Harlan Coben - Drop Shot

"Mrs. Yeller, have you heard from your nephew Errol Swade?"

"No."

"Do you know where he went after your son was shot?"

"No."

"What do you think happened to Errol?"

"He's dead." Again matter-of-fact "I don't know what you want here, but this thing is finished. Finished a long time ago. No one cares anymore."

"How about you, Mrs. Yeller? Do you care?"

"It's done. Closed."

"You were there when the police shot your son?"

"No. I got there right after." Her voice sort of faded away.

"And you saw your son on the ground?"

She nodded.

Myron handed her his business card. "If you remember anything else…"

She didn't take it. "I won't."

"But if you do…"

"Curtis is dead. Nothing you can do can change that. Best to just forget it."

"It's that easy?"

"Been six years. Not like anybody misses Curtis."

"How about you, Mrs. Yeller? Do you miss him?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "Not like Curtis was a good kid or nothing. He was trouble."

"Doesn't mean he should have been killed," Myron said.

She looked up at him, held his gaze. "Don't matter. Dead is dead. Can't change that."

Myron said nothing.

"Can you change that, Mr. Bolitar?" she asked, challenging.

"No."

Deanna Yeller nodded, turned away, picked up her purse. "I have to go now," she said. "Best if you leave now too."

Henry Hobman was the only one in the players' box.

"Hi, Henry," Myron said.

No one was playing yet, but Henry was still in his coach repose. Without turning away from the court, Henry muttered, "Heard you had a meeting with Pavel Menansi last night."

"So?"

"You unhappy with Duane's coaching?"

"No."

Henry almost nodded. End of conversation.

Duane and his opponent, a French Open finalist named Jacques Potiline, came onto the court Duane looked himself. No signs of strain. He gave Myron and Henry a big smile, nodded. The weather was perfect for tennis. The sun was out, but a cool breeze gently purled through Stadium Court, staving off the humidity.

Myron glanced around courtside. There was a rather buxom blonde in the next box. She was packed into a white tank top. The word for today, boys and girls, is cleavage. Plenty of men ogled. Not Myron, of course. He was far too worldly. The blonde suddenly turned and caught Myron's eye. She smiled coyly, gave him a little wave. Myron waved back. He wasn't going to do anything about it, but yowzer!

Win materialized in the chair next to Myron. "She's smiling at me, you know."

"Dream on."

"Women find me irresistible," Win said. "They see me, they want me. It's a curse I live with every day of my life."

"Please," Myron said. "I just ate."

"Envy. It's so unattractive."

"So go for it, stud."

Win looked over at her. "Not my type."

"Gorgeous blondes aren't your type?"

"Her chest is too big. I have a new theory on that."

"What theory?"

"The bigger the breasts, the lousier the lay."

"Pardon me?"

"Think about it," Win said. "Well-endowed women – I am referring here to ones with mega-fronts – have a habit of laying back and relying on their, er, assets. The effort isn't always what it should be. What do you think?"

Myron shook his head. "I have several reactions," he replied, "but I think I'll stick with my initial one."

"Which is?"

"You're a pig."

Win smiled, sat back. "So how was your visit with Ms. Yeller?"

"She's hiding something too."

"Well, well. The plot doth thicken."

Myron nodded.

"In my experience," Win said, "there is only one thing that can silence the mother of a dead boy."

"And that is?"

"Cash. A great deal of it."

Mr. Warmth. But in truth the same thought had crossed Myron's mind. "Deanna Yeller lives in Cherry Hill now. In a house."

Win leapt on that one. "A single widow from the dumps of west Philadelphia moving to the 'burbs? Pray tell, how does she afford it?"

"Do you really think she's being bought?"

"Is there another explanation? According to what we know, the woman has no solid means of support. She spent her life in an impoverished area. Now all of a sudden she's Miss Better Homes and Gardens."

"Could be something else."

"For example?"

"A guy."

Win made a scoffing noise. "A forty-two-year-old ghetto woman does not find that kind of sugar daddy. It just doesn't happen."

Myron said nothing.

"Now," Win continued, "add into that equation Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke, the grieving parents of another dead child."

"What about them?"

"I've done a bit of checking. They too have no visible signs of support. Kenneth's family was already destitute when they married. As for Helen, whatever money she had Kenneth lost in his business ventures."

"You mean they're broke?"

"Completely," Win replied. "So pray tell, dear friend, how are they managing to carry on at Brentman Hall?"

Myron shook his head. "There has to be another explanation."

"Why?"

"One mother being bought off by her child's killer I might be able to buy. But two?"

Win said, "You have a rather rosy view of human nature."

"And you have a rather dim one."

"Which is why I'm usually correct in these matters," Win said.

Myron frowned. "What about TruPro's connection with this?"

"What about it?"

"Fishnet was hired to follow me immediately after the murder. Why?"

"The Ache brothers know you quite well by now. Perhaps they feared you'd investigate."

"So? What's their interest?"

Win thought a second. "Didn't TruPro used to represent Valerie?"

"But that was six years ago," Myron said. "Before the Ache brothers had even taken over the agency."

"Hmm. Perhaps you are barking up the wrong tree."

"What do you mean?" Myron asked.

"Perhaps there is no connection. TruPro is interested in signing Eddie Crane, correct?"

Myron nodded.

"And Eddie's mentor – this Pavel fellow – is closely associated with TruPro. Perhaps they feel you are moving in on their turf."

"Which the Ache brothers would not like," Myron added.

"Precisely."

A possibility. Myron tried it on and walked around a bit, but it just didn't feel right.

"Oh, one other thing," Win replied.

"What?"

"Aaron is in town."

Myron felt a quick chill. "What for?"

"I don't know."

"Probably just a coincidence," Myron said.

"Probably."

Silence.

Win sat back and steepled his fingers. The match began. Duane's play was nothing short of spectacular. He cruised through the first set 6-2. He stumbled a bit in the second, but came on to win it 7-5. Jacques Potiline had had enough. Duane whipped him in the final set 6-1.

Another impressive victory.

As the players left the court, Henry Hobman stood. His face remained locked on grim. He chewed at the inside of his mouth. "Better," he said tightly. "But not great."

"Stop gushing, Henry. It's embarrassing."

Ned Tunwell sprinted down the steps toward Myron. His arms were flapping like a kid making windmills in the snow. Several other Nike execs followed him. There were tears in Ned's eyes.

"I knew it!" Ned shouted in glee. He shook Myron's hand, hugged him, turned to Win, pumped his hand too. Win pulled his hand back and wiped it on his pants. "I just knew it!"

Myron simply nodded.

"Soon! So soon!" Ned cried. "The promo of the year begins! Everyone is going to know the name Duane Richwood! He was fantastic, utterly fantastic! I can't believe it I swear, I don't think I've ever been this excited before!"

"You're not going to come again, are you, Ned?"

"Oh, Myron!" He nudged Win playfully with his elbow. "Is he a kidder or what?"