Myron mulled this over. They'd been there that night. At the Old Oaks Club. Myron had been wrong. Lucinda Elright had been wrong. Swade and Yeller were not just casual fall guys. "So what did you two do then?" Myron asked.
"Hey, her career was in enough trouble. We didn't need this kind of press. So I brought her back to the party. Didn't say anything to anyone about it. Val was out of it anyway – in a real funk, but that wasn't any surprise. I mean, think about it She takes me outside to cheat on her boyfriend at the exact moment he's getting murdered. Weird, huh?"
Myron nodded. "Very."
And, Myron thought, the kind of thing that would push a troubled soul over the final ledge.
Chapter 43
Myron and Jessica kept their promise. They did not talk about the murders. They snuggled and watched Strangers on a Train on AMC while eating Thai takeout. They made love. They snuggled and watched Rear Window while downing some Haagen-Dazs. They made love again.
Myron felt light-headed. For one night he actually forgot all about the world of Valerie Simpson and Alexander Cross and Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade and Frank Ache. It felt good. Too good. He started thinking about the suburbs and the hoop in the driveway and then he made himself stop thinking such thoughts.
Several hours later the morning sunlight drop-kicked him back into the real world. The escape had been paradise and for a fleeting moment, as he lay in bed with Jessica, he considered wrapping his arms around her and not going anywhere. Why move? What was out there that could come close to this?
He had no answer. Jessica hugged him a little tighter, as though reading his thoughts, but it didn't last long. They both dressed in silence and drove to Flushing Meadows. Today was the big match. The last Tuesday of the U.S. Open. The women's finals sandwiched by the men's semifinals. First match of the day featured the number-two seed, Thomas Craig, vs. the tournament's biggest surprise, Duane Richwood.
After they passed through the gate Myron gave Jessica a ticket stub. "I'll meet you inside. I want to talk to Duane."
"Now?" she said. "Before the biggest match of his career?"
"Just for a second."
She shrugged, gave him a skeptical eye, took the ticket
He hurried over to the players' lounge, showed his ID to the guard at the gate, and entered. The room was fairly unspectacular, considering that it was the players' lounge for a Grand Slam event. It reeked of baby powder. Duane sat alone in a corner. He had his Walkman on and his head tilted back. Myron couldn't tell if his eyes were opened or closed because, as always, Duane had on his sunglasses.
When he approached, Duane's finger switched off the music. He tilted his face up toward Myron. Myron could see himself in the reflection of the sunglasses. It reminded him of the windows in Frank's limo.
Duane's face was a rigid mask. He slowly slid the headphones off his ears and let them hang around his neck like a horseshoe. "She's gone," Duane said slowly. "Wanda left me."
"When?" Myron asked. The question was stupid and irrelevant, but he wasn't sure what else to say.
"This morning. What did you tell her?"
"Nothing."
"I heard she came to you," Duane said.
Myron said nothing.
"Did you tell her about seeing me at the hotel?"
"No."
Duane changed tapes in the Walkman. "Get out of here," he said.
"She cares about you, Duane."
"Funny way of showing it."
"She just wants to know what's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong."
The sunglasses were disconcerting. He looked straight up at Myron; it appeared as though they were making eye contact, but who knew? "This match is important," Myron said, "but not like Wanda."
"You think I don't know that?" he snapped.
"Then tell her the truth."
Duane's chiseled face smiled slowly. "You don't understand," he said.
"Make me understand."
He fiddled with the Walkman, popping the tape out, pushing it back in. "You think telling the truth will make it better, but you don't know what the truth is. You talking like 'The truth will set you free' when you don't even know the truth. The truth don't always set you free, Myron. Sometimes the truth can kill."
"Hiding the truth isn't working," Myron said.
"It would if you'd let it lie."
"Someone was murdered. That's not something you can just let lie."
Duane put the Walkman's headphones back on his ears. "Maybe it should be," he said.
Silence.
The two men stared dares. Myron could hear the faint din coming from the Walkman. Then he said to Duane, "You were there the night Alexander Cross was murdered. You were at the club with Yeller and Swade."
The stares continued. Behind them, Thomas Craig lined up by the door. He carried several tennis rackets and what looked like an overnight bag. Security was there too with walkie-talkies and earplugs. They nodded toward Duane. "Show time, Mr. Richwood."
Duane stood. "Excuse me," he said to Myron. "I have a match to play."
He walked behind Thomas Craig. Thomas Craig smiled politely. Duane did likewise. Very civil, tennis. Myron watched them leave. He sat there for a few minutes in the abandoned locker room. In the distance he heard the cheers as both men entered the court.
Show time.
Myron found his way to his seat. It was during the match – in the fourth set actually – when he finally figured out who murdered Valerie Simpson.
Chapter 44
Stadium Court was packed by the time Myron sat down. Duane and Thomas Craig were still warming up, each taking turns lofting easy lobs for the other to slam way. The fans floated and mingled and socialized and made sure they were seen. The usual celebs were there: Johnny Carson, Alan King, David Dinkins, Renee Richards, Barbra Streisand, Ivana Trump.
Jake and his son Gerard came down to the box.
"I see you got the tickets okay," Myron said.
Jake nodded. "Great seats."
"Nothing's too good for my friends."
"No," Jake said, "I meant yours."
Ever the wiseass.
Jake and Gerard chatted a moment with Jessica before moving up to their seats, which were by any stretch of me imagination excellently situated. Myron scanned the crowd. A lot of familiar faces. Senator Bradley Cross was there with his entourage, including his son's old chum Gregory Caufield. Frank Ache had shown up wearing the same sweat suit Myron had seen him in yesterday. Frank nodded toward Myron. Myron did not nod back. Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke were there too – surprise, surprise. They were sitting a few boxes over. Myron tried to catch Helen's eye, but she was trying very hard to pretend she didn't see him. Ned Tunwell and Friends (not to be confused with Barney and Friends, though the confusion would be understandable) were in their usual box. Ned too was doing his utmost not to see Myron. He seemed less animated today.
"I'll be right back," Jessica said.
Myron sat. Henry Hobman was already in game mode. Myron said, "Hi, Henry."
"Stop messing with his head," Henry said. "Your job is to keep him happy."
Myron didn't bother responding.
Win finally showed up. He wore a pink shirt from some golf club, bright green pants, white bucks, and a yellow sweater tied around his neck. "Hello," Win said.
Myron shook his head. "Who dresses you?"
"It's the latest in sophisticated wear."
"You clash with the world."
"Pardon moi, Monsieur Saint Laurent." Win sat down. "Did you talk to Duane?"
"Just a little pep talk."
Jessica returned. She greeted Win with a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered to him.
Win said nothing.
They stood for the national anthem. When it was over, the English-accented voice on the loudspeaker asked everyone to lower their heads for a moment of silence to remember the great Pavel Menansi. Heads lowered. The crowd hushed. Someone sniffled. Win rolled his eyes. Two minutes later the match began.