Still, the estate was huge. Myron parked so far away he almost waited for shuttle service. As he approached the front door Detectives Dimonte and Krinsky came out. In a major shock, Dimonte did not appear happy to see him. He put his hands on his hips. Important, impatient.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he barked.

“Do you know what happened to the Motels?” Myron asked.

“The what?”

Myron shook his head. “How quickly they forget.”

“Goddamn it, Bolitar, I asked you a question. What do you want here?”

“You left your underpants at my house last night,” Myron said. “Jockey shorts. Size thirty-eight. Little bunny design.”

Dimonte’s face grew red. Most cops were homophobes. Best way to needle them was to play on it. “You better not be playing fucking Hardy Boys with my case, asshole. You and your pal Psycho-yuppie.”

Krinsky laughed at that one. Psycho-yuppie. When ol’ Rolly got hold of a good one he didn’t let it go.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dimonte continued. “The case is just about wrapped up.”

“And I’ll be able to say I knew you when.”

“You’ll be happy to know your client is no longer my main suspect.”

Myron nodded. “Roger Quincy the stalker is.”

That didn’t please Dimonte. “How the fuck do you know about that?”

“I am all-seeing, all-knowing.”

“Doesn’t mean your boy is fully in the clear. He’s still lying about something. You know it. I know it. Krinsky here knows it.”

Krinsky sort of nodded. Mr. Sidekick.

“But now we just figure your boy was porking her. You know, on the side.”

“You have any evidence?”

“Don’t need none. Don’t give a shit. I want her killer, not her porker.”

“Poetically put, Rolly.”

“Ah screw it, I don’t have time for your wit.”

As they passed, Myron gave a little wave. “Nice talking to you, Krinsky.”

Krinsky nodded.

Myron rang the doorbell. It rang dramatically. Sounded like an orchestra. Tchaikovsky maybe. Maybe not. A man of about thirty came to the door. He was dressed in a pink oxford shirt open at the neck. Ralph Lauren. Big dimple on chin. Hair so black it was almost blue, like Superman’s.

He looked at Myron like he was a vagrant urinating on the steps. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Mrs. Van Slyke.” Valerie’s mother had remarried.

“Now is not a good time,” he said.

“I have an appointment.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” he said in that haughty, Win-like accent. “Now is not a good time.”

“Please tell Mrs. Van Slyke that Myron Bolitar is here,” Myron persisted. “She is expecting me. Windsor Lockwood spoke with her last night.”

“Mrs. Van Slyke isn’t seeing anybody today. Her daughter was murdered yesterday.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then you’ll understand—”

“Kenneth?”

A woman’s voice.

“It’s okay, Helen,” the man said. “I’m handling the situation.”

“Who is it, Kenneth?”

“No one.”

Myron said, “Myron Bolitar.”

Kenneth shot Myron a look. Myron held back the temptation to stick out his tongue. It wasn’t easy.

She appeared in the foyer. All in black. Her eyes were red with equally red rims. She was an attractive woman, though Myron ventured to guess she was probably a lot more attractive twenty-four hours ago. Late forties. Blond hair, softly colored. Nicely coiffed. Not too bleachy.

“Please come in, Mr. Bolitar.”

Kenneth said, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Helen.”

“It’s okay, Kenneth.”

“You need your rest.”

She took Myron’s arm. “Please forgive my husband, Mr. Bolitar. He is just trying to protect me.”

Husband? Did she say husband?

“Please follow me.”

She led him into a room slightly larger than the Acropolis. Over the fireplace hung a gigantic portrait of a man with long sideburns and a walrus mustache. Kinda scary. The room was lit by a half dozen of those fixtures that look like candles. The furniture, while old-world tasteful, seemed a tad too worn. There wasn’t a silver tea set, but there should have been. Myron sat in an antique chair about as comfortable as an iron lung. Kenneth kept his eye on Myron. Making sure he didn’t pocket an ashtray or something.

Helen sat on the couch across from him. Kenneth stood behind her, hands on her shoulders. Would have made a nice photograph. Very regal. A little girl, no more than three or four, toddled into the room. “This is Cassie,” Helen Van Slyke said. “Valerie’s sister.”

Myron smiled widely and leaned toward the little girl. “Hello, Cassie.”

The little girl responded by bawling like she’d just been stabbed.

Helen Van Slyke comforted her daughter, and after a few more wails Cassie stopped. She peeked out behind balled-up fists every once in a while to study Myron. Maybe she too feared for the safety of the ashtrays.

“Windsor tells me you’re a sports agent,” Helen Van Slyke said.

“Yes.”

“Were you going to represent my daughter?”

“We were discussing the possibility.”

Kenneth said, “I don’t see why this conversation can’t wait, Helen.”

She ignored him. “So why did you want to see me, Mr. Bolitar?”

“I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

“What kind of questions?” Kenneth asked. Sneering suspicion.

Helen silenced him with her hand. “Please go ahead, Mr. Bolitar.”

“I understand Valerie was hospitalized about six years ago.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Kenneth again.

“Kenneth, please leave us alone.”

“But Helen—”

“Please. Take Cassie for a walk.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He protested, but he was no match for her. She closed her eyes, signaling the argument’s end. Grudgingly Kenneth took his daughter’s hand. When they were out of earshot, she said, “He is a bit overprotective.”

“It’s understandable,” Myron said. “Under the circumstances.”

“Why do you want to know about Valerie’s hospitalization?”