Drop Shot

Chapter 26

The morning.

Myron had not confronted Duane. He'd stumbled to Jessica's in something of a daze. He'd opened the door with his key and said, "I'm sorry. I had to-"

Jessica shushed him with a kiss. Then a bigger kiss. Hungrier kiss. Myron tried to fight off her advances, though some might call his struggle less than valiant.

He rolled over in the bed. Jessica was gently padding across the room. Naked. She slipped into a silk robe. He watched, as he always did, with utter fascination. "You're so hot," he said, "you make my teeth sweat."

She smiled. There is something that happens to men when Jessica looks at them. Shallow breathing. Fluttering stomach. A cruel longing. But her smile raised all those symptoms to the tenth power.

"Good morning," she said. She bent down and kissed him gently. "How are you feeling?"

"My ears are still popping from last night."

"Nice to know I still have the touch," she said.

The understatement of the millennium. "Tell me about your trip."

"Tell me about your murder first."

He did. Jess was a great listener. She never interrupted, except to ask the right question. She looked at him steadily without a lot of that phony head nodding or out-of-context smiling. Her eyes focused in on him as if he were the only person in the world. He felt lightheaded and happy and scared.

"This Valerie got to you," Jessica said when he finished.

"She had no one. Her life was in danger and she had no one."

"She had you."

"I only met her once. She wasn't even signed yet."

"Doesn't matter. She knew what you were. If I were in trouble, you'd be the person I'd run to." She tilted her head. "How did you know my room number and hotel?"

"Aaron. He was trying to be intimidating. He succeeded."

"Aaron threatened to hurt me?"

"You, me, my mom, Esperanza."

She hesitated, thinking. "Esperanza would be my choice. I mean, if it has to be one of us."

"I'll tell him." He took her hand. "I'm glad you're home."

"No third degree?"

Myron shook his head.

"But I owe you an explanation."

"I don't want one," he said. "I just want to be with you. I love you. I've always loved you. We are soul mates."

"Soul mates?"

He nodded.

"When did you decide this?" she asked.

"A long time ago."

"So why not tell me before now?"

He shrugged. "I didn't want to scare you off."

"And now?"

"Now it's more important to tell you how I feel."

The room was still. "What am I supposed to say to that?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"I do love you, Myron. You know that."

"I know."

Silence. A long silence.

Jessica crossed the room. Naked. She was not self-conscious about her body. Then again, she had no reason to be. "It seems to me," she began, "there are a lot of weird connections with this murder. But there is one overriding constant."

Change of subjects. That was okay. Enough had been said for one day. "What?" Myron asked.

"Tennis," she said. "Alexander Cross is killed at a tennis club. Valerie Simpson is murdered at the national tennis center. Valerie and Duane have an affair – both are professional tennis players. Those two kids who supposedly killed Alexander Cross – what's their names?"

"Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller."

"Swade and Yeller," she repeated. "They were both up to no good at a tennis club. The Ache brothers and Aaron are connected to an agency who deals with tennis players. That leaves us with Deanna Yeller."

"What about her?"

"Her sleeping with Duane. It can't just be a coincidence."

"So?"

"So how would she have met Duane?"

"I don't know," Myron said.

"Does she play tennis?"

"What if she does?"

"Keeps things constant." She stopped. "I don't know. I'm ranting. It's just that everything circles back to tennis – except for Deanna Yeller."

Myron thought about it a moment. Nothing clicked, but something did rumble somewhere in the back of his brain.

"Just a thought," she said.

He sat up. "Before you said 'supposedly' killed Alexander Cross. What did you mean?"

"What real evidence do you have that Swade and Yeller murdered the Cross kid?" she asked. "They might have just been convenient scapegoats. Think about it a second. Yeller was conveniently killed by the police. Swade has conveniently fallen off the face of the earth. Who better to take the fall?"

"Then who do you think killed Alexander Cross?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Probably Swade and Yeller. But who knows for sure?"

More rumbling in the brain. But still nothing surfaced. Myron checked his watch. Seven-thirty.

"You in a rush?" she asked.

"A little."

"I thought Duane Richwood doesn't play until one," she said.

"I'm trying to land a kid named Eddie Crane. He's playing in the juniors at ten."

"Can I come along?" she asked.

"Sure."

"What are your chances of landing him?" she asked.

"I think they're pretty good. His father might be a problem."

"The father doesn't like you?"

"I think he'd prefer a bigger agency," Myron said.

"Should I smile sweetly at him?" she asked.

Myron thought a moment. "Flash a little cleavage. I'm not sure this guy's into subtle."

"Anything to get a client," she said.

"Maybe you should practice a little first," he said.

"Practice what?"

"Flashing cleavage. I'm told it's something of an art."

"I see. And on whom should I practice?"

Myron spread his hands. "I'm willing to volunteer my services."

"The sacrifices you make for clients," she said. "It's heroic, really."

"So what do you say?"

Jessica gave him a look. The look, actually. Myron felt it in his toes, to name one place. She leaned toward him. "No."

"No?"

She put her lips to his ear. "Let's try out my new oils first"

One word: Yowzer.