Picking locks was not Myron’s forte. Win was a lot better at it. Plus he didn’t have the tools. Another cry from the room. “Open the door,” he shouted. The only answer was more cries.

To hell with it, he thought.

Leading with his shoulder, Myron pile-drove his body into the door. It stung him pretty good, but the lock gave way. The cries were still muffled, but for a moment Myron forgot about them. Sprawled across the bed was Pavel Menansi. His eyes were wide open but unseeing. His mouth was frozen in a surprised oval. Dried, dark blood was caked on his chest where the bullet had entered.

He was naked.

Myron stared for a few moments before the renewed cries snapped him out of it. He turned to his right. The sound emanated from behind the bathroom door. Myron moved toward it. There was a plastic Feron’s bag on the floor. The same kind they used at the U.S. Open. The same kind they found at Val’s murder.

The bag had a bullet hole in it.

In front of the bathroom door, jammed under the knob, was a chair. Myron kicked it out of the way and opened the door. A young girl was sitting on the tile, her knees pulled up to her chest. She was huddled in a corner against the toilet. Myron recognized her right away. It was Janet Koffman, Pavel’s newest protégée. Fourteen years old.

She too was naked.

Janet looked up at him. Her eyes were large and red and puffy. Her lower lip quivered. “We were just talking tennis,” she said in a dead voice. “He’s my coach. We were just talking about a match. That’s all.”

Myron nodded. Janet started to cry again. He bent down and wrapped a towel around her. He reached out, but she shrank away.

“It’s okay now,” he said, not knowing what else to say. “You’re going to be okay.”

37

Janet Koffman had stopped crying. She was sitting on the loveseat by the window. Her back was to the bed and hence Pavel’s corpse. From what Myron could get out of her she had been in the bathroom when someone locked her in with the chair and killed Pavel. She hadn’t seen a thing. She was still sticking to her other story too: she and her coach had been talking tennis. Myron chose not to probe into the small details—like why, for example, they would have this particular discussion in the nude.

He had called the police. They’d be here any minute now. The question was, what should he do with Janet? On the one hand, he wanted to protect her from all of this; on the other, he knew she had to deal with what she had been through, that she couldn’t just pretend nothing had happened to her. So what should Myron do—tamper with a police investigation or expose her to the brutish ways of the cops and worse, the press? What message of shame would hiding the truth send her? Then again, what would happen to this young girl if the story hit the airwaves?

Myron didn’t have a clue.

“He was a good coach,” Janet said softly.

“You did nothing wrong,” Myron said, again realizing how lame he sounded. “Whatever else happens, remember that. You did absolutely nothing wrong.”

She nodded slowly, but Myron wasn’t sure if she’d even heard him.

Ten minutes later the police arrived, led by Dimonte. Rolly looked like something the proverbial cat had dragged in. He was unshaven. His shirt was untucked and buttoned wrong. His hair was all over the place. He had sleep-buggers in both eyes. Still, the boots were nicely polished. He charged up to Myron. “Returning to the scene of the crime, asshole?”

“Yeah,” Myron said, “that’s it.”

The press rounded the corner. Flashbulbs started strobing. “Keep those assholes downstairs!” Dimonte hollered. Some uniformed cops pushed them back. “Downstairs, I said! No one on this floor.”

Dimonte turned back to Myron. Krinsky came in and stood next to him. His pad was out.

“Hey, Krinsky,” Myron said.

Krinsky nodded.

“So what the hell happened?” Dimonte demanded.

“I came up to see him. I found him like this.”

“Stop fucking with me, asshole.”

Myron didn’t bother with a retort. Cops were all over the place. The coroner was slitting a hole in Pavel’s torso with a surgical scalpel. The liver area, Myron knew. Trying to get a liver temperature reading to find out time of death.

Dimonte spotted the Feron’s bag on the floor. “You touch this?”

Myron shook his head.

Dimonte bent down and looked at the bullet hole. “Cute,” he said.

“You going to let Roger Quincy go now?”

“Why should I?”

“You didn’t have squat on him before. Now you have less than squat.”

Dimonte shrugged. “Could just be a copycat. Or”—he snapped his fingers—“or it could be someone who wants to get Quincy off.” A smile. “Someone like you, Bolitar.”

“Yeah,” Myron said, “that’s it.”

Dimonte stepped closer. He gave Myron the tough-guy glare again. Then, as though suddenly remembering it, he quickly whipped out his toothpick and put it in his mouth. He glared again and gnawed the toothpick.

“I was wrong before,” Myron said.

“What?”

“About the toothpick being cliché. It’s actually very intimidating.”

“Keep it up, funny man.”

“It’s too early for this, Rolly.”

“Listen, asshole, I want to know what you’re doing here.”

“I told you. I came to see Pavel.”

“Why?”

“To talk about him coaching a player of mine.”

“At six-thirty in the morning?”

“I’m an early riser. It’s why they call me Mr. Sunbeam.”

“They should call you Mister Lying Sack of Shit.”

“Oooo,” Myron said. “That hurt.”

Dimonte started gnawing on the toothpick with renewed vigor. You could almost hear something churn inside his head. “So tell me, Bolitar,” he said with the beginnings of a smile, “you came to the hotel to talk business. You took the elevator up to see our victim here. You knocked on the door. No one answered. Right so far?”

“Yep.”

“So then you kicked the door in, right?”

Myron said nothing.

Dimonte turned to Krinsky. “That make sense to you, Krinsky? Kicking in the door like that?”

Krinsky looked up from his pad, shook his head, looked back down.

“You always do that when no one answers a door, asshole? Kick it down?”