Harlan Coben - Drop Shot

"Oh."

"Maybe we can pick one up in the morning," she said. "In the meantime I'll find something suitable."

"Groovy," Myron said.

Jess got out of the car then. She made her way up the stairs to the third floor. Her loft took up half the floor. She turned the key and entered. When she flicked on the lights she was startled to see Aaron lounging on her couch.

Before she could move, another man – a man with a fishnet shirt – came up behind her and put a gun to her temple. A third man – a black man – locked the door and turned the dead bolt He too had a gun.

Aaron smiled at her. "Hello, Jessica."

Myron's car phone rang.

"Hello."

"Bubbe, it's your aunt Clara. Thanks for the referral."

Clara wasn't really his aunt. Aunt Clara and Uncle Sidney were just longtime friends of his parents. Clara had gone to law school with Myron's mom. Myron had set her up to represent Roger Quincy.

"How's it going?" Myron asked.

"My client wanted me to give you an important message," Clara said "He stressed that I, his attorney, should treat this as my number one priority."

"What?"

"Mr. Quincy said you promised him an autograph of Duane Richwood. Well, he'd like it to be an autographed picture of Duane Richwood, not just an autograph. Color picture, if that's not too much trouble. And he'd like it inscribed to him, thank you very much. By the way, did he tell you he was a tennis fan?"

"I think he might have mentioned it. Fun guy, huh?"

"A constant party. Laughs galore. My sides are aching from all the laughing. It's like representing Jackie Mason."

"So what do you think?" Myron asked.

"In legal terms? The man is a major fruitcake. But is he guilty of murder-and more important, can the D.A. prove it? – that's a different kettle of gefilte."

"What do they have?"

"Circumstantial nothings. He was at the Open. Big deal, so were a zillion other people. He has a weird past. So what, he never made any overt threats that I'm aware of. No one saw him shoot her. No tests link him to the gun or that Feron's bag with the bullet hole. Like I said, circumstantial nothings."

"For what's it worth," Myron said, "I believe him."

"Uh-huh." Clara wouldn't say if she believed him or not. It didn't matter. "I'll speak to you later, doll-face. Take care of yourself."

"You too."

He hung up and dialed Jake.

A gruff voice said, "Sheriff Coulter's office."

"It's me, Jake."

"What the fuck do you want now?"

"My, what a charming salutation," Myron said. "I must use it sometime."

"Jesus, you're a pain in the ass."

"You know," Myron said, "I can't for the life of me understand why you're not invited to more parties."

Jake blew his nose. Loudly. Geese in the tristate area scattered. "Before I'm left mortally wounded by your caustic wit," he said, "tell me what you want."

"You still have your copy of the Cross file?" Myron asked.

"Yeah."

"I'd like to meet the coroner on the case and the cop who shot Yeller," Myron said. "Think you can set it up?"

"I thought there was no autopsy."

"Nothing formal, but the senator said someone did some work on him."

"Yeah, all right," Jake said. "But I know the cop who did the shooting. Jimmy Blaine. A good man, but he ain't gonna talk to you."

"I'm not interested in bringing him down."

"That's a big comfort," Jake said.

"I just want some information."

"Jimmy won't see you, I'm sure of it. Why do you need all this anyway?"

"I see a connection between Valerie's murder and Alexander Cross's."

"What connection?"

Myron explained. When he finished, Jake said, "I still don't see it, but I'll call you if I get something."

He hung up.

Myron lucked out and found a spot within two blocks of the hotel. He walked in like he belonged and took the elevator to the third floor. He stopped in front of room 322 and knocked.

"Who is it?" Deanna Yeller's voice was cheerful, singsong.

"Bellhop," Myron said. "Flowers for you."

She flung open the door with a wide smile. Just like the first time they'd met. When she saw no flowers – and more to the point, when she saw Myron – the smile fled. Again, just like the first time.

"Enjoying your stay?" Myron said.

She didn't bother hiding her exasperation. "What do you want?"

"I can't believe you came to town and didn't call me. A less mature man would be insulted."

"I got nothing to say to you." She began to close the door.

"Guess who I just spoke to?"

"I don't care."

"Lucinda Elright."

The door stopped. With Deanna looking slightly dazed, Myron slid through the opening.

Deanna recovered. "Who?"

"Lucinda Elright. One of your son's teachers."

"I don't remember none of his teachers."

"Oh but she remembers you. She said you were a wonderful mother to Curtis."

"So?"

"She also said that Curtis was a wonderful student, one of the best she ever had. She said he had a bright future. She said he never got into trouble."

Deanna Yeller put her hand on her hips. "There a point to all this?"

"Your son had no police record. He had a perfect school record, not so much as a detention. He was one of the top students in his class, if not the top student. You were clearly involved in his activities. You were an excellent mother, raising an excellent young man."

She looked away. She might have been looking out the window, except the blinds were drawn. The TV was humming softly. A commercial for men's pickup trucks featuring a soap opera star. Soap opera star, pickup trucks – what advertising genius came up with that combo?

"This is none of your business," she whispered.

"Did you love your son, Ms. Yeller?"

"What?"

"Did you love your son?"

"Get out. Now."

"If you cared about him at all, help me find out what happened to him."

She glared at him. "Don't give me that," she countered. "You don't care about my boy. You're trying to find out who killed that white girl."

"Maybe. But Valerie Simpson's death and your son's are connected. That's why I need your help."

She shook her head. "You don't listen too good, do you? I told you before: Curtis is dead. Can't change that."

"Your son wasn't the type to rob. He wasn't the type to carry a gun or threaten the police with one. That's just not the boy you raised."

"Don't matter," she said. "He's dead. Can't bring him back."

"What was he doing at the tennis club that night?"

"I don't know."

"Where did you suddenly get all your money?"

Pow. Deanna Yeller looked up, startled. The old change-topic attention-getter. Works every time. "What?"

"Your house in Cherry Hills," Myron said. "It was a cash deal four months ago. And your bank account at First Jersey. All cash deposits within the past half year. Where did the money come from, Deanna?"

Her face grew angry. Then suddenly she relaxed and smiled eerily. "Maybe I stole it," she said, "just like my son. You gonna report me?"

"Or maybe it's a payoff."

"A payoff? For what?"

"You tell me."

"No," she said. "I don't have to tell you nothing. Get out."

"Why are you here in New York?"

"To see the sights. Now leave."

"One of those sights Duane Richwood?"

Double pow. She stopped. "What?"

"Duane Richwood. The man who was in your room the other night."

She stared at him. "You were following us?"

"No. Just him."

Deanna Yeller looked horror-stricken. "What kind of man are you?" she said slowly. "You get off on that kind of thing, watching other people and all? Checking their bank accounts? Following them around like a Peeping Tom?" She opened the door. "Don't you have no shame at all?"