The Final Detail (Myron Bolitar 6)
Page 2Win carefully watched her saunter away. Then he said, “Quality derrière.”
“Would you be referring to me?” Myron asked.
Win kept his eyes keenly focused on the, er, target. “On television she’s always sitting behind that anchor desk,” he noted. “One would never guess that she had such a high-quality derrière.” He shook his head. “It’s a shame really.”
“Right,” Myron said. “Maybe she should stand a couple times during each broadcast. Twirl around a few times, bend over, something like that.”
“There you go.” Win risked a quick glance at Myron. “Take any action snapshots, perhaps a videotape?”
“No, that would be you,” Myron said, “or maybe an extra-perverse rock star.”
“Shame.”
“Yeah, shame, I got that.” Quality derrière? “So what’s wrong with Esperanza?”
Terese finally disappeared through the front door. Win sighed softly and turned toward Myron. “The yacht will take half an hour to refuel. We’ll leave then. Mind if I sit?”
“What happened, Win?”
He did not answer, choosing instead to sit on a chaise longue and ease back. He put his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles. “I’ll say this for you. When you decide to wig out, you do it in style.”
“I didn’t wig out. I just needed a break.”
“Uh-hmm.” Win looked off, and a realization smacked Myron in the head: He had hurt Win’s feelings. Strange but probably true. Win might be a blue-blooded, aristocratic sociopath, but hey, he was still human, sort of. The two men had been inseparable since college, yet Myron had run off without even calling. In many ways Win had no one else.
“I meant to call you,” Myron said weakly.
Win kept still.
“But I knew if there was a problem, you’d be able to find me.” That was true. Win could find a Hoffa needle in a Judge Crater haystack.
Win waved a hand. “Whatever.”
“So what’s wrong with Esperanza?”
Myron’s first client, a right-handed relief pitcher in the twilight of his career. “What about him?”
“He’s dead,” Win said.
Myron felt his legs buckle a bit. He let himself land on the chaise.
“Shot three times in his own abode.”
Myron lowered his head. “I thought he’d straightened himself out.”
Win said nothing.
“So what does Esperanza have to do with this?”
Win looked at his watch. “Right about now,” he said, “she is in all likelihood being arrested for his murder.”
“What?”
Win said nothing again. He hated to repeat himself.
“They think Esperanza killed him?”
“Good to see your vacation hasn’t dulled your sharp powers of deduction.” Win tilted his face toward the sun.
“What sort of evidence do they have?”
“The murder weapon, for one. Bloodstains. Fibers. Do you have any sunblock?”
“But how …?” Myron studied his friend’s face. As usual, it gave away nothing. “Did she do it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did you ask her?”
“What?”
“She does not wish to speak with you either.”
“I don’t understand,” Myron said. “Esperanza wouldn’t kill anyone.”
“You’re quite sure about that, are you?”
Myron swallowed. He had thought that his recent experience would help him understand Win better. Win had killed too. Often, in fact. Now that Myron had done likewise, he thought that there would be a fresh bond. But there wasn’t. Just the opposite, in fact. Their shared experienced was opening a whole new chasm.
Win checked his watch. “Why don’t you go get packed?”
“There’s nothing I need to bring.”
Win motioned to the house. Terese stood there, watching them silently. “Then say good-bye to La Derrière and let’s be on our way.”
Chapter 2
Terese had put on a robe. She leaned against the doorway and waited.
Myron was not sure what to say. He settled for “Thank you.”
She nodded.
“Do you want to come along?” he asked.
“No.”
“You can’t stay here forever.”
“Why not?”
Myron thought about it for a moment. “You know anything about boxing?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said.
“Ugh. Go on.”
“This whole thing is sort of like a boxing match,” Myron began. “We’ve been ducking and diving and weaving and trying to keep away from our opponent. But we can only do that for so long. Eventually we have to throw a punch.”
She made a face. “Christ, that was lame.”
“Spur of the moment.”
“And inaccurate,” she added. “Try this. We’ve tasted our opponent’s power. It dropped us to the canvas. Somehow we managed to get back to our feet. But our legs are still rubbery, and our eyes are still hazed over. Another big blow and the fight will be over. Better to keep dancing. Better to avoid getting hit and hope to go the distance.”
Hard to argue.
They fell into silence.
Myron said, “If you come up to New York, give me a call and—”
“Right.”
Silence.
“We know what would happen,” Terese said. “We’d meet up for drinks, maybe hop back in the sack, but it won’t be the same. We’ll both be uncomfortable as all hell. We’ll pretend that we’ll get together again, and we won’t even exchange Christmas cards. We’re not lovers, Myron. We’re not even friends. I don’t know what the hell we are, but I’m grateful.”
A bird cawed. The small waves hummed their soft song. Win stood by the shore, his arms crossed, his body frighteningly patient.
“Have a good life, Myron.”
“You too,” he replied.
He and Win took the dinghy to the yacht. A crew member offered Myron his hand. Myron grabbed it and hoisted himself on board. The yacht took off. Myron stood on the deck and watched the shore grow smaller. He was leaning on a teakwood rail. Teakwood. Everything on this vessel was dark and rich and teak.