The Final Detail

Hester closed her mouth. Bo

“Twelve years ago,” Myron said, “Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms were minor-league players for a team called the New England Bisons. They were both young and reckless in the way athletes tend to be. The world was their oyster, they thought they were the cat's pajamas, you know the fairy tale. I won't insult you by going into details.”

Both women slid back into their seats. Myron sat across from them and continued.

“One day Clu Haid drove drunk-well, he probably drove drunk more than once, but on this occasion he wrapped his car around a tree. Bo

Hester Crimstein said, “I don't understand any of this.”

“Give me time, you will,” Myron said. “The officers and I came to an understanding. It happens all the time with big-time athletes. Matters like this are swept under the rug. Clu was a good kid, we all agreed. No reason to destroy his life over this little incident. It was a somewhat victimless crime-the only person hurt was Clu's own wife. So money changed hands, and an agreement was reached. Clu wasn't drunk. He swerved to avoid another car. That's what caused the accident. Billy Lee Palms and Bo

Hester wore her a

“It's twelve years later now,” Myron said. “And the incident is almost like one of those mummy curses. The drunk driver, Clu, is murdered. His best friend and passenger, Billy Lee Palms, is shot to death-I won't call that murder because the shooter saved my life. The sheriff I bought off-he died of prostate cancer. Nothing too strange about that or perhaps God got to him before the mummy. And as for Eddie Kobler, the other officer, he was caught last year taking bribes in a big drug string. He was arrested and plea-bargained down. His wife left him. His kids won't talk to him. He lives alone in a bottle in Wyoming.”

“How do you know about this Kobler guy?” Hester Crimstein asked.

“A local cop named Hobert told me what happened. A reporter friend confirmed it.”

“I still don't see the relevance,” Hester said.

“That's because Esperanza kept you in the dark,” Myron said. “I was wondering how much she told you. Apparently not much. Probably just insisted that I be kept totally out of this, right?”

Hester gave him the courtroom eyes. “Are you saying Esperanza has something to do with all this?”

“No.”

“You're the one who committed a crime here, Myron. You bribed two police officers.”

“And there's the rub,” Myron said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Even that night something struck me as odd about the whole incident. The three of them in the car together. Why? Bo

Hester Crimstein stayed the lawyer. “Are you saying one of them wasn't in the car?”

“No. I'm saying that there were four people in the car, not three.”

“What?”

They both looked at Bo

“Who were the four?” Hester asked.

“Bo

Hester Crimstein looked as if she'd been hit with a two-by-four. “Lucy Mayor?” she repeated. “As in the missing Mayor girl?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Myron kept his eyes on Bo

Hester Crimstein said, “She's not talking.”

“Yes,” Bo

“But you never knew what happened to her, did you?”

Bo

“What did Clu tell you?”

“That you bought her off too,” Bo

Myron nodded. It made sense. “There's one thing I don't get. There was a ton of publicity about Lucy Mayor a few years back. You must have seen her picture in the paper.”

“I did.”

“Didn't it ring a bell?”

“No. You have to remember. I only saw her that one time. You know Billy Lee. A different girl every night. And Clu and I sat in the front. Her hair was a different color too. She was a blonde then. So I didn't know.”

“And neither did Clu.”

“That's right.”

“But eventually you learned the truth.”

“Eventually,” she said.

“Whoa,” Hester Crimstein said. “I'm not following any of this. What does an old traffic accident have to do with Clu's murder?”

“Everything,” Myron said.

“You better explain, Myron. And while you're at it, why did Esperanza get framed for it?”

“That was a mistake.”

“What?”

“Esperanza wasn't the one they intended to frame,” Myron said. “I was.”

CHAPTER 38

Yankee Stadium hunched over in the night, crouching shoulders low as though trying to escape the glow from its own lights. Myron parked in Lot 14, where the executives and players parked. There were only three other cars there. The night guard at the press entrance said he was expected, that the Mayors would meet him on the field. Myron moved down the lower tier and hopped the wall near the batter's box. The stadium lights were on, but nobody was there. He stood alone on the field and took a deep breath. Even in the Bronx nothing smelled like a baseball diamond. He turned toward the visitor's dugout, sca

Should have buried him here, Myron thought. Under a pitcher's mound.

He stared up into the thousands of seats, empty like the shattered eyes of the dead, the vacant stadium merely a body now without a soul. The whites of the foul lines were muddied, nearly dirt-toned now. They'd be put down anew tomorrow before game time.

People say that baseball is a metaphor for life. Myron did not know about that, but staring down the foul line, he wondered. The line between good and evil is not so different from the foul line on a baseball field. It's often made of stuff as flimsy as lime. It tends to fade over time. It needs to be constantly redrawn. And if enough players trample on it, the line becomes smeared and blurred to the point where fair is foul and foul is fair, where good and evil become indistinguishable from each other.

Jared Mayor's voice broke the stillness. “You said you found my sister.”

Myron squinted toward the dugout. “I lied,” he said.

Jared stepped up the cement stairs. Sophie followed. Myron rose to his feet. Jared started to say something more, but his mother put her hand on his arm. They kept walking as though they were coaches coming out to talk to the relief pitcher.

“Your sister is dead,” Myron said. “But you both know that.”

They kept walking.

“She was killed in a drunk driving accident,” he went on. “She died on impact.”