Drop Shot

Chapter 33

Myron and Jessica drove out to New Jersey for dinner at Baumgart's. They ate there at least twice a week. Baumgart's was a strange combination. For half a century it had been a popular soda fountain and deli, the kind of place neighbors went for lunch and Archie took Veronica for an after-school smooch. Eight years ago a Chinese immigrant named Peter Li bought the place and turned it into the best Chinese around – but without getting rid of the old soda fountain. You could still twirl on a stool at the counter, surrounded by chrome and blenders and ice-cream scoops in hot water. You could order a milkshake with your dim sum and have french fries with your General Tso's chicken. When they first lived together, Myron and Jess had come at least once a week. Now that they were back together, the tradition had resumed.

"It's the Alexander Cross murder," Myron said. "I can't stop thinking about it."

Before Jess could answer, Peter Li arrived. Myron and Jess never ordered. Peter chose for them. "Coral shrimp for the beautiful lady," he said, putting down her plate, "and Baumgart's Szechuan chicken and eggplant for the man not fit to grovel at her feet."

"Good one," Myron said. "Very funny."

Peter bowed. "In my country they consider me a man of great humor."

"Must be a lot of laughs in your country." Myron looked down at his plate. "I hate eggplant, Peter."

"You'll eat it and beg for more," he said. He smiled at Jess. "Enjoy." He left.

"Okay," Jess said, "so what about Alexander Cross?"

"It's not Alexander, per se. It's actually Curtis Yeller. Everyone says he was a great kid. His mom was very involved, loved him like mad, the whole nine yards. Now she acts like nothing happened."

"'There's a grief that can't be spoken,'" Jessica replied. "'There's a pain goes on and on.'"

Myron thought a second. "Les Mis?" The ongoing game of Guess the Quote.

"Correct, but what character said it?"

"Valjean?"

"No, sorry. Marius."

Myron nodded. "Either way," he said, "it's a lousy quote."

"I know. I was listening to the tape in the car," she said. "But it might not be that far off the mark."

"A grief that can't be spoken?"

"Yes."

He took a sip of water. "So it make sense to you, the mother acting like nothing happened."

Jessica shrugged. "It's been six years. What do you want her to do – break down and cry every time you come around?"

"No," Myron said, "but I'd think she'd want to know who killed her son."

Before touching her shrimp, Jessica reached across the table and forked a piece of Myron's chicken. Not the eggplant. The chicken. "Maybe she already knows," Jess said.

"What, you think she's being bought off too?"

Jess shrugged. "Maybe. But that's not what's really bugging you."

"Oh?"

Jess chewed daintily. Even the way she chewed food was a thing to behold. "Seeing Duane in that hotel room with Curtis Yeller's mother," she replied. "That's what's got to you."

"You must admit it's a hell of a coincidence," he said.

"Do you have a theory?" she asked.

Myron thought a moment. "No."

Jessica forked another piece of chicken. "You could ask Duane," she said.

"Sure. I could just say, 'Gee, Duane, I was following you around and noticed you're shacking up with an older woman. Care to tell me about it?'"

"Yeah, that could be a problem," she agreed. "Of course, you could approach it from the other direction."

"Deanna Yeller?"

Jessica nodded.

Myron took a taste of his chicken. Before Jess finished the whole thing. "Worth a try," he said. "You want to come along?"

"I'll scare her off," Jess said. "Just drop me off at my place."

They finished eating. Myron even ate the eggplant. It was pretty good. Peter brought them a rich chocolate dessert – the kind of dessert you could gain weight just looking at. Jess dove in. Myron held back. They drove back over the George Washington Bridge to the Henry Hudson and down the west side. He dropped her off at her loft on Spring Street in Soho. She leaned back into the car.

"You'll come by after?" she said.

"Sure. Put on that little French maid's uniform and wait"

"I don't have a French maid's uniform."

"Oh."

"Maybe we can pick one up in the morning," she said. "In the meantime I'll find something suitable."

"Groovy," Myron said.

Jess got out of the car then. She made her way up the stairs to the third floor. Her loft took up half the floor. She turned the key and entered. When she flicked on the lights she was startled to see Aaron lounging on her couch.

Before she could move, another man – a man with a fishnet shirt – came up behind her and put a gun to her temple. A third man – a black man – locked the door and turned the dead bolt He too had a gun.

Aaron smiled at her. "Hello, Jessica."