"I knew it!" Ned shouted in glee. He shook Myron's hand, hugged him, turned to Win, pumped his hand too. Win pulled his hand back and wiped it on his pants. "I just knew it!"

Myron simply nodded.

"Soon! So soon!" Ned cried. "The promo of the year begins! Everyone is going to know the name Duane Richwood! He was fantastic, utterly fantastic! I can't believe it I swear, I don't think I've ever been this excited before!"

"You're not going to come again, are you, Ned?"

"Oh, Myron!" He nudged Win playfully with his elbow. "Is he a kidder or what?"

"A gifted comedian," Win agreed.

Ned slapped Win's shoulder. Win visibly winced but did not break the offending hand. Amazing restraint for Win.

"Look, guys," Ned said, "I'd love to stand here and chat all day. But I gotta run."

Win managed to hide his disappointment.

"Ciao for now. Myron, we'll talk, okay?"

Myron nodded.

"Bye, guys." Ned skipped – actually skipped – back up the stairs.

Win watched him depart with something approaching horror. "What," he asked, "was that?"

"A bad dream. I'll meet you back at the office."

"Where are you going?" Win asked.

"To talk to Duane. I have to ask him about Valerie's call."

"Let it go until after the tournament."

Myron shook his head. "Can't."

Myron waited for the press conference to end. It took some time. Duane was holding court, firmly in his element The media had a new darling. Duane Richwood. Cocky but not obnoxious. Confident yet gracious. Handsome. American.

When the hordes of press finally ran out of questions, Myron accompanied Duane back to the dressing room. He sat on a chair next to Duane's locker. Duane took off his sunglasses and put them on the top shelf.

"Some match, huh?" Duane said.

Myron nodded.

"Hey, this win oughta make Nike happy."

"Orgasmic," Myron agreed.

"They going to air the ad during my next match, right?"

"Yep."

Duane shook his head. "Quarterfinal, at the U.S. Open," he said in awe. "I can't believe it, Myron. We're on our way."

"Duane?"

"Yeah?"

"I know Valerie called you," Myron said.

Duane stopped. "What?"

"She called your apartment twice. From a pay phone near her hotel."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Duane quickly reached for the sunglasses, fumbled them, put them on.

"I want to help you, Duane."

"Nothing to help with me."

"Duane…"

"Just leave me the fuck alone."

"I can't do that."

"Look, Myron, I don't need distractions right now. Just drop it."

"She's dead, Duane. That just won't go away."

Duane took off his shirt and began toweling off his chest. "Some stalker killed her," he said. "I saw it on the news. Got nothing to do with me."

"Why did she call you, Duane?"

His hands were clenching and unclenching. "You work for me, right?"

"Right"

"Then drop it or you're fired."

Myron looked at him. "No," he said.

Duane sunk into a chair, his head in his hands. "Shit, I'm sorry, Myron. I didn't mean that. It's just the pressure. What with this tournament and that Dimonte cop accusing me and all. Look, just forget I said anything, okay? Just forget this whole conversation happened."

"No."

"What?"

"Why did she call you, Duane?"

"Man, don't you listen?"

"Not well."

"Just stay out of it."

"No."

"It's got nothing to do with the murder."

"Then you admit she called you?"

Duane stood, turned his back toward Myron, leaned against his locker.

"Duane?"

His words were soft. "Yeah, she called me. So what?"

"Why?"

"Let's just say we were acquainted. Intimately, if you get my drift."

"You and Valerie…?" Myron made futile hand gestures.

Duane nodded slowly. "It was no big thing. Just a few times."

"When did this start?"

"Couple of months ago."

"Where did you meet?"

He looked at Myron, confused. "At a tournament."

"Which one?"

"I don't remember. New Haven, I think. But it was over quick."

"So why did you lie to the police?"

"Why do you think?" he countered. "Wanda was standing right there. I love her, man. I made a mistake. I didn't want to hurt her. Is that so wrong?"

"So why wouldn't you tell me?"

"What?"

"When I asked you just now. Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

"Same reason."

"But Wanda isn't here."

"I was ashamed, okay?"

"Ashamed?"

"I'm not proud of what I did."

Myron watched him. With those sunglasses Duane's face looked sleek and robotic. But something wasn't right here. It was a nice sentiment, but twenty-one-year-old professional athletes, no matter how faithful to their partners, were not this ashamed of letting their agents know about an indiscretion. The excuse might be commendable, but it rang hollow. "If it was over, why was Valerie calling you?"

"I don't know. She wanted to see me again. One last fling, I guess."

"Did you agree to see her?"

"No. I told her we were finished."

"What else did you say?"

"Nothing."

"What else did she say?"

"Nothing."

"Are you sure? Do you remember anything at all?"

"No. Nothing."

"Did she seem distressed?"

"Not that I could tell."

The door opened. Players began to file in, many offering Duane icy congratulations. Rising stars were not big in the locker room. If someone new was joining the ultra-exclusive tennis club known as the "Top Ten," another member had to be thrown out. The way it was. No boardroom was this cutthroat. Everyone was a rival here. Everyone was competing for the same dollars and fame. Everyone was an enemy.

Duane suddenly looked very much alone.

"You hungry?" Myron asked.

"Starved," Duane said.

"You want anything in particular?"

"Pizza," Duane said. "Extra cheese and pepperoni."

"Get dressed. I'll meet you out front."

"Myron Bolitar?"

The car phone. He'd just dropped Duane off at his apartment.

"Yes."

"This is Gerard Courter with the NYPD. Jake's son."

"Oh, right. How's it going, Gerard?"

"Can't complain. I doubt you remember but we played against each other once."

" Michigan State," Myron said. "I remember. And I have the bruises to prove it."

Gerard laughed. Sounded just like his old man. "Glad I was memorable."

"That's a polite word for what you were."

Another Jake-like guffaw. "My dad said you needed info on the Simpson homicide."

"I'd appreciate it."

"You probably heard there's a major suspect. Guy named Roger Quincy."

"The stalker."

"Yeah."

"Is there anything specific tying him to the murder?" Myron asked. "Besides the stalking?"

"He's on the run, for one thing. When they got to Quincy 's apartment he was packed and gone. No one knows where he is."

"He might have just been scared," Myron said.

"Good reason to be."

"Why do you say that?"

"Roger Quincy was at the tennis center on the day of the murder."

"You have witnesses?"

"Several."

That slowed Myron down. "What else?"

"She was shot with a thirty-eight. Very close range. We found the weapon in a garbage can ten yards away from the shooting. Smith amp; Wesson. It was in a Feron's bag. The bag had a bullet hole in it."

Feron's. Another tournament sponsor. They were licensed to sell "official tournament merchandise." Feron's had at least half a dozen stands selling to a zillion people. No way to trace it back. "So the killer walked up to her," Myron said, "shot her through the bag, kept walking, dumped the gun in the garbage, and headed out."