Myron nodded.
"A little, I guess."
"Just a little?"
"Yeah." He flashed a nervous smile, struggled to hold it. "Why, what's up?"
"I heard differently."
"Oh?"
"I heard you were the one who got Nike to sign her. That you handled her account."
He squirmed a bit. "Yeah, well, I guess so."
"So you must have known her pretty well then."
"Maybe, I guess. Why are you asking me this, Myron? What's the big deal?"
"Do you trust me, Ned?"
"With my life, Myron. You know that. But this subject is painful for me. You understand?"
"You mean her dying and all?"
Ned made a lemon-sucking face. "No," he said. "I mean her career plummet. She was the first person I signed for Nike. I thought she'd launch me to the top. Instead she set me back five years. It was painful."
Another Mr. Sensitive.
"When she flopped," Ned continued, "guess who took the fall? Go ahead, guess."
Myron thought the question was rhetorical, but Ned waited with that expectant face of his. Myron finally said, "Would that be you, Ned?"
"Damn straight, me. I was thrown to the bottom. Just dumped there. I had to start climbing up all over again. Because of Valerie and her collapse. Don't get me wrong, Myron. I'm doing okay now – knock wood." He rapped his knuckles on the desk.
Myron knocked wood too. The sarcasm was lost on Ned. "Did you know Alexander Cross?" Myron asked.
Both Ned's eyebrows jumped. "Hey, what's the deal here?"
"Trust me, Ned."
"I do, Myron, really, but come on…"
"It's a simple question: Did you know Alexander Cross?"
"I may have met him once, I don't remember. Through Valerie, of course. They were something of an item."
"How about you and Valerie?"
"What about me and Valerie?"
"Were you two an item?"
He put his hand out in a gesture of stop. "Hey, hold up. Look, Myron, I like you, I really do. You're an honest Joe. A straight shooter just like me-"
"No, Ned, you're not a straight shooter. You're jerking me around. You knew Alexander Cross. In fact you were at the Old Oaks tennis club the night he was murdered."
Ned opened his mouth but no sounds came out. He managed to shake his head no.
"Here." Myron stood and handed him the party guest list. "In yellow highlighter. E. Tunwell. Edward né Ned."
Ned looked down at the paper, looked up, looked down again. "This was a long time ago," he said. "What does this have to do with anything?"
"Why are you lying about it?"
"I'm not lying."
"You're hiding something, Ned."
"No, I'm not"
Myron stared down at him. Ned's eyes scattered, searching for safe haven and finding none. "Look, Myron, it's not what you think.''
"I don't think anything." Then: "Did you sleep with her?"
"No!" Ned finally looked up and held a steady gaze. "That damn rumor almost ended my career. It's a lie that slimeball Menansi made up about me. It's a lie, Myron, I swear."
"Pavel Menansi told people that?"
Ned nodded. "He is a sick son of a bitch."
"Was."
"What?"
"Pavel Menansi is dead. Someone killed him last night. Shot in the chest. Very similar to what happened to Valerie." Myron waited two beats. Then he pointed his finger at Ned. "Where were you last night?"
Ned's eyes were two golf balls. "You can't think…"
Myron shrugged. "If you've got nothing to hide…"
"I don't!"
"Then tell me what happened."
"Nothing happened."
"What aren't you telling me, Ned?"
"It was nothing, Myron. I swear-"
Myron sighed. "You admit Valerie Simpson severely damaged your career. You admit you're still 'pained' by what she did. You've also told me that Pavel Menansi spread rumors about you. In fact you referred to a recent murder victim as – and I quote – 'a sick son of a bitch.'"
"Hey, come on, Myron, that was just talk." Ned tried to smile his way out of it, but Myron kept his face stern. "It didn't mean anything."
"Maybe, maybe not. But I wonder how your superiors at Nike are going to react to the publicity."
The smile stayed in place, but there was nothing behind it. "Hey, you can't be serious. You can't go around spreading rumors like that."
"Why?" Myron asked. "You going to kill me too?"
"I didn't kill anyone!" Ned shouted.
Myron feigned fear. "I don't know…"
"Look, Valerie took me outside that night, okay, that's all. We kissed, but it went no further, I swear."
"Whoa, back up a second," Myron said. "Start at the beginning. You were at the party."
Ned slid to the tip of his chair, his words came fast now. "Right, I was at the party, okay? So was Valerie. We arrived together. She was very excited because Alexander was going to announce their engagement. But when he backed out, she got really pissed off."
"Why did he back out?"
"His father. He made Alexander call it off."
"Senator Cross?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why?" Myron asked.
"How the hell am I supposed to know? Valerie told me the man was a major prick. She hated him. But when Alexander bowed to his whim like that, she blew her stack. She wanted revenge. A little payback."
"And you were handy?"
Ned snapped his fingers. "Right, exactly, I was handy. That's all. It wasn't my fault, Myron. I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. You understand, right?"
"So you two went outside," Myron prompted.
"We went outside and found a spot behind a shed. We only kissed, I swear. Nothing more. Just kissed. Then we heard some noise, so we stopped."
Myron sat back down. "What noise?"
"First it was just someone hitting tennis balls. But then we heard raised voices. One of them was Alexander's. Then we heard this awful scream."
"What did you do?" Myron asked.
"Me? Nothing at first. Valerie screamed too. Then she broke into a run. I followed her. I lost her for a second. Then I came around a bend and saw her up ahead just standing there. When I got to her I saw what she was staring at. Alexander was bleeding all over the grass. His friends were starting to run away. The big black guy was standing over the body. He had a tennis racket in one hand, a big knife in the other."
Myron leaned forward. "You saw the murderer?"
Ned nodded. "Up close and personal."
"And he was a big black guy?"
"Yep."
"How many of them were there?"
"Two. Both black."
So much for the setup theory. Unless Ned was lying, which Myron doubted. "So what happened next?"
Ned paused for a second. "You ever see Valerie in her prime? On the court, I mean."
"Yes."
"You ever see that look in her eyes?"
"What look?"
"Certain athletes get it. Larry Bird used to. Joe Montana. Michael Jordan. Maybe you used to too. Well, Val had it, and she had it now. The smaller black guy started screaming at the big one, saying stuff like, 'Look what you did,' 'Are you crazy,' stuff like that. Then they started to run. They ran right toward us. Me, I ran. I'm no fool. But not Val. She just stood there and waited. When they got close she let out this big scream and dove at the little guy. I couldn't believe it. She tackled him like a linebacker. They both ended up on the ground. The little guy whacked her with his tennis racket and managed to pull away."
"Did you get a good look at them?"
"Pretty good, I guess."
"Did you ever see pictures of Errol Swade?"
"Yeah, sure, his picture was on the news every day for a while."
"Was it the same guy you saw?"
"Definitely," he said without hesitation. "No question about it."