He handed Myron half the file. “Hell if I know. Help me look.”

They went through it. Valerie’s name was only on one sheet. A party guest list. Her name along with a hundred others. Myron jotted down the names and addresses of the witnesses to the murder—three friends of Alexander Cross’s. Nothing else of much interest in the file.

“So,” Jake said, “what does the lovely and dead Valerie Simpson have to do with this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jake shook his head. “You still yanking my chain?”

“I’m not yanking anything.”

“What have you got so far?”

“Less than nothing.”

“That’s what you said about Kathy Culver.”

“But this isn’t your case, Jake.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“I really don’t have anything. Valerie Simpson visited my office a few days ago. She wanted to make a comeback, but somebody killed her instead. I want to know who, that’s all.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Myron shrugged.

“The TV said something about a stalker doing the job,” Jake said.

“Might be him. Probably is.”

Silence.

“You’re holding back again,” Jake said. “Just like with Kathy Culver.”

“It’s confidential.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“Nope. It’s confidential.”

“Protecting someone again?”

“Confidential,” Myron said. “As in not to be divulged. Communicated in the strictest of confidence. A secret.”

“Fine, be that way,” Jake said. “So how’s your sandwich?”

Myron nodded. “Maybe the ambience isn’t so good, but at least the food stinks.”

Jake laughed. “Hey, you got tickets to the Open?”

“Yeah.”

“How about getting me two?”

“For when?”

“The last Saturday.”

The men’s semis and women’s finals. “Tough day,” Myron said.

“But not for a big-time agent like yourself.”

“Then we’ll be even?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll leave them at the on-call window.”

“Make sure they’re good seats.”

“Who you taking?”

“My son Gerard.”

Myron had played ball against Gerard in college. Gerard was a bull. No finesse about his game. “He still working homicide in New York?”

“Yep.”

“Can he do me a little favor?”

“Shit. Like what?”

“The cop on Valerie’s murder is a devout asshole.”

“And you want to know what they have.”

“Yeah.”

“All right. I’ll ask Gerard to give you a call.”

10

“Messages?”

Esperanza nodded. “About a million of them.”

Myron fingered through the pile. “Any word on Eddie Crane?”

“You’re having dinner with him and his folks.”

He looked up. “When?”

“Tonight. Seven-thirty. At La Reserve. I already made a reservation. Make sure you use Win’s name.”

Win’s name carried weight at many of New York’s finest restaurants. “You realize, of course, that you’re a genius.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“I want you to come too.”

“Can’t. School.” Esperanza went to law school at night.

“Is Eddie still being coached by Pavel Menansi?” Myron asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“He and I had a discussion last night at the Open.”

“What about?”

“He used to coach Valerie.”

“And you two ‘discussed’ that?”

Myron nodded.

“May I assume you wowed him with your usual charm?”

“Something like that.”

“So we don’t have a chance with Eddie,” she said.

“Not necessarily. If Eddie was really close to Pavel, then TruPro would have him signed by now. Maybe there’s some friction there.”

“Almost forgot.” Esperanza picked up a small stack of papers. “This just came in by fax. They want it signed right away.”

A contract for a baseball prospect named Sandy Repo. A pitcher. The Houston Astros had taken him in the first round. Myron scanned it over. The contract had been orally finalized yesterday morning, but Myron spotted the new paragraph right away. Sandwiched it in on the second-to-last page.

“Cute,” he said.

“Who?”

“The Astros. Get me Bob Wasson on the line.” The Astros’ general manager.

Esperanza picked up the phone. “You’re supposed to meet with Burger City tomorrow afternoon.”

“Same time as Duane’s match?”

She nodded.

“You mind handling it?” he asked.

“They’re not going to like dealing with a receptionist,” she said.

“You’re an associate,” Myron corrected. “A valued associate.”

“Still not the main man. Still not Myron Bolitar.”

“Ah, but who is?”

She rolled her eyes, picked up the phone, began dialing. She purposely did not look at him. “You really think I’m ready?”

The tone was hard to read. Myron couldn’t tell if it signaled sarcasm or insecurity. Probably both.

“They’re going to want Duane for their new promo,” he said. “But Duane wants to wait for a national deal. Try to push someone else on them.”

“Okay.”

Myron went into his office. Home. Tara. He had a nice view of the Manhattan skyline. Not a corner office view like Win’s, but not shabby either. On one wall he had movie stills. Everything from Bogie and Bacall to Woody and Diane. Another wall featured Broadway posters. Musicals mostly. Everything from Rodgers and Hammerstein to Andrew Lloyd Webber. The final wall was his client wall. Action photos of each player. He studied the picture of Duane, his body arched in a serving motion.

“What’s going on, Duane?” Myron said out loud. “What are you hiding?”

The photo did not answer. Photos rarely did.

His phone buzzed. Esperanza came on the speaker. “I have Bob Wasson on the line.”

“Okay.”

“I can put him on hold. Until you’re finished talking to your wall.”