The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (78 page)

“Got anything else, Rolly?”

“No. You?”

“Nothing. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Can hardly wait, Hutch,” Dimonte said. “You know something? Krinsky’s so young he doesn’t even remember the show. Sad, ain’t it?”

“Today’s youth,” Myron said. “They got no culture.”

Myron hung up. Win continued to study his shot in the mirror. “Fill me in please,” he said. Myron did. When he finished, Win said, “This Fiona, the ex-playmate. She sounds like a perfect candidate for a Windsor Horne Lockwood III interrogation.”

“Uh huh,” Myron said. “But why don’t you first tell me about the Windsor Horne Lockwood III interrogation of Thumper?”

Win frowned at the mirror, adjusted his grip. “She is rather close mouthed,” he said. “So I took a distinctive tack.”

“What tack is that?”

Win told him about their conversation. Myron just shook his head. “So you followed her?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And there is not much to report. She went to TC’s house after the game. She slept over. No calls of any consequence were made from his residence. Either she was not rattled by our conversation, or she doesn’t know anything.”

“Or,” Myron added, “she knew she was being followed.”

Win frowned again. He either didn’t like Myron’s suggestion or he’d spotted a problem with his swing. Probably the latter. He turned away from the mirror and glanced at Myron’s desk. “Is that the Raven Brigade?”

“Yes. One of them looks like you.” Myron pointed to Cole Whiteman.

Win studied it for a moment. “While the man is indeed handsome, he lacks both my sense of style and my striking, debonair good looks.”

“Not to mention your humility.”

Win put out his hand. “Then you understand.”

Myron looked at the picture again. He thought again about what Dimonte said about Professor Sidney Bowman’s daily routine. Then it came to him all at once. Ice flooded his veins in a gush. In his mind he changed around Cole’s features a bit, imagined distortions from plastic surgery and twenty years of aging. It didn’t fit exactly, but it was close enough.

Liz Gorman had disguised herself by perverting her most distinguishing characteristic. Wouldn’t it make sense to assume that Cole Whiteman had done the same?

“Myron?”

He looked up. “I think I know where to find Cole Whiteman.”

Chapter 30

Hector was not thrilled to see Myron back at the Parkview Diner.

“We think we found Sally’s accomplice,” Myron said.

Hector cleaned the counter with a rag.

“His name is Norman Lowenstein. Do you know him?”

Hector shook his head.

“He’s a homeless man. He hangs out in the back and uses your pay phone.”

Hector stopped cleaning. “You think I’d let a homeless man in my kitchen?” he said. “And we don’t even have a back. Take a look.”

The answer did not surprise Myron. “He was sitting at the counter when I was here the other day,” he tried. “Unshaven. Long black hair. Tattered beige overcoat.”

Still working the rag over the Formica, Hector nodded. “I think I know who you mean. Black sneakers?”

“Right.”

“He comes in a lot. But I don’t know his name.”

“Did you ever see him talk to Sally?”

Hector shrugged. “Maybe. When she was his waitress. I really don’t know.”

“When was he here last?”

“I haven’t seen him since the day you came in,” Hector said.

“And you never met him?”

“No.”

“Or know anything about him?”

“No.”

Myron wrote down his phone number on a scrap of paper. “If you see him, please call. There’s a thousand-dollar reward.”

Hector studied the phone number. “This your work number? At AT&T?”

“No. It’s my personal phone.”

“Uh huh,” Hector said. “I called AT&T after you left last time. There’s no such thing as Y511 and there’s no employee named Bernie Worley.” He did not look particularly upset, but he wasn’t dancing the hula either. He just waited, watching Myron with steady eyes.

“I lied to you,” Myron said. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s your real name?” he asked.

“Myron Bolitar.” He gave the man one of his cards. Hector studied it for a moment.

“You’re a sports agent?”

“Yes.”

“What does a sports agent have to do with Sally?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You shouldn’t have lied like that. It wasn’t right.”

“I know,” Myron said. “I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t important.”

Hector put the card in his shirt pocket. “I have customers.” He turned away. Myron debated explaining further, but there was no point.

Win was waiting for him on the sidewalk. “Well?”

“Cole Whiteman is a homeless man who calls himself Norman Lowenstein.”

Win waved down a taxi. A driver in a turban slowed down. They got in. Myron told him where to go. The driver nodded; as he did, his turban buffed the taxi’s ceiling. Sitar music blew forth from the front speakers, plucking at the air with razor-sharp nails. Awful. It made Benny and His Magical Sitar sound like Itzhak Perlman. Still it was preferable to Yanni.

“He looks nothing like that old picture,” Myron said. “He’s had plastic surgery. He grew his hair and dyed it jet black.”

They waited at a traffic light. A blue TransAm pulled up next to them, one of those souped-up models that hip-hopped up and down while playing music loud enough to crack the earth’s core. The taxi actually started shaking from the decibel level. The light turned green. The TransAm sped ahead.

“I started thinking about how Liz Gorman had disguised herself,” Myron continued. “She’d taken her defining attribute and stood it on its head. Cole was the well-bred, clean-cut rich boy. What better way to stand that on its head than to become an unkempt vagrant?”

“A
Jewish
unkempt vagrant,” Win corrected.

“Right. So when Dimonte told me that Professor Bowman liked to hang out with the homeless, something clicked.”

The turban barked, “Route.”

“What?”

“Route. Henry Hudson or Broadway.”

“Henry Hudson,” Win replied. He glanced over at Myron. “Continue.”

“This is what I think happened,” Myron said. “Cole Whiteman suspected Liz Gorman was in some kind of trouble. Maybe she hadn’t called him or met up with him. Something. The problem was, he couldn’t check it out himself. Whiteman hasn’t survived underground all these years by being stupid. He knew that if the police found her, they’d set a trap for him—the way they’re doing right now.”

“So,” Win said, “he gets you to go in for him.”

Myron nodded. “He hangs around the diner, hoping to hear something about ‘Sally.’ When he overhears me talking to Hector, he figures I’m his best bet. He gives me this weird story about how he knows her from using the phone at the diner. Claimed they were lovers. The story didn’t really mesh, but I didn’t bother questioning it. Anyway, he takes me to her place. Once I’m inside, he hides and waits to see what happens. He sees the cops come. He probably even sees the body being taken out—all from a safe distance. It confirms what he probably suspected all along. Liz Gorman is dead.”

Win thought about it a moment. “And now you think Professor Bowman may be contacting him when he visits with the homeless?”

“Yes.”

“So our next goal is to find Cole Whiteman.”

“Yes.”

“Amongst the wretched unbathed in some godforsaken shelter?”

“Yes.”

Win looked pained. “Oh, goodie.”

“We could try to set a trap for him,” Myron said. “But I think it’ll take too long.”

“Set a trap how?”

“I think he’s the one who called me on the phone last night,” Myron said. “Whatever blackmail scheme Liz Gorman was running, it’s natural to think that Whiteman was in on it too.”

“But why you?” Win asked. “If he has dirt on Greg Downing, why would you be the target of his extortion?”

It was a question that had been gnawing at Myron too. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “The best guess I can come up with is that Whiteman recognized me at the diner. He probably figures that I’m closely connected to Greg Downing. When he couldn’t reach Greg, he decided to try me.”

Myron’s cellular phone rang. He flicked it on and said hello.

“Hey, Starsky.” It was Dimonte.

“I’m Hutch,” Myron said. “You’re Starsky.”

“Either way,” Dimonte said, “I think you’ll want to get your butt over to the precinct pronto.”

“You got something?”

“Only if you call a picture of the killer leaving Gorman’s apartment something,” Dimonte said.

Myron almost dropped the phone. “For real?”

“Yep. And you’ll never guess what.”

“What?”

“It’s a she.”

Chapter 31

“Here’s the deal,” Dimonte said. They were threading their way through a veritable United Nations of cops, witnesses, and whatnots. Win was waiting outside. He didn’t like cops, and they didn’t exactly feel like taking him out for ice cream. Best for all if he kept his distance. “We got a partial image of the perp on a videotape. Problem is, it’s not enough to make an ID. I thought maybe you’d recognize her.”

“What kind of videotape?”

“There’s a shipping garage on Broadway between One Hundred Tenth and One Hundred Eleventh streets, east side of the block,” Dimonte said. He remained a pace ahead of Myron, moving briskly. He kept turning behind him to make sure Myron was keeping up. “They handle home electronics. You know how that is—every worker steals like it’s a Constitutional right. So the company set up surveillance cameras all over the place. Videotape everything.” Still moving he shook his head, awarded Myron a toothpickless smile and added, “Good old big brother. Every once in a while somebody tapes a crime instead of a bunch of cops beating up a perp, you know what I’m saying?”

They entered a small interrogation room. Myron looked into a mirror. He knew it was one-way glass—so did anybody with even a passing knowledge of cop shows or movies. Myron doubted anybody was on the other side, but he stuck his tongue out just in case. Mr. Mature. Krinsky was standing by a television and a VCR. For the second time today, Myron was going to watch a video. He trusted this one would be more tame.

“Hey, Krinsky,” Myron said.

Krinsky barely nodded. Mr. Loquacious.

Myron looked over at Dimonte. “I still don’t see how a shipping garage camera could have gotten the killer on tape.”

“One of the cameras is by the truck entrance,” Dimonte explained. “Just to make sure nothing falls off the truck as it’s leaving, if you know what I mean. The camera catches part of the sidewalk. You can see people walking by.” He leaned up against the wall and motioned Myron to sit in a chair. “You’ll see what I mean.”

Myron sat. Krinsky hit the play button. Black and white again. No sound again. But this time the shot was from above. Myron saw the front end of a truck and behind it, a glimpse of the sidewalk. Not many people walked by; the ones that did were barely more than distant silhouettes.

“How did you come up with this?” Myron asked.

“With what?”

“This tape.”

“I always check for this stuff,” Dimonte said, hitching up his pants by belt loops. “Parking garages, storage houses, any of those places. They all have surveillance cameras nowadays.”

Myron nodded. “Good work, Rolly. I’m impressed.”

“Wow,” Dimonte said, “now I can die happy.”

Everyone’s a wiseass. Myron turned his attention back to the screen. “So how long is each tape?”

“Twelve hours,” Dimonte replied. “They change them at nine
A.M
. and
P.M
. Eight camera set-up. They keep each tape for three weeks. Then they tape over them.” He pointed his fingers. “Here she comes now. Krinsky.”

Krinsky pressed a button and the tape froze.

“The woman who just entered the picture. On the right. Heading south, which would be away from the scene.”

Myron saw a blurry image. He couldn’t see a face or even gather much about her height. She wore high heels and a long overcoat with a frilly neck. Hard to tell much about her weight either. The hair however was familiar. He kept his tone neutral. “Yeah, I see her.”

“Look at her right hand,” he said.

Myron did. There was something dark and long in it. “I can’t make it out.”

“We got it blown up. Krinsky.”

Krinsky handed Myron two large black and white photographs. The woman’s head was enlarged in the first one, but you still couldn’t see any facial features. In the second picture, the long dark object in her hand was clearer.

“We think it’s a plastic garbage bag wrapped around something,” Dimonte said. “Kind of an odd shape, wouldn’t you say?”

Myron looked at the photo and nodded. “You figure it’s covering up a baseball bat.”

“Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Myron said.

“We found plastic garbage bags just like that one in Gorman’s kitchen.”

“And probably half the kitchens in New York City,” Myron added.

“True enough. Now look at the date and time on the screen.”

On the top left-hand side of the screen, a digital clock read 02:12.32
A.M
. The date was early Sunday morning. Just hours after Liz Gorman had been at the Swiss Chalet bar with Greg Downing.

“Did the camera get her coming the other way?” Myron asked.

“Yeah, but it’s not too clear. Krinsky.”

Krinsky hit the rewind button. Several seconds later, he stopped and the picture came back on. The time now read 01:41.12. A little more than thirty minutes earlier.

“Coming now,” Dimonte said.

The image almost flew past. Myron only recognized the woman by the long overcoat with the frilly neck. This time, she was carrying nothing in her hand. Myron said, “Let me see the other part again. All the way through.”

Dimonte nodded at Krinsky. Krinsky found it and hit play. While Myron still couldn’t see the woman’s face, her walk was another matter. And a person’s walk could be fairly distinctive. Myron felt his heart crawl up into his throat.

Dimonte was studying him through squinting eyes. “You recognize her, Bolitar?”

Myron shook his head. “No,” he lied.