Senator Cross stopped. Myron waited for him to continue. When it was clear he had reached the end of his saga, Myron asked, “Why were they at the club?”

“Who?”

“Swade and Yeller.”

Senator Cross looked puzzled. “They were thieves.”

“How do you know that?”

“What else would they have been doing here?”

Myron shrugged. “Selling drugs to your son. Dealing. It sounds a lot more plausible than a late-night robbery of a tennis club.”

Cross shook his head. “They were carrying items. Tennis rackets. Tennis balls.”

“According to whom?”

“According to Gregory and the others. The items were also found at the scene.”

“Tennis rackets and balls?”

“There may have been other things, I don’t remember.”

“That’s what they were after?” Myron said. “Some tennis gear?”

“The police believe that my son interrupted them before the robbery was complete.”

“But your son stumbled across them outside. If they’d already stolen some gear, then they’d already been inside.”

“So what are you suggesting?” the senator asked sharply. “That my son was murdered in a drug deal gone bad?”

“I’m just trying to see what sounds most plausible.”

“Would a drug deal murder make a connection with Valerie more likely?”

“No.”

“So what’s your point?”

“No point. Just trying out different theories. What happened next? Directly after the murder?”

He looked off again, this time in the general direction of one of the portraits, but Myron didn’t think he was actually seeing it. “Gregory and the other boys came running back into the party,” he said in a hollow voice. “I followed them outside. Blood was bubbling out of Alexander’s mouth. By the time I reached him he was dead.”

Silence.

“You can pretty much figure out the rest. Everything switched over to autopilot. I really didn’t do much. Aides did. Gregory’s father—he’s a senior partner here—helped too. I just stood and nodded numbly. I won’t lie to you. I won’t tell you I didn’t know what was going on. I did. Old habits die hard, Myron. There is no creature more selfish than a politician. We so easily justify our selfishness as the ‘common good.’ So the cover-up was done.”

“And if the truth came out now?”

He smiled. “I’d be destroyed. But I’m not really afraid of that anymore. Or maybe that’s a lie too, who knows anymore?” He threw up his hands, lowered them. “But my wife never learned the truth. I don’t know what it would do to her, I really don’t. Alexander was a good kid, Mr. Bolitar. I don’t want his memory ripped to shreds. In the end drugs do not make Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller any less culpable or my son any more guilty. He didn’t ask to be stabbed.”

Myron waited a beat. Then the left-field question: “What about Deanna Yeller?”

Puzzled. “Who?”

“Curtis Yeller’s mother.”

“What about her?”

“You have no relationship with her?”

More puzzled. “Of course not. Why would you ask something like that?”

“You never paid to keep her silent?”

“About what?”

“About the circumstances of her son’s death.”

“No. Why should I?”

“You know there was never an autopsy done on Curtis Yeller either. Strange, don’t you think?”

“If you’re insinuating that the police did not act strictly within regulations, I can’t answer that because I don’t know. I don’t care either. Yes, I’ve wondered about the police shooting myself. Perhaps there was a second cover-up that night. If there was, I was not involved in it. And more important, I don’t see what possible connection it could have with Valerie Simpson. In fact I don’t see any connection in any of this with Valerie.”

“She was at the party that night?”

“Valerie? Of course.”

“Do you know where she was at the time Alexander was murdered?”

“No.”

“Do you remember how she reacted to his death?”

“She was devastated. Her fiancé had just been killed in cold blood. She was distraught and angry.”

“Did you approve of their relationship?”

“Yes, very much so. I thought Valerie was a bit troubled. A bit too sad. But I liked her. She and Alexander were good together.”

“Valerie’s name was never mentioned in connection with your son’s murder. Why?”

The jowls were quivering big-time. “You know why,” he said. “Valerie Simpson was still something of a celebrity from her tennis days. We felt that there was already enough scrutiny without adding her name to the mix. It wasn’t a question of liking or not liking Valerie. We just wanted to minimize the story as much as possible. Keep it off the front pages.”

“You got lucky then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yeller was killed. Swade vanished.”

Cross blinked several times. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“If they were alive there would have been a trial. More media attention. Maybe too much media attention for even your spin doctors to handle.”

He smiled. “I see you’ve heard the rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“That I had Errol Swade killed. That the mob did me a favor or some such nonsense.”

“You have to admit, Senator, their fates made for a convenient little public relations package. No one to dispute your spin on things.”

“I don’t cry over the fate of Curtis Yeller, and if Errol Swade was murdered I doubt I’d shed too many tears about that either. But I don’t know any mobsters. That may sound silly, but I wouldn’t know the first thing about enlisting the mob’s help. I did hire a detective agency to look for Swade.”

“Did they find anything?”

“No. They believe that Swade is dead. So do the police. He was a punk, Myron. He wasn’t on a path that led to a long life even before this incident.”

Myron followed up with a few more questions, but there was nothing more to learn. A few minutes later the two men stood.

“Would you mind if I spoke to Gregory Caufield before I leave?” Myron asked.