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  “Esperanza’s mood.”

  “Oh.” She smiled at him. “I told her we had an appointment. She didn’t seem pleased to see me.”

  “No kidding.”

  “She’d still kill me for a nickel, huh?”

  “Or half that much,” he replied. “Want some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  He picked up his phone. “Can you get me a black coffee? Thanks.” He put the receiver back in its cradle and looked up at her.

  “How’s Win?” she asked.

  “Good.”

  “His family owns the building?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand Win’s become quite a financial whiz—despite himself.”

  Myron nodded, waited.

  “So you’re still hanging around with Win,” she continued. “You still have Esperanza. Not a lot changes.”

  “Plenty changes,” he said.

  Esperanza appeared at the door, the scowl still on her face. “Otto Burke was in a meeting.”

  “Try Larry Hanson.”

  She handed the coffee to Jessica, smiled eerily, and left. Jessica studied the cup. “Think she spat in it?”

  “Probably,” Myron replied.

  She put it down. “I need to cut back anyway.”

  Myron moved around his desk and sat down. The wall behind him was covered with theater posters. All musicals. His fingers drummed the desk.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said. “I wanted to surprise you, catch you off guard. Not the other way around.”

  “Still seeking the upper hand?”

  “I guess so, yeah. Old habit.”

  He shrugged but said nothing.

  “I need your help,” she said.

  He waited.

  She took a breath and plunged. “The police say my father was killed in a robbery attempt. I don’t believe it.”

  “What do you believe?” he asked.

  “I think his murder has something to do with Kathy.”

  Myron was not surprised. He leaned forward, his eyes never staying on hers for very long. “What makes you say that?”

  “The police dismiss it as a coincidence,” she said simply. “I’m not big on coincidences.”

  “What about your dad’s friend on the force, what’s-his-name?”

  “Paul Duncan.”

  “Right, him. Have you spoken to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  She began tapping her foot, an old, subconscious, annoying habit. She made herself stop. “Paul says it was a robbery too. He spews out all the facts about the crime scene, the missing wallet, the missing jewelry, that kind of thing. He is perfectly logical and objective, which is not his way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Paul Duncan is a passionate man. A hothead. Here his best friend has been murdered, and he seems almost blasé about it. It’s not like him.” She stopped, shifted in her chair. “Something isn’t right here, I don’t know how else to explain it.”

  Myron rubbed his chin but kept quiet.

  “Look, you know I was never very close to my father,” she continued. “He wasn’t an easy man to love. He was far better with his corpses than with breathing entities. He liked the idea of family, the concept—it was the actual execution he found wearisome. But I still have to find out the truth. For Kathy.”

  “How did your father and Kathy get along?” Myron asked.

  She thought about it a moment. “Better lately. When we were kids, they weren’t very close. Kathy was a mama’s girl, always hanging around my mom, wanting to be like her, the whole bit. But when she vanished, I’d venture to guess she was closer to my dad than my mom. He was crushed when she disappeared. He became obsessed. No, ‘obsessed’ isn’t strong enough. All of us were obsessed, of course. But not like my father. It consumed him entirely. Everything about him changed. He had always been the quiet county medical examiner, the man who made no waves. Now he was using his position to keep the pressure on twenty-four hours a day. He became paranoid, convinced the police weren’t doing all they could do to find her. He even started his own investigation.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “No. Not that I know of.”

  Myron looked away. At the far wall. A movie still of the Marx Brothers. A Night at the Opera. Groucho looked back but offered no answers.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Go on.”

  “There isn’t much else. I can only tell you that my father was acting very strangely the past few weeks. He started calling me all the time when previously we’d only talked maybe three times a year, sounding a little teary. It was like he was play-acting the part of perfect Daddy with renewed vigor. I couldn’t tell if it was a serious change or just a phase.”

  Myron nodded, looking off again. He said nothing. Jessica almost thought he’d completely drifted off when he finally spoke, his voice almost inaudibly soft. “What do you think happened to Kathy?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think she’s dead?”

  “I—” She stopped. “I miss her. It’s … I don’t want to think she’s dead.”

  He nodded again. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Look into it. Find out what’s going on.”

  “Assuming something is going on.”

  “Right.”

  “Why me?”

  She thought about it a moment. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I thought you’d believe me. I thought you’d help.”

  “I’ll help,” he said. “But understand one thing: I have an important business interest in settling this whole thing.”

  “Christian?”

  “I’m his agent,” he continued. “I’m responsible for his well-being.”

  “He still misses my sister,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Myron’s face remained set. “He’s fine.”

  “He’s a good kid. I like him.”

  Myron nodded.

  Jessica rose and stepped toward the window. Myron averted his eyes. He did not like to look at her for too long at one time. She understood. It hurt her too. She looked down at Park Avenue, twelve stories below. A taxi driver with a turban was shaking his fist at an old woman with a cane. The old woman whacked him and ran. The driver fell. The turban did not even shift.

  “Hiding your feelings from me has never been your forte,” she said, still staring out the window. “What don’t you want to tell me?”

  He did not reply.

  “Myron …”

  Esperanza saved him, bursting through the door without knocking. “Larry Hanson is out of the office,” she said.

  Win came in behind her. “I got something for us on that magazine.…” His voice died out when he saw Jessica.

  “Hi, Win,” she said.

  “Hello, Jessica Culver.” They embraced. “My goodness, you look utterly fantastic. I read an article on you the other day, calling you the Literary Sex Symbol.”

  “You shouldn’t read such trash.”

  “It was in my dentist’s waiting room. Honest.”

  An uncomfortable pause followed. Esperanza broke it by pointing at Jessica, making a gagging motion by sticking her finger in her mouth, and then storming out.

  “Ever the enchantress,” Jessica muttered.

  Myron stood. “Where are you staying?”

  “At my mom’s.”

  “Same number?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call you later. Right now I’ve got to go with Win.”

  Jessica looked toward Win. He grinned at her. His face, as always, gave away nothing. “I have a meeting with my editor this afternoon,” she said. “But I’ll be home all night.”

  “Fine. I’ll call you then.”

  An awkward impasse. No one knew exactly how to say good-bye. A wave? A handshake? A kiss?

  “We’ve got to go,” Myron said. He sprinted past her, never get
ting too close. Win shrugged at her in a what-can-you-do fashion and followed. She watched them disappear around the corner. Batman and Robin heading to the Bat-poles.

  She left then. She had seen Myron twice now, and they had not yet touched—not even brushed up against one another.

  It was an odd thing to wonder about.

  Chapter 6

  “What did you find out?” Myron asked.

  Win whipped the wheel to the right. The Jag XJR responded with nary a squeal. They had been driving without speaking for the past ten minutes, Win’s CD player the only sound. Win favored show tunes. Man of La Mancha was on now. Don Quixote serenaded his beloved Dulcinea.

  “Nips magazine is published by HDP,” Win answered.

  “HDP?”

  “Hot Desire Press.” Another Bat-turn. The Jag accelerated past eighty.

  “Speed limits,” Myron said. “Heard of them?”

  Win ignored him. “Their editorial office is located in Fort Lee, New Jersey.”

  “Editorial office?”

  “Whatever. We have an appointment with Mr. Fred Nickler, managing editor.”

  “His mother must be proud.”

  “Moralizing,” Win mused. “Nice.”

  “What did you tell Mr. Nickler?” Myron asked.

  “Nothing. I called and asked if we could see him. He said yes. Seemed like a very pleasant fellow.”

  “I’m sure he’s a prince.” Myron looked out the window. Buildings blurred. They fell back into silence. “You’re probably wondering what Jessica was doing in my office.”

  Win gave a halfhearted shrug. It was not his way to pry.

  “It’s her father’s murder. The police say it was a robbery. She thinks otherwise.”

  “How does she see it?”

  “She thinks there’s a connection between his murder and Kathy.”

  “So the plot thickens. Are we going to help her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Goodie. So do we think there is a connection?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes,” Win agreed.

  They pulled into the driveway of a building that could have been either a nice warehouse or low-rent office space. No elevator, but then again, only three levels. HDP, Inc., was on the second floor. When they entered the outer office, Myron was a bit surprised. He was not sure what he’d expected, but he had thought the dwellings of a sleaze merchant would not be so … nondescript. The walls were white with inexpensive but tastefully framed art posters—McKnight, Fanch, Behrens. Mostly scenery shots of beaches and sunset. Nothing with naked breasts. Surprise number one. Surprise number two was the unremarkable receptionist. She was strictly standard issue, not an overaged, bleach-blond, flabby ex-bunny/sexpot/porno starlet with a breathy giggle and seductive wink.

  Myron was almost disappointed.

  “May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

  Win said, “We’re here to see Mr. Nickler.”

  “Your names, please?”

  “Windsor Lockwood and Myron Bolitar.”

  She picked up the phone, buzzed in, and a moment later said, “Right through that door.”

  Nickler greeted them with a firm handshake. He was dressed in a blue suit, red tie, white shirt—conservative as a Republican senatorial candidate. Surprise number three. Myron had expected gold chains or a Joey Buttafuoco earring or at the very least a pinkie ring. But Fred Nickler wore no jewelry, except for a plain wedding band. His hair was gray, his complexion a bit washed out.

  Win whispered, “He looks like your uncle Sid.”

  It was true. The publisher of Nips magazine looked like Sidney Griffin, popular suburban orthodontist.

  “Please have a seat,” Nickler said, moving back behind his desk. He smiled at Myron. “I was at the Final Four when you guys beat Kansas. Twenty-seven points including the game winner. Hell of a performance. Incredible.”

  “Thank you,” Myron said.

  “Never seen anything like it. The way that final shot kissed the backboard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just incredible.” Nickler renewed his smile, shaking his head in awe at the memory. Then he sat back. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Myron said, “We have a couple of questions about an ad in one of your, uh, publications.”

  “Which one?”

  “Nips.” Saying the word felt grungy. Myron tried not to make a face.

  “Interesting,” Nickler replied.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Nips is a relatively new publication, and it’s doing poorly—far and away the worst of HDP’s monthlies. I’m going to give it another month or two, and then it’ll probably fold.”

  “How many magazines do you publish?”

  “Six.”

  “Are they all like Nips?”

  Nickler chuckled lightly. “They are all pornographic magazines, yes. And they are all completely legal.”

  Myron handed him the magazine Christian had given him. “When was this printed?”

  Fred Nickler barely glanced at it. “Four days ago.”

  “That’s all?”

  “It’s our most recent issue—they’ve barely hit the stands. I’m surprised you found one.”

  Myron opened to the proper page. “We’d like to know who paid for this advertisement.”

  Nickler put on a pair of half-moon glasses. “Which one?”

  “Bottom row. The Lust Line.”

  “Oh,” he said. “A sex phone.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No. But this ad wasn’t paid for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the nature of the business,” Nickler explained. “Someone calls me up to place an ad for a dial-a-porn line. I tell him it costs X amount. He says, wow, I’m just starting out, I can’t afford it. So if it looks like a good idea, I go in fifty-fifty with him. In other words, I take care of the marketing, if you will, while my partner takes care of the technical side—phones, cables, girls to work the phones, whatever else. Then we split it down the middle. It limits both of our risks.”

  “Do you do this a lot?”

  He nodded. “Ninety percent of my advertising comes for fantasy lines. I’d say I have a piece of the action in three-quarters of them.”

  “Can you give us the name of your partner on this particular venture?”

  Nickler studied the picture in the magazine. “You’re not with the police, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Private investigators?”

  “No.”

  He took off his glasses. “I’m fairly small-time,” he said. “I have my own little niche. It’s the way I like it. No one bothers me, and I don’t bother anybody else. I have no interest in a lot of publicity.”

  Myron shot a glance at Win. Nickler had a family, probably a nice house in Tenafly, told the neighbors he was in publishing. Pressure could be applied. “I’ll be frank with you,” Myron said. “If you don’t help us out, it may blow up into something major. Newspapers, TV, the works.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Absolutely not.” Myron reached into his wallet and took out a fifty-dollar bill. He placed it on the desk. “We just want to know who put this ad in.”

  Nickler pushed the bill back toward Myron, his expression suddenly irritated. “What is this, a movie? I don’t need a payoff. If the guy has done something wrong, I want no part of him. This business has enough problems as it is. I run a straight operation. No underage girls, nothing illegal in any way, shape, or form.”

  Myron looked at Win. “Told you he was a prince.”

  “Think what you want,” Nickler said in a voice that said he’d been down this road many times before. “This is a business like any other. I’m just an honest guy trying to make an honest buck.”

  “Real American of you.”

  He shrugged. “Look, I don’t defend everything about this business. But there are plenty of worse. IBM, Exxon, Union Carbide—these are the r
eal monsters, the real exploiters. I don’t steal. I don’t lie. I satisfy a societal need.”

  Myron had a quick comeback, but Win stopped him with a shake of his head. He was right. What was the point in antagonizing the guy?

  “Could we have the name and address, please?” Myron asked.

  Nickler opened a drawer behind him and pulled out a file. “Is he in some sort of trouble?”

  “We just need to talk to him.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  Win spoke to Nickler for the first time. “You don’t want to know.”

  Fred Nickler hesitated, saw Win’s steady gaze, then nodded. “The company is called ABC. They have a p.o. box in Hoboken, number 785. The guy’s name is Jerry. I don’t know anything else about him.”

  “Thanks,” Myron said, standing. “One more question if you don’t mind: Have you ever seen the girl in the ad?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “If you do or if you think of anything else, will you give me a call?” Myron handed him a card.

  Nickler looked as if he wanted to ask a question, his gaze continually drifting back to Kathy’s photograph, but he settled for saying “Sure.”

  Once outside, Win asked, “What do you think?”

  “He’s lying,” Myron said.

  Back in the car Myron asked, “Can I use the phone?”

  Win nodded, his foot not slackening on the pedal. The speedometer was hovering at seventy-five. Myron watched it as if it were a taxi meter on a long ride, keeping his gaze averted from the blur of a street.

  Myron dialed the office. Esperanza answered the phone after one ring.

  “MB SportReps.”

  MB SportReps. The M stood for Myron, the B for Bolitar. Myron had thought of the name himself, though he rarely bragged about it. “Did Otto Burke or Larry Hanson call?”

  “No. But you have lots of messages.”

  “Nothing from Burke or Hanson?”

  “You deaf?”

  “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Myron hung up. Otto and Larry should have called by now. They were avoiding him. The question was, why?

  “Trouble?” Win asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “I believe we need a rejuvenation.”

  Myron looked up. He recognized the street immediately. “Not now, Win.”

  “Now.”

  “I have to get back to the office.”