro and the Ache brothers! So they eliminated her before she could do any damage. It all added up. It all made sense.
Until this morning.
A major monkey wrench had been tossed into the main theory: Pavel Menansi had been murdered too, in a fashion similar to Valerie Simpson. Under the main theory, the murders of Valerie Simpson and Pavel Menansi were at cross-purposes. Why kill Valerie Simpson to protect Pavel Menansi, only to go ahead and kill Pavel Menansi? It didn't mesh. It wasn't profitable for TruPro or the Aches.
Of course, there was the possibility that Frank Ache had decided Menansi was too big a risk, that exposure was imminent and losses might as well be cut right now. But if Frank had wanted Pavel dead, he would have had Aaron do it. Pavel had been murdered between midnight and one. Aaron was dead by midnight. Myron mulled this over a bit and decided that Aaron's being dead made it extremely unlikely he was the killer. And moreover, if Frank had intended to kill Pavel, there would have been no reason to scare Myron off with the attack on Jessica.