anyway.
People hate silence and often jump in just to break it. This was an old cop trick: say nothing and let them dig their own graves with explanations. With politicians the results were always interesting: they were smart enough to know they should keep their mouths shut, yet genetically incapable of doing so.
"I'm sorry," Arthur Bradford said at last. "As I explained earlier, Mother handled these matters."
"Then maybe I should talk to her," Myron said.
"Mother is not well, I'm afraid. She's in her eighties, poor dear."
"I'd still like to try."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible." "
There was just a hint of steel in his voice now.
"I see," Myron said. "Do you know who Horace Slaughter is?"
"No," Arthur said. "I assume he's a relative of Anita's?"
"Her husband." Myron looked over at Chance. "You know him?"
"Not that I recall," Chance said. Not that I recall. Like he was on a witness stand, needing to leave himself the out.
"According to his phone records, he's been calling your campaign headquarters a lot lately."
"Many people call our campaign headquarters," Arthur said. Then he added with a small chuckle, "At least I hope they do."
Chance chuckled too. Real yucksters, these Bradford boys.
"Yeah, I guess." Myron looked at Win. Win nodded. Both men stood up.
"Thank you for your time," Win said. "We'll show ourselves out."
The two politicians tried not to look too stunned. Chance finally cracked a bit. "What the hell is this?"
Arthur silenced him with a look. He rose to shake hands, but Myron and Win were already at the door.
Myron turned and did his best Columbo. "Funny."
"What?" Arthur Bradford said.
"That you don't remember Anita Slaughter better. I thought you would."
Arthur turned his palms upward. "We've had lots of people work here over the years."
"True," Myron said, stepping through the portal. "But how many of them found your wife's dead body?"
The two men turned to marble - still and smooth and cool. Myron did not wait for more. He released the door and followed Win out.
Chapter 13
As they drove through the gate, Win said, "What exactly did we just accomplish?"
"Two things. One, I wanted to find out if they had something to hide. Now I know they do."
"Based on?"
"Their outright lies and evasiveness."
"They're politicians," Win said. "They'd lie and evade if you asked them what they had for breakfast."
"You don't think there's something there?"
"Actually," Win said, "I do. And thing two?"
"I wanted to stir them up."
Win smiled. He liked that idea. "So what next, Kemo Sabe?"
"We need to investigate Elizabeth Bradford's premature demise," Myron said.
"How?"
"Hop onto South Livingston Avenue. I'll tell you where to make the turn."
The Livingston Police Station sat next to the Livingston Town Hall and across the street from the Livingston Public Library and Livingston High School. A true town center. Myron entered and asked for Officer Francine Neagly. Francine had graduated from the high school across the street the same year as Myron. He'd hoped to get lucky and catch her at the station.
A stern-looking desk sergeant informed Myron that Officer Neagly was "not present at this particular time" - that's how cops talk - but that she had just radioed in for her lunch break and would be at the Ritz Diner.
The Ritz Diner was truly ugly. The formerly workmanlike brick structure had been spray-painted seaweed green with a salmon pink door - a color scheme too gaudy for a Carnival Cruise ship. Myron hated it. In its heyday, when Myron was in high school, the diner had been a run-of-the-mill, unpretentious eatery called the Heritage. It'd been a twenty-four-hour spot back then, owned by Greeks naturally - this seemed to be a state law - and frequented by high school kids grabbing burgers and fries after a Friday or Saturday night of doing nothing. Myron and his friends would don their varsity jackets, go out to a variety of house parties, and end up here. He tried now to remember what he did at those parties, but nothing specific came to mind. He didn't imbibe in high school - alcohol made him sick -and was prudish to the point of Pollyanna when it came to the drug scene. So what did he do at these things? He remembered the music, of course, blaring the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan and Supertramp, gleaning deep meaning from the lyrics of Blue Oyster Cult songs ("Yo, man, what do you think Eric really means when he says, "I want