“I really wouldn’t know,” Jared said.
“Who did he room with on the road?”
Sophie almost smiled. “You really were out of touch, weren’t you?”
“Cabral,” Jared said. “Enos Cabral. He’s a Cuban pitcher.”
Myron knew him. He nodded, glancing about, and that was when he saw it. His heart lurched, and it took all his willpower not to scream.
He had just been sweeping the room with his eyes, taking the room in but not really seeing anything, just the normal thing everyone does, when an object snagged his gaze as though on a rusted hook. Myron froze. On the credenza. On the right side of the credenza, mixed in with the other framed photos and the trophies and those latex cubes that encased civic awards and the first issue of Mayor Software stock and the like. Right there. A framed photograph.
A framed photograph of the girl on the computer diskette.
Myron tried to maintain a calm facade. Deep breath in, deep breath out. But he could feel his pulse quicken. His mind fought through the haze, searching for a temporary clearing. He scanned his internal memory banks. Okay, slow down. Breathe. Keep breathing.
No wonder the girl had looked familiar to him.
But what was her deal? More memory bank scanning. She was Sophie Mayor’s daughter, of course. Jared Mayor’s sister. What was her name again? His recollections were vague. What had happened to her? A runaway, right? Ten, fifteen years ago. There had been an estrangement or something. Foul play was not suspected. Or was it? He didn’t remember.
“Myron?”
He needed to think. Calmly. He needed space, time. He couldn’t just blurt out, “Oh, I got this weird diskette with an image of your daughter melting in blood on it.” He had to get out of here. Do some research. Think it through. He stood, clumsily looking at his watch.
“I have to go,” he said.
“What?”
“I’d like to speak with Dr. Stilwell as soon as possible,” he said.
Sophie’s eyes stayed on him. “I don’t see the relevance.”
“I just explained—”
“What difference would it make? Clu is dead now. The drug test isn’t relevant.”
“There might be a connection.”
“Between his death and a drug test?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I agree.”
“I’d still like to check it out. I have that right.”
“What right?”
“If the drug test was inconclusive, it changes things.”
“Changes what—” Then Sophie stopped, smiled a bit, and nodded to herself. “I think I see now.”
Myron said nothing.
“You mean in terms of his contract, don’t you?”
“I have to go,” he repeated.
She leaned back and recrossed her arms. “Well, Myron, I have to hand it to you. You are definitely an agent. Trying to squeeze one more commission out of a corpse, eh?”
Myron let the insult roll off. “If Clu was clean, his contract would still be valid. You’d owe the family at least three million dollars.”
“So this is a shakedown? You’re here for money?”
He glanced at the picture of the young girl again. He remembered the diskette, the laugh, the blood. “Right now,” he said, “I’d just like to talk with the team doctor.”
Sophie Mayor looked at him like he was a turd on the carpet. “Get out of my office, Myron.”
“Will you let me speak to the doctor?”
“You don’t have any legal standing here.”
“I think I do.”
“You don’t, believe me. The blood money has run dry here. Get out, Myron. Now.”
He took one more look at the photograph. Now was not the time to argue the point. He hurried out the door.
Chapter 18
Myron was starting to hurt. The Tylenol alone wasn’t doing the trick. He had Tylenol with codeine in his back pocket, but he did not dare. He needed to stay sharp, and that stuff put him to sleep faster than, er, sex. He quickly cataloged the sore spots. His sliced-up shin hurt most, followed closely by his bruised ribs. The rest of the aches were an almost welcome distraction. But the pain made him conscious of every movement.
When he got back to his office, Big Cyndi handed him a huge pile of message slips.
“How many reporters have called?” he asked.
“I stopped counting, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Any messages from Bruce Taylor?”
“Yes.”
Bruce covered the Mets, not the Yankees. But every reporter wanted in on this story. Bruce was also something of a friend. He would know about Sophie Mayor’s daughter. The question was, of course, how to raise the subject without getting him overly curious.
Myron closed his office door, sat down, dialed a number. A voice answered on the first ring.
“Taylor.”
“Hey, Brucie.”
“Myron? Jesus Christ. Hey, I appreciate you calling me back.”
“Sure, Bruce. I love to cooperate with my favorite reporter.”
Pause. Then: “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Myron said.
“This is too easy.”
“Pardon.”
“Okay, Myron, let’s skip the part where you break down my defenses with your supernatural charisma. Cut to it.”
“I want to make a deal.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not willing to make a statement yet. But when I do, you get first crack. An exclusive.”
“An exclusive? Sheesh, Myron, you really do know your media lingo, don’t you?”
“I could have said scoop. It’s one of my favorite words.”
“Okay, Myron, great. So in return for your not telling me anything, you get what?”
“Just some information. But you don’t read into anything that I ask and you don’t report on it. You’re just my source.”
“More like your bitch,” Bruce said.
“If that’s what you’re into.”
“Not today, dear, I have a headache. So let me get this straight. You tell me nothing. I report nothing. In return I get to tell you everything. Sorry, big guy, no deal.”
“Bye-bye, Brucie.”
“Whoa, whoa, Myron, hold up. Christ, I’m not a general manager. Don’t pull that negotiating crap on me. Look, let’s stop tugging each other’s chains here. This is what we do: You give me something. A statement, anything. It can be as innocuous as you want to make it. But I want to be the first with a statement from Myron Bolitar. Then I tell you what you want, I keep quiet, you give me the exclusive scoop or whatever before everyone else. Deal?”