“Sure you do, Roy. Eli even alluded to it in the police file.”
Angry smirk. “You mean the file that Francine Neagly stole from the records room?”
“She didn’t steal it, Roy. She looked at it.”
Pomeranz smiled slowly. “Well, it’s missing now. She had it last. We firmly believe that Officer Neagly stole it.”
Myron shook his head. “Not that easy, Roy. You can hide that file. You can even hide the file on the Anita Slaughter assault. But I already got my hand on the hospital file. From St. Barnabas. They keep records, Roy.”
More stunned looks. It was a bluff. But it was a good one. And it drew blood.
Pomeranz leaned very close to Myron, his breath reeking of a poorly digested meal. He kept his voice low. “You’re poking your nose where it don’t belong.”
Myron nodded. “And you’re not brushing after every meal.”
“I’m not going to let you drag down a good man with false innuendos.”
“Innuendos,” Myron repeated. “You been listening to vocabulary tapes in the squad car, Roy? Do the taxpayers know about this?”
“You’re playing a dangerous game, funny man.”
“Oooo, I’m so scared.” When short a comeback, fall back on the classics.
“I don’t have to start with you,” Pomeranz said. He leaned back a bit, the smile returning. “I got Francine Neagly.”
“What about her?”
“She had no business with that file. We believe that someone in Davison’s campaign—probably you, Bolitar—paid her to steal it. To gather any information that can be used in a distorted fashion to hurt Arthur Bradford.”
Myron frowned. “Distorted fashion?”
“You think I won’t do it?”
“I don’t even know what that means. Distorted fashion? Was that on one of your tapes?”
Pomeranz stuck a finger in Myron’s face. “You think I won’t suspend her sorry ass and ruin her career?”
“Pomeranz, not even you can be that dumb. You ever heard of Jessica Culver?”
The finger came down. “She’s your girlfriend, right?” Pomeranz said. “She’s a writer or something.”
“A big writer,” Myron said. “Very well respected. And you know what she would love to do? A big expose on sexism in police departments. You do anything to Francine Neagly, you so much as demote her or give her one shit detail or breathe on her between meals, and I promise you that when Jessica gets done, you’ll make Bob Packwood look like Betty Friedan.”
Pomeranz looked confused. Probably didn’t know who Betty Friedan was. Maybe he should have said Gloria Steinem. To his credit, Pomeranz took his time. He fought for recovery, offering up an almost sweet smile.
“Okay,” he said, “so it’s the cold war all over again. I can nuke you, you can nuke me. It’s a stalemate.”
“Wrong, Roy. You’re the one with the job, the family, the rep, and maybe a looming jail term. Me, I got nothing to lose.”
“You can’t be serious. You’re dealing with the most powerful family in New Jersey. Do you really think you’ve got nothing to lose?”
Myron shrugged. “I’m also crazy,” he said. “Or to put it another way, my mind works in a distorted fashion.”
Pomeranz looked over at Wickner. Wickner looked back. There was a crack of the bat. The crowd got to its feet. The ball hit the fence. “Go, Billy!” Billy rounded second and slid into third.
Pomeranz walked away without another word.
Myron looked at Wickner for a long time. “Are you a total sham, Detective?”
Wickner said nothing.
“When I was eleven, you spoke to my fifth-grade class and we all thought you were the coolest guy we’d ever seen. I used to look for you at games. I used to want your approval. But you’re just a lie.”
Wickner kept his eyes on the field. “Let it go, Myron.”
“I can’t.”
“Davison is a scum. He’s not worth it.”
“I’m not working for Davison. I’m working for Anita Slaughter’s daughter.”
Wickner kept his eyes on the field. His mouth was set, but Myron could see the tremor starting back up in the corner of his mouth. “All you’re going to do is hurt a lot of people.”
“What happened to Elizabeth Bradford?”
“She fell,” he said. “That’s all.”
“I’m not going to stop digging,” Myron said.
Wickner adjusted his cap again and began to walk away. “Then more people are going to die.”
There was no threat in his tone, just the stilted, pained timber of inevitability.
When Myron headed back to his car, the two goons from Bradford Farms were waiting for him. The big one and the skinny, older guy. The skinny guy wore long sleeves so Myron could not see if there was a snake tattoo, but the two looked right from Mabel Edwards’s description.
Myron felt something inside him start to simmer.
The big guy was show. Probably a wrestler in high school. Maybe a bouncer at a local bar. He thought he was tough; Myron knew that he would be no problem. The skinny, older guy was hardly a formidable physical specimen. He looked like an aged version of the puny guy who gets the sand kicked on him in the old Charles Atlas cartoon. But the face was so ferretlike, the eyes so beady that he made you pause. Myron knew better than to judge on appearance, but this guy’s face was simply too thin and too pointed and too cruel.
Myron spoke to the Skinny Ferret. “Can I see your tattoo?” Direct approach.
The big guy looked confused, but Skinny Ferret took it all in stride.
“I’m not used to guys using that line on me,” Skinny said.
“Guys,” Myron repeated. “But with your looks, the chicks must be asking all the time.”
If Skinny was offended by the crack, he was laughing his way through it. “So you really want to see the snake?”
Myron shook his head. The snake. The question had been answered. These were the right guys. The big one had punched Mabel Edwards in the eye.
The simmer flicked up a notch.
“So what can I do for you fellas?” Myron said. “You collecting donations for the Kiwanis Club?”
“Yeah,” the big guy said. “Blood donations.”
Myron looked at him. “I’m not a grandmother, tough guy.”
Big said, “Huh?”
Skinny cleared his throat. “Governor-to-be Bradford would like to see you.”