Chapter Fifteen

Yeah, look, I didn't lie to you. I planned to run off, just like I told you."

Greg and Myron sat at an ash-wood kitchen table. The kitchen was white, except for the raw-wood ceiling beams. The refrigerator and freezer had glass doors. Grace was working some kind of gleaming espresso machine.

"I needed to quit coaching. Just like I told you. The game… I mean, you know better than anyone, Myron. It consumes you. It takes everything you have. I had spent my life doing it. The fire just wasn't burning anymore."

Grace placed the coffee cup in front of Myron. Myron smiled a thanks.

"Wow, I'm sorry," Greg said.

"Huh?"

"All that talk about being tired of the game," he continued. "That probably sounded insensitive. I get how lucky I was. I had a long career. And… and I took that away from you. I'm sorry, man. You know that."

Myron wasn't sure how to reply to that, so he went with, "No reason to rehash the past right now."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right. How did you find us anyway? Or is that a state secret?"

The room filled with the aroma of top-echelon coffee beans.

Myron ignored the question. "You don't have cancer, do you?" he said.

"No, I'm fine."

"So what happened, Greg?"

"A lot of things."

"Like?"

"Like quitting basketball. Like wanting to start over."

"I got those."

"Like meeting Grace." He gazed up at her and smiled. She put her hand on his shoulder and smiled back. With his eyes still on her, Greg said, "Is it too corny to call her my soulmate? Doesn't matter. She is."

"I feel the same," she said.

"She changed my whole life."

They held the lovey-dovey gaze to the point where Myron almost told them to get a room, but that line would be too expected.

"So that's the main reason I wanted to start over," Greg said. "I fell in love."

"Lots of people fall in love," Myron said.

"Yeah, I know, and I would say, ‘Not like us,' but everyone says that too." He shifted in his chair. "Look, it's pretty simple. Grace and I met at a time when both of us needed change. We fell hard. I'd had it with basketball. I was burnt out. So we decided to run off and travel the world for a while. We planned to do it for a year, maybe two, and then see what's what."

"You went to Vegas first," Myron said.

"Right. That's where Grace's son lived."

"Brian."

"He likes to go by Bo," Greg said. "Anyway, Bo was having problems."

"What sort of problems?" Myron asked.

"You and I, Myron, we grew up in way different times."

Myron waited.

Grace said, "His boyfriend was abusing him."

"That would be Jordan Kravat."

"Yes."

"When you say abusing—"

"Physical, emotional, in every way," she said.

"The boyfriend owed money to some bad people," Greg explained. "So he was paying it back by pimping Bo out."

"It was awful," Grace said.

"Anyway, Grace and I wanted to help. So we flew down to Vegas. I figured that maybe I could pay off the kid's debt, and he'd leave Bo alone. That was our plan. Make sure Bo was safe. Then, poof, we would take off for parts unknown."

"Like we originally intended," Grace added.

She moved to the chair next to Greg. He took her hand.

"So then what happened?" Myron asked.

"This guy Jordan. I try to talk some sense into him. But he won't listen."

"The mob owns him," Grace said. "Him and his mother." Her face started to redden. "His mother's the real criminal."

"Yeah, that's where it really went sideways," Greg said. "Jordan's mom. I forget her name."

"Donna," Myron said.

They looked up at him. Then they glanced at each other.

"You know her?" Grace asked.

"We met. When I was looking for Bo."

"She owns this mobbed-up club, you know."

"Owned," Myron said, stressing the past tense. "Yeah, I know."

"She teamed up with this awful mobster."

"Joey the Toe," Myron said.

"Wow," Greg said. "You've been busy."

Their eyes met and for the briefest of moments, they were back on the court, Greg dribbling, Myron low in a defensive stance, trying to force him right. It was Greg's weakness. He was a great player and despite being a righty, he preferred penetrating the middle using his left. The memory was a moment, no more, but it was there, and Myron could tell that they both sort of experienced it.

Myron leaned forward, keeping all his attention on Greg. "Why didn't you come to me?"

Greg said nothing.

"You know me. You know Win. You know what we can do."

Greg nodded. "I thought about it." Then, glancing next to him, he said, "We thought about it. But in the end, Grace didn't think it was the right move."

"Violence is never the answer," Grace said.

Myron said nothing. Greg said nothing.

Grace shook her head. "Men."

"No, no, you're right," Myron said. "So what did you guys decide to do?"

"Grace convinced her son to turn state's evidence. Wear a wire. All that."

Makes sense, Myron thought. "And then?"

"Somehow Joey the Toe gets wind of it. He breaks into the house at night. He murders Jordan."

"Why?" Myron asked.

"What?"

"You said Jordan was part of his operation. Bo was the one who was the threat. So why kill Jordan?"

"We wondered about that too," Grace said.

"Want to know our theory?" Greg asked.

Myron nodded for him to go ahead.

"It was an accident."

"An accident?"

"Turant meant to kill Bo. Bo and Jordan lived together. It was dark."

"Bo was home at the time," Grace added. "He heard a commotion and ran."

"You know the rest. Joey the Toe gets arrested. Bo testifies against him. Suddenly we are all on the run from the mob. Grace and I make sure Bo has a new identity, and then"—Greg turned and looked at Grace—"we just followed our original plan."

Myron nodded slowly. "And you faked your death."

Silence.

"Why?"

"That's not really your business, Myron." Greg shifted in his chair, suddenly agitated. "Why are you here anyway? Why couldn't you just let us be?"

"Because the feds came to me looking for you. Do you know Cecelia Callister?"

"She was murdered, right?"

"Did you know her?"

"A little, a long time ago. She was friends with Emily. We went out a couple of times as couples."

"Anything more?"

"Like?"

"Like, anything more. Like, did you sleep with her? Like, when was the last time you saw her?"

"I didn't touch her, and I haven't seen her in years."

"Because your DNA was found at the crime scene."

Greg froze. "Are you serious?"

"No, I'm being funny. I tracked you down and did all this because I thought it might make a good comedy bit."

"I don't get it," Greg said. "How could my DNA be at her murder scene?"

"You tell me."

"It has to be a mistake."

"They found it under the victim's fingernails."

"My DNA? Bullshit. I mean, absolute and utter bullshit. They're lying to you."

"Who? The cops? Wait, why would the cops lie?"

Silence.

"And why did you fake your death? You just let everyone who cares about you think you were dead."

Greg chuckled then. "Who cares about me?"

"What?"

"Who cares about me? Come on. You may have mourned a day or two, then went back to your real life. Emily? Ha. My mom is dead, my dad has advanced Alzheimer's."

"What about Jeremy?"

"Ah, now we are getting to it." Greg smiled. "You mean, our son?"

Myron didn't take the bait. Not right away anyway. He stayed silent. Win was good with silence. He could hold it a long time. Myron on the other hand was not so good. So eventually he said, "Yeah, fine, our son. How could you not let him know?"

And then Greg smiled again. "Who said I didn't?"

It was then, as Myron was struggling to take in what Greg was saying, that they heard the crackle of the bullhorn. Myron looked out the kitchen window. Greg and Grace did the same. At least a dozen armed officers were positioned in the backyard.

"Oh shit," Greg said.

There, in the center of the backyard holding a bullhorn, was FBI agent Monica Hawes with FBI agent Beluga Whale by her side.

Greg muttered "Oh shit" again as the bullhorn sounded again.

"Greg Downing," Hawes said into the bullhorn. "This is Special Agent Monica Hawes with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You're surrounded. Come out with your hands up."