“Uh, Roger, you didn’t answer my question,” Myron said. “How do you know me?”
“I’m sorry.” He flashed a shy smile. “I get overexcited sometimes. Some people think it’s a flaw. Me, I’d rather be like that than some couch potato. Did I mention that I’m also a basketball fan?”
“Yes.”
“That’s how I know your name. I saw you play at Duke.” He smiled like that explained everything.
“Okay,” Myron said, struggling to keep a patient tone. “So why did you tell the police you wanted to talk to me?”
“Because I did. Want to talk to you, that is.”
“Why?”
“They think I killed Valerie, Myron.”
“Did you?”
His mouth made a surprised little O. “Of course not. What kind of man do you think I am?”
Myron shrugged. “The kind who stalks young girls. The kind who harassed Valerie Simpson, who followed her around, called her repeatedly, wrote her long letters, frightened her.”
He waved Myron off with those long fingers. “You’re exaggerating,” he said. “I courted Valerie Simpson. I loved her. I cared about her well-being. I was merely a persistent suitor.”
“She wanted you to leave her alone.”
He laughed. “So she turned me down. Big deal. Am I the first man ever rejected by a beautiful woman? I just don’t give up as easily as most. I sent her flowers. I wrote her love letters. I asked her out again. I tried different tactics. Do you ever read romance novels?”
“Not really.”
“The hero and heroine are always rejecting each other. Through wars or pirate attacks or high society parties, the couple fight and claw and seem to hate each other. But deep down they are in love. They’re repressing their true feelings, see? That’s how it was with Valerie and me. There was an undeniable tension there. A high-voltage surge between us.”
“Uh-huh,” Myron said. “Roger, why did you want to see me?”
“I thought you could talk to the police for me.”
“And tell them what?”
“That I didn’t kill Valerie. That she was in imminent danger from someone else.”
“Who?”
“I thought you knew.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Valerie told me. Right before she was murdered.”
“She told you what exactly?”
“That she was in danger.”
“In danger of what?”
“I thought you’d know.”
Myron raised his hand. “Slow down a second, okay? Let’s start at the beginning. You were at the U.S. Open.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I go every year. I’m a big fan. I love to watch the matches. They’re so mesmerizing—”
“I think we covered that already, Roger. So you went as a fan. Your going had nothing to do with Valerie Simpson? You didn’t follow her there?”
“Of course not. I had no idea she’d even be there.”
“Okay, so what happened?”
“I was sitting in the stadium watching Duane Richwood demolish Ivan Restovich. Incredible performance. I mean, Duane slaughtered him.” He smiled. “But why am I telling you this? You’re his agent, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can you get me his autograph?”
“Sure.”
“Not tonight, of course. Tomorrow maybe?”
“Maybe.” Earth to Roger. “But let’s stick with Valerie right now. You were watching Duane’s match.”
“Exactly.” His voice grew serious. “I wish I’d known you were Duane Richwood’s agent then, Myron. Maybe everything would have been okay then. Maybe Valerie would still be alive and I’d be the hero who saved her and she’d have to stop denying her true feelings and let me into her life and let me protect her forevermore.”
Myron remembered a quote from Man of La Mancha: “I can see the coo-coo singing in the coo-coo berry tree.”
“What happened, Roger?”
“The match was basically over so I checked my program. Arantxa Sanchez-Vicario was about to start her match on court sixteen, so I figured I’d go over there and get a good seat. Arantxa’s a wonderful player. Such a hustler. Her brothers Emilio and Javier are pros also. Nice players, but they don’t have her heart.”
“So you left the stadium,” Myron tried
“I left the stadium. I had a few minutes, so I went over to the booth near the front entrance. The one with all the TV monitors giving the scores of the other matches. I saw that Steffi had already won and that Michael Chang had been dragged into a fifth set. I was checking out some doubles matches on the board. Men’s doubles, I think. Ken Flach was one of the people. No, it was … I can’t remember.”
“Stay with me, Roger.”
“Anyway, that’s when I saw Valerie.”
“Where?”
“By the front gate. She was trying to get in, but the guard wouldn’t let her. She didn’t have a ticket. She was very upset, that was clear. You know, the Open is always sold out. Every year. But I still couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The guard wouldn’t let her in. Valerie Simpson. He didn’t even recognize her. So naturally I went to her aid.”
Naturally. “What did you do?”
“I got my hand stamped by another guard and walked outside the gate. Then I came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned around I couldn’t believe what I saw.”
“What?”
“I know Valerie Simpson,” he said, his words slower now. “Even you will have to concede that. I’ve seen every match she ever played in. I saw her at work. I saw her at play. I’ve seen her on the streets, on the court, at her house, practicing with that slimy coach of hers. I’ve seen her happy and sad, up and down, in triumph and defeat. I saw her progress from an enthusiastic teenager to a fierce competitor to a despondent, lifeless beauty. My heart has ached for her so many times, I’ve lost count. But I’d never seen her like this.”
“Like what?”
“So scared. She was absolutely terrified.”
Little wonder, Myron thought. Daffy Duck here sneaks up behind her and taps her on her shoulder. “Did she recognize you?”
“Of course.”
“What did she do then?”
“She asked for my help.”