“By whom?”

“A very sick man, Myron. A terrible man. After all these years I still remember his name. Roger Quincy. Crazy animal. He wrote her love letters. He called all the time. He hung around her house, by her hotel, at every match she played.”

“When was this?”

“When she was on the tour, of course. It began—I don’t know—six months before she was hospitalized.”

“Did you try to stop him?”

“Of course. We went to the police. They could do nothing. We tried to get a court order, but this Quincy never actually threatened her. He would say ‘I love you, I want to be with you,’ things like that. We did our best. We changed hotels, signed in under different aliases. But you have to remember, Valerie was just a child. She became paranoid. The pressure on her was already tremendous. But now she had to look over her shoulder all the time. This Roger Quincy, he was a crazy beast. That’s what he was. He was the one who should have been gunned down.”

Myron nodded, waiting a beat. “How did Alexander Cross react to Roger Quincy?”

The question stunned Pavel like a surprise left hook. Lennox Lewis vs. Frank Bruno. He hesitated, trying to regain his footing. The players came out of the tunnel. Applause began to build. The distraction worked like a standing eight count, giving Pavel time to recover.

“Why would you ask that?” he asked.

“Weren’t Alexander Cross and Valerie Simpson involved?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Seriously?”

“She was away a lot. Traveling. But they seemed fond of each other.”

“And I assume their relationship was going on at the same time Quincy was stalking Valerie?”

“I believe the time periods overlapped, yes.”

“So it’s a natural question,” Myron said. “How did Valerie’s boyfriend react?”

“Natural, perhaps,” he said. “But you must admit it is also a bizarre question. Alexander Cross has been dead for several years now. How is his reaction relevant to what happened to Valerie today?”

“For one, they were both murdered.”

“You’re not suggesting a connection?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Myron said. “But I don’t understand why you don’t want to answer my question.”

“It’s not a matter of wanting or not wanting,” Pavel replied. “It’s a matter of doing what is right. You are delving into places where you do not belong. Personal places. Places that cannot possibly have any relevance in today’s world. I feel like I am betraying confidences. You see?”

“No.”

Pavel looked back at Jack Lord. Jack’s mouth twitched. He stood again. The chest self-inflated.

“The match is about to begin,” Pavel said. “I hate to be rude, but I really must ask you to leave now.”

“Hit a raw nerve, did I?”

“Yes. I cared for Valerie very deeply.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Please leave. I must concentrate on this match.”

Myron did not move. Jack Lord put a big mitt on Myron’s shoulder. “You heard the man,” he said. “Move out.”

“Let go of my shoulder,” Myron said.

Jack shook his head. “No more games, pal. It’s time for you to get lost.”

“If you don’t move your hand,” Myron explained calmly, “I’ll hurt you. Maybe severely.”

From behind his sunglasses Big Jack finally smiled. His grip on Myron’s shoulder tightened. Myron quickly reached up with his right hand and grabbed the man’s thumb. He locked the joint and pulled it back the wrong way. Jack dropped to one knee.

Myron lowered his mouth toward Jack’s ear. “I don’t want to make a scene, so I’m going to let you go,” he whispered. “If you do anything but smile I will hurt you. Definitely severely. Nod if you understand.”

He nodded, his face pale.

Myron let the thumb go. “Later, Pavel.”

Pavel said nothing.

Myron walked past Jack. As ordered, Jack was smiling.

“Book ’em, Dann-o,” Myron said.

6

A stalker.

Could it be that simple? Could some deranged fan have put a bullet into Valerie Simpson because a voice told him to? Doesn’t explain Duane Richwood’s connection. But maybe there was no connection. Or maybe the connection had nothing to do with the murder and, more important, was none of Myron’s business.

Myron turned onto Hobart Gap Road. He was only a mile from his home in Livingston, New Jersey. The powder-blue Caddy with the canary-yellow roof finally turned off, jumping on the JFK Parkway. Whoever it was must have figured Myron was going home for the night, and hence there was no reason to keep the tail. But if the Caddy was around tomorrow, Myron would have to take care of it—unmask the true identity of Mr. Miami Gin Tournament.

Right now he needed to concentrate on this whole stalker possibility.

If Valerie had been killed by Roger Quincy, then why had ol’ Pavel gotten so antsy when Myron mentioned Alexander Cross? Or was it just like Pavel said—he didn’t want to betray confidences? When you thought about it, wasn’t it a hell of a lot more probable that Pavel just felt it was in his best interest to keep quiet? Senator Cross was an awfully powerful man. Spreading stories about his murdered son wasn’t necessarily the wisest course of action. So there could be nothing there. Then again it could be something big. Or something small.

Thoughts like these are what made Myron a brilliant detective.

He parked in the driveway. His mom’s car was in the garage. His dad’s was nowhere in sight. He opened the door with his key.

“Myron?”

Myron. God, what a name. You’d think he’d be used to it by now, but occasionally the horror hit him anew. He had been dubbed Myron. A last-second decision, his parents claimed. Something Mom came up with at the hospital. But to name a kid Myron Bolitar? Was that fair? Was that ethical?

As a youngster Myron tried giving himself nicknames: Mike, Mickey, even Sweet J, for his famous jumpshot. Okay, maybe it was a good thing that Sweet J didn’t stick. But still.

Warning to parents naming children: Let’s be careful out there.

His mother called out, “Myron? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“I’m in the den.” She was wearing an exercise outfit, watching some kind of workout tape. She stood on one leg, crane stance à la The Karate Kid. On the television a familiar voice crooned, “Now flow-step to the left.…”