Drop Shot - By Harlan Coben Page 0,2

Queen sounded ruffled."

"Don't call her that"

"Yeah, whatever "

Myron hung up. Win looked at him. "Problem?"

Valerie Simpson. A weird, albeit sad case. The former tennis wunderkind had visited Myron's office two days ago looking for someone - anyone - to represent her. "Don't think so."

Duane was up forty-love. Triple match point. Bud Collins, tennis columnist extraordinaire, was already waiting in the gangway for the postmatch interview. Bud's pants, always a Technicolor fashion risk, were particularly hideous today.

Duane took two balls from the ball boy and approached the line. Duane was a rare commodity in tennis. A black man. Not from India or Africa or even France. Duane was from New York City. Unlike just about every other player on the tour, Duane had not spent his life preparing for this moment. He hadn't been pushed by ambitious, carpooling parents. He hadn't worked with the world's top coaches in Florida or California since he was old enough to hold a racket. Duane was on the opposite end of the spectrum: a street kid who had run away at age fifteen and somehow survived on his own. He had learned tennis from the public courts, hanging around all day and challenging anyone who could hold a racket.

He was on the verge of winning his first Grand Slam match when the gunshot sounded.

The sound had been muffled, coming from outside the stadium. Most people did not panic, assuming the sound had come from a firecracker or car backfire. But Myron and Win had heard the sound too often. They were up and moving before the screams. Inside the stadium the crowd began to mumble. More screams ensued. Loud, hysterical screams. The court umpire in his infinite wisdom impatiently shouted "Quiet, please!" into his microphone.

Myron and Win sprinted up the metallic stairway. They leaped over the white chain, put out by the ushers so that no one could enter or leave the court until the players switched sides, and ran outside. A small crowd was beginning to gather in what was generously dubbed the " Food Court." With a lot of work and patience the Food Court hoped to one day reach the gastronomic levels of, say, its mall brethren.

They pushed through the crowd. Some people were indeed hysterical but others hadn't moved at all. This was, after all, New York. The lines for refreshments were long. No one wanted to lose their place.

The girl was lying facedown in front of a stand serving Moet champagne at $7.50 a glass. Myron recognized her immediately, even before he bent down and turned her over. But when he saw her face, when he saw the icy blue eyes stare back at him in a final, unbreakable death gaze, his heart plummeted. He looked back at Win. Win, as usual, had no expression on his face.

"So much," Win said, "for her comeback."
Chapter 2

"Maybe you should just let it go," Win said.

He whipped his Jaguar XJR onto the FDR Drive and headed south. The radio was tuned to WMXV, 105.1 FM. They played something called "Soft Rock." Michael Bolton was on. He was doing a remake of an old Four Tops classic. Painful. Like Bea Arthur doing a remake of a Marilyn Monroe film.

Maybe Soft Rock meant Really Bad Rock.

"Mind if I put on a cassette?" Myron said.

"Please."

Win swerved into a lane change. Win's driving could most kindly be described as creative. Myron tried not to look. He pushed in a cassette from the original production of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Like Myron, Win had a huge collection of old Broadway musicals. Robert Morse sang about a girl named Rosemary. But Myron's mind remained fixed on a girl named Valerie Simpson.

Valerie was dead. One bullet to the chest. Someone had shot her in the Food Court of the United States Tennis Association National Tennis Center during the opening round of America 's sole Grand Slam event Yet no one had seen a thing. Or at least no one was talking.

"You're making that face," Win said.

"What face?"

"The I-want-to-help-the-world face," Win said. "She wasn't a client."

"She was going to be."

"A large distinction. Her fate does not concern you."

"She called me three times today," Myron said. "When she couldn't reach me, she showed up at the tennis center. And then she was gunned down."

"A sad tale," Win said. "But one that does not concern you."

The speedometer hovered about eighty. "Uh, Win?"

"Yes."

"The left side of the road. It's for oncoming traffic."

Win spun the wheel, cut