"So our friend Mr. Richwood is holding something back."

"We can't be sure."

Win raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Do you have any thoughts as to how Duane Richwood and Valerie Simpson are connected?"

"Nope. I was hoping you might."

"Moi?"

"You knew her," Myron said.

"She was an acquaintance."

"But you have a thought."

"About a connection between Duane and Valerie? No."

"Then what?"

Win strolled to a corner. A dozen golf balls were all in a line. He began to putt. "Are you really intent on pursuing this? Valerie's murder, I mean?"

"Yep."

"It might be none of your business."

"Might be," Myron agreed.

"Or you might unearth something unpleasant. Something you would rather not find."

"A distinct possibility."

Win nodded, checked the carpet's lie. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"No. Not the first time. Are you in?"

"There is nothing in this for us," Win said.

"Maybe not," Myron agreed.

"No financial gain."

"None at all."

"In fact there is never any profit in your holy crusades."

Myron waited.

Win lined up another put. "Stop making that face," he said. "I'm in."

"Good. Now tell me what you know about this."

"Nothing really. It's just a thought."

"I'm listening."

"You know, of course, about Valerie's breakdown," Win said.

"Yes."

"It was six years ago. She was only eighteen. The official word was that she collapsed under the pressure."

"The official word?"

"It may be the truth. The pressure on her was indeed awesome. Her rise had been nothing short of meteoric – but nowhere near as meteoric as the tennis world's expectations of her. Her subsequent fall – at least, up until the time of the breakdown – was slow and painful. Not at all like yours. Your fall, if you don't mind me using that word, was far swifter. Guillotinelike. One minute you were the Celtics' number one draft pick. The next minute you were finished. The end. But unlike Valerie, you had a freak injury and were thereby blameless. You were pitied. You cut a sympathetic figure. Valerie's demise, on the other hand, seemed to be of her own doing. She was a failure, ridiculed, but still no more than a child. To the world at large, the fickle finger of fate had ended the career of Myron Bolitar. But in the case of Valerie Simpson, she alone was culpable. In the eyes of the public she did not possess enough mental fortitude. Her fall, thus, was slow, torturous, brutal."

"So what does this have to do with the murder?"

"Perhaps nothing. But I always found the circumstances surrounding Valerie's mental collapse a bit disturbing."

"Why?"

"Her game had slipped, that much was true. Her coach – that famous gentleman who plays with all the celebrities…"

"Pavel Menansi."

"Whatever. He still believed Valerie could come back and win again. He said it all the time."

"Thereby putting more pressure on her."

Win hesitated. "Perhaps," he said slowly. "But there is another factor. Do you remember the murder of Alexander Cross?"

"The senator's son?"

"The senator from Pennsylvania," Win added.

"He was killed by robbers at his country club. Five, six years ago."

"Six. And it was a tennis club."

"You knew him?"

"Of course," Win said. "The Hornes have known every important Pennsylvania politician since William Penn. I grew up with Alexander Cross. We went to Exeter together."

"So what does he have to do with Valerie Simpson?"

"Alexander and Valerie were, shall we say, an item."

"A serious item?"

"Quite. They were about to announce their engagement when Alexander was killed. That night, as a matter of fact"

Myron did some quick mathematics in his head. Six years ago. Valerie would have been eighteen. "Let me guess. Valerie's breakdown took place right after his murder."

"Precisely."

"But I don't get something. The Cross murder was on the news every day for weeks. How come I never heard Valerie's name mentioned?"

"That," Win said, nailing another putt, "is why I find the circumstances disturbing."

Silence.

"We need to talk to Valerie's family," Myron said. "Maybe the senator's as well."

"Yes."

"You live in that world. You're one of them. They'd be more apt to talk to you."

Win shook his head. "They'll never talk to me. Being 'one of them,' as you put it, is a severe handicap. Their guard will be up with someone like me. But with you they won't be so concerned about facades. They'll perceive you as someone who doesn't matter, as someone inferior, as someone beneath them. A nobody."

"Gee, that's flattering."

Win smiled. "The way of the world, my friend. Many things change, but these people still consider themselves the true, original Americans. You and your kind are just hired help, shipped in from Russia or Eastern Europe or from whatever gulag or ghetto your people originated."

"I hope they don't hurt my feelings," Myron said.

"I'll arrange a meeting for you with Valerie's mother for tomorrow morning."

"You think she'll see me?"

"If I request it, yes."

"Groovy."

"Indeed." Win put down his putter. "In the meantime what do you suggest we do?"

Myron checked his watch. "One of Pavel Menansi's protégées is playing on Stadium Court in about an hour. I figured I'd pay him a visit."

"And pour moi?"

"Valerie spent the past week at the Plaza Hotel," Myron said. "I'd like you to look around, see if anybody remembers anything. Check her phone calls."

"See if she did indeed call Duane Richwood?"

"Yes."

"And if she did?"

"Then we have to look into that too," Myron said.

The U.S.T.A. National Tennis Center is neatly snuggled into the bosom of Queens' top attractions: Shea Stadium (home of the New York Mets), Flushing Meadows Park (home of the 1964-65 World's Fair) and La Guardia Airport (home of, uh, delays).

Players used to complain about the La Guardia planes flying overhead, for the very simple reason that it made Stadium Court sound like a launch pad during an Apollo liftoff. Then-mayor David Dinkins, never one to let a terrible injustice go unheeded, immediately sprang into action. Using all his political might, the former mayor of New York City – who in a fascinating and almost eerie coincidence was also an enormous tennis fan – had La Guardia's offending runway halt operations for the duration of the Open. Tennis millionaires were grateful. In a show of mutual respect and admiration Mayor David Dinkins returned their gratitude by showing up at the matches every day for the two weeks of play, except – in yet another eerie coincidence – during election years.

Only two courts were used for the night sessions: Stadium Court and the adjacent Grandstand Court. The day sessions, Myron thought, were much more fun. Fifteen or sixteen matches might be going on at the same time. You could cruise around, catch a great five-set match on some obscure court, discover an up-and-coming player, see singles, doubles, and mixed doubles matches all in the glorious sunshine. But at night you basically sat in one seat and watched a match under lights. During the Open's first couple of days this match usually featured a top-seed mercilessly decapitating a qualifier.

Myron parked in the Shea Stadium lot and crossed the walking bridge over the No. 7 train. Someone had set up a booth with a radar gun where spectators could measure the speed of their own serve. Business was brisk. Ticket scalpers were also busy. So were the guys selling knockoff U.S. Open T-shirts. The knockoff T-shirts sold for five dollars, as opposed to the ones inside the gates that went for twenty-five dollars. Not a bad deal on the surface. Of course, after one wash the knock-off T-shirt could only be worn by a Barbie doll. But still.