One False Move
Page 51
“Are you speaking now of Elizabeth Bradford?”
“Yes.”
Win frowned. “So is that what you’re after, Myron? You’re risking lives in order to give her justice after twenty years? Elizabeth Bradford is calling out to you from the grave or some such thing?”
“There’s also Horace to think about.”
“What about him?”
“He was my friend.”
“And you believe that finding his killer will ease your guilt over not talking to him in ten years?”
Myron swallowed at that one. “Low blow, Win.”
“No, my friend, I am merely trying to pull you back from the abyss. I am not saying that there is no value in what you are doing here. We have worked for questionable profit before. But you have to calculate some sort of cost-benefit analysis. You are trying to find a woman who does not want to be found. You are pushing against forces more powerful than you and me combined.”
“You almost sound afraid, Win.”
Win looked at him. “You know better.”
Myron looked at the blue eyes with the flecks of silver. He nodded. He did know better.
“I’m talking about pragmatism,” Win continued, “not fear. Pushing is fine. Forcing confrontation is fine. We’ve done that plenty of times before. We both know that I rarely back away from such instances, that I perhaps enjoy them too much. But there was always a goal. We were looking for Kathy to help clear a client. We were looking for Valerie’s killer for the same reason. We searched for Greg because you were well compensated monetarily. The same could be said about the Coldren boy. But the goal here is too hazy.”
The volume switch on the car radio was set low, but Myron could still hear Seal “compare” his love to “a kiss from the rose on the grave.” Romance.
“I have to stick with this,” Myron said. “For a little while longer anyway.”
Win said nothing.
“And I’d like your help.”
Still nothing.
“There were scholarships set up to help Brenda,” Myron said. “I think her mother may have been funneling money to her through them. Anonymously. I want you to try to track the money trail.”
Win reached forward and turned off the radio. Traffic was almost nonexistent. The air conditioner hummed, but otherwise the silence was heavy. After a couple of minutes, Win broke it.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
The question hit him by surprise. Myron opened his mouth, closed it. Win had never asked a question like this before; he did, in fact, all he could do to avoid the subject. Explaining love relationships to Win had always seemed akin to explaining jazz music to a lawn chair.
“I think I might be,” Myron said.
“It’s affecting your judgment,” Win said. “Emotion may be ruling over pragmatism.”
“I won’t let it.”
“Pretend you are not in love with her. Would you still pursue this?”
“Does it matter?”
Win nodded. He understood better than most. Hypotheticals had nothing to do with reality. “Fine then,” he said. “Give me the information on the scholarships. I’ll see what I can find.”
They both settled into silence. Win as always looked perfectly relaxed and in a state of total readiness.
“There is a very fine line between relentless and stupid,” Win said. “Try to stay on the right side of it.”
The Sunday afternoon traffic remained light. The Lincoln Tunnel was a breeze. Win fiddled with the buttons on Myron’s new CD player, settling on a recently purchased compilation CD of AM seventies classics. They listened to the “The Night Chicago Died.” Then “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia.” Nights, Myron surmised, were a dangerous time in the seventies. Then the theme song to the movie Billy Jack blasted its peace on earth message. Remember the Billy Jack movies? Win did. A little too well, in fact.
The final song was a classic seventies tearjerker called “Shannon.” Shannon dies pretty early in the song. In a very high pitch, we are told that Shannon is gone, that she drifted out to sea. Sad. The song always moved Myron. Mother is heartbroken at the loss. Dad always seems tired now. Nothing is the same without Shannon.
“Did you know,” Win said, “that Shannon was a dog?”
“You’re kidding.”
Win shook his head. “If you listen closely to the chorus, you can tell.”
“I can only make out the part about Shannon being gone and drifting out to sea.”
“That is followed by the hopes that Shannon will find an island with a shady tree.”
“A shady tree?”
Win sang, “Just like the one in our backyard.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s a dog, Win. Maybe Shannon liked sitting under a tree. Maybe they had a hammock.”
“Perhaps,” Win said. “But there is one other subtle giveaway.”
“What’s that?”
“The CD liner notes say the song is about a dog.”
Win.
“Do you want me to drop you off at home?” Myron asked.
Win shook his head. “I have paperwork,” he said. “And I think it best if I stay close.”
Myron did not argue.
“You have the weapon?” Win asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you want another?”
“No.”
They parked at the Kinney lot and took the elevator up together. The high-rise was silent today, the ants all away from the hill. The effect was sort of eerie, like one of those end-of-the-earth apocalypse movies where everything is abandoned and ghostlike. The dinging of the elevator echoed in the still air like a thunderclap.
Myron got off at the twelfth floor. Despite its being Sunday, Big Cyndi was at her desk. As always, everything around Big Cyndi looked tiny, like that episode of The Twilight Zone where the house starts shrinking or like someone had jammed a large stuffed animal into Barbie’s pink Corvette. Big Cyndi was wearing a wig today that looked like something stolen from Carol Channing’s closet. Bad hair day, Myron supposed. She stood and smiled at him. Myron kept his eyes open and was surprised when he didn’t turn to stone.
Big Cyndi was normally six-six, but she was wearing high heels today. Pumps. The heels cried out in agony as she stood. She was dressed in what some might consider a business suit. The shirt was French-Revolution frilly, the jacket solid gray with a fresh tear along the shoulder stitch.
She raised her hands and twirled for Myron. Picture Godzilla rearing back after getting nailed by a Taser gun.
“Yes.”
Win frowned. “So is that what you’re after, Myron? You’re risking lives in order to give her justice after twenty years? Elizabeth Bradford is calling out to you from the grave or some such thing?”
“There’s also Horace to think about.”
“What about him?”
“He was my friend.”
“And you believe that finding his killer will ease your guilt over not talking to him in ten years?”
Myron swallowed at that one. “Low blow, Win.”
“No, my friend, I am merely trying to pull you back from the abyss. I am not saying that there is no value in what you are doing here. We have worked for questionable profit before. But you have to calculate some sort of cost-benefit analysis. You are trying to find a woman who does not want to be found. You are pushing against forces more powerful than you and me combined.”
“You almost sound afraid, Win.”
Win looked at him. “You know better.”
Myron looked at the blue eyes with the flecks of silver. He nodded. He did know better.
“I’m talking about pragmatism,” Win continued, “not fear. Pushing is fine. Forcing confrontation is fine. We’ve done that plenty of times before. We both know that I rarely back away from such instances, that I perhaps enjoy them too much. But there was always a goal. We were looking for Kathy to help clear a client. We were looking for Valerie’s killer for the same reason. We searched for Greg because you were well compensated monetarily. The same could be said about the Coldren boy. But the goal here is too hazy.”
The volume switch on the car radio was set low, but Myron could still hear Seal “compare” his love to “a kiss from the rose on the grave.” Romance.
“I have to stick with this,” Myron said. “For a little while longer anyway.”
Win said nothing.
“And I’d like your help.”
Still nothing.
“There were scholarships set up to help Brenda,” Myron said. “I think her mother may have been funneling money to her through them. Anonymously. I want you to try to track the money trail.”
Win reached forward and turned off the radio. Traffic was almost nonexistent. The air conditioner hummed, but otherwise the silence was heavy. After a couple of minutes, Win broke it.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
The question hit him by surprise. Myron opened his mouth, closed it. Win had never asked a question like this before; he did, in fact, all he could do to avoid the subject. Explaining love relationships to Win had always seemed akin to explaining jazz music to a lawn chair.
“I think I might be,” Myron said.
“It’s affecting your judgment,” Win said. “Emotion may be ruling over pragmatism.”
“I won’t let it.”
“Pretend you are not in love with her. Would you still pursue this?”
“Does it matter?”
Win nodded. He understood better than most. Hypotheticals had nothing to do with reality. “Fine then,” he said. “Give me the information on the scholarships. I’ll see what I can find.”
They both settled into silence. Win as always looked perfectly relaxed and in a state of total readiness.
“There is a very fine line between relentless and stupid,” Win said. “Try to stay on the right side of it.”
The Sunday afternoon traffic remained light. The Lincoln Tunnel was a breeze. Win fiddled with the buttons on Myron’s new CD player, settling on a recently purchased compilation CD of AM seventies classics. They listened to the “The Night Chicago Died.” Then “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia.” Nights, Myron surmised, were a dangerous time in the seventies. Then the theme song to the movie Billy Jack blasted its peace on earth message. Remember the Billy Jack movies? Win did. A little too well, in fact.
The final song was a classic seventies tearjerker called “Shannon.” Shannon dies pretty early in the song. In a very high pitch, we are told that Shannon is gone, that she drifted out to sea. Sad. The song always moved Myron. Mother is heartbroken at the loss. Dad always seems tired now. Nothing is the same without Shannon.
“Did you know,” Win said, “that Shannon was a dog?”
“You’re kidding.”
Win shook his head. “If you listen closely to the chorus, you can tell.”
“I can only make out the part about Shannon being gone and drifting out to sea.”
“That is followed by the hopes that Shannon will find an island with a shady tree.”
“A shady tree?”
Win sang, “Just like the one in our backyard.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s a dog, Win. Maybe Shannon liked sitting under a tree. Maybe they had a hammock.”
“Perhaps,” Win said. “But there is one other subtle giveaway.”
“What’s that?”
“The CD liner notes say the song is about a dog.”
Win.
“Do you want me to drop you off at home?” Myron asked.
Win shook his head. “I have paperwork,” he said. “And I think it best if I stay close.”
Myron did not argue.
“You have the weapon?” Win asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you want another?”
“No.”
They parked at the Kinney lot and took the elevator up together. The high-rise was silent today, the ants all away from the hill. The effect was sort of eerie, like one of those end-of-the-earth apocalypse movies where everything is abandoned and ghostlike. The dinging of the elevator echoed in the still air like a thunderclap.
Myron got off at the twelfth floor. Despite its being Sunday, Big Cyndi was at her desk. As always, everything around Big Cyndi looked tiny, like that episode of The Twilight Zone where the house starts shrinking or like someone had jammed a large stuffed animal into Barbie’s pink Corvette. Big Cyndi was wearing a wig today that looked like something stolen from Carol Channing’s closet. Bad hair day, Myron supposed. She stood and smiled at him. Myron kept his eyes open and was surprised when he didn’t turn to stone.
Big Cyndi was normally six-six, but she was wearing high heels today. Pumps. The heels cried out in agony as she stood. She was dressed in what some might consider a business suit. The shirt was French-Revolution frilly, the jacket solid gray with a fresh tear along the shoulder stitch.
She raised her hands and twirled for Myron. Picture Godzilla rearing back after getting nailed by a Taser gun.
