“I can’t believe you came to town and didn’t call me. A less mature man would be insulted.”

“I got nothing to say to you.” She began to close the door.

“Guess who I just spoke to?”

“I don’t care.”

“Lucinda Elright.”

The door stopped. With Deanna looking slightly dazed, Myron slid through the opening.

Deanna recovered. “Who?”

“Lucinda Elright. One of your son’s teachers.”

“I don’t remember none of his teachers.”

“Oh but she remembers you. She said you were a wonderful mother to Curtis.”

“So?”

“She also said that Curtis was a wonderful student, one of the best she ever had. She said he had a bright future. She said he never got into trouble.”

Deanna Yeller put her hand on her hips. “There a point to all this?”

“Your son had no police record. He had a perfect school record, not so much as a detention. He was one of the top students in his class, if not the top student. You were clearly involved in his activities. You were an excellent mother, raising an excellent young man.”

She looked away. She might have been looking out the window, except the blinds were drawn. The TV was humming softly. A commercial for men’s pickup trucks featuring a soap opera star. Soap opera star, pickup trucks—what advertising genius came up with that combo?

“This is none of your business,” she whispered.

“Did you love your son, Ms. Yeller?”

“What?”

“Did you love your son?”

“Get out. Now.”

“If you cared about him at all, help me find out what happened to him.”

She glared at him. “Don’t give me that,” she countered. “You don’t care about my boy. You’re trying to find out who killed that white girl.”

“Maybe. But Valerie Simpson’s death and your son’s are connected. That’s why I need your help.”

She shook her head. “You don’t listen too good, do you? I told you before: Curtis is dead. Can’t change that.”

“Your son wasn’t the type to rob. He wasn’t the type to carry a gun or threaten the police with one. That’s just not the boy you raised.”

“Don’t matter,” she said. “He’s dead. Can’t bring him back.”

“What was he doing at the tennis club that night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where did you suddenly get all your money?”

Pow. Deanna Yeller looked up, startled. The old change-topic attention-getter. Works every time. “What?”

“Your house in Cherry Hills,” Myron said. “It was a cash deal four months ago. And your bank account at First Jersey. All cash deposits within the past half year. Where did the money come from, Deanna?”

Her face grew angry. Then suddenly she relaxed and smiled eerily. “Maybe I stole it,” she said, “just like my son. You gonna report me?”

“Or maybe it’s a payoff.”

“A payoff? For what?”

“You tell me.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t have to tell you nothing. Get out.”

“Why are you here in New York?”

“To see the sights. Now leave.”

“One of those sights Duane Richwood?”

Double pow. She stopped. “What?”

“Duane Richwood. The man who was in your room the other night.”

She stared at him. “You were following us?”

“No. Just him.”

Deanna Yeller looked horror-stricken. “What kind of man are you?” she said slowly. “You get off on that kind of thing, watching other people and all? Checking their bank accounts? Following them around like a Peeping Tom?” She opened the door. “Don’t you have no shame at all?”

The argument was a little too close for comfort. “I’m trying to find a killer,” Myron argued, but his tone rang lamely in his own ears. “Maybe the person who killed your son.”

“And it don’t matter who you hurt to do it, right?”

“That’s not true.”

“If you really want to do some good, then just drop this whole thing.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She shook her head. “Curtis is dead. So is Valerie Simpson. Errol …” She stopped. “It’s enough.”

“What’s enough? What about Errol?”

But she kept shaking her head. “Just let it go, Myron. For everyone’s sake. Just let it go.”

35

Jessica felt the cold barrel of the gun against her temple.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Aaron signaled. The man behind her covered her mouth with his free hand. He pressed her hard against him. Jessica could feel hot spittle on her neck. It was hard to breathe. She twisted her head back and forth. Her chest hitched as she scrambled for more air. Panic seized her.

Aaron rose off the couch. The black man moved a step closer, his gun still pointed at her.

“No reason for preliminaries,” Aaron said calmly. He took off his white jacket. He wore no shirt underneath, revealing instead the hairless, bodybuilder physique. He flexed a little. His pectoral muscles made ripples, like a stadium crowd doing the wave. “If you can still speak when we’re through, make sure you tell Myron it was me.” He cracked his knuckles. “I’d hate for my work to go unaccredited.”

“Should I break her jaw?” the man with the fishnet asked. “So she can’t yell or nothing.”

Aaron thought a moment. “No,” he said. “I kind of enjoy a good yell now and again.”

All three men laughed.

“I go second,” the black man said.

“Like hell,” the man with the fishnet countered.

“You always go before me,” the black man whined.

“All right, we’ll flip for it.”

“You got a coin? I never carry change.”

“Shut up,” Aaron said.

Silence.

Jessica struggled feverishly, but the man in the fishnet was too strong. She bit down and managed to skim one of his fingers. He yelped and called her a bitch. Then he bent her head back in a way it was never supposed to go. Pain shot down her spine. Her eyes widened.

Aaron was about to unbutton his pants when it happened.

A gunshot. Or more than one gunshot. It sounded to Jessica like only one, but it had to be more. The hand pressed hard against her mouth slackened and slid off. The gun against her temple dropped to the floor. She turned just enough to see the man behind her no longer had a face or even much of a head. He was dead well before his legs realized it and let him cave onto the floor.