The Final Detail

Then

I'll pay you five hundred dollars for the information. No sense in playing around here, Myron thought. No one will ever know.

The kid hesitated but not for long. Hell, even if I get canned, that's more money than I clear in a month. What dates did you need?

Myron told him. The kid punched a few buttons. The printer started cranking. It all fitted on one sheet. Myron handed the kid the money. The kid handed him the sheet. Myron quickly scanned the list.

Instant bingo.

He spotted the long-distance call to FJ's office. It had come from room 117. Myron looked for other calls made from the same room. Clu had called his answering machine at home twice. Okay, good, fine. Now how about something more local? No reason to come up here just to make long-distance calls.

Bingo again.

Room 117. The first call on the list. A local number. Myron's heart started pumping, his breath growing shallow. He was close now. So close. He walked outside. The driveway was gravel. He kicked it around a bit. He took out his phone and was about to dial the number. No. That might be a mistake. He should learn all he could first. If he called, he might tip someone off. Of course, he didn't know whom he'd tip off or how they'd be tipped off or what they'd be tipped off about. But he didn't want to screw up now. He had the phone number. Big Cyndi at the office would have a reverse directory. These were easy to come by now. Any software store sold CD-ROMs that had the entire country's phone books on them or you could visit www.infospace.com on the Web. You plug in a number, it tells you who the number belongs to and where they live. More

progress.

He called Big Cyndi.

I was just about to call you, Mr. Bolitar.

Oh?

I have Hester Crimstein on the line. She says that she urgently needs to talk to you.

Okay, put her through in a sec. Big Cyndi?

Yes.

About what you said yesterday. About people staring. I'm sorry if

No pity, Mr. Bolitar. Remember?

Yes.

Please don't change a thing, okay?

Okay.

I mean it.

Put Hester Crimstein through, he said. And while I'm on the line, do you know where

Esperanza keeps the reverse phone directory CDs?

Yes.

I want you to look up a number for me. He read it off to her. She repeated it. Then she put

Hester Crimstein through.

Where are you? the attorney barked at him.

Why do you care?

Hester was not pleased. God damn it, Myron, stop acting like a child. Where are you?

None of your business.

You're not helping.

What do you want, Hester?

You're on a cell phone, right?

Right.

Then we don't know if the line is safe, she said. We have to meet right away. I'll be in my

office.

No can do.

Look, do you want to help Esperanza or not?

You know the answer to that.

Then get your ass in here, pronto, Hester said. We got a problem, and I think you can help.

What kind of problem?

Not on the phone. I'll be waiting for you.

It'll take me some time, Myron said.

Silence.

Why will it take some time, Myron?

It just will.

It's almost noon, she said. When can I expect you?

Not until at least six.

That's too late.

Sorry.

She sighed. Myrpn, get here now. Esperanza wants to see you.

Myron's heart did a little flip. I thought she was in jail.

I just got her released. It's hush-hush. Get your ass over here, Myron. Get over here now.

Myron and Win stood in the Hamlet Motel parking lot.

What do you make of it? Win asked.

I don't like it, Myron said.

How so?

Why is Hester Crimstein so desperate to see me all of a sudden? She's been trying to get rid of

me from the moment I returned. Now I'm the answer to a problem?

It is bizarre, Win agreed.

And not only that, I don't like this whole hush-hush release for Esperanza.

It happens.

Sure, it happens. But if it did, why hasn't Esperanza called me? Why is Hester making the call

for her?

Why indeed?

Myron thought about it. Do you think she's involved in all this?

I cannot imagine how, Win said. Then: Except that she may have spoken to Bonnie Haid.

So?

So then she may have deduced that we are in Wil-ston.

And now she urgently wants us to return, Myron said.

Yes.

So she's trying to get us out of Wilston.

It is a possibility, Win said.

So what is she afraid we'll find?

Win shrugged. She's Esperanza's advocate.

So something detrimental to Esperanza.

Logical, Win said.

A couple in their eighties stumbled out of one of the motel rooms. The old man had his arm

around the woman's shoulder. They both looked postsex. At noon. Nice to see. Myron and Win

watched them in silence.

I pushed too hard last time, Myron said.

Win did not reply.

You warned me. You told me I didn't keep my eye on the prize. But I didn't listen.

Win still said nothing.

Am I doing the same now?

You are not good at letting things go, Win said.

That's not an answer.

Win frowned. I'm not some holy wise man on the mount, he said. I don't have all the

answers.

I want to know what you think.

Win squinted, though the sun was pretty much gone by now. Last time, you lost sight of your

goal, he said. Do you know what your goal is this time?

Myron thought about it. Freeing Esperanza, he said. And finding the truth.

Win smiled. And if those two are mutually contradictory?

Then I bury the truth.

Win nodded. You seem to have a good handle on the goal.

Should I let it go anyway? Myron asked.

Win looked at him. There's one other complication.

What's that?

Lucy Mayor.

I'm not actively looking for her. I'd love to find her, but I don't expect to.

Still, Win said, she is your personal connection into all this.

Myron shook his head.

The diskette came to you, Myron. You can't run away from that. You're not built that way.

Somehow you and this missing girl are linked.

Silence.

Myron checked the address and name Big Cyndi had given him. The phone was listed to a

Barbara Cromwell at 12 Claremont Road. The name meant nothing to him. There's a rental car

place down the street, Myron said. You go back. Talk to Hester Crimstein. See what you can

learn.

And you?

I'm going to check out Barbara Cromwell of Twelve Claremont Road.

Sounds like a plan, Win said.

A good one?

I didn't say that.

Chapter 34

Massachusetts, like Myron's home state of New Jersey, can quickly turn from big city to fullfledged town to hicksville. That was the case here. Twelve Claremont Road why the numbers reached twelve when the whole road had only three buildings on it Myron could not say was an old farmhouse. At least it looked old. The color, probably once a deep red, had faded to a barely visible, watery pastel. The top of the structure curled forward as though suffering from osteoporosis. The front roof overhang had split down the middle, the right lip dipping forward like the mouth of a stroke victim. There were loose boards and major cracks and the grass was tall enough to go on the adult rides at a Six Hags.

He stopped in front of Barbara Cromwell's house and debated his approach. He hit the redial button and Big Cyndi answered.

Got anything yet?

Not very much, Mr. Bolitar. Barbara Cromwell is thirty-one years old. She was divorced four years ago from a Lawrence Cromwell.

Children?

That's all I have right now, Mr. Bolitar. I'm terribly sorry.

He thanked her and said to keep trying. He looked back at the house. There was a dull, steady thudding in his chest. Thirty-one years old. He reached into his pocket and took out the computer rendering of the aged Lucy Mayor. He stared at it. How old would Lucy be if she were still alive? Twenty-nine, maybe thirty. Close in age, but who cares? He shook the thought away, but it didn't go easy.

Now what?

He turned off the engine. A curtain jumped in an upstairs window. Spotted. No choice now. He opened the door and walked up the drive. It had been paved at one time, but the grass now laid claim to all but a few patches of tar. The side yard had one of those plastic Fisher-Price tree houses with a slide and rope ladder; the loud yellow, blue, and red of the play set shone through the brown grass like gems against black velvet. He reached the door. No bell, so he knocked and waited.

He could hear house sounds, someone running, someone whispering. A child called out, Mom! Someone hushed him.

Myron heard footsteps, and then a woman said, Yes?

Ms. Cromwell?

What do you want?

Ms. Cromwell, my name is Myron Bolitar. I'd like to talk to you a moment.

I don't want to buy anything.

No, ma'am, I'm not selling

And I don't accept door-to-door solicitations. You want a donation, you ask by mail.

I'm not here for any of that.

Brief silence.

Then what do you want? she said.

Ms. Cromwell he'd clipped on his most reassuring voice now would you mind opening

your door?

I'm calling the police.

No, no, please, just wait a second.

What do you want?

I want to ask you about Clu Haid.

There was a long pause. The little boy started talking again. The woman hushed him. I don't

know anybody by that name.

Please open the door, Ms. Cromwell. We need to talk.

Look, mister, I'm friendly with all the cops around here. I say the word, they'll lock you up for

trespassing.

I understand your concerns, Myron said. How about if we talk by phone?

Just go away.

The little boy started crying.

Go away, she repeated. Or I'll call the police.

More crying.

Okay, Myron said. I'm leaving. Then, figuring what the hey, he shouted, Does the name

Lucy Mayor mean anything to you?

The child's crying was the only reply.

Myron let loose a sigh and started back to the car. Now what? He hadn't even been able to see

her. Maybe he could poke around the house, try to peek in a window. Oh, that was a great idea.

Get arrested for peeping. Or worse, scare a little kid. And she'd call the cops for sure

Hold the phone. Barbara Cromwell said that she was friendly with the police in town. But so was Myron. In a way. Wilston was the town where Clu had been nabbed on that first drunk driving charge when he was in the minors. Myron had gotten him off with the help of two cops. He scanned the memory banks for names. It didn't take him long. The arresting officer was named Kobler.

Myron didn't remember his first name. The sheriff was a guy named Ron Lem-mon. Lemmon was in his fifties then. He might have retired. But odds were pretty good one of them would still be on the force. They might know something about the mysterious Barbara Cromwell.

Worth a shot anyway.

Chapter 35

One might expect the Wilston police station to be in a dinky little building. Not so. It was in the basement of a tall, fortresslike structure of dark, old brick. The steps down had one of those old bomb shelter signs, the black and yellow triangles still bright in the ominous circle. The image brought back memories of Burnet Hill Elementary School and the old bombing drills, a somewhat intense activity in which children were taught that crouching in a corridor was a suitable defense against a Soviet nuclear blitzkrieg.

Myron had never been to the station house before. After Clu's accident he'd met with the two cops in the back booth of a diner on Route 9. The whole episode took less than ten minutes. No one wanted to hurt the up-and-coming superstar. No one wanted to ruin Clu's promising young career. Dollars changed hands some for the arresting officer, some for the sheriff in charge. Donations, they'd called it with a chuckle. Everyone smiled.

The desk sergeant looked up at Myron when he came in. He was around thirty and, like so many cops nowadays, built as if he spent more time in the weight room than the doughnut shop. His nametag read Hobert. May I help you?

Does Sheriff Lemmon still work here?

No, sorry to say. Ron died, oh, gotta be a year now. Retired about two years before that.

I'm sony to hear that.

Yeah, cancer. Ate through him like a hungry rat. Hobert shrugged as if to say, What can you

do?

How about a guy named Kobler? I think he was a deputy about ten years ago.

Hobert's voice was suddenly tight. Eddie's not on the force anymore.

Does he still live in the area?

No. I think he lives in Wyoming. May I ask your name, sir?

Myron Bolitar.

Your name sounds familiar.

I used to play basketball.

Nah, that's not it. I hate basketball. He thought a moment, then shook his head. So why are

you asking about two former cops?

They're sort of old friends.

Hobert looked doubtful.

i wanted to ask them about someone a client of mine has become involved with.

A client?

Myron put on his helpless-puppy-dog smile. He usually used it on old ladies, but hey, waste not, want not. I'm a sports agent. My job is to look after athletes and, well, make sure they're not being taken advantage of. So this client of mine has an interest in a lady who lives in town. I just wanted to make sure she's not a gold digger or anything.

Two words: truly lame.

Hobert said, What's her name?

Barbara Cromwell.

The officer blinked. This a joke?

No.

One of your athletes is interested in dating Barbara Cromwell?

Myron tried a little backpedal. I might have gotten the name wrong, he said.

I think maybe you have.

Why's that?

You mentioned Ron Lemmon before. The old sheriff.

Right.

Barbara Cromwell is his daughter.

For a moment Myron just stood there. A fan whirred. A phone rang. Hobert said, Excuse me a

second, and picked it up. Myron heard none of it. Someone had frozen the moment. Someone had suspended him above a dark hole, giving Myron plenty of time to stare down at the nothingness, until suddenly the same someone let go. Myron plunged down into the black, his hands wheeling, his body turning, waiting, almost hoping, to smash against the bottom.

Chapter 36

Myron stumbled back outside. He walked the town square. He grabbed something to eat at a Mexican place, wolfing it down without even tasting the food. Win called.

We were correct, Win said. Hester Crimstein was trying to divert our attention

She admitted it?

No. She offers no explanation. She claims that she will speak with you and only you and only in person. She then pushed me for details on your whereabouts.

No surprise.

Would you like me to Win paused interrogate her?

Please no, Myron said. Ethics aside, I don't think there's much need anymore.

Oh?

Sawyer Wells said he was a drug counselor at Rockwell.

I remember.

Billy Lee Palms was treated at Rockwell. His mother

Not a coincidence, Myron said. It explains everything.

When he finished talking to Win, he strolled the main street of Wilston seven or eight times over. The shopkeepers, light on business, smiled at him. He smiled back. He nodded hello to the large assortment of people passing by. The town was so stuck in the sixties, the kind of place where people still wore unkempt beards and black caps and looked like Seals and Crofts at an outdoor concert. He liked it here. He liked it a lot.

He thought about his mother and his father. He thought about them getting old and wondered why he could not accept it. He thought about how his father's chest pains were partially his fault, how the strain of his running away had at least tangentially contributed to what happened. He thought about what it would have been like for his parents if they had suffered the same fate as Sophie and Gary Mayor, if he had disappeared at seventeen without a trace and were never found. He thought about Jessica and how she claimed she would fight for him. He thought about Brenda and what he had done. He thought about Terese and last night and what, if anything, it meant. He thought about Win and Esperanza and the sacrifices that friends make.

For a long time he did not think about Clu's murder or Billy Lee's death. He did not think about Lucy Mayor and her disappearance and his connection to it. But that lasted only so long. Eventually he made a few phone calls, did some digging, confirmed what he already suspected.

The answers never come with cries of Eureka! You stumble toward them, often in total darkness. You stagger through an unlit room at night, tripping over the unseen, lumbering forward, bruising your shins, toppling over and righting yourself, feeling your way across the walls and hoping your hand happens upon the light switch. And then to keep within this pisspoor but sadly accurate analogy when you find the switch, when you flick it on and bathe the room in light, sometimes the room is just as you pictured it. And then sometimes, like now, you wonder if you'd have been better off staying forever stumbling in the dark. Win of course would say thai Myron was limiting the analogy. He would point out that there were other options. You could simply leave the room. You could let your eyes get accustomed to the dark, and while you would never see everything clearly, that was okay. You could even flick the switch back off once you turned it on. In the case of Horace and Brenda Slaughter, Win would be right. In the case of Clu Haid, Myron was not so sure.

He had found the light switch. He had flicked it on. But the analogy did not hold and not just because it was a dumb one from the start. Everything in the room was still murky, as though he were looking through a shower curtain. He could see lights and shadows. He could make out shapes. But to know exactly what had happened, he would have to push aside the curtain.

He could still back off, let the curtain rest or even flick the light back off. But that was the problem with darkness and Win's options. In the dark you cannot see the rot fester. The rot is free to continue to eat away, undisturbed, until it consumes everything, even the man huddled in the corner, trying like hell to stay away from that damned light switch.

So Myron got in his car. He drove back out to the farmhouse on Claremont Road. He knocked on the door, and again Barbara Cromwell told him to go away. I know why Clu Haid came here, he told her. He kept talking. And eventually she let him in.

When he left, Myron called Win again. They talked a long time. First about Clu Haid's murder. Then about Myron's dad. It helped. But not a lot. He called Terese and told her what he knew. She said that she'd tried to check some of the facts with her sources.

So Win was right, Terese said. You are personally connected.

Yes.

I blame myself every day, Terese said. You get used to it.

Again he wanted to ask more. Again he knew that it wasn't time.

Myron made two more calls on the cell phone. The first was to the law office of Hester

Crimstein.

Where are you? Hester snapped.

I assume you're in contact with Bonnie Haid, he said.

Pause. Then: Oh Christ, Myron, what did you do?

They aren't telling you everything, Hester. In fact, I bet Esperanza barely told you anything.

Where are you, dammit?

I'll be in your office in three hours. Have Bonnie there.

His final call was to Sophie Mayor. When she answered, he said three words: I found Lucy.

Chapter 37

Myron tried to drive like Win, but that was beyond his capabilities. He sped, but he still hit construction on Route 95. You always hit construction on Route 95. It was a Connecticut state law. He listened to the radio. He made phone calls. He felt frightened.

Hester Crimstein was a senior partner in a high-rise, higher-bill, mega New York law firm. The attractive receptionist had clearly been expecting him. She led him down a hallway lined with what looked like mahogany wallpaper and into a conference room. There was a rectangular table big enough to seat twenty, pens and legal pads in front of each chair, billable no doubt to some unsuspecting client at wildly inflated prices. Hester Crimstein sat next to Bonnie Haid, their backs to the window. They started to rise when he entered.

Don't bother, he said.

Both women stopped.

What's this all about? Hester asked.

Myron ignored her and looked at Bonnie. You almost told me, didn't you, Bonnie? When I first came back. You said you wondered if we did Clu a disservice by helping him. You wondered if our sheltering him and protecting him had eventually led to his death. I said you were wrong. The only person to blame is the person who shot him. But I didn't know everything, did I?

What the hell are you talking about? Hester said.

I want to tell you a story, he said.

What?

Just listen, Hester. Y(ou might find out what you've gotten yourself involved in.

Hester closed her mouth. Bonnie kept silent.

Twelve years ago, Myron said, Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms were minor-league players for a team called the New England Bisons. They were both young and reckless in the way athletes tend to be. The world was their oyster, they thought they were the cat's pajamas, you know the fairy tale. I won't insult you by going into details.

Both women slid back into their seats. Myron sat across from them and continued.

One day Clu Haid drove drunk well, he probably drove drunk more than once, but on this occasion he wrapped his car around a tree. Bonnie he gestured to her with his chin was injured in the accident. She suffered a bad concussion and spent several days in the hospital. Clu was unhurt. Billy Lee broke a finger. When* it happened, Clu panicked. A drunk driving charge could ruin a young athlete, even as little as twelve years ago. I had just signed him to several profitable endorsement deals. He was going to move up to the majors in a matter of months. So he did what a lot of athletes did. He found someone who'd get him out of trouble. His agent. Me. I drove up to the scene like a madman. I met with the arresting officer, a guy named Eddie Kobler, and the town sheriff, Ron Lemmon.

Hester Crimstein said, I don't understand any of this. Give me time, you will, Myron said. The officers and I came to an understanding. It happens all the time with big-time athletes. Matters like this are swept under the rug. Clu was a good kid, we all agreed. No reason to destroy his life over this little incident. It was a somewhat victimless crime the only person hurt was Clu's own wife. So money changed hands, and an agreement was reached. Clu wasn't drunk. He swerved to avoid another car. That's what caused the

accident. Billy Lee Palms and Bonnie would swear to it. Incident over and forgotten.

Hester wore her annoyed-but-curious scowl. Bonnie's face was losing color fast.

It's twelve years later now, Myron said. And the incident is almost like one of those mummy

curses. The drunk driver, Clu, is murdered. His best friend and passenger, Billy Lee Palms, is shot to death I won't call that murder because the shooter saved my life. The sheriff I bought off he died of prostate cancer. Nothing too strange about that or perhaps God got to him before the mummy. And as for Eddie Kobler, the other officer, he was caught last year taking bribes in a big drug string. He was arrested and plea-bargained down. His wife left him. His kids won't talk to him. He lives alone in a bottle in Wyoming.

How do you know about this Kobler guy? Hester Crimstein asked.

A local cop named Hobert told me what happened. A reporter friend confirmed it.

I still don't see the relevance, Hester said.

That's because Esperanza kept you in the dark, Myron said. I was wondering how much she

told you. Apparently not much. Probably just insisted that I be kept totally out of this, right?

Hester gave him the courtroom eyes. Are you saying Esperanza has something to do with all

this?

No.

You're the one who committed a crime here, Myron. You bribed two police officers.

And there's the rub, Myron said.

What are you talking about?

Even that night something struck me as odd about the whole incident. The three of them in the

car together. Why? Bonnie didn't much care for Billy Lee Palms. Sure, she'd go out with Clu and Clu would go out with Billy Lee and maybe they'd even double-date or something. But why were the three of them in that car so late at night?

Hester Crimstein stayed the lawyer. Are you saying one of them wasn't in the car?

No. I'm saying that there were four people in the car, not three.

What?

They both looked at Bonnie. Bonnie lowered her head.

Who were the four? Hester asked.

Bonnie and Clu were one couple. Myron tried to meet Bonnie's eyes, but she wouldn't look up.

Billy Lee Palms and Lucy Mayor were the other.

Hester Crimstein looked as if she'd been hit with a two-by-four. Lucy Mayor? she repeated.

As in the missing Mayor girl?

Yes.

Jesus Christ.

Myron kept his eyes on Bonnie. Eventually she raised her head. It's true, isn't it?

Hester Crimstein said, She's not talking.

Yes, Bonnie said. It's true.

But you never knew what happened to her, did you?

Bonnie hesitated. Not then, no.

What did Clu tell you?

That you bought her off too, Bonnie said. Like with the police. He said you paid her to keep

silent.

Myron nodded. It made sense. There's one thing I don't get. There was a ton of publicity about

Lucy Mayor a few years back. You must have seen her picture in the paper.

I did.

Didn't it ring a bell?

No. You have to remember. I only saw her that one time. You know Billy Lee. A different girl

every night. And Clu and I sat in the front. Her hair was a different color too. She was a blonde

then. So I didn't know.

And neither did Clu.

That's right.

But eventually you learned the truth.

Eventually, she said.

Whoa, Hester Crimstein said. I'm not following any of this. What does an old traffic accident

have to do with Clu's murder?

Everything, Myron said.

You better explain, Myron. And while you're at it, why did Esperanza get framed for it?

That was a mistake.

What?

Esperanza wasn't the one they intended to frame, Myron said. I was.

Chapter 38

Yankee Stadium hunched over in the night, crouching shoulders low as though trying to escape the glow from its own lights. Myron parked in Lot 14, where the executives and players parked. There were only three other cars there. The night guard at the press entrance said he was expected, that the Mayors would meet him on the field. Myron moved down the lower tier and hopped the wall near the batter's box. The stadium lights were on, but nobody was there. He stood alone on the field and took a deep breath. Even in the Bronx nothing smelled like a baseball diamond. He turned toward the visitor's dugout, scanning the lower boxes and finding the exact seats he and his brother had sat in all those years ago. Funny what you remember. He walked toward the pitcher's mound, the grass making a gentle whooshing sound, and sat down on the rubber and waited. Clu's home. The one place he'd always felt at peace.

Should have buried him here, Myron thought. Under a pitcher's mound.

He stared up into the thousands of seats, empty like the shattered eyes of the dead, the vacant stadium merely a body now without a soul. The whites of the foul lines were muddied, nearly dirt-toned now. They'd be put down anew tomorrow before game time.

People say that baseball is a metaphor for life. Myron did not know about that, but staring down the foul line, he wondered. The line between good and evil is not so different from the foul line on a baseball field. It's often made of stuff as flimsy as lime. It tends to fade over time. It needs to be constantly redrawn. And if enough players trample on it, the line becomes smeared and blurred to the point where fair is foul and foul is fair, where good and evil become indistinguishable from each other.

Jared Mayor's voice broke the stillness. You said you found my sister.

Myron squinted toward the dugout. I lied, he said.

Jared stepped up the cement stairs. Sophie followed. Myron rose to his feet. Jared started to say something more, but his mother put her hand on his arm. They kept walking as though they were coaches coming out to talk to the relief pitcher.

Your sister is dead, Myron said. But you both know that.

They kept walking.

She was killed in a drunk driving accident, he went on. She died on impact.

Maybe, Sophie said.

Myron looked confused. Maybe?

Maybe she died on impact, maybe she didn't, Sophie continued. Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms weren't doctors. They were dumb, drunk jocks. Lucy might have just been injured. She may have been alive. A doctor might have been able to save her.

Myron nodded. I guess that's possible.

Go on, Sophie said. I want to hear what you have to say.

Whatever your daughter's condition actually was, Clu and Billy Lee believed that she was dead. Clu was terrified. Drunk driving charges would be serious enough, but this was vehicular homicide. You don't walk away from that, no matter how far your curveball breaks. He and Billy Lee panicked. I don't know the details here. Sawyer Wells can tell us. My guess is that they hid the body. It was a quiet road, but there still wouldn't be enough time to bury Lucy before the police and ambulance arrived. So they probably stashed her in the brush. And when it all calmed down, they came back and buried her. Like I said, I don't know the details. I don't think they're particularly relevant. What is relevant is that Clu and Billy Lee got rid of the body.

Jared stepped into Myron's face. You can't prove any of this.

Myron ignored him, keeping his eyes on Jared's mother. The years pass. Lucy is gone. But not in the minds of Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms. Maybe I'm over-analyzing. Maybe I'm being too easy on them. But I think what they did that night defined the rest of their lives. Their selfdestructive tendencies. The drugs You're being too easy, Sophie said.

Myron waited.

Don't give them credit for having consciences, she continued. They were worthless scum.

Maybe you're right. I shouldn't analyze. And I guess it doesn't matter. Clu and Billy Lee may have created their own hell, but it wasn't close to the agony your family experienced. You told me about the awful torment of not knowing the truth, how it lives with you every day. With Lucy dead and buried like that, the torment just went on.

Sophie's head was still high. There was no flinch in her. Do you know how we finally learned our daughter's fate?

From Sawyer Wells, Myron said. The Wells Rules of Wellness, Rule Eight: 'Confess something about yourself to a friend something awful, something you'd never want anyone to know. You'll feel better. You'll still see that you're worthy of love.' Sawyer was a drug counselor at Rockwell. Billy Lee was a patient there. My guess is that he caught him during a withdrawal episode. When he was delirious probably. He did what his therapist asked. Rule eight. He confessed the worst thing he could imagine, the one moment in his life that shaped all others. Sawyer suddenly saw his ticket out of Rockwell and into the spotlight. Through the wealthy Mayor family, owners of Mayor Software. So he went to you and your husband. And he told you what he'd heard.

Again Jared said, You have no proof of any of this!

And again Sophie silenced him with her hand. Go on, Myron, she said. What happened then?

With this new information, you found your daughter's body. I don't know if your private investigators did it or if you just used your money and influence to keep the authorities quiet. It wouldn't have been difficult for someone in your position.

I see, Sophie said. But if all that's true, why would I want to keep it quiet? Why not prosecute Clu and Billy Lee and even you?

Because you couldn't, Myron said.

Why not?

The corpse had been buried for twelve years. There was no evidence there. The car was long

gone no evidence there either. The police report listed a Breathalyzer test that showed Clu was not drunk. So what did you have: the ranting of a drug addict going through withdrawal? Billy Lee's confession to Sawyer Wells would probably be suppressed, and even if it wasn't, so what? His testimony about the police payoffs was complete hearsay since he wasn't even there when it happened. You realized all that, didn't you?

She said nothing.

And that meant justice was up to you, Sophie. You and Gary would have to avenge your

daughter. He stopped, looked at Jared, then back at Sophie. You told me about a void. You

said that you preferred to fill that void with hope.

Sophie nodded. I did.

And when the hope was gone when the discovery of your daughter's body sucked it all

away you and your husband still needed to fill that void.

Yes.

So you filled it with revenge.

She fixed her gaze on his. Do you blame us, Myron?

He said nothing.

The crooked sheriff was dying of cancer, Sophie said. There was nothing to be done about

him. The other officer, well, as your friend Win could tell you, money is influence. The Federal Bureau of Investigation set him up at our behest. He took the bait. And yes, I shattered his life. Gladly.

But Clu was the one you wanted to hurt most, Myron said.

Hurt nothing. I wanted to crush him.

But he too was fairly broken down, Myron said. In order to really crush him, you had to give

him hope. Just like you and Gary had all these years. Give him hope, then snatch it away. Hope hurts like nothing else. You knew that. So you and your husband bought the Yankees. You overpaid, but so what? You had the money. You didn't care. Gary died soon after the transaction.

From heartache, Sophie interrupted. She raised her head, and for the first time he saw a tear.

From years of heartache.

But you carried on without him.

Yes.

You concentrated on one thing and one thing only: getting Clu in your grasp. It was a silly trade everyone thought so and it was strange coming from an owner who kept out of every other baseball decision. But it was all about getting Clu on the team. That's the only reason you bought the Yankees. To give Clu a last chance. And even better, Clu cooperated. He started straightening out his life. He was clean and sober. He was pitching well. He was as happy as Clu Haid was ever going to get. You had him in the palm of your hand.

And then you closed your fist.

Jared put his arm around her shoulders and pressed her close.

I don't know the order, Myron went on. You sent Clu a computer diskette like you sent me. Bonnie told me that. She also told me that you blackmailed him. Anonymously. That explains the missing two hundred thousand dollars. You made him live in terror. And Bonnie even inadvertently helped you by filing for divorce. Now Clu was in the perfect position for your coup de grace: the drug test. You fixed it so he would fail. Sawyer helped. Who better, since he already knew what was going on? It worked beautifully. Not only did it destroy Clu, but it also diverted any attention from you. Who would ever suspect you, especially since the test seemingly hurt you too? But you didn't care about any of that. The Yankees meant nothing to you except as a vehicle to destroy Clu Haid.

So true, Sophie said.

Don't, Jared said.

She shook her head and patted her son's arm. It's okay.

Clu had no idea the girl he buried in the woods was your daughter. But after you bombarded him with the calls and the diskette and especially after he failed the drug test, he put it together. But what could he do about it? He certainly couldn't say the drug test was fixed because he'd killed Lucy Mayor. He was trapped. He tried to figure out how you'd learned the truth. He thought maybe it was Barbara Cromwell.

Who?

Barbara Cromwell. She's Sheriff Lemmon's daughter.

How did she know?

Because as quiet as you tried to keep the investigation, Wilston is a small town. The sheriff was tipped off about the discovery. He was dying. He had no money. His family was poor. So he told his daughter about what had really happened that night. She could never get in trouble for it it was his crime, not hers. And they could use the information to blackmail Clu Haid. Which they did. On several occasions. Clu figured Barbara had been the one who opened her mouth. When he called her to find out if she'd told anyone, Barbara played coy. She demanded more money. So Clu drove up to Wilston a few days later. He refused to pay her. He said it was over.

Sophie nodded. So that's how you put it together.

It was the final piece, yes, Myron said. When I realized that Clu had visited Lemmon's daughter, it all fell into place. But I'm still surprised, Sophie.

Surprised about what?

That you killed him. That you let Clu out of his misery.

Jared's arm dropped off his mother. What are you talking about? he said.

Let him speak, Sophie said. Go on, Myron.

What more is there?

For starters, she said, how about your part in all this?

A lead block formed in his chest. He said nothing.

You're not going to claim that you were blameless in all this, are you, Myron?

His voice was soft. No.

In the distance, out beyond center field, a janitor started cleaning off the memorials to the

Yankees' greats. He sprayed and wiped, working, Myron knew from past stadium visits, on Lou

Gehrig's stone. The Iron Horse. Such bravery in the face of so awful a death.

You've done this too, haven't you? Sophie said.

Myron kept his eyes on the janitor. Done what? But he knew.

I've looked into your past, she said. You and your business associate often take the law into

your own hands, am I right? You play judge and jury.

Myron said nothing.

That's all I did. For the sake of my daughter's memory.

The blurry line between fair and foul again. So you decided to frame me for Clu's murder.

Yes.

The perfect way to wreak vengeance on me for bribing the officers.

I thought so at the time.

But you messed up, Sophie. You ended up framing the wrong person.

That was an accident.

Myron shook his head. I should have seen it, he said. Even Billy Lee Palms said it, but I

didn't pay attention. And Hester Crimstein said it to me the first time I met her.

Said what?

They both pointed out that the blood was found in my car, the gun in my office. Maybe I killed

Clu, they said. A logical deduction except for one thing. I was out of the country. You didn't

know that, Sophie. You didn't know that Esperanza and Big Cyndi were playing a shell game with everybody, pretending I was still around. That's why you were so upset with me when you found out I'd been away. I messed up your plan. You also didn't know that Clu had an altercation with Esperanza. So all the evidence that was supposed to point to me Pointed instead to your associate, Miss Diaz, Sophie said.

Exactly, Myron said. But there's one other thing I want to clear up.

More than one thing, Sophie corrected.

What?

There's more than one thing you'll want to clear up, Sophie said. But please go ahead. What

would you like to know?

You were the one who had me followed, he said. The guy I spotted outside the Lock-Home

building. He was yours.

Yes. I knew Clu had tried to hook up with you. I hoped the same might happen with Billy Lee

Palms.

Which it did. Billy Lee thought that maybe I killed Clu to keep my part in the crime buried. He

thought I wanted to kill him too.

It makes sense, she agreed. You had a lot to lose.

So you were following me then? At the bar?

Yes.

Personally?

She smiled. I grew up a hunter and a tracker, Myron. The city or the woods, it makes little

difference.

You saved my life, he said.

She did not reply.

Why?

You know why. I didn't come there to kill Billy Lee Palms. But there are degrees of guilt.

Simply put, he was more guilty than you. When it came down to a question of you or him, I chose to kill him. You deserve to be punished, Myron. But you didn't deserve to be killed by scum like Billy Lee Palms.

Judge and jury again? Luckily for you, Myron, yes.

He sat down hard on the pitcher's mound, his whole body suddenly drained. I can't just let you

get away with this, he said. I may sympathize. But you killed Clu Haid in cold blood.

No.

What?

I didn't kill Clu Haid.

I don't expect you to confess.

Expect or don't expect. I didn't kill him.

Myron frowned. You had to. It all adds up.

Her eyes remained placid pools. Myron's head started spinning. He turned and looked up at

Jared.

He didn't kill him either, Sophie said.

One of you did, Myron said.

No.

Myron looked at Jared. Jared said nothing. Myron opened his mouth, closed it, tried to come up

with something. Think, Myron. Sophie crossed her arms and smiled at him. I told you my philosophy when you were last here. I'm a hunter. I don't hate what I kill. Just the opposite. I respect what I kill. I honor my kill. I consider the animal brave and noble. Killing, in fact, can be merciful. That's why I kill with one shot. Not Billy Lee Palms, of course. I wanted him to have at least a few moments

of agony and fear. And of course, I would never show Clu Haid mercy.

Myron tried to sort through it. But

And then he heard yet another click. His conversation with Sally Li started uncoiling in his head.