“Boy, you’re a bundle of optimism today.”

“Just telling it like it is.”

“Did you learn anything at the Plaza?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Win leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Valerie made only four calls in the past three days. All were to your office.”

“One to make an appointment to see me,” Myron said. “The other three on the day she died.”

Win gave a quick whistle. “Very impressive. First you figure out Kenneth is an asshole and now this.”

“Yeah, sometimes I even scare myself. Is there anything else?”

“A doorman at the Plaza remembered Valerie rather well,” Win continued. “After I tipped him twenty dollars, he recalled that Valerie took a lot of quick walks. He found it curious, since guests normally leave for hours at a time, rather than scant minutes.”

Myron felt a surge. “She was using a pay phone.”

Win nodded. “I called Lisa at NYNEX. By the way, you now owe her two tickets to the Open.”

Great. “What did she find out?”

“On the day before Valerie’s murder, two calls were placed from a nearby pay phone at Fifth and Fifty-ninth to the residence of one Mr. Duane Richwood.”

Myron felt a sinking feeling. “Shit.”

“Indeed.”

“So not only did Valerie call Duane,” Myron said, “but she went out of her way to make sure no one would know.”

“So it appears.”

Silence.

Win said, “You’ll have to talk to him.”

“I know.”

“Let it wait until after the tournament,” Win added. “Between the Open and the big Nike campaign, there’s no reason to distract him now. It will keep.”

Myron shook his head. “I’ll talk to Duane tomorrow. After his match.”

11

François, the maître d’ at La Reserve, flitted about their table like a vulture awaiting death—or worse, a New York maître d’ awaiting a very large tip. Since discovering that Myron was a close friend of Windsor Horne Lockwood III’s, François had befriended Myron in the same way a dog befriends a man with raw meat in his pocket.

He recommended the thinly sliced salmon appetizer and the chef’s special scrod as an entree. Myron took him up on both suggestions. So did the so-far silent Mrs. Crane. Mr. Crane ordered the onion soup and liver. Myron was not going to be kissing him anytime soon. Eddie ordered the escargot and lobster tails. The kid was learning fast.

François said, “May I recommend a wine, Mr. Bolitar?”

“You may.”

Eighty-five bucks down the drain.

Mr. Crane took a sip. Nodded his approval. He had not smiled yet, had barely exchanged a pleasantry. Luckily for Myron, Eddie was a nice kid. Smart. Polite. A pleasure to talk to. But whenever Mr. Crane cleared his throat—as he did now—Eddie fell silent.

“I remember your basketball days at Duke, Mr. Bolitar,” Crane began.

“Please call me Myron.”

“Fine.” Instead of reciprocating the informality, Crane knitted his eyebrows. The eyebrows were his most prominent feature—unusually thick and angry and constantly undulating above his eyes. They looked like small ferrets furrowing into his forehead. “You were captain of the team at Duke?” he began.

“For three years,” Myron said.

“And you won two NCAA championships?”

“My team did, yes.”

“I saw you play on several occasions. You were quite good.”

“Thank you.”

He leaned forward. The eyebrows grew somehow bushier. “If I recall,” Crane continued, “the Celtics drafted you in the first round.”

Myron nodded.

“How long did you play for them? Not long, as I recall.”

“I hurt my knee during a preseason game my rookie year.”

“You never played again?” It was Eddie. His eyes were young and wide.

“Never,” Myron said steadily. Better lesson than any lecture he could give. Like the funeral of a high school classmate who died because he was D.U.I.

“Then what did you do with yourself?” Mr. Crane asked. “After the injury?”

The interview. Part of the process. It was harder when you were an ex-jock. People naturally assumed you were dumb.

“I went through rehab for a long while,” Myron said. “I thought I could beat the odds, defy the doctors, come back. When I was able to face reality, I went to law school.”

“Where?”

“At Harvard.”

“Very impressive.”

Myron tried to look humble. He almost batted his eyes.

“Did you make Law Review?”

“No.”

“Do you have an MBA?”

“No.”

“What did you do upon graduation?”

“I became an agent.”

Mr. Crane frowned. “How long did it take you to graduate?”

“Five years.”

“Why so long?”

“I was working at the same time.”

“Doing what?”

“I worked for the government.” Nice and vague. He hoped Crane didn’t push it.

“I see.” Crane frowned again. Every part of him frowned. His mouth, his forehead, even his ears frowned. “Why did you enter the field of sports representation?”

“Because I thought I’d like it. And I thought I’d be good at it.”

“Your agency is small.”

“True.”

“You don’t have the connections of some larger agencies.”

“True.”

“You certainly don’t wield the power of ICM or TruPro or Advantage.”

“True.”

“You don’t have too many successful tennis players.”

“True.”

Crane gave a disapproving scowl. “Then tell me, Mr. Bolitar, why should we choose you?”

“I’m a lot of fun at parties.”

Mr. Crane did not break a smile. Eddie did. He caught himself, smothered the smile behind his hand.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” Crane said.

“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Crane. You live in Florida, right?”

“St. Petersburg.”

“How did you get up to New York?”

“We flew.”

“No. I mean, who paid for the tickets?”

The Cranes shared a wary glance.

“TruPro bought your tickets, right?”

Mr. Crane nodded tentatively.