The awful smell started permeating the walls.
“A warrant,” the big guy groused. He wasn’t chewing on a cigar, but he should have been. “And before you tell me we’re out of our jurisdiction, we’re still working with Michael Chapman, Manhattan North. Call him, you got a problem. Now get out of the chair, asshole, so we can search this place.”
Myron crinkled his nose. “Jesus, which one of you is wearing the cologne?”
Head Lice gave a quick look toward his partner. The look said, Hey, I’ll take a bullet for this guy, but I’m not taking the fall for that smell. Understandable.
“Listen up, dip shit,” the big one said. “My name is Detective Winters—”
“Really? Your mother named you Detective?”
Barely a sigh. “—and this is Detective Martinez. Move out here now, dim wad.”
The smell was getting to him. “Yo, Winters, you got to stop borrowing cologne from male flight attendants.”
“Keep at it, funnyman.”
“Seriously, does the label include the words glaze liberally!”
“You’re a real comedian, Bolitar. So many bad asses are funny it’s a pity they don’t televise Sing Sing.”
“I thought you already searched the place.”
“We did. Now we’re back for the financials.”
Myron pointed to Head Lice. “Can’t he do it alone?”
“What?”
“I’ll never get the smell out of here.”
Winters took out a pair of latex gloves, this so as not to mess up possible fingerprints. He snapped them on in dramatic fashion, including finger wiggling, and grinned.
Myron winked. “You want me to bend down and grab my ankles?”
“No.”
“Dang, and me needing a date.” Want to needle a cop? Use gay humor. Myron had yet to meet one who wasn’t a complete homophobe.
Winters said, “We’re going to trash this place, funnyman.”
“Doubtful,” Myron countered.
“Oh?”
Myron stood, reached into the file cabinet behind him.
“Hey, you can’t touch anything in here.”
Myron ignored him, pulled out a small videocamera. “Just keeping a record of your doings, officer. In today’s climate of false police corruption charges, we wouldn’t want any misunderstandings”—Myron snapped on the camera and aimed the lens at the big guy—“would we?”
“No,” the big guy said, staring straight into the lens. “We wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”
Myron kept his eye in the viewer. “The camera captures the real you, Detective. I bet if we played it back, we’d still smell your cologne.”
Head Lice hid a smile.
“Please get out of our way, Mr. Bolitar,” Winters said.
“Sure thing. Cooperation is my middle name.”
They began the search, which basically consisted of packing every document they could lay their hands on in crates and carrying them out. The gloved hands touched everything, and it felt to Myron like they were touching him. He tried to look innocent—whatever that looked like—but he couldn’t help being nervous. Guilt was a funny thing. He knew that there was nothing amiss in any of the files, but he still felt oddly defensive.
Myron gave the video camera to Big Cyndi and started making calls to clients who had left MB. Most didn’t pick up. The few who did tried to defect. Myron played it soft, figuring that any overaggression would backfire. He merely told them that he was back and would like very much to speak with them at their earliest convenience. A lot of hemming and hawing from those who actually spoke to him. Not unexpected. If he were to regain their confidence, it would take time.
The cops finished up and left without so much as a good-bye. Manners. Big Cyndi and Myron watched the elevators close.
“This is going to be very difficult,” Myron said.
“What?”
“Working without any files.”
Big Cyndi opened her purse and showed him computer disks. “Everything is on these.”
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
“You backed up everything on these?”
“Yes.”
“Letters and correspondences, okay, but I need the contracts—”
“Everything,” she said. “I bought a scanner and ran every paper in the office through it. There’s a backup set in a safety-deposit box at Citibank. I update the disks every week. In case of fire or other emergency.”
When she smiled this time, Myron’s cringe was barely perceptible.
“Big Cyndi, you are a surprising woman.”
It was hard to tell under the melted Masque de Crayola, but it almost looked like she was blushing.
The intercom buzzed. Big Cyndi picked up the phone.
“Yes?” Pause. Then her voice grew grave.
“Yes, send her up.” She replaced the receiver.
“Who is it?”
“Bonnie Haid is here to see you.”
Big Cyndi showed the Widow Haid into his office. Myron stood behind his desk, not sure what to do. He waited for her to make the first move, but she didn’t. Bonnie Haid had let her hair grow out, and for a moment he was back at Duke. Clu and Bonnie were sitting on the couch in the basement of the frat house, another major kegger behind them, his arm draped over her shoulder, she wearing a gray sweatshirt, her legs tucked under her.
He swallowed and moved toward her. She took a step back and closed her eyes. She put a hand up to stop him as though she could not bear the pain of his intimacy. Myron stayed where he was.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Thank you.”
They both stood there, two dancers waiting for the music to begin.
“Can I sit down?” Bonnie asked.
“Of course.”
She sat. Myron hesitated and then chose to go back around his desk.
“When did you get back?” she asked.
“Last night,” he said. “I didn’t know about Clu before then. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”
Bonnie cocked her head. “Why?”
“Pardon?”
“Why are you sorry you weren’t here? What could you have done?”
Myron shrugged. “Help maybe.”
“Help how?”
He shrugged again, spread his arms. “I don’t know what to say, Bonnie. I’m flailing here.”
She looked at him a moment, challenging, then dropped her eyes. “I’m just lashing out at whoever’s in front of me,” she said. “Don’t pay any attention.”