Live Wire Part 21

He offered up the easy answer: "No."

"The husband seems pretty shook up, but I've seen husbands who could channel Olivier after killing their wives. Anyway, Lex claims he flew in on a private jet from Adiona Island. When he got there, they were wheeling her out. We can check his time frame."

Myron said nothing.

"They own the building-Lex and Suzze," Muse went on. "There are no reports yet of anyone going in or out, but the security is pretty lax in that place. We might look into it more if we feel the need."

Myron approached the body. He put his hand on Suzze's cheek. Nothing. Like putting your hand on a chair, a file cabinet. "Who called it in?"

"That part seems a bit unusual," Muse said.

"How so?"

"A man with a Spanish accent made the call from the phone in her penthouse. When the paramedics got there, he was gone. We figured it was probably an illegal working in the building and didn't want to get in trouble." That made no sense, but Myron didn't want to get into that. Muse added, "Could be someone who was shooting up with her and didn't want trouble. Or even her dealer. Again, we'll look into it."

Myron turned to the pathologist. "Can I look at her arms?"

The pathologist glanced over at Muse. Muse nodded. The pathologist pulled back the sheet. Myron checked the veins. "Where did she shoot up?" he asked.

The pathologist pointed at a bruise in the crook of her elbow.

"You see some old tracks here?" Myron asked.

"Yes," the pathologist said. "Very old."

"Anything else fresh?"

"Not on the arms, no."

Myron looked at Muse. "That's because she hasn't used drugs in years."

"People shoot up in all different spots," Muse said. "Even in her heyday, what with wearing tennis outfits, rumor has it Suzze shot up in, er, less conspicuous places."

"So let's check that."

Muse shook her head. "What's the point?"

"I want you to see that she hadn't been using."

The pathologist cleared his throat. "There's no need," he said. "I already did a cursory examination of the body. I did indeed find some old scarring there, near the tattoo on her upper thigh, but there's nothing fresh."

"Nothing fresh," Myron repeated.

"That still doesn't prove it wasn't self-inflicted," Muse said. "Maybe she decided to do it in one big swoop, Myron. Maybe she was indeed clean and overdid it or overdosed intentionally."

Myron spread his hands, giving her incredulous. "When she was eight months pregnant?"

"Okay, fine, then you tell me: Who would want to kill her? And more than that, how? Like I said, no signs of struggle. No signs of forced entry. Show me one thing that says it wasn't a suicide or accidental OD."

Myron wasn't sure how much to say here. "She got a post on Facebook," he began. And then he stopped. A cold finger traced down his spine. Muse saw it.

"What?" she asked.

Myron turned to the pathologist. "You said she shot up near her tattoo?"

Again the pathologist looked toward Muse.

"Hold up a second," Loren Muse said. "What were you saying about a post on Facebook?"

Myron didn't wait. He reminded himself again that this wasn't Suzze, but this time he felt the tears push into his eyes. Suzze had survived so much, had finally come out on the right end, and now, just when she seemed to have everything within her grasp, well, it was time for Myron to step up. Screw the excuses. Suzze had been his friend. She had come to him for help. He owed her.

He pulled back the sheet before Muse could object. His eyes fell to her upper thigh, and yes, there it was. The tattoo. The same tattoo that was in the 'Not His' post. The same tattoo that Myron had just seen in the photo of Gabriel Wire.

"What's wrong?" Muse asked.

Myron stared down at the upper thigh. Gabriel Wire and Suzze had the same tattoo. The implication was obvious.

Muse: "What's that a tattoo of?"

Myron tried to slow down the swirl in his head. The tattoo had been in the online post-so how did Kitty know about it? Why did she put it in her post? And, of course, wouldn't Lex know about the same tattoo being on both his wife and his music partner?

Add it up. The words 'Not His.' A symbol that adorned the upper thighs of both Suzze and Gabriel Wire. No wonder that post had rocked Lex.

"Where's Lex?" Myron asked.

Muse folded her arms across her chest. "Are you really going to hold out on me?"

"It's probably nothing. Is he with the baby?"

She frowned, waited.

"Plus I can't say anything," Myron said. "At least not right now."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm an attorney, Muse. I work for both Lex and Suzze."

"You're an agent."

"I'm also an attorney."

"Oh no. You're not going to pull out your Harvard JD on me. Not now. Not after I let you come in here and see the body."

"My hands are tied, Muse. I need to speak with my client."

"Your client?" Muse got up in his face and pointed at Suzze's corpse. "Go right ahead, but I'm not sure she'll hear you."

"Don't be cute. Where's Lex?"

"You're serious?"

"I am."

"You were the one who suggested I may be looking at a homicide here," Muse said. "So answer this for me: If indeed Suzze was murdered, who's my prime suspect?"

Myron didn't say anything. Muse cupped her hand around her ear. "I can't hear you, big boy. Come on, you know the answer because in these cases it's always the same: the husband. The husband is always the prime suspect. So what then, Myron? What if one of your clients killed another?"

Myron took one more glance down at Suzze. Dead. He felt so numb, as though his blood had stopped flowing. Suzze, dead. It was beyond his comprehension. He wanted to collapse now and pound on the floor and cry. He left the room and followed the signs for the nursery. Muse followed him.

"What were you saying about a Facebook post?" she asked.

"Not now, Muse."

He followed the arrow left. The nursery was on the left. He turned and looked through the window. There was a line of six newborns in those rolling acrylic cribs, all wearing a baby beanie and swaddled in a white blanket with pink and aqua stripes. The newborns were lined up as if for inspection. They'd all been immediately catalogued with an index card, either blue or pink, with name and time of birth.

Divided off from the nursery by more Plexiglas was the neonatal intensive care unit. There was only one parent with one child in there now. Lex sat in a rocking chair, but the chair didn't move. He wore a yellow smock. He cupped his son's head with his left hand, cradling the child on his right forearm. Tears lined his face. For a long moment, Myron just stood and watched him. Muse joined him.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on here, Myron?"

"I don't know yet."

"Do you have any idea what the media is going to be like on this?"

Like he cared. He started for the door. A nurse stopped him and made him wash his hands. Then she put a yellow surgical smock and matching mask on him. Myron pushed open the door with his back. Lex did not look up.

"Lex?"

"Not now."

"I think we should talk."

Lex finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. When he spoke now, his voice was soft. "I asked you to leave it alone, didn't I?"

Silence. Later, Myron was sure, the words would sting. Later, when he settled down and tried to sleep, the guilt would reach into his chest and crush his heart like a Styrofoam cup. "I saw her tattoo," Myron said. "It was in that post."

He closed his eyes. "Suzze was the only woman I ever loved. And now she's gone. I mean, forever. I will never see Suzze again. I will never hold her. This boy-your G.o.dson-will never know his mother."

Myron said nothing. He felt a tremor start in his chest.

"We have to talk, Lex."

"Not tonight." His voice was surprisingly gentle now. "Tonight I just want to sit here and protect my son."

"Protect him from what?"

He didn't respond. Myron felt his phone buzz. He took a surrept.i.tious glance and saw that the call was coming from his father. He stepped out of the room and put the phone to his ear. "Dad?"

"I heard about Suzze on the radio. Is it true?"

"Yes. I'm at the hospital now."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thanks. I'm kind of busy here. . . ."

"When you're done, do you think you could swing by the house?"

"Tonight?"

"If possible."

"Is something wrong?"

"I just need to talk to you about something," Dad said. "Don't worry how late. I'll be awake."

18.

Before leaving the hospital, Myron played lawyer and warned Loren Muse not to speak to his client Lex Ryder without legal counsel. She responded that he should be fruitful and multiply, but not in those exact words. Win and Esperanza arrived. Win filled him in on his prison encounter with Frank Ache. Myron wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Perhaps," Win said, "we should meet with Herman Ache."

"Perhaps," Myron said, "we should meet with Gabriel Wire." He turned to Esperanza. "Let's also check on our favorite French teacher, see where Crush was at the time of Suzze's death."

"Okay," Esperanza said.

"I can drive you home," Win said.

But Myron shook him off. He needed the downtime. He needed to take a step back. Maybe Muse was right. Maybe it was a drug overdose. Last night, on that balcony overlooking Manhattan, all that talk about secrets, all that guilt about Kitty and the past-maybe it summoned up old demons. Maybe the answer would be as simple as that.

Myron got into his car and headed back to his home in Livingston. He called Dad to let him know that he was on his way. "Drive safely," his father said. Myron hoped that maybe his father would offer up a clue about what they needed to discuss, but he didn't. AM radio was already reporting the death of "former troubled tennis sensation Suzze T," and Myron again wondered about the inept shortcutting of the media.

It was dark by the time Myron pulled up to his familiar abode. The light in the upstairs bedroom-the one he had shared with Brad when they were both very young-was on, and Myron looked up at it. He could see the outline of the long-faded Tot Finder sticker, something the Livingston Fire Department had handed out during the early Carter administration. The image on the sticker was dramatic, a brave fireman, his chin up, carrying a limp, long-haired child to safety. Now the room was a home office.

His car lights caught a For Sale sign on the Nussbaums' front lawn. Myron had gone to high school with their son Steve, though everyone called him either "Nuss" or "Baum," a friendly kid Myron really liked but for some reason never hung out with. The Nussbaums had been one of the original families, buying in when this farmland was originally turned into housing forty years ago. The Nussbaums loved it here. They loved to garden and putter and work on the gazebo in the backyard. They brought the Bolitars the extra tomatoes from their garden, and if you've never tried a Jersey tomato in August, you just don't get it. Now even the Nussbaums were moving out.

Myron parked in the driveway. He saw movement in the window. Dad had probably been watching, the ever-present silent sentinel. When Myron was a teen, he had no curfew because, his father explained, he'd shown enough responsibility not to need one. Al Bolitar was a terrible sleeper, and Myron could not remember a time, no matter what hour he returned home, when his father was not up waiting for him. His father needed everything in place before he could close his eyes. Myron wondered whether it was still that way for him, and how his sleep had changed when his younger son ran off with Kitty and never returned.

He parked the car. Suzze was dead. He had never been big on denial, but he was still having trouble wrapping his brain around that one. She was about to start the next big chapter of her life-motherhood. He often imagined the day his own parents first came by this dwelling, his father struggling at the plant in Newark, his mom pregnant. He pictured El-Al, young, holding hands the way they always do, walking up the concrete path, gazing at this splitlevel and deciding, yes, this would be the place that would shelter their new family and hold their hopes and dreams. He wondered now, as they looked back, whether those dreams came true or whether there were regrets.