Drop Shot
Page 33
“I will neither confirm nor deny that I have ever heard the name Helen Van Slyke.”
“I see,” Myron said. “So you think this should all be shoved aside. Bottled up. Let the image rule over the reality. Somehow I don’t think that sits well with you, Doc.”
She said nothing.
“Your patient is dead,” Myron continued. “Don’t you think your obligation should be to her, not her mother?”
Dr. Abramson’s hands tightened into small balls for a moment, then relaxed. She took a deep breath, held it, let out it slowly. “Let us pretend—and just pretend—that I was the psychiatrist for this young woman. Wouldn’t I have an obligation not to betray what she told me in the strictest of confidences? If the patient chose not to reveal any of this while alive, wouldn’t I have an obligation to uphold that right for her in death?”
Myron stared at her. Dr. Abramson stared back. Unyielding. “Nice speech,” he said. “But maybe Valerie wanted to reveal something. And maybe someone killed her to deny her that right.”
The bright eyes blinked several times. “I think you should leave now,” she said.
She pressed a button on her intercom. The receptionist appeared at the door. He crossed his arms and tried to look intimidating. The attempt was hardly a rousing success.
Myron rose. He knew he had planted a seed. He would have to give it time to germinate. “Will you at least think about it?” he added.
“Good-bye, Myron.”
The receptionist stepped aside, allowing Myron room to pass.
19
Of the three witnesses to the murder of Alexander Cross—all college chums of the deceased—only one lived in the New York area. Gregory Caufield, Jr., was now a young associate at daddy’s law firm of Stillen, Caufield, and Weston, a high-powered, high-profile firm with offices in several states and foreign countries.
Myron dialed, asked for Gregory Caufield, Jr., and was put on hold. A woman came on the line several seconds later and said, “I’ll put you straight through to Mr. Caufield.”
A click. One ring. Then an enthusiastic voice said, “Well, hi!”
Well, hi?
“Is this Gregory Caufield?”
“Sure is. What can I do for you today?”
“My name is Myron Bolitar.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I’d like to make an appointment to see you.”
“Sure. When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“How about half an hour from now? Will that be okay?”
“That’ll be fine, thank you.”
“Super, Myron. Looking forward to it.”
Click. Super?
Fifteen minutes later Myron was on his way. He walked up Park Avenue past the mosque steps where Myron and Win liked to lunch on summer days. Prime woman-watching perch. New York has the most beautiful women in the world, bar none. They wear business attire and sneakers and sunglasses. They walk with cool purpose, with no time to waste. Amazingly, none of the beautiful women checked Myron out. Probably just being discreet. Probably ogling him like crazy from behind those sunglasses.
Myron cut west to Madison Avenue. He passed a couple of electronics stores with the same GOING OUT OF BUSINESS signs they’d had up for at least a year. The sign was always the same—white sign, black letters. A blind man held out a cup. Didn’t even give out pencils anymore. His seeing-eye dog looked dead. Two cops were laughing on the corner. They were eating croissants. Not doughnuts. Another cliché blown to hell.
There was a security guard by the elevator in the lobby.
“Yes?”
“Myron Bolitar to see Gregory Caufield.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Bolitar. Twenty-second floor.” Didn’t call up. Didn’t check his list. Hmm.
When the elevator opened, a pleasant-faced woman was standing there. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bolitar. If you’d please follow me.”
Down a long corridor with an office-pink carpet, white walls, McKnight framed posters. No typewriters clicked, but Myron heard the whir of a laser printer. Someone was dialing a number on a speakerphone. A fax machine screeched its call to another fax machine. When they turned the corner, a second, equally pleasant-faced, woman approached. Plastic smiles all around.
“Hello, Mr. Bolitar,” the second woman said. “Nice to see you today.”
“Nice to see you too.” Every line a lady-slayer.
The first woman handed him over to the second. Tag-team style. “Mr. Caufield is waiting for you in conference room C,” the second woman said, her voice low, as if conference room C were a clandestine chamber in the bowels of the Pentagon.
She led him to a door very much like any other except it had a big bronze C on it. In a matter of seconds, Myron managed to deduce that the room was conference room C. The Adventures of Sherlock Bolitar. A man opened the door from the inside. He was young with a thick head of Stephanopoulos-like hair. He pumped Myron’s hand enthusiastically. “Hi, Myron.”
“Hi, Gregory.” Like they actually knew each other.
“Please come in. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”
Myron stepped fully into the room. Big walnut table with dark leather chairs, the expensive kind, the kind with those little gold buttons on them. Oil portraits of stern-faced men on the walls. The room was empty, except for one man down the other end of the table. Though they had never met, Myron recognized the man immediately. He should have been surprised, but he wasn’t.
Senator Bradley Cross.
Gregory did not bother with introductions. In fact he didn’t bother staying. He slipped out the door, closing it behind him. The senator stood. His were a far cry from the classic patrician good looks one usually associates with political families. They say people look like their pets; in that case Senator Bradley Cross owned a basset hound. His features were long and malleable. His finely tailored suit did nothing to disguise his exaggerated pear build; on a woman, his hips would be called child-bearing. His hair was wispy gray strands that seemed to be suffering from static cling. He wore thick glasses and an off-center smile. Still, it was an endearing smile—indeed, an endearing, trustworthy face. The kind of face you’d vote for.
Senator Cross slowly put out his hand. “I’m sorry for the dramatics,” he said, “but I thought we should meet.”
They shook hands.
“Please have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something?”
“No, thank you,” Myron said.
“I see,” Myron said. “So you think this should all be shoved aside. Bottled up. Let the image rule over the reality. Somehow I don’t think that sits well with you, Doc.”
She said nothing.
“Your patient is dead,” Myron continued. “Don’t you think your obligation should be to her, not her mother?”
Dr. Abramson’s hands tightened into small balls for a moment, then relaxed. She took a deep breath, held it, let out it slowly. “Let us pretend—and just pretend—that I was the psychiatrist for this young woman. Wouldn’t I have an obligation not to betray what she told me in the strictest of confidences? If the patient chose not to reveal any of this while alive, wouldn’t I have an obligation to uphold that right for her in death?”
Myron stared at her. Dr. Abramson stared back. Unyielding. “Nice speech,” he said. “But maybe Valerie wanted to reveal something. And maybe someone killed her to deny her that right.”
The bright eyes blinked several times. “I think you should leave now,” she said.
She pressed a button on her intercom. The receptionist appeared at the door. He crossed his arms and tried to look intimidating. The attempt was hardly a rousing success.
Myron rose. He knew he had planted a seed. He would have to give it time to germinate. “Will you at least think about it?” he added.
“Good-bye, Myron.”
The receptionist stepped aside, allowing Myron room to pass.
19
Of the three witnesses to the murder of Alexander Cross—all college chums of the deceased—only one lived in the New York area. Gregory Caufield, Jr., was now a young associate at daddy’s law firm of Stillen, Caufield, and Weston, a high-powered, high-profile firm with offices in several states and foreign countries.
Myron dialed, asked for Gregory Caufield, Jr., and was put on hold. A woman came on the line several seconds later and said, “I’ll put you straight through to Mr. Caufield.”
A click. One ring. Then an enthusiastic voice said, “Well, hi!”
Well, hi?
“Is this Gregory Caufield?”
“Sure is. What can I do for you today?”
“My name is Myron Bolitar.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I’d like to make an appointment to see you.”
“Sure. When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“How about half an hour from now? Will that be okay?”
“That’ll be fine, thank you.”
“Super, Myron. Looking forward to it.”
Click. Super?
Fifteen minutes later Myron was on his way. He walked up Park Avenue past the mosque steps where Myron and Win liked to lunch on summer days. Prime woman-watching perch. New York has the most beautiful women in the world, bar none. They wear business attire and sneakers and sunglasses. They walk with cool purpose, with no time to waste. Amazingly, none of the beautiful women checked Myron out. Probably just being discreet. Probably ogling him like crazy from behind those sunglasses.
Myron cut west to Madison Avenue. He passed a couple of electronics stores with the same GOING OUT OF BUSINESS signs they’d had up for at least a year. The sign was always the same—white sign, black letters. A blind man held out a cup. Didn’t even give out pencils anymore. His seeing-eye dog looked dead. Two cops were laughing on the corner. They were eating croissants. Not doughnuts. Another cliché blown to hell.
There was a security guard by the elevator in the lobby.
“Yes?”
“Myron Bolitar to see Gregory Caufield.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Bolitar. Twenty-second floor.” Didn’t call up. Didn’t check his list. Hmm.
When the elevator opened, a pleasant-faced woman was standing there. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bolitar. If you’d please follow me.”
Down a long corridor with an office-pink carpet, white walls, McKnight framed posters. No typewriters clicked, but Myron heard the whir of a laser printer. Someone was dialing a number on a speakerphone. A fax machine screeched its call to another fax machine. When they turned the corner, a second, equally pleasant-faced, woman approached. Plastic smiles all around.
“Hello, Mr. Bolitar,” the second woman said. “Nice to see you today.”
“Nice to see you too.” Every line a lady-slayer.
The first woman handed him over to the second. Tag-team style. “Mr. Caufield is waiting for you in conference room C,” the second woman said, her voice low, as if conference room C were a clandestine chamber in the bowels of the Pentagon.
She led him to a door very much like any other except it had a big bronze C on it. In a matter of seconds, Myron managed to deduce that the room was conference room C. The Adventures of Sherlock Bolitar. A man opened the door from the inside. He was young with a thick head of Stephanopoulos-like hair. He pumped Myron’s hand enthusiastically. “Hi, Myron.”
“Hi, Gregory.” Like they actually knew each other.
“Please come in. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”
Myron stepped fully into the room. Big walnut table with dark leather chairs, the expensive kind, the kind with those little gold buttons on them. Oil portraits of stern-faced men on the walls. The room was empty, except for one man down the other end of the table. Though they had never met, Myron recognized the man immediately. He should have been surprised, but he wasn’t.
Senator Bradley Cross.
Gregory did not bother with introductions. In fact he didn’t bother staying. He slipped out the door, closing it behind him. The senator stood. His were a far cry from the classic patrician good looks one usually associates with political families. They say people look like their pets; in that case Senator Bradley Cross owned a basset hound. His features were long and malleable. His finely tailored suit did nothing to disguise his exaggerated pear build; on a woman, his hips would be called child-bearing. His hair was wispy gray strands that seemed to be suffering from static cling. He wore thick glasses and an off-center smile. Still, it was an endearing smile—indeed, an endearing, trustworthy face. The kind of face you’d vote for.
Senator Cross slowly put out his hand. “I’m sorry for the dramatics,” he said, “but I thought we should meet.”
They shook hands.
“Please have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something?”
“No, thank you,” Myron said.
