"Yeah, so? It's a prohibited activities clause. We got it from the NBA."

"The NBA's contract says nothing about hunting."

"What?"

"Please, Bob, let's try to pretend I don't have a learning disability. You threw in the word hunting. Sneaked it in, if you will."

"So what's the big deal? Your boy hunts. He hurt himself in a hunting incident two years ago and missed half his junior year. We want to make sure that doesn't happen again."

"Then you have to compensate him for it," Myron said.

"What? Don't bust my balls, Bolitar. You want us to pay the kid if he gets hurt, right?"

"Right."

"So we don't want him hunting. Suppose he shoots himself. Or suppose some other asshole mistakes him for a deer and shoots him. You know what that's going to cost us?"

"Your concern," Myron said, "is touching."

"Oh excuse me. A thousand pardons. I guess I should care more and pay less."

"Good point. Strike my last statement."

"So stricken. Can I go now?"

"My client enjoys hunting. It means a great deal to him."

"And his left arm means a lot to us."

"So I suggest a fair compromise."

"What?"

"A bonus. If Sandy doesn't hunt, you agree to pay him twenty thousand dollars at the end of the year."

Laughter. "You're out of your mind."

"Then take that clause out. It's not standard and we don't want it"

Pause. "Five grand. Not a penny more."

"Fifteen."

"Up yours, Myron. Eight."

"Fifteen," Myron said.

"I think you're forgetting how this is played," Bob said. "I say a number a little higher. You say a number a little lower. Then we meet somewhere in the middle."

"Fifteen, Bob. Take it or leave it"

Win opened the door and came in. He sat down silently, crossed his right ankle over his left thigh, and studied his manicured nails.

"Ten," Bob said.

"Fifteen."

The negotiation continued. Win stood, checked his reflection in the mirror behind the door. He was still fixing his hair five minutes later when Myron hung up. Not a blond lock was out of place, but that never seemed to deter Win.

"What was the final number?" Win asked.

"Thirteen five."

Win nodded. He smiled at his reflection. "You know what I was just thinking?"

"What?"

"It must suck to be ugly."

"Uh-huh. Think you can tear yourself away for a second?"

Win sighed. "It won't be easy."

"Try to be brave."

"I guess I can always look again later."

"Right. It'll give you something to look forward to."

With one last hair pat, Win turned away and sat down. "So what's up?"

"The powder-blue Caddy is still following me."

Win looked pleased. "And you want me to find out who they are?"

"Something like that," Myron said.

"Excellent"

"But I don't want you to move in on them without me there."

"You don't trust my judgment?"

"Just don't, okay?"

Win shrugged. "So how was your visit to the Van Slykes' estate?"

"I met Kenneth. The two of us really hit it off."

"I can imagine."

"You know him?" Myron asked.

"Oh yes."

"Is he as big an asshole as I think?"

Win spread his hands wide. "Of biblical proportions."

"You know anything else about him?"

"Nothing significant."

"Can you check him out?"

"But of course. What else did you find out?"

Myron told him about his visits to both the Van Slykes and Jake.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Win said when he finished.

"Yes."

"So what's the next step?" Win asked.

"I want to attack this from several directions."

"Those being?"

"Valerie's psychiatrist, for one."

"Who will throw all kinds of terms like 'doctor-patient confidentiality' at you," Win said with a dismissive wave. "A waste of time. Who else?"

"Curtis Yeller's mother witnessed her son's shooting. She's also Errol Swade's aunt. Maybe she has some thoughts on all this."

"For example?"

"Maybe she knows what happened to Errol."

"And you – what? – expect her to tell you?"

"You never know."

Win made a face. "So basically your plan is to flail about helplessly."

"Pretty much. I will also need to talk to Senator Cross. Do you think you can arrange it?"

"I can try," Win said. "But you're not going to learn anything from him either."

"Boy, you're a bundle of optimism today."

"Just telling it like it is."

"Did you learn anything at the Plaza?"

"As a matter of fact, I did." Win leaned back and steepled his fingers. "Valerie made only four calls in the past three days. All were to your office."

"One to make an appointment to see me," Myron said. "The other three on the day she died."

Win gave a quick whistle. "Very impressive. First you figure out Kenneth is an asshole and now this."

"Yeah, sometimes I even scare myself. Is there anything else?"

"A doorman at the Plaza remembered Valerie rather well," Win continued. "After I tipped him twenty dollars, he recalled that Valerie took a lot of quick walks. He found it curious, since guests normally leave for hours at a time, rather than scant minutes."

Myron felt a surge. "She was using a pay phone."

Win nodded. "I called Lisa at NYNEX. By the way, you now owe her two tickets to the Open."

Great. "What did she find out?"

"On the day before Valerie's murder, two calls were placed from a nearby pay phone at Fifth and Fifty-ninth to the residence of one Mr. Duane Richwood."

Myron felt a sinking feeling. "Shit."

"Indeed."

"So not only did Valerie call Duane," Myron said, "but she went out of her way to make sure no one would know."

"So it appears."

Silence.

Win said, "You'll have to talk to him."

"I know."

"Let it wait until after the tournament," Win added. "Between the Open and the big Nike campaign, there's no reason to distract him now. It will keep."

Myron shook his head. "I'll talk to Duane tomorrow. After his match."

Francois, the maître d' at La Reserve, flitted about their table like a vulture awaiting death – or worse, a New York maître d' awaiting a very large tip. Since discovering that Myron was a close friend of Windsor Horne Lockwood III's, Francois had befriended Myron in the same way a dog befriends a man with raw meat in his pocket.

He recommended the thinly sliced salmon appetizer and the chef's special scrod as an entree. Myron took him up on both suggestions. So did the so-far silent Mrs. Crane. Mr. Crane ordered the onion soup and liver. Myron was not going to be kissing him anytime soon. Eddie ordered the escargot and lobster tails. The kid was learning fast.

Francois said, "May I recommend a wine, Mr. Bolitar?"

"You may."

Eighty-five bucks down the drain.

Mr. Crane took a sip. Nodded his approval. He had not smiled yet, had barely exchanged a pleasantry. Luckily for Myron, Eddie was a nice kid. Smart. Polite. A pleasure to talk to. But whenever Mr. Crane cleared his throat – as he did now – Eddie fell silent

"I remember your basketball days at Duke, Mr. Bolitar," Crane began.

"Please call me Myron."

"Fine." Instead of reciprocating the informality, Crane knitted his eyebrows. The eyebrows were his most prominent feature – unusually thick and angry and constantly undulating above his eyes. They looked like small ferrets furrowing into his forehead. "You were captain of me team at Duke?" he began.

"For three years," Myron said.

"And you won two NCAA championships?"

"My team did, yes."

"I saw you play on several occasions. You were quite good."

"Thank you."

He leaned forward. The eyebrows grew somehow bushier. "If I recall," Crane continued, "the Celtics drafted you in the first round."