Drop Shot
Page 34
They sat facing each other. Myron waited. The senator seemed unsure how to begin. He coughed into his fists several times. Each cough made his jowls flap a bit.
“Do you know why I wanted to see you?” he asked.
“No,” Myron said.
“I understand you’ve been asking a lot of questions about my son. More specifically, about his murder.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Around. Here and there. I am not without my sources.” He tilted his head the way a basset hound does when he hears a strange sound. “I’d like to know why.”
“Valerie Simpson was going to be a client of mine,” Myron said.
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’m looking into her murder.”
“And you believe there might be a connection between Valerie’s murder and Alexander’s?”
Myron shrugged.
“My son was killed by a random street thug six years ago near Philadelphia. Valerie was killed almost gangland style at the U.S. Open in New York. What possible connection could there be?”
“Maybe none.”
Cross leaned back, fiddled his thumbs. “I want to be up-front with you, Myron. I’ve looked into your background a bit. I know about your past work. Not the details, of course, but your reputation. I’m not trying to apply any influence here. It’s not my style. I’ve never been comfortable at playing the tough guy.” He smiled again. His eyes were wet now and there was a discernible quake in his voice. “I’m talking to you now not as a United States senator but as a grieving father. A grieving father who just wants to let his son rest in peace. I’m asking you to please stop what you’re doing.”
The pain in the man’s voice was raw. Myron had not expected this. “I’m not sure I can, Senator.”
The senator rubbed his entire face vigorously, using both hands. “You see two young people …” he began tiredly. “You see two young people with the whole world in front of them. Practically engaged to one another. And what happens to them? They’re murdered in two separate incidents six years apart. The cruel coincidence is too much to fathom. You wonder about that, don’t you, Myron?”
Myron nodded.
“So you begin to scrutinize their deaths. You look for something that might explain such a bizarre double tragedy. And in your search you find inconsistencies. You see pieces that just don’t add up.”
“Yes.”
“And those inconsistencies lead you to believe that there is a connection between Alexander’s murder and Valerie’s.”
“Maybe.”
Cross glanced up at the ceiling and rested his index finger on his lip. “Will you take my word that those inconsistencies have nothing to do with Valerie Simpson?”
“No,” Myron said. “I can’t.”
Senator Cross nodded, more to himself than Myron. “I didn’t suspect you would,” he said. “You don’t have children, do you, Myron?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even people who have children don’t understand. They can’t. What happened … it’s not just the pain. The death is all-consuming. It never lets you go, never gives you a chance to catch your breath. My wife still has to be medicated almost daily. It’s like someone scooped out everything inside of her and left behind only a pitiful shell. You can’t imagine what it’s like to see her like that.”
“I don’t mean to hurt anyone, Senator.”
“But you won’t stop either. And no matter how careful you are, someone is bound to get wind of your investigation, just as I did.”
“I’ll try to be discreet.”
“You know that’s impossible.”
“I can’t back away now. I’m sorry.”
The senator gave himself the face massage again. He sighed deeply and said, “You leave me no choice. I’ll have to tell you what happened. Maybe then you’ll let it go.”
Myron waited.
“You are an attorney, are you not?”
“Yes,” Myron said.
“You’re a member of the New York bar?”
“Yes.”
Bradley Cross reached into his suit pocket. Sallow skin hung off his face in uneven clumps. He took out a checkbook. “I’d like to hire you as my attorney,” he said. “Will a five-thousand-dollar retainer be enough?”
“I don’t understand.”
“As my attorney, what I’m about to tell you falls under the jurisdiction of attorney-client privilege. You will not be allowed, even in a court of law, to repeat what I am about to tell you.”
“You don’t need to hire me for that.”
“I’d prefer it.”
“Fine. Make it a hundred dollars.”
Bradley Cross wrote out the check and handed it to Myron.
“My son was on drugs,” he said without preamble. “Cocaine mostly. Heroin too, but he’d only just started on it. I knew he was on something, but frankly I didn’t think it was serious. I saw him high. I saw the red eyes. But I thought it was just marijuana. Hell, I’ve tried marijuana. Inhaled even.”
Weak smile. Myron returned it, equally weak.
“Alexander and his friends weren’t taking a casual stroll around the club grounds that night,” he said. “They were going to get high. Alexander was found with a syringe in his pocket. There was cocaine found in the bushes not far from where the murder took place. And, of course, there were traces of both heroin and cocaine in Alexander’s body. Not just in his fluids but in his tissue. I’m told that shows he’d been using for a while.”
“I thought there was no autopsy,” Myron said.
“It was kept secret. Nothing was reported or filed. It didn’t matter anyway. A knife wound ended Alexander’s life, not drugs. The fact that my son was taking illegal substances was irrelevant.”
Maybe, Myron thought, keeping his expression blank.
Cross stared off for a while. After some time had passed he asked, “Where was I?”
“They left the party to get high.”
“Right, thank you.” He cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter. “The rest of the story is fairly straightforward. The boys stumbled upon Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller on one of the grass courts. The papers talked about how brave Alexander was, how he tried to thwart the evil-doers without concern for his own safety. My spin doctors at their best. But the truth is, he was flying so high he acted irrationally. He swooped in like some kind of superhero. The Yeller boy—the one the police shot—dropped everything and ran. But Errol Swade was a cooler customer. He took out a switchblade and punctured my boy’s heart like a balloon. Casually, they say. Nonchalant.”
“Do you know why I wanted to see you?” he asked.
“No,” Myron said.
“I understand you’ve been asking a lot of questions about my son. More specifically, about his murder.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Around. Here and there. I am not without my sources.” He tilted his head the way a basset hound does when he hears a strange sound. “I’d like to know why.”
“Valerie Simpson was going to be a client of mine,” Myron said.
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’m looking into her murder.”
“And you believe there might be a connection between Valerie’s murder and Alexander’s?”
Myron shrugged.
“My son was killed by a random street thug six years ago near Philadelphia. Valerie was killed almost gangland style at the U.S. Open in New York. What possible connection could there be?”
“Maybe none.”
Cross leaned back, fiddled his thumbs. “I want to be up-front with you, Myron. I’ve looked into your background a bit. I know about your past work. Not the details, of course, but your reputation. I’m not trying to apply any influence here. It’s not my style. I’ve never been comfortable at playing the tough guy.” He smiled again. His eyes were wet now and there was a discernible quake in his voice. “I’m talking to you now not as a United States senator but as a grieving father. A grieving father who just wants to let his son rest in peace. I’m asking you to please stop what you’re doing.”
The pain in the man’s voice was raw. Myron had not expected this. “I’m not sure I can, Senator.”
The senator rubbed his entire face vigorously, using both hands. “You see two young people …” he began tiredly. “You see two young people with the whole world in front of them. Practically engaged to one another. And what happens to them? They’re murdered in two separate incidents six years apart. The cruel coincidence is too much to fathom. You wonder about that, don’t you, Myron?”
Myron nodded.
“So you begin to scrutinize their deaths. You look for something that might explain such a bizarre double tragedy. And in your search you find inconsistencies. You see pieces that just don’t add up.”
“Yes.”
“And those inconsistencies lead you to believe that there is a connection between Alexander’s murder and Valerie’s.”
“Maybe.”
Cross glanced up at the ceiling and rested his index finger on his lip. “Will you take my word that those inconsistencies have nothing to do with Valerie Simpson?”
“No,” Myron said. “I can’t.”
Senator Cross nodded, more to himself than Myron. “I didn’t suspect you would,” he said. “You don’t have children, do you, Myron?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even people who have children don’t understand. They can’t. What happened … it’s not just the pain. The death is all-consuming. It never lets you go, never gives you a chance to catch your breath. My wife still has to be medicated almost daily. It’s like someone scooped out everything inside of her and left behind only a pitiful shell. You can’t imagine what it’s like to see her like that.”
“I don’t mean to hurt anyone, Senator.”
“But you won’t stop either. And no matter how careful you are, someone is bound to get wind of your investigation, just as I did.”
“I’ll try to be discreet.”
“You know that’s impossible.”
“I can’t back away now. I’m sorry.”
The senator gave himself the face massage again. He sighed deeply and said, “You leave me no choice. I’ll have to tell you what happened. Maybe then you’ll let it go.”
Myron waited.
“You are an attorney, are you not?”
“Yes,” Myron said.
“You’re a member of the New York bar?”
“Yes.”
Bradley Cross reached into his suit pocket. Sallow skin hung off his face in uneven clumps. He took out a checkbook. “I’d like to hire you as my attorney,” he said. “Will a five-thousand-dollar retainer be enough?”
“I don’t understand.”
“As my attorney, what I’m about to tell you falls under the jurisdiction of attorney-client privilege. You will not be allowed, even in a court of law, to repeat what I am about to tell you.”
“You don’t need to hire me for that.”
“I’d prefer it.”
“Fine. Make it a hundred dollars.”
Bradley Cross wrote out the check and handed it to Myron.
“My son was on drugs,” he said without preamble. “Cocaine mostly. Heroin too, but he’d only just started on it. I knew he was on something, but frankly I didn’t think it was serious. I saw him high. I saw the red eyes. But I thought it was just marijuana. Hell, I’ve tried marijuana. Inhaled even.”
Weak smile. Myron returned it, equally weak.
“Alexander and his friends weren’t taking a casual stroll around the club grounds that night,” he said. “They were going to get high. Alexander was found with a syringe in his pocket. There was cocaine found in the bushes not far from where the murder took place. And, of course, there were traces of both heroin and cocaine in Alexander’s body. Not just in his fluids but in his tissue. I’m told that shows he’d been using for a while.”
“I thought there was no autopsy,” Myron said.
“It was kept secret. Nothing was reported or filed. It didn’t matter anyway. A knife wound ended Alexander’s life, not drugs. The fact that my son was taking illegal substances was irrelevant.”
Maybe, Myron thought, keeping his expression blank.
Cross stared off for a while. After some time had passed he asked, “Where was I?”
“They left the party to get high.”
“Right, thank you.” He cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter. “The rest of the story is fairly straightforward. The boys stumbled upon Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller on one of the grass courts. The papers talked about how brave Alexander was, how he tried to thwart the evil-doers without concern for his own safety. My spin doctors at their best. But the truth is, he was flying so high he acted irrationally. He swooped in like some kind of superhero. The Yeller boy—the one the police shot—dropped everything and ran. But Errol Swade was a cooler customer. He took out a switchblade and punctured my boy’s heart like a balloon. Casually, they say. Nonchalant.”
