«You were right,» Myron said.
Win kept driving.
«I didn’t keep my eye on the prize. I pushed too hard.»
Win said nothing.
When Myron heard the first ring, he reached for his cellular. Then he remembered that Sam had taken it from him back at the estate. The ringing was coming from Win’s car phone. Win answered it. He said, «Hello.» He listened for a full minute without nodding or speaking or making any noise whatsoever. Then he said, «Thank you,» and hung up. He slowed the car’s speed and pulled over to the side of the road. The car glided to a stop. He shifted into park and snapped off the ignition.
Win turned toward Myron, his gaze as heavy as the ages.
For a fleeting moment Myron was puzzled. But only for a moment. Then his head fell to one side, and he let out a small groan. Win nodded. And something inside Myron’s chest dried up and blew away.
36
Peter Frankel, a six-year-old boy from Cedar Grove, New Jersey, had been missing for eight hours. Frantic, Paul and Missy Frankel, the boy’s parents, called the police. The Frankels’ backyard was up against a wooded water reservation area. The police and neighbors formed search parties. Police dogs were brought in. Neighbors even brought their own dogs along. Everyone wanted to help.
It did not take long to find Peter. Apparently the boy had crawled into a neighbor’s toolshed and fallen asleep. When he woke up, he pushed at the door, but it was stuck. Peter was scared, of course, but no worse for wear. Everyone was relieved. The town fire whistle blew, signaling that all searchers should return.
One dog didn’t heed the whistle. A German shepherd named Wally ran deeper into the woods and barked steadily until Officer Craig Reed, new with the canine corps, came to see what had upset Wally so.
When Reed arrived, he found Wally barking over a dead body.
The medical examiner was called in. His conclusion: the victim, a female in her twenties, had been dead less than twenty-four hours. Cause of death: two contact gunshot wounds to the back of the head.
An hour later Cheryl Sutton, cocaptain of the New York Dolphins, positively identified the body as belonging to her friend and teammate Brenda Slaughter.
The car was still parked in the same place.
«I want to take a drive,» Myron said. «Alone.»
Win wiped his eyes with two fingers. Then he stepped out of the car without a word. Myron slid into the driver’s seat. His foot pressed down on the accelerator. He passed trees and cars and signs and shops and homes and even people taking late-night walks. Music came from the car speakers. Myron did not bother turning it off. He kept driving. Images of Brenda tried to infiltrate, but Myron parried and sidestepped.
Not yet.
By the time he reached Esperanza’s apartment, it was one in the morning. She sat alone on the stoop, almost as though she were expecting him. He stopped and stayed in the car. Esperanza approached. He could see that she had been crying.
«Come inside,» she said.
Myron shook his head. «Win talked about leaps of faith,» he began.
Esperanza stayed still.
«I didn’t really understand what he meant. He kept talking about his own experiences with families. Marriage led to disaster, he said. It was that simple. He had seen countless people get married, and in almost every case they ended up crippling one another. It would take a huge leap of faith to make Win believe otherwise.»
Esperanza looked at him and kept crying. «You loved her,» she said.
He closed his eyes hard, waited, opened them. «I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about us. Everything I know – all my past experience – tells me that our partnership is doomed. But then I look at you. You are the finest person I know, Esperanza. You are my best friend. I love you.»
«I love you too,» she said.
«You’re worth taking the leap. I want you to stay.»
She nodded. «Good, because I can’t leave anyway.» She stepped closer to the car. «Myron, please come inside. We’ll talk, okay?»
He shook his head.
«I know what she meant to you.»
Again he closed his eyes tight. «I’ll be at Win’s in a few hours,» he said.
«Okay. I’ll wait for you there.»
He drove off before she could say more.
37
By the time Myron reached his third destination, it was almost four in the morning. A light was still on. No surprise really. He rang the doorbell. Mabel Edwards opened it. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe over a flannel nightgown. She started crying and reached out to hug him.
Myron stepped back.
«You killed them all,» he said. «First Anita. Then Horace. And then Brenda.»
Her mouth dropped open. «You don’t mean that.»
Myron took out his gun and placed it against the older woman’s forehead. «If you lie to me, I’ll kill you.»
Mabel’s gaze veered quickly from shock to cold defiance. «You wired, Myron?»
«No.»
«Doesn’t matter. You have a gun pointed to my head. I’ll say whatever you want.»
The gun nudged her back into the house. Myron closed the door. The photograph of Horace was still on the fireplace mantel. Myron looked at his old friend for a brief moment. Then he turned back to Mabel.
«You lied to me,» he said. «From the very beginning. Everything you told me was a lie. Anita never called you. She’s been dead for twenty years.»
«Who told you that?»
«Chance Bradford.»
She made a scoffing noise. «You shouldn’t believe a man like that.»
«The phone taps,» Myron said.
«What?»
«Arthur Bradford tapped your phone. For the last twenty years. He hoped Anita might call you. But we all know she never did.»
«That doesn’t mean anything,» Mabel said. «Maybe he just missed those calls.»
T don’t think so. But there’s more. You told me that Horace called you last week while he was hiding. He gave you this dire warning about not trying to look for him. But again Arthur Bradford had a tap on your phone. He was looking for Horace. Why didn’t he know anything about it?»
«Guess he messed up again.»
Myron shook his head. «I just paid a visit to a dumb thug named Mario,» he went on. T surprised him while he was sleeping, and I did some things to him I’m not proud of. By the time I was through, Mario admitted to all kinds- of crimes – including trying to get information from you with his skinny partner, just like you told me. But he swears he never punched you in the eye. And I believe him. Because it was Horace who hit you.»
Brenda had called him a sexist, and he had been wondering lately about his own race issues. Now he saw the truth. His semilatent prejudices had twisted on him like a snake seizing its own tail. Mabel Edwards. The sweet old black lady. Butterfly Mc-Queen. Miss Jane Pittman. Knitting needles and reading glasses. Big and kind and matronly. Evil could never lurk in so politically correct a form.
«You told me you moved into this house shortly after Anita disappeared. How did a widow from Newark afford it? You told me that your son worked his way through Yale Law School. Sorry, but part-time jobs do not pay that kind of money anymore.»
«So?»
He kept the gun trained on her. «You knew Horace wasn’t Brenda’s father from the beginning, didn’t you? Anita was your closest friend. You were still working at the Bradfords’ home. You must have known.»
She did not back down. «And what if I did?»
«Then you knew Anita ran away. She would have confided in you. And if she had run into a problem at the Holiday Inn, she would have called you, not Horace.»
«Could be,» Mabel said. «If you’re talking hypothetically, I guess this is all possible.»
Myron pressed the gun against her forehead, pushing her onto the couch. «Did you kill Anita for the money?»
Mabel smiled. Physically it was that same celestial smile, but now Myron thought he could see at least a hint of the decay looming beneath it. «Hypothetically, Myron, I guess I could have a bunch of motives. Money, yes – fourteen thousand dollars is a lot of money. Or sisterly love – Anita was going to leave Horace brokenhearted, right? She was going to take away the baby girl he thought was his. Maybe she was even going to tell Horace the truth about Brenda’s father. And maybe Horace would know that his only sister had helped keep the secret all those years.» She glared up at the gun. «Lots of motives, I’ll give you that.»