The Final Detail
Page 32
taxes in four years."
"So whose number is this?"
"Mr. Palms's parents. Mr. Haid called them twice in the past month."
Myron checked the address. Westchester. He vaguely remembered meeting Billy Lee's parents during a Family Day at Duke. He looked at his watch. It would take an hour to get there. He grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator.
Chapter 13
Myron's car, the business's Ford Taurus, had been confiscated by the police, so he rented a maroon Mercury Cougar. He hoped the women would be able to resist. When he started the car, the radio was tuned to Lite FM 106.7. Patti LaBelle and Michael McDonald were crooning a sad lite staple entitled "On My Own." This once blissfully happy couple were breaking up. Tragic. So tragic that, as Michael McDonald put it, "Now we're up to talking divorce... and we weren't even married."Myron shook his head. For this Michael McDonald left the Doobie Brothers?
In college Billy Lee Palms had been the quintessential party boy. He had sneaky good looks, jet black hair, and a magnetic, albeit oily, combination of charisma and machismo, the kind of thing that played well with young coeds away from home for the first time. At Duke the frat brothers had dubbed him Otter, the pseudosuave character in the movie Animal House, It fitted. Billy Lee was also a great baseball player, a catcher who managed to reach the major leagues for a half season, riding the bench for the Baltimore Orioles the year they won the World Series.
But that was years ago.
Myron knocked on the door. Seconds later the door swung open fast and wide. No warning, nothing. Strange. In this day and age people looked through peepholes or cracks in chain-held doors or at the very least asked who it was.
A woman he vaguely recognized as Mrs. Palms said, "Yes?" She was small with a squirrel mouth and eyes that bulged like something behind them was pushing to get out. Her hair was tied back, but several strands escaped and drooped in front of her face. She pushed them back with splayed fingers.
"Are you Mrs. Palms?" he asked.
"Yes."
"My name is Myron Bolitar. I went to Duke with Billy Lee."
Her voice dropped an octave or two. "Do you know where he is?"
"No, ma'am. Is he missing?"
She frowned and stepped back. "Come in, please."
Myron moved into the foyer. Mrs. Palms was already heading down a corridor. She pointed to her right without turning around or breaking stride. "Just go into Sarah's wedding room. I'll be there in a second."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sarah's wedding room?
He followed where she had pointed. When he turned the corner, he heard himself give a little gasp. Sarah's wedding room. The decor was run-of-the-mill living room, something out of a furniture store circular. An off-white couch and matching love seat formed a broken L, probably the monthly special, $695 for both, the couch might fold out into a Serta sleeper, something like that. The coffee table was a semi oak square, a short stack of attractive, unread magazines on one end, silk flowers in the middle, a couple of coffee books on the other end. The wall-to-wall carpeting was light beige, and there were two torchere lamps a la the Pottery Barn.
But the walls were anything but ordinary.
Myron had seen plenty of houses with photographs on the walls. They were hardly uncommon. He had even been in a house or two where the photographs dominated rather than complemented the surroundings. That too would hardly give him reason to pause. But this was beyond surreal. Sarah's Wedding Room-heck, it should be capitalized-was a re-creation of that event. Literally. Color wedding photographs had been blown up to life size and pasted on as a wallpaper substitute. The bride and groom smiled at him invitingly from the right. On the left, Billy Lee in a tux, probably the best man or maybe just an usher, smiled at him. Mrs. Palms, dressed in a summer gown, danced with her husband. In front of him were the wedding tables, lots of them. Guests looked up and smiled at him-all life size. It was as though a panoramic wedding photo had been blown up to the size of Rembrandt's Night Watch. People slow-danced. A band played. There was a minister of sorts and floral arrangements and a wedding cake and fine china and white linen-again, all life size.
"Please sit down."
Myron turned to Mrs. Palms. Was it the real Mrs. Palms or one of the reproductions? No, she was casually dressed. The
"So whose number is this?"
"Mr. Palms's parents. Mr. Haid called them twice in the past month."
Myron checked the address. Westchester. He vaguely remembered meeting Billy Lee's parents during a Family Day at Duke. He looked at his watch. It would take an hour to get there. He grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator.
Chapter 13
Myron's car, the business's Ford Taurus, had been confiscated by the police, so he rented a maroon Mercury Cougar. He hoped the women would be able to resist. When he started the car, the radio was tuned to Lite FM 106.7. Patti LaBelle and Michael McDonald were crooning a sad lite staple entitled "On My Own." This once blissfully happy couple were breaking up. Tragic. So tragic that, as Michael McDonald put it, "Now we're up to talking divorce... and we weren't even married."Myron shook his head. For this Michael McDonald left the Doobie Brothers?
In college Billy Lee Palms had been the quintessential party boy. He had sneaky good looks, jet black hair, and a magnetic, albeit oily, combination of charisma and machismo, the kind of thing that played well with young coeds away from home for the first time. At Duke the frat brothers had dubbed him Otter, the pseudosuave character in the movie Animal House, It fitted. Billy Lee was also a great baseball player, a catcher who managed to reach the major leagues for a half season, riding the bench for the Baltimore Orioles the year they won the World Series.
But that was years ago.
Myron knocked on the door. Seconds later the door swung open fast and wide. No warning, nothing. Strange. In this day and age people looked through peepholes or cracks in chain-held doors or at the very least asked who it was.
A woman he vaguely recognized as Mrs. Palms said, "Yes?" She was small with a squirrel mouth and eyes that bulged like something behind them was pushing to get out. Her hair was tied back, but several strands escaped and drooped in front of her face. She pushed them back with splayed fingers.
"Are you Mrs. Palms?" he asked.
"Yes."
"My name is Myron Bolitar. I went to Duke with Billy Lee."
Her voice dropped an octave or two. "Do you know where he is?"
"No, ma'am. Is he missing?"
She frowned and stepped back. "Come in, please."
Myron moved into the foyer. Mrs. Palms was already heading down a corridor. She pointed to her right without turning around or breaking stride. "Just go into Sarah's wedding room. I'll be there in a second."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sarah's wedding room?
He followed where she had pointed. When he turned the corner, he heard himself give a little gasp. Sarah's wedding room. The decor was run-of-the-mill living room, something out of a furniture store circular. An off-white couch and matching love seat formed a broken L, probably the monthly special, $695 for both, the couch might fold out into a Serta sleeper, something like that. The coffee table was a semi oak square, a short stack of attractive, unread magazines on one end, silk flowers in the middle, a couple of coffee books on the other end. The wall-to-wall carpeting was light beige, and there were two torchere lamps a la the Pottery Barn.
But the walls were anything but ordinary.
Myron had seen plenty of houses with photographs on the walls. They were hardly uncommon. He had even been in a house or two where the photographs dominated rather than complemented the surroundings. That too would hardly give him reason to pause. But this was beyond surreal. Sarah's Wedding Room-heck, it should be capitalized-was a re-creation of that event. Literally. Color wedding photographs had been blown up to life size and pasted on as a wallpaper substitute. The bride and groom smiled at him invitingly from the right. On the left, Billy Lee in a tux, probably the best man or maybe just an usher, smiled at him. Mrs. Palms, dressed in a summer gown, danced with her husband. In front of him were the wedding tables, lots of them. Guests looked up and smiled at him-all life size. It was as though a panoramic wedding photo had been blown up to the size of Rembrandt's Night Watch. People slow-danced. A band played. There was a minister of sorts and floral arrangements and a wedding cake and fine china and white linen-again, all life size.
"Please sit down."
Myron turned to Mrs. Palms. Was it the real Mrs. Palms or one of the reproductions? No, she was casually dressed. The
