One False Move (Myron Bolitar 5)

Bradford took a few breaths, tried to regain control. “She fell,” he said. Then, thinking further, he asked, “Why would you think that my wife’s death has anything to do with Anita’s disappearance?” His voice was stronger now, the timbre coming back. “In fact, if I recall correctly, Anita stayed on after the accident. She left our employ well after Elizabeth’s tragedy.”

True enough. And a point that kept irritating Myron like a grain of sand in the retina.

“So why do you keep harping on my wife’s death?” Bradford pressed.

Myron had no answer, so he parried with a couple of questions. “Why is everyone so concerned about that police file? Why are the cops so worried?”

“The same reason I am,” he said. “It’s an election year. Looking into old files is suspicious behavior. That’s all there is to it. My wife died in an accident. End of story.” His voice was growing stronger still. Negotiation can have more momentum shifts than a basketball game. If so, the Big Mo’ was back on Bradford’s side. “Now you answer a question for me: Why do you think Anita Slaughter is still alive? I mean, if the family hasn’t heard from her in twenty years?”

“Who says they haven’t heard from her?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying they have?”

Myron shrugged. He had to be oh-so-careful here. If Anita Slaughter were indeed hiding from this guy—and if Bradford did indeed believe she was dead—how would he react to evidence that she was still alive? Wouldn’t he logically try to find her and silence her? Interesting thought. But at the same time, if Bradford had been secretly paying her off, as Myron had earlier theorized, he would know she was alive. At the very least he would know that she had run away instead of having met up with foul play.

So what was going on here?

“I think I’ve said enough,” Myron said.

Bradford took a long pull on his lemonade glass, draining it. He stirred the pitcher and poured himself another. He gestured toward Myron’s glass. Myron shook him off. Both men settled back.

“I would like to hire you,” Bradford said.

Myron tried a smile. “As?”

“An adviser of sorts. Security, perhaps. I want to hire you to keep me up-to-date on your investigation. Hell, I have enough morons on the payroll in charge of damage control. Who better than the inside man? You’ll be able to prepare me for a potential scandal. What do you say?”

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Don’t be so hasty,” Bradford said. “I will pledge my cooperation as well as that of my staff’s.”

“Right. And if something bad turns up, you squash it.”

“I won’t deny that I’ll be interested in making sure the facts are put in the proper light.”

“Or shade.”

He smiled. “You’re not keeping your eyes on the prize, Myron. Your client is not interested in me or my political career. She is interested in finding her mother. I’d like to help.”

“Sure, you would. After all, helping people is why you got into politics in the first place.”

Bradford shook his head. “I’m making you a serious offer, and you choose to be glib.”

“It’s not that.” Time to shift the momentum again. Myron chose his words carefully. “Even if I wanted to,” he said, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I mentioned a second condition before.”

Bradford put a finger to his lips. “So you did.”

“I already work for Brenda Slaughter. She must remain my primary concern in this matter.”

Bradford put his hand behind his neck. Relaxed. “Yes, of course.”

“You read the papers. The police think she did it.”

“Well, you’ll have to admit,” Bradford said, “she makes a good suspect.”

“Maybe. But if they arrest her, I’ll have to act in her best interest.” Myron looked straight at him. “That means I’ll have to toss out any information that will lead the police to look at other potential suspects.”

Bradford smiled. He saw where this was going. “Including me.”

Myron turned both palms up and shrugged. “What choice would I have? My client must come first.” Slight hesitation. “But of course none of that will occur if Brenda Slaughter remains free.”

Still the smile. “Ah,” Bradford said.

Myron kept still.

Bradford sat up and put up both hands in stop position. “Say no more.”

Myron didn’t.

“It’ll be dealt with.” Bradford checked his watch. “Now I must get dressed. Campaign obligations.”

They both rose. Bradford stuck out his hand. Myron shook it. Bradford had not come clean, but Myron had not expected him to. They’d both learned a bit here. Myron was not sure who had gotten the better of the deal. But the first rule of any negotiation is not to be a pig. If you just keep taking, it will backfire in the long run.

Still he wondered.

“Good-bye,” Bradford said, still shaking the hand. “I do hope you’ll keep me up-to-date on your progress.”

The two men released their grips. Myron looked at Bradford. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking:

“Do you know my father?”

Bradford angled his head and smiled. “Did he tell you that?”

“No. Your friend Sam mentioned it.”

“Sam has worked for me a long time.”

“I didn’t ask about Sam. I asked about my father.”

Mattius opened the door. Bradford motioned to it.

“Why don’t you ask your father, Myron? Maybe it will help clarify the situation.”

As Mattius the Manservant led Myron back down the long corridor, the same two words kept rocking through Myron’s bone-dry skull:

My father?

Myron searched for a memory, a casual mention of the Bradford name in the house, a political tête-à-tête surrounding Livingston’s most prominent resident. Nothing came to him.

So how did Bradford know his father?

Big Guy Mario and Skinny Sam were in the foyer. Mario stamped back and forth as though the very floor had pissed him off. His arms and hands gestured with the subtlety of a Jerry Lewis flick. If he had been a cartoon character, smoke would have been power-shooting out of both ears.

Skinny Sam pulled on a Marlboro, leaning against the banister like Sinatra waiting for Dino. Sam had that ease. Like Win. Myron could engage in violence, and he was good at it, but there were adrenal spikes and tingling legs and postcombat cold sweats when he did so. That was normal, of course. Only a rare few had the ability to disconnect, to remain calm in the eye, to view the outbursts in slow motion.