It was not a huge apartment. The decor was standard New York rental. Duane and Wanda had moved in only a few weeks ago. Month-to-month lease. No reason to fix the place up. With the money Duane was about to start making they could live anywhere they wanted to soon.
"Did you say anything to them?" Myron asked.
Duane shook his head. "Not yet."
"Want to tell me what's going on?"
Duane shook his head again. "I don't know."
There was another cop in the room. A younger guy. Much younger. He looked to be about twelve. Probably just made detective. He had his pad out, his pen at the ready.
Myron turned to Roland Dimonte. Dimonte had his hands on his hips, emanating self-importance from every pore. "What's this all about?" Myron asked.
"We just want to ask your client a few questions."
"About what?"
"The murder of Valerie Simpson."
Myron looked over at Duane. "I don't know nothing," Duane said.
Dimonte sat down, making a big production out of it King Lear. "Then you won't mind answering a few questions?"
Duane said, "No." But he didn't sound very confident about it
"Where were you when the shooting occurred?"
Duane glanced at Myron. Myron nodded. "I was on Stadium Court "
"What were you doing?"
"Playing tennis."
"Who was your opponent?"
Myron nodded. "You're good, Rolly."
"Shut the fuck up, Bolitar."
Duane said, "Ivan Restovich."
"Did the match continue after the shooting?"
"Yeah. It was match point anyway."
"Did you hear the gunshot?"
"Yeah."
"What did you do?"
"Do?"
"When you heard the shot?"
Duane shrugged. "Nothing. I just stood there until the umpire told us to keep playing."
"You never left the court?"
"No."
The young cop kept scribbling, never looking up.
"Then what did you do?" Dimonte asked.
"When?"
"After the match."
"I did an interview."
"Who interviewed you?"
"Bud Collins and Tim Mayotte."
The young cop looked up for a moment, confused.
" Mayotte," Myron said. "M-A-Y-O-T-T-E."
He nodded and resumed his scribbling.
"What did you talk about?" Roland asked him.
"Huh?"
"During the interview. What did they ask you about?"
Dimonte shot a challenging glare at Myron. Myron responded with his warmest nod and a pilotlike thumbs up.
"I'm not going to tell you again, Bolitar. Cut the shit."
"Just admiring your technique."
"You'll admire it from a jail cell in a minute."
"Gasp!"
Another death glare from Roland Dimonte before he turned back to Duane. "Do you know Valerie Simpson?"
"Personally?"
"Yes."
Duane shook his head. "No."
"But you've met?"
"No."
"You don't know her at all?"
"That's right."
"You've never had any contact with her?"
"Never."
Roland Dimonte crossed his legs, resting his boot on his knee. His fingers caressed – actually caressed -the white-and-purple snakeskin. Like it was a pet dog. "How about you, miss?"
Wanda seemed startled. "Pardon me?"
"Have you ever met Valerie Simpson?"
"No." Her voice was barely audible.
Dimonte turned back to Duane. "Had you ever heard of Valerie Simpson before today?"
Myron rolled his eyes. But for once he kept his mouth shut. He didn't want to push it too far. Dimonte was not as dumb as he appeared. No one was. He was trying to lull Duane before the big whammy. Myron's job was to disrupt his rhythm with a few choice interruptions. But not too many.
Myron Bolitar, darling of the tightrope.
Duane said with a shrug, "Yeah, I heard of her."
"In what capacity?"
"She used to be on the circuit Couple years back, I think."
"The tennis circuit?"
"No, the nightclub circuit," Myron interjected. "She used to open for Anthony Newley in Vegas."
So much for Mr. Restraint.
The glare was back. "Bolitar, you're really starting to piss me off."
"Are you going to get to the point already?"
"I take my time with interrogations. I don't like to rush."
"Should do the same," Myron said, "when purchasing footwear."
Dimonte's face reddened. Still glaring at Myron, he said, "Mr. Richwood, how long have you been on the circuit?"
"Six months."
"And in those six months you never saw Valerie Simpson?"
"That's right"
"Fine. Now let me see if I got this right: You were playing a match when the gun went off. You finished the match. You shook hands with your opponent. I assume you shook hands with your opponent?"
Duane nodded.
"Then you did an interview."
"Right"
"Did you shower before or after the interview?"
Myron held up his hands. "Okay, that's enough."
"You got a problem, Bolitar?"
"Yeah. Your questions are beyond idiotic. I'm now advising my client to stop answering them."
"Why? Your client got something to hide?"
"Yeah, Rolly, you're too clever for us. Duane killed her. Several million people were watching him on national television during the shooting. Several thousand more were watching him in person. But that wasn't him playing. It was really his identical twin, lost since birth. You're just too smart for us, Rolly. We confess."
"I haven't ruled that out" Dimonte countered.
"Haven't ruled what out?"
"That 'we' stuff. Maybe you had something to do with it. You and that psycho-yuppie friend of yours."
He meant Win. Lot of cops knew Win. None liked him. The feeling was mutual.
"We were in the stadium at the time of the shooting," Myron said. "A dozen witnesses will back that up. And if you really knew anything about Win, you'd know he'd never use a weapon that close up."
That made Dimonte hesitate. He nodded. Agreeing, for once.
"Are you through with Mr. Richwood?" Myron asked.
Dimonte suddenly smiled. It was a happy, expectant smile, like a school kid sitting by the radio on a snow day. Myron didn't like the smile.
"If you'll just humor me for another moment," he said with syrupy phoniness. He rose and moved toward his partner, the Pad. The Pad kept scribbling.
"Your client claims he didn't know Valerie Simpson."
"So?"
The Pad finally looked up. His eyes were as vacant as a court stenographer's. Dimonte nodded at him. The Pad handed him a small leather book encased in plastic.
"This is Valerie's calendar book," Dimonte said. "The last entry was made yesterday." His smile widened. His head was held high. His chest puffed out like a rooster about to get laid.
"Okay, poker face," Myron said. "What's it say?"
He handed Myron a photocopy. Yesterday's entry was fairly simple. Sprawled across the entire page it read:
D.R. 555-8705. Call!
555-8705. Duane's phone number. D.R. Duane Rich-wood.
Dimonte appeared gleeful.
"I'd like to talk to my client," Myron said. "Alone."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"You're not going to duck away now that I have you on the ropes."
"I'm his attorney-"
"I don't give a rat's ass if you're the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. You take him away, I take him downtown in cuffs."
"You don't have anything," Myron said. "His phone number is in her book. Means nothing."
Dimonte nodded. "But how would it look? To the press, for example. Or the fans. Duane Richwood, tennis's newest hero, being dragged into the station with handcuffs on. Bet that would be hard to explain to the sponsors."