Gregory held his chest. He was on the verge of tears.
“Do not make me strike you again,” Win said.
Myron stepped toward him but did not help him up. “Gregory, we know all about that night,” he said. “I have just one question. I don’t care what you were doing out there. I don’t care if you were snorting or shooting illegal substances. That doesn’t interest me in the least. What you say will in no way incriminate you—unless you lie to me.”
Gregory looked up at him. His face was completely void of any color.
“They weren’t robbing the club, were they?” Myron asked.
Gregory did not answer.
“Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller hadn’t broken into the club to rob it,” Myron said. “And they weren’t there selling drugs either. Am I right? If I am, just nod.”
Gregory looked at Win, then back to Myron. He nodded.
“Tell me what they were doing,” Myron said.
Gregory didn’t say anything.
“Just say it,” Myron continued. “I already know the answer. I just need you to say it. What were they doing there that night?”
Gregory’s breathing was returning to normal now. He reached out his hand. Myron took it. He stood up and looked Myron straight in the eye.
“What were they doing?” Myron asked. “Tell me.”
And then Gregory Caufield said exactly what Myron had expected. “They were playing tennis.”
46
Myron ran to his car.
Duane was ahead two sets to one, 4–2 in the fourth set. He was two games away from reaching the U.S. Open finals, but that no longer seemed like such a big deal. Myron now knew what happened. He knew what happened to Alexander Cross and Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade and Valerie Simpson and maybe even Pavel Menansi.
He picked up the car phone and began placing calls. His second call was to Esperanza’s house. She picked up.
“I’m with Lucy,” she said. Esperanza had been dating a woman named Lucy for a couple months now. They seemed serious. Of course, Myron thought Esperanza was serious with a guy named Max just a few months earlier. Dating a Max, then a Lucy. Never a dull moment.
“Do you have the appointment book?” Myron asked.
“I got a copy on my computer here.”
“The last day Valerie Simpson was in our office, who had the appointment right before her?”
“Give me a second.” He heard her clack some keys. “Duane.”
As he thought. “Thanks.”
“You’re not at the match?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Is Win with you?” she asked.
“No.”
“How about the witch?”
“I’m alone.”
“Swing by and pick me up then. Lucy’s leaving anyway.”
“No.”
He hung up and switched on the radio. Duane was up 5–2. One game away. He dialed the home number of Amanda West, M.E. Then he called Jimmy Blaine. It all checked out. Myron felt something very cold caress his spine.
His hand actually trembled when he called Lucinda Elright. The old teacher answered on the first ring.
“Can you see me today?” Myron asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“I should be there in a couple of hours.”
“I’ll be here,” Lucinda said. She asked no questions, wanted no explanations. She simply said, “Good-bye.”
Duane won the final set 6–2. He was in the finals of the U.S. Open, but the postgame wrap-up was short for several reasons. First, the women’s finals came up right on the heels of Duane’s impressive win. Second, the colorful Duane Richwood had run out without doing any interviews. The radio broadcasters seemed surprised.
Myron was not.
He reached Lucinda Elright’s apartment in less than two hours. He stayed less than five minutes, but the visit was the final confirmation Myron needed. There was no longer any doubt. He took the book and got back in his car. Half an hour later he parked in the driveway. Myron rang the doorbell. No smile this time when the door opened. No surprise this time either.
“I know what happened to Errol Swade,” Myron said. “He’s dead.”
Deanna Yeller blinked. “I told you that the first time you came by.”
“But,” Myron said, “you didn’t tell me you killed him.”
47
Myron didn’t wait for an invitation. He pushed past her. Again he was struck by the impersonal feel of this house. Not one picture. Not one remembrance. But now he understood why. The TV was tuned on the tennis match. No surprise there. The women were midway through the first set.
Deanna Yeller followed him.
“It must torture you,” he said.
“What?”
“Watching Duane on TV. Instead of in person.”
“It was just a fling,” she said in a monotone. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“Duane was just a one-nighter?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t think so,” Myron said. “Duane Richwood is your son.”
“What are you talking about? I only had one son.”
“That’s true.”
“And he’s dead. They killed him, remember?”
“That’s not true. Errol Swade was killed. Not Curtis.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. But there wasn’t much conviction in her voice. She sounded tired, like she was going through the motions—or maybe she just realized that Myron was beyond buying the lies.
“I know now.” Myron showed her the book in his hand. “Do you know what this is?”
She looked at the book, her face blank.
“It’s the yearbook from Curtis’s high school. I just got it from Lucinda Elright.”
Deanna Yeller looked so frail, a stiff breeze would send her crashing into the wall. Myron opened the yearbook. “Duane has had a nose job since then. Maybe some other surgery too, I can’t be sure. His hair is different. He’s gotten a lot more muscular, but then again, he’s not a skinny sixteen-year-old anymore. Plus he always wears sunglasses in public. Always. Who would recognize him? Who would even imagine Duane Richwood was a murder suspect killed six years ago?”
Deanna stumbled over to a table. She sat down. She pointed weakly to the chair across from her. Myron took it.
“Curtis was a great athlete,” Myron continued, fingering through the pages. “He was only a sophomore, but he was already starting varsity football and basketball. The high school he went to didn’t have a tennis team, but Lucinda told me that didn’t stop him. He played as often as he could. He loved the game.”
“Do not make me strike you again,” Win said.
Myron stepped toward him but did not help him up. “Gregory, we know all about that night,” he said. “I have just one question. I don’t care what you were doing out there. I don’t care if you were snorting or shooting illegal substances. That doesn’t interest me in the least. What you say will in no way incriminate you—unless you lie to me.”
Gregory looked up at him. His face was completely void of any color.
“They weren’t robbing the club, were they?” Myron asked.
Gregory did not answer.
“Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller hadn’t broken into the club to rob it,” Myron said. “And they weren’t there selling drugs either. Am I right? If I am, just nod.”
Gregory looked at Win, then back to Myron. He nodded.
“Tell me what they were doing,” Myron said.
Gregory didn’t say anything.
“Just say it,” Myron continued. “I already know the answer. I just need you to say it. What were they doing there that night?”
Gregory’s breathing was returning to normal now. He reached out his hand. Myron took it. He stood up and looked Myron straight in the eye.
“What were they doing?” Myron asked. “Tell me.”
And then Gregory Caufield said exactly what Myron had expected. “They were playing tennis.”
46
Myron ran to his car.
Duane was ahead two sets to one, 4–2 in the fourth set. He was two games away from reaching the U.S. Open finals, but that no longer seemed like such a big deal. Myron now knew what happened. He knew what happened to Alexander Cross and Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade and Valerie Simpson and maybe even Pavel Menansi.
He picked up the car phone and began placing calls. His second call was to Esperanza’s house. She picked up.
“I’m with Lucy,” she said. Esperanza had been dating a woman named Lucy for a couple months now. They seemed serious. Of course, Myron thought Esperanza was serious with a guy named Max just a few months earlier. Dating a Max, then a Lucy. Never a dull moment.
“Do you have the appointment book?” Myron asked.
“I got a copy on my computer here.”
“The last day Valerie Simpson was in our office, who had the appointment right before her?”
“Give me a second.” He heard her clack some keys. “Duane.”
As he thought. “Thanks.”
“You’re not at the match?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Is Win with you?” she asked.
“No.”
“How about the witch?”
“I’m alone.”
“Swing by and pick me up then. Lucy’s leaving anyway.”
“No.”
He hung up and switched on the radio. Duane was up 5–2. One game away. He dialed the home number of Amanda West, M.E. Then he called Jimmy Blaine. It all checked out. Myron felt something very cold caress his spine.
His hand actually trembled when he called Lucinda Elright. The old teacher answered on the first ring.
“Can you see me today?” Myron asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“I should be there in a couple of hours.”
“I’ll be here,” Lucinda said. She asked no questions, wanted no explanations. She simply said, “Good-bye.”
Duane won the final set 6–2. He was in the finals of the U.S. Open, but the postgame wrap-up was short for several reasons. First, the women’s finals came up right on the heels of Duane’s impressive win. Second, the colorful Duane Richwood had run out without doing any interviews. The radio broadcasters seemed surprised.
Myron was not.
He reached Lucinda Elright’s apartment in less than two hours. He stayed less than five minutes, but the visit was the final confirmation Myron needed. There was no longer any doubt. He took the book and got back in his car. Half an hour later he parked in the driveway. Myron rang the doorbell. No smile this time when the door opened. No surprise this time either.
“I know what happened to Errol Swade,” Myron said. “He’s dead.”
Deanna Yeller blinked. “I told you that the first time you came by.”
“But,” Myron said, “you didn’t tell me you killed him.”
47
Myron didn’t wait for an invitation. He pushed past her. Again he was struck by the impersonal feel of this house. Not one picture. Not one remembrance. But now he understood why. The TV was tuned on the tennis match. No surprise there. The women were midway through the first set.
Deanna Yeller followed him.
“It must torture you,” he said.
“What?”
“Watching Duane on TV. Instead of in person.”
“It was just a fling,” she said in a monotone. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“Duane was just a one-nighter?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t think so,” Myron said. “Duane Richwood is your son.”
“What are you talking about? I only had one son.”
“That’s true.”
“And he’s dead. They killed him, remember?”
“That’s not true. Errol Swade was killed. Not Curtis.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. But there wasn’t much conviction in her voice. She sounded tired, like she was going through the motions—or maybe she just realized that Myron was beyond buying the lies.
“I know now.” Myron showed her the book in his hand. “Do you know what this is?”
She looked at the book, her face blank.
“It’s the yearbook from Curtis’s high school. I just got it from Lucinda Elright.”
Deanna Yeller looked so frail, a stiff breeze would send her crashing into the wall. Myron opened the yearbook. “Duane has had a nose job since then. Maybe some other surgery too, I can’t be sure. His hair is different. He’s gotten a lot more muscular, but then again, he’s not a skinny sixteen-year-old anymore. Plus he always wears sunglasses in public. Always. Who would recognize him? Who would even imagine Duane Richwood was a murder suspect killed six years ago?”
Deanna stumbled over to a table. She sat down. She pointed weakly to the chair across from her. Myron took it.
“Curtis was a great athlete,” Myron continued, fingering through the pages. “He was only a sophomore, but he was already starting varsity football and basketball. The high school he went to didn’t have a tennis team, but Lucinda told me that didn’t stop him. He played as often as he could. He loved the game.”
