The Final Detail

Jess

Don't. I called for a reason.

Myron kept quiet.

Clu called you several times. At the loft, I mean.

Myron had guessed that.

He sounded pretty desperate. I told him I didn't know where you were. He said that he had to

find you. That he was worried about you.

About me?

Yes. He came by once, looking like absolute shit. He grilled me for twenty minutes.

About what?

About where you were. He said that he had to reach you for your sake more than his. When I

insisted that I didn't know where you were, he started scaring me.

Scaring you how?

He asked how I knew you weren't dead.

Clu said those words? About my being dead?

Yes. I actually called Win when he left.

What did Win say?

That you were safe and that I shouldn't worry.

What else?

I'm talking about Win here, Myron. He said and I quote 'he's safe, don't worry.' Then he

hung up. I let it drop. I figured that Clu was engaging in a little hyperbole to get my attention.

That was probably it, Myron said.

Yeah.

More silence.

How are you? she asked.

I'm good. And you?

I'm trying to get over you, she said.

He could barely breathe. Jess, we should talk

Don't, she said again. I don't want to talk, okay? Let me put it simply: If you change your

mind, call me. You know the number. If not, have a nice life.

Click.

Myron put down the phone. He took several deep breaths. He looked at the phone. So simple. He

did indeed know the number. How easy it would be to dial it.

Worthless.

He looked up at Dr. Czerski. Pardon?

She held up the diskette. You said there was graphic on it?

Myron quickly explained what he had seen.

It's not there now, she said. It must have deleted itself.

How?

You say the program ran automatically?

Yes.

It probably self-extracted, self-ran, and then self-deleted. Simple.

Aren't there special programs so you can undelete a file?

Yes. But this file did more than that. It reformatted the whole diskette. Probably the final

command in the chain.

Meaning?

Whatever you saw is gone forever.

Is there anything else on the diskette?

No.

Nothing we can trace? No unique characteristics or anything?

She shook her head. Typical diskette. Sold in every software store in the country. Standard

formatting.

How about fingerprints?

That's not my department.

And, Myron knew, it would be a waste of time. If someone had gone to the trouble of destroying

any computer evidence, chances were pretty good that all fingerprints had been wiped off too.

I'm busy. Dr. Czerski handed him back the diskette and left without so much as a back glance.

Myron stared at it and shook his head.

What the hell was going on here?

The cell phone rang again. Myron picked it up.

Mr. Bolitar? It was Big Cyndi.

Yes.

I am going through Mr. Clu Haid's phone records, as you requested.

And?

Are you coming back to the office, Mr. Bolitar?

I'm on the way there now.

There is something here you might find bizarre.

Chapter 12

When the elevator opened, Big Cyndi was waiting for him. She'd finally scrubbed her face clean.

All the makeup was gone. Must have used a sand blaster. Or a jack-hammer.

She greeted him by saying, Very bizarre, Mr. Bolitar.

What's that?

Per your instructions, I was checking through Clu Haid's phone records, she said. Then she

shook her head. Very bizarre.

What's bizarre?

She handed him a sheet of paper. I highlighted the number in yellow.

Myron looked at it while walking into this office. Big Cyndi followed, closing the door behind

her. The number was in the 212 area code. That meant Manhattan. Other than that, it was totally

unfamiliar. What about it?

It's for a nightclub.

Which one?

Take A Guess.

Pardon?

That's the name of the place, Big Cyndi said. Take A Guess. It's two blocks down from

Leather-N-Lust. Leather-N-Lust was the S&M bar that employed Big Cyndi as a bouncer.

Motto: Hurt The Ones You Love.

You know this place? he asked.

A little.

What kind of club is it?

Cross-dressers and transvestites, mostly. But they have a varied crowd.

Myron rubbed his temples. When you say varied

It's sort of an interesting concept really, Mr. Bolitar.

I'm sure.

When you go to Take A Guess, you never know for sure what you're getting. You know what I

mean?

Myron didn't have a clue. Pardon my sexual naivete, but could you explain?

Big Cyndi scrunched her face in thought. It was not a pretty sight. In part, it's what you might expect: men dress like women, women dress like men. But then sometimes a woman is just a woman and a man is just a man. Follow?

Myron nodded. Not even a little.

That's why it's called Take A Guess. You never know for sure. For instance, you might see a

beautiful woman who is unusually tall with a platinum wig. So you figure it's a he-she. But and

this is what makes Take A Guess special maybe it's not.

Not what?

A he-she. A transvestite or transsexual. Maybe it is indeed a beautiful woman who put on extra

high heels and a wig to confuse you.

And the reason for this is?

That's the fun of the place. The doubt. There's a sign inside, TAKE A GUESS: IT'S ABOUT

AMBIGUITY, NOT ANDROGYNY.

Catchy.

But that's the idea. It's a place of mystery. You bring someone home. You think it's a beautiful

woman or a handsome man. But until the pants are all the way down, you're never sure. People

come dressed to fool. You just never know until well, you saw The Crying Game.

Myron made a face. And this is a desirable thing?

If you're into that, sure.

Into what?

She smiled. Exactly.

Myron nibbed the temples again. So the patrons don't have a problem with he searched for

the right word, but there wasn't one so a gay guy, for example, doesn't get pissed off when he

finds out he brought home a woman?

It's why you go. The thrill. The uncertainty. The mystery.

Sort of the sexual equivalent of a grab bag.

Right.

Except in this case, you can really be surprised by what you grab.

Big Cyndi considered that. ' If you really think about it, Mr. Bolitar, there can be only one of

two things.

He was no longer so sure.

But I like your grab bag analogy, Big Cyndi continued. You know what you're bringing to the party, but you have no idea what you're going to take home. One time a guy left with what he thought was an overweight woman. It turned out that it was a guy with a midget hiding under the dress.

Please tell me you're joking.

Big Cyndi just looked at him.

So, Myron continued, you, uh, frequent this place?

I've been a couple of times. But not recently.

Why not?

Two reasons. First, they compete with Leather-N-Lust. It's a different crowd, but we still draw

from similar markets.

Myron nodded. The pervert pool.

They're not hurting anybody.

At least nobody who doesn't want to be hurt.

She pouted, not a great look on a three-hundred-pound wrestler, especially without her

mortarlike makeup. Es-peranza is right.

About?

You can be very closed-minded.

Yeah, I'm a regular Jerry Falwell. So what's the second reason?

She hesitated. I'm obviously for sexual freedom. I don't care what you're doing as long as it's

consensual. And I've done some wild things myself, Mr. Bolitar. She looked straight at him.

Very wild.

Myron cringed, fearing she might share details.

But Take A Guess started drawing the wrong kind of crowd, she said.

Gee, that's surprising, Myron said. You'd think a place like that would be a natural for

vacationing families.

She shook her head. You are so repressed, Mr. Bolitar.

Because I like to know my partner's gender before getting naked?

Because of your attitude. People like you cause sexual hang-ups. Society becomes sexually

repressed so repressed, in fact, that they cross the line between sex and violence, between playacting and real danger. They reach a stage where they get off by hurting people who do not want to be hurt.

And Take A Guess attracts that kind of crowd?

More than most.

Myron sat back and rubbed his face with both hands. He started hearing brain clicks. This might

explain a few things, he said.

Like what?

Why Bonnie finally threw Clu out for good. It's one thing to have a string of girlfriends. But if

Clu was frequenting a place like this, if he started leaning toward again, what would be the word? toward whatever. And if Bonnie found out, well, it would explain the legal separation. He nodded to himself as he heard more internal clicks. And it would explain her odd behavior today.

How so?

She made a point of asking me not to dig too deeply. She just wanted me to clear Esperanza and

then drop the investigation.

Big Cyndi nodded. She was afraid this would get out.

Right. If something like this went public, what would it do to her kids?

Another thought floating through Myron's brain got snagged on some jagged rock. He looked at

Big Cyndi. I assume that Take A Guess appeals mostly to bisexuals. I mean, if you're not sure

what you're getting, who better than someone who wouldn't care?

More like ambisexuals, Big Cyndi said. Or people who want some mystery. Who want

something new.

But bisexuals too.

Yes, of course.

How about Esperanza?

Big Cyndi bristled. What about her?

Did she frequent this place?

I wouldn't know, Mr. Bolitar. And I don't see the relevance.

I'm not asking because it gives me jollies. You want me to help her, right? That means digging

where we don't want to dig.

I understand that, Mr. Bolitar. But you know her better than I do.

Not this side of her, Myron said.

Esperanza is a private person. I really don't know. She usually has a steady, but I don't know if

she's gone there or not.

Myron nodded. Didn't matter much. If Clu had been hanging out in such a place, it would give Hester Crim-stein more reasonable doubt. A rough trade place complete with a reputation for violence it was a natural recipe for disaster. Clu could have brought home the wrong package. Or been the wrong package. And there was the cash to consider. Blackmail money? Did a customer recognize him? Threaten him? Videotape him?

Yep, lots of murky reasonable doubt.

And a good place to search for the elusive girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or in-between friend. He

shook his head. It was not a question of the ethics or moral dilemma for Myron; deviancy simply

confused him. Repugnancy aside, he didn't get it. Lack of imagination, he supposed.

I'll have to pay the Take A Guess a visit, he said.

Not alone, Big Cyndi said. I'll go with you.

Subtle surveillance was out. Fine.

And not now. Take A Guess doesn't open until eleven.

Okay. We'll go tonight then.

I have just the outfit, she said. What are you going to go as?

A repressed heterosexual man, he said. All I'll have to do is slip on my Rockports. He

looked at the phone record again. You have another number highlighted in blue.

She nodded. You mentioned an old friend named Billy Lee Palms.

This his number?

No. Mr. Palms doesn't exist anywhere. No phone listing. And he hasn't paid taxes in four

years.

So whose number is this?

Mr. Palms's parents. Mr. Haid called them twice in the past month.

Myron checked the address. Westchester. He vaguely remembered meeting Billy Lee's parents

during a Family Day at Duke. He looked at his watch. It would take an hour to get there. He grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator.

Chapter 13

Myron's car, the business's Ford Taurus, had been confiscated by the police, so he rented a maroon Mercury Cougar. He hoped the women would be able to resist. When he started the car, the radio was tuned to Lite FM 106.7. Patti LaBelle and Michael McDonald were crooning a sad lite staple entitled On My Own. This once blissfully happy couple were breaking up. Tragic. So tragic that, as Michael McDonald put it, Now we're up to talking divorce and we weren't even married.

Myron shook his head. For this Michael McDonald left the Doobie Brothers?

In college Billy Lee Palms had been the quintessential party boy. He had sneaky good looks, jet black hair, and a magnetic, albeit oily, combination of charisma and machismo, the kind of thing that played well with young coeds away from home for the first time. At Duke the frat brothers had dubbed him Otter, the pseudosuave character in the movie Animal House, It fitted. Billy Lee was also a great baseball player, a catcher who managed to reach the major leagues for a half season, riding the bench for the Baltimore Orioles the year they won the World Series.

But that was years ago.

Myron knocked on the door. Seconds later the door swung open fast and wide. No warning, nothing. Strange. In this day and age people looked through peepholes or cracks in chain-held doors or at the very least asked who it was.

A woman he vaguely recognized as Mrs. Palms said, Yes? She was small with a squirrel mouth and eyes that bulged like something behind them was pushing to get out. Her hair was tied back, but several strands escaped and drooped in front of her face. She pushed them back with splayed fingers.

Are you Mrs. Palms? he asked.

Yes.

My name is Myron Bolitar. I went to Duke with Billy Lee.

Her voice dropped an octave or two. Do you know where he is?

No, ma'am. Is he missing?

She frowned and stepped back. Come in, please.

Myron moved into the foyer. Mrs. Palms was already heading down a corridor. She pointed to her right without turning around or breaking stride. Just go into Sarah's wedding room. I'll be there in a second.

Yes, ma'am.

Sarah's wedding room?

He followed where she had pointed. When he turned the corner, he heard himself give a little gasp. Sarah's wedding room. The decor was run-of-the-mill living room, something out of a furniture store circular. An off-white couch and matching love seat formed a broken L, probably the monthly special, $695 for both, the couch might fold out into a Serta sleeper, something like that. The coffee table was a semi oak square, a short stack of attractive, unread magazines on one end, silk flowers in the middle, a couple of coffee books on the other end. The wall-to-wall carpeting was light beige, and there were two torchere lamps a la the Pottery Barn.

But the walls were anything but ordinary.

Myron had seen plenty of houses with photographs on the walls. They were hardly uncommon. He had even been in a house or two where the photographs dominated rather than complemented the surroundings. That too would hardly give him reason to pause. But this was beyond surreal. Sarah's Wedding Room heck, it should be capitalized was a re-creation of that event. Literally. Color wedding photographs had been blown up to life size and pasted on as a wallpaper substitute. The bride and groom smiled at him invitingly from the right. On the left, Billy Lee in a tux, probably the best man or maybe just an usher, smiled at him. Mrs. Palms, dressed in a summer gown, danced with her husband. In front of him were the wedding tables, lots of them. Guests looked up and smiled at him all life size. It was as though a panoramic wedding photo had been blown up to the size of Rembrandt's Night Watch. People slow-danced. A band played. There was a minister of sorts and floral arrangements and a wedding cake and fine china and white linen again, all life size.

Please sit down.

Myron turned to Mrs. Palms. Was it the real Mrs. Palms or one of the reproductions? No, she was casually dressed. The real McCoy. He almost reached out and touched her to make sure. Thank you, he said.

This is our daughter Sarah's wedding. She was married four years ago.

I see.

It was a very special day for us.

I'm sure.

We had it at the Manor in West Orange. You know it?

I was bar mitzvahed there, Myron said.

Really? Your parents must have very fond memories of the day.

Yes. But now he wondered. I mean, Mom and Dad kept most of the photos in an album.

Mrs. Palms smiled at him. It's odd, I know, but oh, I've explained this a thousand times. What's one more? She sighed, signaled to a couch. Myron sat. She did likewise.

Mrs. Palms folded her hands and looked at him with the blank stare of a woman who sat too close to life's big screen. People take pictures of their most special times, she began too earnestly. They want to capture the important moments. They want to enjoy them and savor them and relive them. But that's not what they do. They take the picture, they look at it once, and then they stick it in a box and forget about it. Not me. I remember the good times. I wallow in them re-create them, if I can. After all, we live for those moments, don't we, Myron?

He nodded.

So when I sit in this room, it warms me. I'm surrounded by one of the happiest moments in my life. I've created the most positive aura imaginable.

He nodded again.

I'm not a big art fan, she continued. I don't relish the idea of hanging impersonal lithographs on the walls. What's the point of looking at images of people and places I don't know? I don't care that much about interior design. And I don't like antiques or phony-baloney Martha Stewart stuff. But do you know what I do find beautiful? She stopped and looked at him expectantly.

Myron picked up his cue. What?

My family, she replied. My family is beautiful to me. My family is art. Does that make sense to you, Myron?

Yes. Oddly enough, it did.

So I call this Sarah's Wedding Room. I know that's silly. Naming rooms. Blowing up old photographs and using them as wallpaper. But all the rooms are like this. Billy Lee's bedroom upstairs I call the Catcher's Mitt. It's where he still stays when he's here. I think it comforts him. She raised her eyebrows. Would you like to see it?

Sure.

She practically leaped off the couch. The stairwell was plastered with giant, seemingly old black and whites. A stern-faced couple in wedding gear. A soldier in full uniform. This is the Generational Wall. That's my great-grandparents over there. And Hank's. My husband. He died three years ago. I m sorry.

She shrugged. This stairwell goes back three generations. I think it's a nice way of remembering our ancestors.

Myron didn't argue. He looked at the photograph of the young couple, just starting out their life together, probably a little scared. Now they were dead.

Deep Thoughts by Myron Bolitar.

I know what you're thinking, she said. But is it any stranger than hanging oils of dead relatives? Just more lifelike.

Hard to argue.

The walls in the upstairs corridor featured some sort of costume party from the seventies. Lots of leisure suits and bell-bottoms. Myron didn't ask, and Mrs. Palms didn't explain. Just as well. She turned left and Myron trailed her into the Catcher's Mitt. It lived up to its billing. Billy Lee's baseball life was laid out like a Hall of Fame display room. It started with Billy Lee in Little League, squatting in his catcher's stance, his smile huge and strangely confident for so young a child. The years flashed by. Little League to Babe Ruth League to high school to Duke, ending with his one glorious year with the Orioles, Billy Lee proudly showing off his'World Series ring. Myron studied the Duke photographs. One had been taken out in front of Psi U, their frat house.

A uniformed Billy Lee had his arm around Clu, plenty of frat brothers in the background, including, he saw now, him and Win. Myron remembered when the picture had been taken. The baseball team had just beaten Florida State to win the national championship. The party had lasted three days.

Mrs. Palms, where is Billy Lee?

I don't know.

When you say you don't know

He ran off, she interrupted. Again.

He's done this before?

She stared at the wall. Her eyes were glassy now. Maybe Billy Lee doesn't find this room

comforting, she said softly. Maybe it reminds him of what could have been. She turned to

him. When was the last time you saw Billy Lee?

Myron tried to remember. It's been a long time.

How come?

We were never that close.

She pointed to the wall. That's you? In the background?

That's right.

Billy Lee spoke about you.

Really?

He said you were a sports agent. Clu's agent, if I'm not mistaken.

Yes.

You stayed friendly with Clu then?

Yes.

She nodded as though this explained everything. Why are you looking for my son, Myron?

He was not sure how to explain. You've heard about Clu's death?

Yes, of course. That poor boy. A lost soul. Like Billy Lee in many ways. I think that's why they

were drawn to each other.

Have you seen Clu lately?

Why do you want to know?

In for a penny and all that. I'm trying to find out who killed him.

Her body stiffened as though his words held a small electric shock. And you think Billy Lee

had something to do with it?

No, of course not. But even as he said it, he began to wonder. Clu is murdered; maybe his

killer runs away. More reasonable doubt. It's just that I know how close they were. I thought

maybe Billy Lee could help me out.

Mrs. Palms was staring at the image of the two ballplayers in front of Psi U. She reached out as

though to stroke her son's face. But she pulled back. Billy Lee was handsome, wasn't he?

Yes.

The girls, she said. They all loved my Billy Lee.

I'd never seen anybody better with them, he said.

That made her smile. She kept staring at the image of her son. It was kinda creepy. Myron

remembered the old episode of The Twilight Zone where the aging movie queen escapes reality

by stepping into one of her old movies. It looked like Mrs. Palms craved doing likewise.

She finally tore her eyes away. Clu came by a few weeks ago.

Can you be more specific?

Tunny.

What?

That's just what th^ police asked.

The police were here?

Sure.

They must have gone through the phone records too, Myron thought. Or found another link.

I'll tell you the same thing I told them. I can't be more specific.

Do you know what Clu wanted?

He came to see Billy Lee.

Billy Lee was here?

Yes.

He lives here then?

On and off. The past few years have not been very good to my son.

Silence.

I don't mean to pry, Myron began, but

What happened to Billy Lee? she finished. Life caught up with him, Myron. The drinking, the

drugs, the womanizing. He had stints in rehab. Are you familiar with Rockwell?

No, ma'am.

It's a private clinic. He finished his fourth trip to Rockwell not two months ago. But he couldn't

stay clean. When you're in college or even in your twenties, you can survive it. When you're a big star and people are looking out for you, you can get away with it. But Billy Lee wasn't good enough to reach that level. So he had no one to fall back upon. Except me. And I'm not that strong.

Myron swallowed. Do you know why Clu came to see Billy Lee?

For old times' sake, I guess. They went out. Maybe they had a few beers and chased women. I

really don't know.

Did Clu visit Billy Lee a lot?

Well, Clu's been out of town, she said, a little too defensively. He was only traded back to

this area a few months ago. But of course, you know that.

So this was just a casual visit?

I thought so at the time.

And now?

Now my son is missing and Clu is dead.

Myron thought about it. Where does he usually go when he runs off like this?

Wherever. Billy Lee is a bit of a nomad. He goes off, he does whatever horrible thing he does to

himself, and when he hits rock bottom, he comes back here.

So you don't know where he is?

That's right.

Any idea at all?

No.

No favorite haunts?

No.

A girlfriend maybe?

No one I know about anyway.

Any close friends he might stay with?

No, she said slowly. He has no friends like that.

Myron took out his card and handed it to her. If you hear from him, Mrs. Palms, could you

please let me know?

She studied the card as they moved out of the room and back down the stairs.

Before she opened the door, Mrs. Palms said, You were the basketball player.

Yes.

The one who hurt his knee.

First preseason game as a pro. Myron had been the Boston Celtics' first-round draft pick. A

terrible collision and his career was over. Just like that. Finished before it started. Yes.

You managed to put it behind you, she said. You managed to get on with your life and be happy and productive. She cocked her head. Why couldn't Billy Lee? Myron had no answer in part because he was not sure her supposition was entirely accurate. He said his goodbyes and left her alone with her ghosts.

Chapter 14

Myron checked his watch. Dinnertime. Mom and Dad were expecting him. He'd hit the Garden State Parkway when the cell phone rang again.

Are you in the car? Win asked. Always with the pleasantries.

Yes.

Flip on 1010 WINS. I'll call back.

One of New York's all-news radio stations. Myron did as he was told. The guy in the helicopter was finishing up the traffic report. He handed it back to the woman at the news desk. She provided the teaser: The latest bombshell in the murder of baseball superstar Clu Haid. In sixty seconds.

It was a long sixty seconds. Myron had to put up with a truly annoying Dunkin' Donuts commercial, and then some excited bozo had a way of turning five thousand dollars into twenty thousand dollars, though a softer, fast-speaking voice added that it didn't work all the time and in fact you could lose money too and probably would and you'd have to be a major moron to take investment advice from a radio ad. Finally the woman at the news desk came back on. She told the audience her name like anyone cared the name of her male counterpart, and the time. Then: ABC is reporting from an anonymous source in the Bergen County district attorney's office that hairs and quote other bodily materials unquote matching the murder suspect Esperanza Diaz have been found at the murder scene. According to the source, DNA tests are pending, but preliminary tests show a clear match with Ms. Diaz. The source also says that the hairs, some small, were found in various locations throughout the house.

Myron felt a flutter beneath his heart. Small hairs, he thought. Euphemism for pubic.

No further details are available, but the district attorney's office clearly believes that Mr. Clu Haid and Ms. Esperanza Diaz were having a sexual relationship. Stay tuned to 1010 WINS for all the details.

The cell phone rang. Myron picked it up. Jesus Christ.

Not even close, Win said.

I'll call you right back. Myron hung up. He called Hester Crimstein's office. The secretary said that Ms. Crimstein was unavailable. Myron stressed that this was urgent. Ms. Crimstein was still unavailable. But, Myron asked, doesn't Ms. Crimstein have a cell phone? The secretary disconnected the call. Myron hit the memory button. Win picked up.

What's your take on this? Myron asked.

Esperanza was sleeping with him, Win said.

Maybe not.

Yes, of course, Win said. Perhaps someone planted Esperanza's pubic hairs at the murder

scene.

It could be a false leak.

Could be.

Or maybe she visited his apartment. To talk business.

And left stray pubic hairs behind?

Maybe she used the bathroom. Maybe she

Myron?

What?

Please don't go into further detail, thank you. There is something else to consider.

What?

The E-Z Pass records.

Right, Myron said. She crossed the Washington Bridge an hour after the murder. We know

that. But maybe that fits now. Esperanza and Clu have a big argument at the parking garage.

Esperanza wants to clear the air. So she drives out to his apartment.

And when she gets there?

I don't know. Maybe she saw the body and panicked.

Yes, of course, Win said. So she ripped out a few pubic hairs and ran.

I didn't say it was her first visit out there.

Indeed not.

What do you mean?

The E-Z Pass records for the Ford Taurus. According to the bill that arrived last week, the car

crossed the bridge eighteen times in the past month.

Myron frowned. You're kidding.

Yes, I am a mirthful fellow. I also took the liberty of checking the month before. Sixteen

crosses of the Washington Bridge.

Maybe she had another reason for going out to North Jersey.

Yes, of course. The malls in Paramus are quite an attraction.

Okay, Myron said. Let's assume they were having an affair.

That would seem most prudent, especially since it offers a reasonable explanation for much that

has happened.

How's that?

It would explain Esperanza's silence.

How?

Lovers always make wonderful suspects, Win said. If, for example, Esperanza and Clu were

dancing the sheet mambo, then we can assume that the altercation in the parking garage was

something of a lovers' tiff. All in all, this development looks bad for her. She would want to hide

it.

But from us? Myron countered.

Yes.

Why? She trusts us.

Several reasons come to mind. Her attorney probably ordered her not to say anything.

That wouldn't stop her.

It might. But more important, Esperanza was probably embarrassed. You have recently

promoted her to partner. She was in charge of the entire operation. I know that you believe Esperanza is too tough to care about such things, but I do not think she would relish your disapproval.

Myron mulled that one over. It made some sense, but he wasn't sure he bought it entirely. I still

think we're missing something.

That's because we're ignoring the strongest motive for her keeping silent.

That being?

She killed him.

Win hung up on that cheery note. Myron took Northfield Avenue toward Livingston. The

familiar landmarks of his hometown popped into view. He thought about the news report and

what Win had said. Could Esperanza be the mystery woman, the reason for Clu and Bonnie's

breakup? If so, why wouldn't Bonnie say that? Maybe she didn't know. Or maybe

Hold the phone.

Maybe Clu and Esperanza met up at Take A Guess. Did they go there together or just bump into

each other? Is that how the affair started? Did they go there and participate in in whatever?

Maybe it was an accident. Maybe they both arrived there in disguise and didn't realize who they

were until, well, it was too late to stop? Did that make sense?

He made the right at Nero's Restaurant and onto Hobart Gap Road. Not far now. He was in the

land of his childhood check that, his entire life. He had lived here with his parents until a year

or so ago, when he finally severed the apron strings and moved in with Jessica. Psychologists and psychiatrists and the like, he knew, would have a field day with the fact that he had lived with his parents into his thirties, theorizing all kinds of unnatural preoccupations that kept him so close to Mom and Dad. Maybe they'd be right. But for Myron, the answer had been far simpler. He liked them. Yes, they could be pests what parents weren't? and they liked to pry. But most of the pestering and prying were over the incidentals. They had given him privacy yet made him feel cared for and wanted. Was that unhealthy? Maybe. But it seemed a damn sight better than his friends who thrived on blaming their parents for any unhappiness in their lives.

He turned onto his street. The old neighborhood was wholly unspectacular. There were thousands like it in New Jersey, hundreds of thousands throughout the US of A.This was suburbia, the backbone of this country, the battleground of the fabled American Dream. Corny to say, but Myron loved it here. Sure, there was unhappiness and dissatisfaction and fights and all that, but he still thought that this was the dealest place he had ever been. He loved the basketball court in the driveway and the training wheels on the new two-wheelers and the routine and the walking to school and the, caring too much about the color of the grass. This was living. This was what it was all about.

In the end Myron guessed that he and Jessica had broken up for all the classic reasons, albeit with a gender twist. He wanted to settle down, buy a house in the 'burbs, raise a family; Jessica, fearing commitment, did not. He pulled into the driveway now, shaking his head. Too simple an explanation. Too pat. The commitment stuff had been an ongoing source of tension, no question, but there was more to it. There was the recent tragedy, for one thing.

There was Brenda.

Mom rushed out the door, sprinting toward him with her arms spread wide. She always greeted him like he was a recently released POW, but today was something extra special. She threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him over. Dad trailed behind, equally excited but playing it cool. Dad had always been about balance, the total love without the smothering, the caring without pushing. An amazing man, his father. When Dad reached him, there was no handshake. The two men hugged fiercely and without any hint of embarrassment. Myron kissed his father's cheek. The familiar feel of Dad's rough skin made him understand a bit what Mrs. Palms was trying to accomplish with the wallpapered images.

Are you hungry? Mom asked. Always her opening gambit.

A little.

You want me to fix something?

Everyone froze. Dad made a face. You're going to cook?

What's the big deal?

Let me make sure I have the number of poison control.

Oh, Al, that's so funny. Ha-ha, I can't stop laughing. What a funny man your father is, Myron.

Actually, Ellen, go ahead and cook something. I need to drop a few pounds.

Wow, what a knee slapper, Al. You're killing me here.

Better than a fat farm.

Ho-ho.

Just the thought is better than an appetite suppressor.

It's like being married to Shecky Greene. But she was smiling.

They were in the house now. Dad took Mom's hand. Let me show you something, Ellen, Dad

said. See that big metal box over there? That's called an oven. O-v-e-n. Oven. See that knob, the

one with all the numbers on it? That's how you turn it on.

You're funnier than a sober Foster Brooks, Al.

But they were all smiling now. Dad was speaking the truth. Mom didn't cook. Almost never did.

Her culinary skills could cause a prison riot. When he was a kid, Myron's favorite home-cooked

dinner was Dad's scrambled eggs. Mom was an early career woman. The kitchen was a place to

read magazines.

What do you want to eat, Myron? Mom asked. Chinese maybe. From Fong's?

Sure.

Al, call Fong's. Order something.

Okay.

Make sure you get shrimp with lobster sauce.

I know.

Myron loves Fong's tshrimp with lobster sauce.

I know, Ellen. I raised him too, remember?

You might forget.

We've been ordering from Fong's for twenty-three years. We always order shrimp with lobster

sauce.

You might forget, Al. You're getting old. Didn't you forget to pick up my blouse at the laundry

two days ago.

It was closed.

So you never picked up my blouse, am I right?

Of course not.

I rest my case. She looked at her son. Myron, sit. We need to talk. Al, call Fong's.

The men obeyed her orders. As always. Myron and Mom sat at the kitchen table.

Listen to me closely, Mom said. I know Esperanza is your friend. But Hester Crimstein is a fine lawyer. If she told Esperanza not to talk to you, it's the right thing.