Myron turned to Roland Dimonte. Dimonte had his hands on his hips, emanating self-importance from every pore. "What's this all about?" Myron asked.

"We just want to ask your client a few questions."

"About what?"

"The murder of Valerie Simpson."

Myron looked over at Duane. "I don't know nothing," Duane said.

Dimonte sat down, making a big production out of it King Lear. "Then you won't mind answering a few questions?"

Duane said, "No." But he didn't sound very confident about it

"Where were you when the shooting occurred?"

Duane glanced at Myron. Myron nodded. "I was on Stadium Court "

"What were you doing?"

"Playing tennis."

"Who was your opponent?"

Myron nodded. "You're good, Rolly."

"Shut the fuck up, Bolitar."

Duane said, "Ivan Restovich."

"Did the match continue after the shooting?"

"Yeah. It was match point anyway."

"Did you hear the gunshot?"

"Yeah."

"What did you do?"

"Do?"

"When you heard the shot?"

Duane shrugged. "Nothing. I just stood there until the umpire told us to keep playing."

"You never left the court?"

"No."

The young cop kept scribbling, never looking up.

"Then what did you do?" Dimonte asked.

"When?"

"After the match."

"I did an interview."

"Who interviewed you?"

"Bud Collins and Tim Mayotte."

The young cop looked up for a moment, confused.

" Mayotte," Myron said. "M-A-Y-O-T-T-E."

He nodded and resumed his scribbling.

"What did you talk about?" Roland asked him.

"Huh?"

"During the interview. What did they ask you about?"

Dimonte shot a challenging glare at Myron. Myron responded with his warmest nod and a pilotlike thumbs up.

"I'm not going to tell you again, Bolitar. Cut the shit."

"Just admiring your technique."