Deal Breaker

That slowed her chopsticks. 'My God.'

'Yes.'

'Then she's alive?'

'It's still just a possibility. Nothing more. That envelope could have been written before she died. Or like I said, it could be a clever forgery.'

'You're reaching.'

I'm not so sure,' he said. 'If she's alive, where is she? Why is she doing all this?'

'Maybe she's been kidnapped. Maybe she's being forced to.'

'Forced to address envelopes? Now who's reaching?'

'Do you have a better explanation?' she asked.

'Not yet. But I'm working on it.' He started looking through the file again. 'You ever hear of a guy named Otto Burke?'

'The big record company magnate who owns the Titans?'

'Right. He also knew about the magazine.' Myron quickly summarized his visit to Titans Stadium.

'So you think Otto Burke might be behind it?' she asked.

'Otto has a motive: knocking down Christian's asking price. He certainly has the resources: lots of money. And it would also explain why Christian got a copy in the mail.'

'He was sending Christian a message,' she added.

'Right.'

'But how would Burke forge my sister's handwriting?'

'He could have hired an expert.'

'Where did he get a writing sample?'

'Who knows? It can't be that difficult.'

Her eyes glazed over. 'So this was all a hoax? This was all some plot to gain leverage in a negotiation?'

'It's possible. But I don't think so.'

'Why not?'

'Something just doesn't mesh. Why would Burke go through all that trouble? He could have blackmailed us with just the photo. He didn't have to put it in a magazine. The photo was enough.'

She grasped on to his hope as if it were a life preserver. 'Good point,' she said.

'The question then becomes,' he continued, 'how did Otto get a copy of the magazine?'

'Maybe someone in his organization picked up a copy at a newsstand.'

'Very unlikely. Nips - the word felt grungy again, good - 'has a very low circulation rate. The chances that someone in the Titans organization bought that particular magazine, had time to read it carefully, somehow

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spotted Kathy's picture in the bottom row on a page of ads in the back - it's fairly remote at best.'

Jessica snapped her fingers. 'Someone mailed it to him too.'

He nodded. 'Why should Christian have been the only one? For all we know, dozens of people were sent that magazine.'

'How do we find out?'

'I'm working on it.'

He managed to salvage a sliver of crispy duck before it was sucked into the black hole. It was delicious. He turned his attention back to Kathy's files.

Her bad grades continued during her first semester at Reston. By second semester, her grades had picked up considerably. He asked Jessica about this.

'She settled into college life, I guess,' she said. 'She joined the drama group, became a cheerleader, started dating Christian. She went through culture shock in her first semester. It's not uncommon.'

'No. I guess not.'

'You don't sound convinced.'

He shrugged. Myron Bolitar, Senor Skepticalo.

Kathy's recommendation letters were next. Three of them. Her high school guidance counselor called her 'unusually gifted.' Her tenth-grade history teacher said, 'Her enthusiasm for life is contagious.' Her twelfth grade English teacher said, 'Kathy Culver is bright, witty, and fun-spirited.

She will be a welcome addition to any institution of learning.' Nice comments. He scanned down to the bottom of the page.

'Uh-oh,' he said.

'What is it?'

He handed her the glowing recommendation letter from Kathy's twelfth grade English teacher at Ridgewood High School. A Mr Grady.

A Mr Gary, aka 'Jerry' Grady.

81 14

Myron was startled awake by the telephone. He'd been dreaming about Jessica. He tried to remember specifics, but the details disintegrated into small pieces and blew away, leaving behind only a few frustrating snippets.

The clock on his nightstand read seven o'clock. Someone was calling him at home at seven o'clock in the morning. Myron had a pretty good idea who it was.

'Hello?'

'Good morning, Myron. I hope I didn't wake you.'

Myron recognized the voice. He smiled and asked, 'Who is this?'

'It's Roy O'Connor.'

'The Roy O'Connor?'

'Uh, yes, I guess so. Roy O'Connor, the agent.'

'The superagent,' Myron corrected. 'To what do I owe this honor, Roy?'

'Would it be possible for us to meet this morning?' The voice had a discernible quake to it.

'Sure thing, Roy. My office, okay?'

'Uh, no.'

'Your office, Roy?'

'Uh, no.'

Myron sat up. 'Should I keep guessing places and you can say hotter or colder?'

'You know Reilly's Pub on Fourteenth Street?'

'Yes.'

I'll be in the booth in the back right-hand corner. One o'clock. We'll have lunch. If that's okay with you.'

'Peachy, Roy. Want me to wear anything special?'

'Uh, no.'

Myron hung up, smiled. A night visit from Win, usually while sleeping soundly in your bedroom, your innermost sanctuary. Worked every time.

He got out of bed. He heard his mother in the kitchen above him, his father in the den watching television. Early morning at the Bolitar house.

The basement door opened.

'Are you awake, Myron?' his mother shouted.

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