The Final Detail

But

Not now.

She stepped toward him and they embraced. He kissed her. They fumbled with buttons and

zippers and snaps. Neither one spoke. They made it into the bedroom, and then they made love. When it was over, they clung to each other, the sheets tangled and binding them close together.

Myron rested his cheek against her soft breast, hearing her heartbeat. Her chest was hitching a

bit, and he knew that she was quietly crying.

Tell me, he said.

No. Terese's hand stroked his hair. Why did you leave?

A friend is in trouble.

That sounds so noble.

Again with that word. I thought we agreed we wouldn't do this, he said.

You complaining?

Hardly, he said. Just curious why you changed your mind.

Does it matter?

I don't think so.

She stroked his hair some more. He closed his eyes, not moving, wanting only to enjoy the

wonderful suppleness of her skin against his cheek and ride the rise and fall of her chest.

Your friend in trouble, she said. It's Esperanza Diaz.

Win told you?

I read it in the papers.

He kept his eyes closed.

Tell me about it, she said.

We were never great at talking on the island.

Yeah, but that was then, this is now.

Meaning?

Meaning you look a little worse for wear, she said. I think you'll need the recovery time.

Myron smiled. Oysters. The island had oysters.

So tell me.

So he did. Everything. She stroked his hair. She interrupted a lot with follow-up questions,

relaxing in the more familiar role of interviewer. It took him almost an hour.

Some story, she said.

Yes.

Does it hurt? I mean, where you got beaten up?

Yes. But I'm a tough guy.

She kissed the top of his head. No, she said. You're not.

They sat in comfortable silence.

I remember the Lucy Mayor disappearance, Terese said. At least the second round.

The second round?

When the Mayors had the money to run the big campaign to find her. Before that there really

wasn't much of a story. An eighteen-year-old runaway. No big deal.

You remember anything that might help me?

No. I hate covering stories like that. And not just for the obvious reason that lives are being

shattered.

Then what?

There's just too much denial, she said.

Denial?

Yes.

You mean with the family?

No, with the public. People block when it comes to their children. They deny because it's too

painful to accept. They tell themselves it can't happen to them. God is not that fickle. There has

to be a reason. Do you remember the Louise Woodward case a couple of years ago?

The nanny who killed the baby in Massachusetts? Reduced to manslaughter by the judge, but yes. The public kept denying, even those who thought she was guilty. The mother shouldn't have been working, they said. Never mind the fact that the mother worked only part-time and came home at lunch every day to breast-feed the baby. It was her fault. And the father. He should have checked out the nanny's background better. The parents should have been more careful.

I remember, Myron said.

In the Mayors' case it was the same kind of thing. If Lucy Mayor had been raised right, she

would have never run away in the first place. That's what I mean by denial. It's too painful to

think about, so you block and convince yourself it can't happen to you.

Do you think there's any merit to that argument in this case?

What do you mean?

Were Lucy Mayor's parents part of the problem?

Terese's voice was soft. It's not important

What makes you say that?

She was silent, her breathing a little more hitched again.

Terese?

Sometimes, she said, a parent is to blame. But that doesn't change anything. Because either

way your fault or not your child is gone and that's all that matters.

More silence.

Myron broke it. You okay? he asked.

Fine.

Sophie Mayor told me that the worst part was the not knowing.

She's wrong, Terese said.

Myron wanted to ask her more, but she got out of bed then. When she came back, they made

love again languid and bittersweet, as the song says both feeling loss, both searching for

something in the moment or at least settling for the numb.

They were still snarled in the sheets when the phone woke Myron early in the morning. He

reached over her head and picked up the receiver.

Hello?

What's so important?

It was FJ. Myron quickly sat up.

We need to chat, Myron said.

Again?

Yes.

When?

Now.

Starbucks, FJ said. And Myron?

What?

Tell Win to stay outside.

Chapter 31

FJ sat alone at the same table. He had his legs crossed at the knee and sipped as if maybe there were something in the bottom of the cup he wanted no part of. A bit of foam clung to his upper lip. His face was clean and wax-treatment smooth. Myron checked for Hans and Franz or some new goons, but nobody was there. FJ smiled and as always, something cold scrambled down Myron's back.

Where's Win? FJ asked.

Outside, Myron said.

Good. Have a seat.

I know why Clu signed with you, FJ.

Care for an iced latte? You take it skim, correct?

It was bugging the hell out of me, Myron said. Why would Clu sign with you? Don't get me wrong. He had every reason to leave MB. But he knew about TruPro's reputation. Why would he go there?

Because we offer a valuable service.

At first I figured it was a gambling or drug debt. It's how your dad always worked. He gets his hooks into someone, and then he gnaws on the carcass. But Clu was clean. And he had plenty of cash. So that wasn't it.

FJ put his elbow on the table and leaned his chin against his palm. This is so fascinating, Myron.

It gets better. When I ran off to the Caribbean, you were keeping tabs on me. Because of the whole Brenda Slaughter situation. You even admitted it when I first got back, remember? You knew I'd been visiting the cemetery.

A very poignant moment for us all, FJ agreed.

When I vanished, you still wanted to keep tabs on me. If anything, my disappearance probably piqued your curiosity. You also saw an opening for TruPro, but that's not here or there. You wanted to know where I was. But I wasn't around. So you did the next best thing: You followed Esperanza, my partner and closest friend.

FJ made a clucking noise. And here I thought Win was your closest friend.

They both are. But that's not the point. Following Win would be too difficult. He'd spot the tail before you even had him in place. So you followed Esperanza instead.

I still don't see what any of this has to do with Clu's decision to improve his representation.

I was missing. You knew that. You took advantage. You called my clients, telling them that I'd abandoned them.

Was I wrong?

I don't care about that now. You saw a weakness and you exploited it. You couldn't help yourself. It's how you were raised.

Ouch.

But the important thing here is that you were following Esperanza, hoping she'd lead you to me or at least give you a clue to how long I'd be gone. You followed her out to New Jersey. And you stumbled upon something you were never supposed to learn.

His smile was positively wet. And what would that be?

Wipe that smile off your face, FJ. You're no better than a peeping Tom. Even your father wouldn't stoop that low.

Oh, you'd be surprised how low my father would stoop.

You're a pervert, and worse, you used what you learned as leverage against a client. Clu went nuts when Bonnie threw him out. He had no idea why. But now you knew. So you made a deal with him. He signs with TruPro, he learns the truth about his wife.

FJ leaned back, recrossed the legs, folded his hands, and placed them on his lap. Quite a spin, Myron.

It's true, isn't it?

FJ tilted his head in a maybe-yes, maybe-no fashion. Let me tell you how I see it, he began. Clu Haid's old agency, MB SportsReps, was clearly screwing him. In every way. His agent that would be you, Myron abandoned him when he needed him most. Your partner that would be the lovely and rather lithe Esperanza was engaging in a lick fest with his wife. True?

Myron said nothing.

FJ unfolded the hands, took a sip of foam, refolded the hands. What I did, he continued, was take Clu Haid out of this awful situation. I brought him to an agency that would not abuse his trust. An agency that would look out for his interests. One of the ways we do that is through information. Valuable information. So the client understands what is happening to him. That's part of an agent's job, Myron. One of our agencies engaged in questionable ethics here. And it wasn't TruPro.

It was a reverse spin, but it was also true. One day, when Myron had the time to dwell upon them, the words would undoubtedly wound. But not now.

So you admit it?

FJ shrugged.

But if you were following Esperanza, you know she didn't do it.

Again the head tilt. Do I?

Stop playing games with me, FJ.

Please hold a moment. FJ took out his cell phone and dialed a number. He stood, walked

toward the corner, chatted. He put the phone between his shoulder and ear, took out a pen and

paper, jotted something down. He hung up and returned to the table.

You were saying?

Did Esperanza do it?

He smiled. You want the truth?

Yes.

I don't know. Honest. Yes, ? followed her. But as I am sure you know, even lesbian scenes get

repetitive. So after a while we'd stop watching her once she crossed the Washington Bridge.

There was no point.

So you really don't know who killed Clu?

Afraid not.

Are you still following me, FJ?

No.

Last night. You didn't have a man on me?

No. And truth be told, I didn't have a man on you when you came in here yesterday.

The guy I spotted outside my office wasn't yours?

Sony, no.

Myron was missing something here.

FJ leaned forward again. His smile was so creepy that his teeth seemed to wiggle. How far are

you willing to go to save Esperanza? he whispered.

You know how far.

The ends of the earth?

What are you getting at, FJ?

You're right, of course. I did learn about Esperanza and Bonnie. And I saw an opening. So I

called Clu at the apartment in Fort Lee. But he wasn't there. I left a rather intriguing message on his machine. Something to the effect of ? know who your wife is sleeping with.' He called me back on my private line within the hour.

When was this?

What three days before his death?

What did he say?

His reaction was the obvious. But the what is not nearly as important as the where.

The where?

I have caller ID on my private line. FJ sat back. Clu was out of town when he returned my

call.

Where?

FJ took his time. He picked up the coffee, took a long sip, made an aaah noise as if he were

filming a 7-Up commercial, put the cup back down. He looked at Myron. Then he shook his head. Not so fast.

Myron waited.

My specialty, as you've now seen, is gathering information. Information is power. It's currency.

It's cash. I just don't give away cash.

How much, FJ?

Not money, Myron. I don't want your money. I could buy you ten times over; we both know

that.

So what do you want?

He took another long sip. Myron wanted so very much to reach across the table and throttle him.

Sure you don't want anything to drink?

Cut the crap, FJ.

Temper, temper.

Myron made two fists and hid them under the table. He willed himself to stay calm. What do

you want, FJ?

You are familiar, are you not, with Dean Pashaian and Larry Vitale.

They're two of my clients.

Correction. They are seriously considering leaving MB Sports-Reps and joining TruPro. They

are on the fence as we speak. So here is my deal. You stop pursuing them. You don't call them and hand them crap about TruPro being run by gangsters. You promise to do that he showed Myron the piece of paper he'd been writing on in the corner I give you the number Clu called from.

Your agency will destroy their careers. It always does.

FJ smiled again. I can guarantee you, Myron, that no one on my staff will have a lesbian affair

with their wives.

No deal.

Good-bye then. FJ stood.

Wait.

Your promise or I walk.

Let's talk about this, Myron said. We can come up with something.

Good-bye.

FJ started for the door.

Okay, Myron said.

FJ put a hand to his ear. I missed that.

Selling out two clients. What would he stoop to next, running political campaigns? You have a

deal. I won't talk to them.

FJ spread his hands. You really are a master negotiator, Myron. I'm in awe of your skills.

Where did he call from, FJ?

Here's the phone number. He handed Myron the piece of paper. Myron read it and sprinted

back to the car.

Chapter 32

Myron was on the cell phone before he reached Win. He pressed in the number and heard three

rings.

Hamlet Motel, a man said.

Where are you located?

In Wilston. On Route Nine off Ninety-one.

Myron thanked the man and hung up. Win looked at him. Myron dialed Bonnie's number.

Bonnie's mother answered. Myron identified himself and asked to speak with Bonnie.

She was very upset after you left yesterday, Bonnie's mother said.

I'm sorry about that.

Why do you want to talk to her?

Please. It's very important.

She's in mourning. You realize that. Their marriage may have been in trouble

I understand that, Mrs. Cohen. Please let me speak to her.

A deep sigh, but two minutes later Bonnie came on. What is it, Myron?

What does the Hamlet Motel in Wilston, Massachusetts, mean to you?

Myron thought he heard a short intake of air. Nothing/

You and Clu lived there, didn't you?

Not at the motel.

I mean, in Wilston. When Clu was playing for the Bisons in the minor leagues.

You know we did.

And Billy Lee Palms. He lived there too. At the same time.

Not Wilston. I think he was in Deerfield. It's the neighboring town.

So what was Clu doing staying at the Hamlet Motel three days before he died?

Silence.

Bonnie?

I don't have the slightest idea.

Think. Why would Clu need to go up there?

I don't know. Maybe he was visiting an old friend.

What old friend?

Myron, you're not listening. I don't know. I haven't been up there in almost ten years. But we

lived there for eight months. Maybe he made a friend. Maybe he went up there to fish or take a

vacation or get away from it all. I don't know.

Myron gripped the phone. You're lying to me, Bonnie.

Silence.

Please, he said. I'm just trying to help Esperanza.

Let me ask you something, Myron.

What?

You keep digging and digging, right? I asked you not to. Esperanza asked you not to. Hester

Crimstein asked you not to. But you keep digging.

Is there a question in there?

It's coming now: Has all your digging helped? Has all your digging made Esperanza look more

guilty or less?

Myron hesitated. But it didn't matter. Bonnie hung up before he had the chance to answer. Myron

put the phone back in his lap. He looked at Win.

I'll take Awful Songs for two hundred, Alex, Win said.

What?

Answer: Barry Manilow and Eastern Standard.

Myron almost smiled. What is Time in New England,' Alex?

Correct answer. Win shook his head. Sometimes when our minds are that in tune

Yeah, Myron said. It's scary.

Shall we?

Myron thought about it. I don't think we have a choice.

Call Terese first.

Myron nodded, started dialing. You know how to get there?

Yes.

It'll probably take three hours.

Win hit the accelerator. No easy trick in midtown Manhattan. Try two.

Chapter 33

Wilston is in western Massachusetts, about an hour shy of the New Hampshire and Vermont borders. You could still see remnants of the old days, the oft artistically rendered New England town with V-shaped brick walks, colonial clapboard homes, the historical society bronze signs welded onto the front of every other building, the white-steepled chapel in the center of the town the whole scene screaming for the lush leaves of autumn or a major snowstorm. But like everywhere else in the US of A, the superstore boom was playing havoc with the historical. The roads between these postcard villages had widened over the years, as though guilty of gluttony, feeding off the warehouse-size stores that now lined them. The stores sucked out the character and the quaintness and left in their wake a universal blandness that plagued the byroads and highways of America. Maine to Minnesota, North Carolina to Nevada there was little texture and individuality left. It was about Home Depot and Office Max and the price clubs.

On the other hand, whining about the changes progress imposes upon us and longing for the good ?G days make for easy pickings. Harder to answer the question of why, if these changes are so bad, do every place and everybody so quickly and warmly welcome them.

Wilston had the classic New England Christmas card-conservative facade, but it was a college town, the college in question being Wilston College, and was thus liberal liberal in the way only a college town can be, liberal in the way only the young can be, liberal in the way only the isolated and protected knd rose-tinted can be. But that was okay. In fact, that was how it should be.

But even Wilston was changing. Yes, the old signs of liberalism were there: the tofu sweet shop, the migrant-friendly coffeehouse, the lesbian bookstore, the shop with the black lightbulbs and the pot paraphernalia, the clothing store that sold only ponchos. But the franchises were sneaking in quietly, slowly eating away at the gray stone corners: Dunkin' Donuts, Angelo's Sub Shop, Baskin-Robbins, Seattle Coffee.

Myron started softly singing Time in New England.

Win looked at him. You realize, of course, that I'm well armed.

Hey, you're the one who got the song stuck in my head.

They sped through town with Win driving, you only sped and arrived at the Hamlet Motel, a quasi-dump on Route 9 hovering on the town's edge. A sign advertised FREE HBO! and the ice machine was so large you could see it from your average space station. Myron checked his watch. Less than two hours to get here. Win parked the Jag.

I don't get it, Myron said. Why would Clu stay here?

Free HBO?

More likely because he could pay in cash. That's why we didn't see anything about this on his credit cards. But why wouldn't he want anyone to know he was here?

Such good questions, Win said. Perhaps you should go inside and see if you can find some of the answers.

They both stepped out of the car. Win noticed a restaurant next door. I'll try there, he said. You take the desk clerk.

Myron nodded. The desk clerk, definitely a college kid on break, sat behind the counter and stared straight ahead at nothing. He could have looked more bored, but only if a qualified physician induced a coma. Myron took a glance around and spotted the computer terminal. This was a good thing.

Hello?

The kid's eyes slid toward Myron. Yeah?

This computer. It keeps track of outgoing calls, right? Even local ones.

The kid's eyes narrowed. Who wants to know?

I need to see records for all outgoing guest calls from the tenth and eleventh of this month.

That got the kid to his feet. You a cop? Let me see your badge.

I'm not a cop.