Chapter Sixteen

Still seated at the kitchen table, Greg swiveled his head as though searching for an escape route. But that lasted only a few seconds. Grace put a calming hand on his forearm and shook her head. Greg deflated, nodded. Myron started shouting that they were surrendering peacefully. As the police swarmed in, Myron warned Greg not to say anything, not a word, that he'd follow Greg and get him the best legal counsel available. By the time Hawes and Beluga stepped into the kitchen, Greg was cuffed, his stomach on the kitchen floor.

"You're not to question him without his counsel present," Myron said.

Beluga patted his mouth for a fake yawn.

Three officers lifted a stunned Greg to a standing position. As they hustled him out the kitchen door, Myron shouted out reminders for Greg not to say anything. Shocked, Greg didn't so much as nod. Grace started to follow, but an officer blocked her path.

Grace glared over her shoulder at Myron. "You brought them to our door."

Myron opened his mouth to defend himself, but Grace pushed past the officer and rushed out the back.

Beluga slapped Myron on the back. "Tough break, pal."

"Were you following me?" Myron asked.

"We don't discuss our methods," Beluga said, the smug smirk firmly locked on his smooth, pale face, "so I can neither confirm nor deny that we tracked your movements to Nevada and Montana and eventually here."

Myron bit back a rejoinder and asked, "Who authorized the tail?"

"I think his name was…" Beluga looked up in the sky as though in deep thought, tapped his chin with his index finger for emphasis… "Special Agent Lick My Balls. Who cares anyway? You were about to call us, right? A law-'n'-order guy like you, Bolitar, would never harbor a wanted fugitive. That's a crime, you know."

The next few hours and indeed days passed in something of a blur.

Greg was denied bail. The prosecutor started in with the "if he were poor or marginalized, he would never get bail" optics argument, and while that may be true, the judge seemed far more persuaded by the fact that Greg Downing had been off the grid for five years and even faked his own death to stay that way. There was no way to make a convincing argument that Greg wasn't a huge flight risk. Perhaps someone as skilled as Hester Crimstein, the famed trial attorney and host of television's Crimstein on Crime, could have gotten him off, but Hester, who had gone to law school with Myron's mother, wouldn't take the case.

Hester had been Myron's first call:

"He needs a good lawyer," Myron had told her. "The best."

"Oh my, you called me the best. I'm now a malleable puppet who will bend to your will from all your charming flattery, bubbe."

"So you'll do it?"

"No, sorry, this case isn't for me."

"It's going to be a huge story. Worldwide press."

"And, what, you think I'm some attention-seeking media whore?"

Crickets. Crickets.

"Well, yeah, sure, okay, I am. But not this time."

"Why not?"

"I'm down in Miami on vacation. Did your mother tell you we're having lunch on Thursday?"

"You can fly up for the arraignment and right back down. Win can send his plane."

"Not going to happen. I'm too old for that." Then Hester hesitated, something she almost never did, and added, "And I don't want to."

"Why?"

"I don't like him, okay? There. I said it."

"You never even met him."

"But I know what he did to you."

"That was a million years ago," Myron said. "I did worse."

"No, you didn't."

"I forgave him."

"I didn't," Hester said. "You're my guy, not him. And may I give you a piece of advice?"

"I think I know what it is."

"I'll say it anyway. Your relationship with this guy is what the kids today call toxic. Now let's forget all that because I have a question for you."

"What's that?"

"Tell me the truth," Hester said. "How's Mom doing anyway?"

Myron swallowed. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. "I don't know."

Hester heard the thickness in his voice. "It's okay," she said softly.

"They don't tell me everything."

"They don't want you to worry."

"I'd prefer to."

"But they don't want that. Your mother and father. That's a parent's prerogative. You have to respect that. You know I love your mother like a sister."

"I know."

"And you like a nephew. But this Greg Downing business? It just isn't our fight. I'll call you after I see them."

In the end it didn't matter that Hester wouldn't take the case. When Myron tried to reach him, Greg wouldn't talk to him. He wouldn't see him. The media attention surrounding the case, as expected, was overwhelming. Not only had a former basketball star faked his own death—but now he was accused of murdering a supermodel who had once graced the covers of Vogue and Cosmo. It made for juicy headlines and snarky social media posts. The story trended everywhere. No one knew any of the details, but that never stopped anyone online from voicing fully formed opinions of guilt or innocence.

Myron was staying at Win's place on Central Park West. By the time he arrived it was close to midnight. Win was waiting for him in the parlor. Parlor, Myron had learned, was what rich people called a den or living room.

"Cognac?" Win asked.

"Why not?"

"Because for one thing you never drink cognac."

"It's a new me," Myron said. Then, thinking about his parents' last phone call: "Got an edible?"

"Is that a joke?"

"My parents swear by them."

"Your parents are rarely wrong," Win said. "I can get us some."

"Nah, a cognac will be fine."

"Good man."

Win's face was already red from the drink. Myron had noticed that Win now drank more than he used to, or perhaps it was just showing up on his face now. They both held their drinks and sat in burgundy leather chairs. A nineteenth-century pashmina wool carpet from northern India covered the floor between them. The carpet was a deep scarlet with gold stars and azure lotus blossoms.

"I spoke to PT," Win said.

Many years ago, when Win and Myron had done "favors" for the FBI, PT had been their contact. The public didn't know him, but every president and FBI director since Ronald Reagan considered him an intimate.

"What does PT say?"

"Greg did it. The DNA evidence is overwhelming."

"A little too overwhelming maybe."

Win shrugged. "Sometimes the simplest answer."

"And sometimes not. What else did PT say?"

"He didn't know the feds were tailing you."

"Would he have warned me if he did?"

"I don't see why. You were doing the legwork for them." Win put down his drink and steepled his fingers. "There is one other wrinkle."

"Oh?"

"PT insists it has to remain confidential."

"Okay." Myron took a swig of the cognac. He didn't want to know the price per swig. "So what's the wrinkle?"

"The murder of Jordan Kravat."

"What about it?"

"That's the reason for the FBI's involvement."

Myron nodded. He had already put that together. "Two murders, two different states."

"Ergo the FBI involvement," Win added. "Correct."

"Let me guess," Myron said. He took another swig and realized that he was already feeling it. Happened fast with Win's cognac. Maybe the rich even have ways of speeding up the alcohol-effects process. "Even though Joey the Toe was convicted of Jordan Kravat's murder, they aren't sure he did it."

"You should drink cognac more often," Win said. "Clears your thinking."

"They think, what, Greg killed them both?"

"Something like that."

"Do they have a motive?"

"Not a one."

"A connection between the victims?"

"Not a one," Win said again.

"Other than Greg."

"Other than Greg, yes."

"And they want to keep this, uh, was ‘wrinkle' the word you used?"

"It was."

"They want to keep this wrinkle confidential because if it gets out that Joey's conviction isn't completely righteous…"

"It would be très embarrassing," Win finished for him.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"So where do we go from here?" Myron asked.

"Nowhere," Win replied. "Greg no longer wants our involvement."

"He never wanted our involvement."

"True. Still, we did what we could."

"‘What we could,'" Myron repeated, "was getting our client arrested."

Win spread his hands. "I was being kind when I said ‘we.'"

Meaning, correctly, it was on Myron. "Why would Greg murder Cecelia Callister, Win?"

"No idea. But it's not our concern. You've offered to help. He refused it. In sum, it is over. For us. We are done."

Win had a point. Myron tried for another sip, but the glass was empty. He reached for the crystal decanter and refilled it. He let his thoughts bubble up, but he could feel the haze of exhaustion and drink start to wear on him. Myron rarely imbibed because despite his size, he'd always been what one might call a lightweight. Two drinks and he was toast.

He looked over at Win. Win's eyes were closed, and there was a gentle snoring. That never used to happen. The two of them would sit up and talk all night or, if they were tired, just enjoy the comfortable silence. More and more often now, one of them fell asleep. Myron didn't like that.

He felt the buzz from his phone. It was well past midnight. He checked the screen and saw the text was from Emily Downing.

Emily's message was one word: Awake?

He let loose a breath and typed a reply: Yep.

The three moving dots that indicated Emily was typing appeared. Then:

I'm in the Hamptons. You might want to drive out.

Myron frowned and typed: Why?

Jeremy will be here soon. He wants to see you.