“I don’t.”

The glare was back. Women had a talent for glares. Esperanza had a divine gift.

“Forget it,” he said. “Just get me Otto Burke on the phone.”

“Now?” Esperanza said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Won’t you be busy?”

“Just do it, please, okay? You’re starting to piss me off.”

“Oooo. I’m quaking.”

Myron shook his head. He had no time for her moods right now. He crossed the room and opened his office door. He stopped short.

“Hi.”

He cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. “Hello, Jessica.”

For most athletes, Jessica thought, the spotlight fades slowly. But for a tragic few, it vanishes as though from a sudden power failure, bathing the athlete in dazzling darkness.

Such was the case with Myron.

For most athletes the expectation game helps dim the light gradually. A high school star becomes a college bench warmer. The light dims. A college starter realizes he will not be the team’s high scorer. The light dims. The college superstar realizes he will never make it to the pros. The light dims. And then there are those very few, those who are one in a million, those with almost Wolfean “right stuff,” who become professional athletes.

For those, the light is blinding, forever damaging the vision of the ones who stare directly into it. That was what made the dimming so important. An athlete could get used to losing the light slowly. His career would peak before tapering off just slightly. He would brighten from the inexperienced rookie to the player in his prime, and then the light would begin to fade as he moved past seasoned vet.

For Myron that had not happened.

He had been one of those select few who basked in the most potent wattage imaginable, as if the spotlight shone on him and from inside of him. His basketball talent had first became apparent in the sixth grade. He had gone on to break every scoring and rebounding record in Essex County, New Jersey, a perennial basketball stronghold. Myron was short for a forward, a program six-six (really only six-four), but he was a physical brute, a bull, and a hell of a leaper for a white man. He was highly recruited, chose Duke, and won two NCAA titles in four years.

The Boston Celtics had drafted him in the first round, the eighth pick overall. Myron’s spotlight grew impossibly bright.

And then the fuse blew.

A freak injury, they called it. It was a preseason game against the Washington Bullets. Two players weighing a combined six hundred pounds sandwiched the rookie Myron Bolitar. The doctors threw all kind of terms at the man-child who had never been injured before, not even a twisted ankle. Multiple fractures, they said. Shattered kneecap. Casts. Wheelchair. Crutches. Cane.

Years.

Sixteen months later Myron could walk, though the limp lasted another two years. He never came back. His career was over. The only life he had ever known had been stripped from him. The press had done a story or two, but Myron was quickly forgotten.

Complete blackout.

Jessica frowned. Spotlight. Bad metaphor. Too cliché and inaccurate. She shook her head and looked up at him.

“That explains it,” Myron said.

“Explains what?”

“Esperanza’s mood.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him. “I told her we had an appointment. She didn’t seem pleased to see me.”

“No kidding.”

“She’d still kill me for a nickel, huh?”

“Or half that much,” he replied. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure.”

He picked up his phone. “Can you get me a black coffee? Thanks.” He put the receiver back in its cradle and looked up at her.

“How’s Win?” she asked.

“Good.”

“His family owns the building?”

“Yes.”

“I understand Win’s become quite a financial whiz—despite himself.”

Myron nodded, waited.

“So you’re still hanging around with Win,” she continued. “You still have Esperanza. Not a lot changes.”

“Plenty changes,” he said.

Esperanza appeared at the door, the scowl still on her face. “Otto Burke was in a meeting.”

“Try Larry Hanson.”

She handed the coffee to Jessica, smiled eerily, and left. Jessica studied the cup. “Think she spat in it?”

“Probably,” Myron replied.

She put it down. “I need to cut back anyway.”

Myron moved around his desk and sat down. The wall behind him was covered with theater posters. All musicals. His fingers drummed the desk.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said. “I wanted to surprise you, catch you off guard. Not the other way around.”

“Still seeking the upper hand?”

“I guess so, yeah. Old habit.”

He shrugged but said nothing.

“I need your help,” she said.

He waited.

She took a breath and plunged. “The police say my father was killed in a robbery attempt. I don’t believe it.”

“What do you believe?” he asked.

“I think his murder has something to do with Kathy.”

Myron was not surprised. He leaned forward, his eyes never staying on hers for very long. “What makes you say that?”

“The police dismiss it as a coincidence,” she said simply. “I’m not big on coincidences.”

“What about your dad’s friend on the force, what’s-his-name?”

“Paul Duncan.”

“Right, him. Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

She began tapping her foot, an old, subconscious, annoying habit. She made herself stop. “Paul says it was a robbery too. He spews out all the facts about the crime scene, the missing wallet, the missing jewelry, that kind of thing. He is perfectly logical and objective, which is not his way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Paul Duncan is a passionate man. A hothead. Here his best friend has been murdered, and he seems almost blasé about it. It’s not like him.” She stopped, shifted in her chair. “Something isn’t right here, I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Myron rubbed his chin but kept quiet.

“Look, you know I was never very close to my father,” she continued. “He wasn’t an easy man to love. He was far better with his corpses than with breathing entities. He liked the idea of family, the concept—it was the actual execution he found wearisome. But I still have to find out the truth. For Kathy.”