«Arthur, right. There is something you can do for us.»

Arthur and Chance’s laughter segued into chuckles before fading away like a song on the radio. Their faces grew harder now. Game time. They both leaned into the strike zone a bit, signaling to one and all that they were going to listen to Myron’s problem with four of the most sympathetic ears in existence.

«Do you remember a woman named Anita Slaughter?» Myron asked.

They were good, both of them thoroughbred politicians, but their bodies still jolted as if they’d been zapped with a stun gun. They recovered fast enough, busying themselves with the pretense of scouring for a recollection, but there was no doubt. A nerve had been jangled big time.

«I can’t place the name,» Arthur said, his face twisted as though he’d given this thought process an effort equal to childbirth. «Chance?»

«The name is not unfamiliar,» Chance said, «but…» He shook his head.

Not unfamiliar. You gotta love it when they speak politicianese.

«Anita Slaughter worked here,» Myron said. «Twenty years ago. She was a maid or house servant of some kind.»

Again the deep, probing thought. If Rodin were here, he’d break out the good bronze for these guys. Chance kept his eyes on his brother, waiting for his stage cue. Arthur Bradford held the pose for a few more seconds before he suddenly snapped his fingers.

«Of course,» he said. «Anita. Chance, you remember Anita.»

«Yes, of course,» Chance chimed in. «I guess I never knew her last name.»

They were both smiling now like morning anchors during a sweeps week.

«How long did she work for you?» Myron asked.

«Oh, I don’t know,» Arthur said. «A year or two, I guess. I really don’t remember. Chance and I weren’t responsible for household help, of course. That was more Mother’s doing.»

Already with the «plausible deniability». Interesting. «Do you remember why she left your family’s employ?»

Arthur Bradford’s smile stayed frozen, but something was happening to his eyes. His pupils were expanding, and for a moment it looked like he was having trouble focusing. He turned to Chance. They both looked uncertain now, not sure how to handle this sudden frontal assault, not wanting to answer but not wanting to lose the potentially massive Lock-Home Securities support either.

Arthur took the lead. «No, I don’t remember.» When in doubt, evade. «Do you, Chance?»

Chance spread his hands and gave them the boyish smile. «So many people in and out.» He looked to Win as if to say, You know how it is. But Win’s eyes, as usual, offered no solace.

«Did she quit or was she fired?»

«Oh, I doubt she was fired,» Arthur said quickly. «My mother was very good to the help. She rarely, if ever, fired anyone. Not in her nature.»

The man was pure politician. The answer might be true or not – that was pretty much irrelevant to Arthur Bradford – but under any circumstances, a poor black woman fired as a servant by a wealthy family would not play well in the press. A politician innately sees this and calculates his response in a matter of seconds; reality and truth must always take a backseat to the gods of sound bite and perception.

Myron pressed on. «According to her family, Anita Slaughter worked here until the day she disappeared.»

They were both too smart to bite and say, «Disappeared?» but Myron decided to wait them out anyway.

People hate silence and often jump in just to break it. This was an old cop trick: say nothing and let them dig their own graves with explanations. With politicians the results were always interesting: they were smart enough to know they should keep their mouths shut, yet genetically incapable of doing so.

«I’m sorry,» Arthur Bradford said at last. «As I explained earlier, Mother handled these matters.»

«Then maybe I should talk to her,» Myron said.

«Mother is not well, I’m afraid. She’s in her eighties, poor dear.»

«I’d still like to try.»

«I’m afraid that won’t be possible.» «

There was just a hint of steel in his voice now.

«I see,» Myron said. «Do you know who Horace Slaughter is?»

«No,» Arthur said. «I assume he’s a relative of Anita’s?»

«Her husband.» Myron looked over at Chance. «You know him?»

«Not that I recall,» Chance said. Not that I recall. Like he was on a witness stand, needing to leave himself the out.

«According to his phone records, he’s been calling your campaign headquarters a lot lately.»

«Many people call our campaign headquarters,» Arthur said. Then he added with a small chuckle, «At least I hope they do.»

Chance chuckled too. Real yucksters, these Bradford boys.

«Yeah, I guess.» Myron looked at Win. Win nodded. Both men stood up.

«Thank you for your time,» Win said. «We’ll show ourselves out.»

The two politicians tried not to look too stunned. Chance finally cracked a bit. «What the hell is this?»

Arthur silenced him with a look. He rose to shake hands, but Myron and Win were already at the door.

Myron turned and did his best Columbo. «Funny.»

«What?» Arthur Bradford said.

«That you don’t remember Anita Slaughter better. I thought you would.»

Arthur turned his palms upward. «We’ve had lots of people work here over the years.»

«True,» Myron said, stepping through the portal. «But how many of them found your wife’s dead body?»

The two men turned to marble – still and smooth and cool. Myron did not wait for more. He released the door and followed Win out.

As they drove through the gate, Win said, «What exactly did we just accomplish?»

«Two things. One, I wanted to find out if they had something to hide. Now I know they do.»

«Based on?»

«Their outright lies and evasiveness.»

«They’re politicians,» Win said. «They’d lie and evade if you asked them what they had for breakfast.»

«You don’t think there’s something there?»

«Actually,» Win said, «I do. And thing two?»

«I wanted to stir them up.»

Win smiled. He liked that idea. «So what next, Kemo Sabe?»

«We need to investigate Elizabeth Bradford’s premature demise,» Myron said.

«How?»

«Hop onto South Livingston Avenue. I’ll tell you where to make the turn.»

The Livingston Police Station sat next to the Livingston Town Hall and across the street from the Livingston Public Library and Livingston High School. A true town center. Myron entered and asked for Officer Francine Neagly. Francine had graduated from the high school across the street the same year as Myron. He’d hoped to get lucky and catch her at the station.

A stern-looking desk sergeant informed Myron that Officer Neagly was «not present at this particular time» – that’s how cops talk – but that she had just radioed in for her lunch break and would be at the Ritz Diner.

The Ritz Diner was truly ugly. The formerly workmanlike brick structure had been spray-painted seaweed green with a salmon pink door – a color scheme too gaudy for a Carnival Cruise ship. Myron hated it. In its heyday, when Myron was in high school, the diner had been a run-of-the-mill, unpretentious eatery called the Heritage. It’d been a twenty-four-hour spot back then, owned by Greeks naturally – this seemed to be a state law – and frequented by high school kids grabbing burgers and fries after a Friday or Saturday night of doing nothing. Myron and his friends would don their varsity jackets, go out to a variety of house parties, and end up here. He tried now to remember what he did at those parties, but nothing specific came to mind. He didn’t imbibe in high school – alcohol made him sick -and was prudish to the point of Pollyanna when it came to the drug scene. So what did he do at these things? He remembered the music, of course, blaring the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan and Supertramp, gleaning deep meaning from the lyrics of Blue Oyster Cult songs («Yo, man, what do you think Eric really means when he says, "I want to do it to your daughter on a dirt road?"«). He remembered occasionally making out with a girl, rarely more, and then their avoiding each other at all costs for the rest of their scholastic lives. But that was pretty much it. You went to the parties because you were afraid you’d miss something. But nothing ever happened. They were all an indistinguishable, monotonous blur now.