“Speaking of which, your mother called twice, your father once. I think they’re worried about you.”

He entered his office. His little private sanctuary. He liked it in here. Myron held most of his negotiations and important meetings in the traditionally decorated conference room, freeing him up to make his office whatever he wanted it to be. He had, of course, his view of the Manhattan skyline to his left. On the wall behind his desk he had framed posters from Broadway musicals: Fiddler on the Roof, The Pajama Game, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, Man of La Mancha, Les Misérables, La Cage aux Folles, A Chorus Line, West Side Story, Phantom.

Another wall had movie stills: Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, Woody Allen and Diane Keaton in Annie Hall. Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy in Adam’s Rib. Groucho, Chico, and Harpo in A Night at the Opera. Adam West and Burt Ward in Batman, the TV show, the real Batman, the one where Burgess Meredith played the Penguin and Cesar Romero played the Joker. The Golden Age of Television.

The final wall had photographs of Myron’s clients. In a few days Christian Steele cloaked in Titan blue would join the group.

He dialed Madelaine Gordon’s number. The answering machine picked up. Her silky voice. Hearing it again made his throat dry. He hung up, not leaving a message. He checked the time on the far wall. The clock was shaped like a giant watch with a Boston Celtics insignia in the center.

Three-thirty.

Still time to get to the campus. Madelaine was not important, but Myron very much wanted to see the dean. And he wanted to show up unexpectedly.

At Esperanza’s desk he said, “I’m going out for a while. You can reach me in the car.”

“Are you limping?” she asked.

“A little. Ache’s men roughed me up.”

“Oh. See you later.”

“Hurts like hell, but I can take it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t make a scene.”

“Inside,” she said. “I’m dying.”

“Please see if you can reach Chaz Landreaux. Tell him we need to talk.”

“Okay.”

He left. He picked up his car in the garage. Win was into cars. He loved his racing-green Jag. Myron drove a blue Ford Taurus. He was not what one might call a car man. A car got him from point A to point B, that was all. It was not a status symbol. It was not a second home. It was not his baby.

The drive didn’t take long. Myron took the Lincoln Tunnel. He passed the famed York Motel. Long sign:

$11.99 PER HOUR

$95 PER WEEK

MIRRORED ROOMS

NOW FEATURING SHEETS!

He paid the toll on the Parkway. The woman in the booth was very friendly. She almost looked at him when she tossed him the change.

He called his mother on the car phone and reassured her he was okay. She told him to call his father, he was the worried one. Myron called his father and reassured him he was okay. He told him to call his mother, she was the worried one. Great communication. The secret to a happy marriage.

He thought about Kathy Culver. He thought about Adam Culver. He thought about Nancy Serat. He tried to draw little lines, connecting them. The lines were tenuous at best. He was sure Fred Nickler, Sir Sleaze Rag, was one line. That picture hadn’t sneaked into Nips by itself. Fred seemed to run a tight operation. He had to know more than he was saying. Win was digging into his background, seeing what he could unearth.

Half an hour later, Myron arrived at the campus. Extra-deserted today. No one on the commons. Very few cars. He parked near the dean’s house and knocked on the door. Madelaine (he still liked the name) answered. She smiled when she saw him, clearly pleased, tilting her head a little. “Well, hello, Myron.”

“Hi.” The Return of Mr. Smooth.

Madelaine Gordon was dressed for tennis. Short white skirt. Great legs. White shirt. He noticed that the shirt was see-through. Keen observation, the sign of a master investigator. Madelaine noticed him noticing. She did not seem particularly offended.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Myron said.

“No intrusion,” she said. “I was just about to take a shower.”

Hmm. “Your husband’s not in, is he?”

She crossed her hands under her breasts. “Not for hours yet,” she said. “You got my message?”

He nodded.

“Would you care to come inside?”

Myron said, “ ‘Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you?’ ”

“Pardon me?”

“The Graduate.”

“Oh.” Madelaine wet her lips. She had a very sexy mouth. People overlook the mouth. They talk about the nose, the chin, the eyes, the cheekbones. Myron was a mouth man. “I guess I should be offended,” she continued. “I mean, I’m not that much older than you, Myron.”

“Good point. Quote withdrawn.”

“So,” she said. “I’ll ask again. Would you like to come inside?”

Myron said, “Sure.” Bowling her over with quick wit. What chance did she have against such sparkling repartee?

She disappeared back into the house, creating an air vacuum that sucked Myron—against his will, of course—in after her. The inside was nice, the kind of house that obviously saw plenty of company. Big open room on the left. Tiffany lamps. Persian rugs. Busts of French guys with long, curly hair. Grandfather clock. Painted portraits of stern-faced men.

“Care to sit down?” she said.

“Thank you.”

Sultry. That had been the word Esperanza used. It fit. Not just Madelaine’s voice but her mannerisms, her walk, her eyes, her persona.

“How about a drink?” she asked.

He noticed she already had one made for herself. “Sure, whatever you’re having.”

“A vodka tonic.”

“Sounds good.” Myron hated vodka.

She mixed the drink. He sipped it, trying not to make a face. He wasn’t sure if he was successful. She sat down next to him. “I’ve never been this forward before,” she said.

“That a fact?”

“But I’m very attracted to you. It’s one of the reasons I loved watching you play. You’re really very handsome. I’m sure you’re sick of hearing that.”

“Well, I don’t know if sick is the right word.”

Madelaine crossed her legs. It wasn’t Jessica’s leg cross, but it was still worth watching. “When you came to the door yesterday, I didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity. I decided to throw caution to the wind and just go for it.”