“Myron, please. You’re a man of the world. What did you expect him to say?”
“He says he had nothing to do with putting that picture in the ad.”
“Well, that’s quite impossible. He was the advertiser. He submitted the photograph.”
“Then you have a copy of the photo?”
Pause. “It has to be in the file somewhere.”
“Maybe you can pull it out, and I’ll come pick it up.”
“Listen, Myron, I hate to be rude, but I’m really busy right now. It will just be the same photograph you already saw.”
“Kathy’s picture was only in Nips,” Myron said.
“Pardon me?”
“Her picture. It wasn’t in any of your other magazines. Only Nips.”
Pause. “So?” But his voice was suddenly tottery.
“So the same ad was in all six magazines. The same exact page with the same exact pictures. Except for one small change in Nips. Someone had changed just one photograph in the bottom row. Someone had switched pictures for just that one magazine and not the others. Why?”
Fred Nickler coughed. “I really don’t know, Myron. Tell you what: I’ll check on it and let you know. Gotta zillion calls waiting. Gotta run. Bye.”
Another click.
Myron sat back. Fred Nickler was starting to panic.
With a shaking hand Fred Nickler dialed the number. After three rings the phone was picked up.
“County police.”
Fred cleared his throat. “Paul Duncan, please.”
Chapter 22
Nine P. M.
Myron called Jessica. He filled her in on his dean discovery.
“Do you really think Kathy was having an affair with the dean?” Jessica asked.
“I don’t know. But after seeing his wife, I’d tend to doubt it.”
“Good-looking?”
“Very,” Myron said. “And she knows her basketball. She even cried when I got hurt.”
Jessica made a noise. “The perfect woman.”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?”
“Dream on,” Jessica said. “The fact that a man is married to a beautiful woman does not preclude him from having affairs with pretty co-eds.”
“True enough. So the question is: How did Dean Gordon get his name on this infamous mailing list?”
“I haven’t got a clue,” she said. “But I too found out something interesting today. My father visited Nancy Serat, Kathy’s roommate, the morning he died.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet. Nancy just left a message on my machine. I’m meeting her in an hour.”
“Good. Call me if you hear anything else.”
“Where are you going to be?” she asked.
“I work nights at Chippendale’s,” Myron said. “Stage name Zorro.”
“Should be Tiny.”
“Ouch.”
An uncomfortable silence engulfed them. Jessica finally broke it. “Why don’t you come by the house tonight?” she asked, struggling to keep her tone level.
Myron’s heart pounded. “It’ll be late.”
“That’s okay. I’m not sleeping much. Just knock on my bedroom window. Zorro.”
She hung up. For the next five minutes Myron sat perfectly still and thought about Jessica. They had first started dating a month before his career ended. She stayed with him. She nursed him. She loved him. He pushed her away under some macho disguise of protecting her. But she wouldn’t leave. Not then, anyway.
Esperanza opened the door without knocking. She looked at him and snapped, “Stop it.”
“What?”
“You’re making that face again.”
“What face?”
She imitated him. “That repulsive lovesick-puppy face.”
“I wasn’t making any face.”
“Right. You disgust me, Myron.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I think? I think you’re more interested in getting back in Jessica’s pants than you are in finding her sister.”
“Jesus, what the hell is with you?”
“I was there, remember? When she left.”
“Hey, I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
Esperanza shook her head. “Déjà vu all over again.”
“What?”
“Take care of yourself. Bullshit. You sound just like Chaz Landreaux. Both of you have your head up your ass.”
Esperanza’s dark face reminded him of Spanish nights, golden sand, full moons against starless skies. There had been moments of temptation between them, but one or the other had always realized what it would mean and stopped it. Such temptations no longer came their way anymore. Aside from Win, Esperanza was his closest friend. Her concern, Myron knew, was genuine.
He changed subjects. “Was there a reason for your unannounced entrance?”
“I found something.”
“What?”
She read from a steno pad. Why she had a steno pad he could not say. She could not take dictation or type a lick. “I finally tracked down the other number Gary Grady called after your visit. It belongs to a photography studio called—get this—Global Globes Photos. Located off Tenth Avenue, near the tunnel.”
“Sleazy area.”
“The sleaziest,” she said. “I think the studio specializes in pornography.”
“Nice to have a specialty.” Myron checked his watch. “Any word from Win?”
“Not yet.”
“Leave the photographer’s address on his voice mail. Maybe he’ll finish in time to meet me.”
“You going tonight?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Esperanza closed the pad with a snap. “Mind if I tag along?”
“To the photography studio?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have class tonight?” Esperanza was getting her law degree from NYU at night.
“No. And I’ve done all my homework, Daddy. Really I have.”
“Shut up and come on.”
Chapter 23
Hookerville.
There were all kinds. White, Black, Asian, Latino—a verifiable United Nations of prostitutes. Most were young, very young, stumbling on too-high heels, like children playing dress-up, which in a real sense they were. Most were thin, dried-up, needle tracks covering their arms like dozens of tiny insects, their skin pulled tightly around cheekbones, giving their faces a haunted skull look. Their eyes were hollow and set deep, their hair lifeless and strawlike.