Chapter One

Myron Bolitar was on the phone with his eighty-year-old father when the two FBI agents arrived to question him about the murder.

"Your mother and I," his dad said from his retirement condo in Boca Raton, "have discovered edibles."

Myron blinked. "Wait, what now?"

He was in his new penthouse office atop Win's skyscraper on the corner of 47th Street and Park Avenue. He swiveled his chair to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a pretty bitching view of the Big Apple.

"Cannabis gummies, Myron. Your Aunt Miriam and Uncle Irv swore by them—Irv said it helps with his gout—so your mother and I figured, look, why not, let's give them a shot. What's the harm, right? You ever try edibles?"

"No."

"That's his problem." That was Myron's mother, squawk-shouting in the background. This was how they always operated—one parent on the phone, the other shouting color commentary. "Give me the phone, Al." Then: "Myron?"

"Hi, Mom."

"You should get high."

"If you say so."

"Try the stevia strain."

Dad: "Sativa."

"What?"

"It's called sativa. Stevia is an artificial sweetener."

"Ooo, look at your father Mr. Hippie showing off his pot expertise all of a sudden." Then back to Myron: "I meant sativa. Try that."

"Okay," Myron said.

"The indica strain makes you sleepy."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You know how I remember which is which?" Mom asked.

"I bet you'll tell me."

"Indica, in-da-couch. That's the sleepy one. Get it?"

"Gotten."

"Don't be such a square. Your father and I like them. They make us feel more, I don't know, smiley maybe. Alert. Zen even. And Myron?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Don't ask what they've done for our sex life."

"I won't," Myron said. "Ever."

"Me, I get giddy. But your father becomes a giant hornball."

"Not asking, remember?" Myron could now see the two FBI agents scowling at him from behind the glass wall. "Gotta go, Mom."

"I mean, the man can't keep his hands off me."

"Still not asking. Bye now."

Myron hung up as Big Cyndi, his longtime receptionist, silently ushered the two federal officers into the conference room. The two agents stared up, way up, at Big Cyndi. She was used to it. Myron was used to it. Big Cyndi got your attention fast. The agents flashed badges and made quick intros. Special Agent Monica Hawes, the lead, was a Black woman in her midfifties. Her sullen junior partner was a pasty-faced youngster with a forehead so prominent he resembled a beluga whale. He gave his name, but Myron was too distracted by the forehead to absorb it.

"Please," Myron said, gesturing for them to sit in the chairs that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows and said pretty bitching view.

The agents sat, but they did not look happy about it.

Big Cyndi put on a fake British accent and said, "Will that be all, Mr. Bolitar? Perhaps a spot of tea?"

Myron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No, I think we're good, thanks."

Big Cyndi bowed and left.

Myron also sat and waited for the agents to speak. The only thing he knew about this visit was that the FBI wanted to talk to both him and Win about the high-profile Callister murders. He had no idea why—neither he nor Win knew anything about the Callisters or the case other than what they'd seen on the news—but they'd been assured that they were not suspects or persons of interest.

"Where's Mr. Lockwood?" Agent Hawes asked.

"Present," Win said in that haughty prep-school tone as he—to quote the opening lines of the Carly Simon song Win's entire being emanated—walked into the party like he was walking onto a yacht. Win—aka the aforementioned Mr. Lockwood—was the dictionary definition of natty as he glided around Myron's new conference table and took the seat next to him.

Myron spread his hands and offered up his most cooperative smile. "I understand you have questions for us?"

"We do," Hawes said. And then without preamble, she dropped the bomb: "Where is Greg Downing?"

The question was a stunner. No other way around it. A stunner. Myron's jaw dropped. He turned to Win. Win's face, as usual, gave away nothing. Win was good at that, showing nothing.

The reason for Myron's surprise was simple.

Greg Downing had been dead for three years.

"I thought you were here about the Callister murders," Myron said.

"We are," Special Agent Hawes countered. Then repeated the question. "Where is Greg Downing?"

"Are you joking?" Myron asked.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

She did not. She looked, in fact, like she never ever joked.

Myron glanced at Win to gauge his reaction. Win looked a little bored.

"Greg Downing," Myron said, "is dead."

"Is that your story?"

Myron frowned. "My story?"

The young agent who looked like a beluga whale leaned forward a little and glared at Win. He spoke for the first time, his voice deeper than Myron expected. Or maybe Myron had expected a high-pitched whale call. "Is that your story too?"

Win almost yawned. "No comment."

"You're Greg Downing's financial advisor," Young Beluga continued, still trying to stare down Win; he would have had a better chance of staring down a duvet cover. "Is that correct?"

"No comment."

"We can subpoena your records."

"Gasp, now I'm terrified. Let me think on that one." Win steepled his fingers and lowered his head as though in deep thought. Then: "Say it with me this time: No comment."

Hawes and Young Beluga scowled some more. "And you." Hawes swiveled back on Myron with a snarl. Myron guessed that Hawes had him, Young Beluga had Win. "You're Downing's, what, agent? Manager?"

"Correction," Myron said. "I was his agent and manager."

"When did you stop?"

"Three years ago. When Greg, you know, died."

"You both attended his memorial service."

Win stayed mum, so Myron said, "We did."

"You even spoke, Mr. Bolitar. After all the bad blood between you two, I hear you gave a beautiful eulogy."

Myron glanced at Win again. "Uh, thanks."

"And you're sticking with your story?"

Again with the story. Myron threw up his hands. "What are you talking about, story?"

Young Beluga shook his massive white head as though Myron's answer was a total disappointment to him, which, he guessed, it was.

"Where do you think he is right now?" Hawes asked.

"Greg?"

"Stop jerking us around, jerkoff," Young Beluga snapped. "Where is he?"

Myron was getting a little fed up with this. "In a mausoleum at Cedar Lawn Cemetery in Paterson."

"That's a lie," Hawes countered. "Did you help him?"

Myron sat back. Their tone was growing increasingly hostile, but there was also the unmistakable whiff of desperation and thus truth in the air. Myron didn't know what was going on here, and when that happened he had a habit of talking too much. Better to take a deep breath before continuing.

"I don't understand," Myron began. "What does Greg Downing have to do with the Callister murders? Didn't the cops already arrest the husband?"

Now it was the two agents who exchanged a glance. "They released Mr. Himble this morning."

"Why?"

No reply.

Here was what Myron knew about the murders: Cecelia Callister, age fifty-two, a semi-supermodel from the 1990s, and her thirty-year-old son, Clay, were found murdered in the mansion where they resided with Cecelia's fourth husband, Lou Himble. Himble had recently been indicted on fraud charges related to his cryptocurrency startup.

"I thought the case was open and shut," Myron continued. "The husband was having an affair, she found out, was going to turn state's evidence on him, he had to silence her, the son walked in on them. Something like that."

Special Agent Monica Hawes and Special Agent Young Beluga Whale exchanged another glance. Then Hawes repeated in a careful voice, "Something like that."

"So?"

Myron waited. Win waited.

"We have reason to believe," Hawes said, still using the careful voice, "that Greg Downing is still alive. We have reason to believe your former client is involved in the murders."

The two feds leaned forward to gauge the reaction. Myron did not disappoint. Even though this accusation should have seemed inevitable by now, Myron went slack-jawed when he heard it out loud.

Greg. Alive.

How did he process that? After all the years—their on-court rivalry, Greg stealing Myron's first love, Myron's awful payback for that, Greg's even worse payback, the years of reconciliation—and Jeremy, dear sweet, wonderful Jeremy…

It made no sense. Every part of his face registered complete and utter bafflement.

And Win's reaction? He was checking the time on his vintage Blancpain watch.

"Please excuse me," Win said. "I have a pressing engagement. My, what a delight to have met you both."

Win rose.

"Sit down," Hawes demanded.

"I don't think I will."

"We aren't finished."

"You aren't, are you?" Win gave them both his most winning smile. It was a good smile, even better than Myron's cooperative one. "I, however, am. Have a most pleasant afternoon."

Without so much as a backward glance, Win sauntered out of the office. Everyone, including Myron, stared at the door as Win vanished from sight.

Win's full name is Windsor Horne Lockwood III. The skyscraper they currently sat atop was called the Lock-Horne Building. The italics are here to emphasize that the building was named for Win's family and thus big bucks are involved. For many years, Myron's sports agency MB Reps (the M for Myron, the B for Bolitar, the Reps because they represented people—Myron came up with that name on his own but remained humble) had been housed on the building's fourth floor. A few years back, Myron stupidly sold his agency and moved out and now a law firm resided in that space. When Myron decided to come back two months ago, the top floor was the only available space.

Not that Myron was complaining. The pretty bitching view impressed clients, if not FBI agents.

Over the past two months, Myron had been working hard to woo back some of his old clients. He had overlooked Greg Downing for the simple reason that, well, the whole dead thing. Dead men make poor earning clients. Bad business.

The two agents were still staring at the door. When they finally realized that Win was not returning, Hawes turned her focus back on Myron. "Did you hear what I said, Mr. Bolitar?"

Myron nodded, got his bearings. "You claim a man who died of a heart attack—a man who had an obituary and a funeral and who, as you pointed out, I eulogized—is, in fact, still alive."

"Yes."

Myron looked back at the door where Win had just up and left. Yes, Win loved to play the aloof, elite, above-it-all snob because that was what he was, but Myron still found it hard to believe that Win would just walk out without reason. That made Myron pull up and try to take a more cautious route.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" Myron asked.

Young Beluga did not like that one. "What are you, a shrink?"

"Good one."

"What?"

"The shrink line," Myron said. "It's very funny."

Young Beluga's narrow eyes narrowed even more. "You being a wiseass with me?"

Myron did not reply right away. Thoughts about Greg's family swirled in Myron's head. He fought hard to keep them at bay. Greg's wife, Emily. Greg's… man, it was hard to even think about it… his son, Jeremy. So much past. So much history. So much misery and joy. There are people we stumble across who change things forever. Some are obvious—family and partners—but in the end, when Myron looked at his own life's journey and trajectory, nobody altered Myron's more than Greg Downing.

For the better or the worse?

"You hear me, wiseass?"

"Loud and clear," Myron said, fighting to keep focus. "Can you prove what you're saying is true?"

"About?"

"About Greg being alive. Can you prove it?"

The two agents hesitated, exchanged yet another glance. Then Hawes said, "Greg Downing's DNA was found at the Callister murder scene."

"What sort of DNA?"

Young Beluga took that one with a side of relish: "Skin cells," he said. "Your, uh, ‘dead' client? His DNA was found under the victim's fingernails." He sat up a little straighter and lowered his voice à la a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, like when a helpless victim is desperately scratching and clawing to save their own life? Like that."

Myron's head reeled. This made no sense. Young Beluga smiled with teeth too small for his mouth, thus adding to his overall beluga appearance.

"Under which victim's nails?" Myron asked.

"None of your business." It was Hawes this time. "You and Greg Downing go way back, don't you? Basketball rivals. High school. College. Both of you were drafted in the NBA's first round. Downing had a great pro career. Became a beloved coach after he retired." Hawes put on a sarcastic pity pout. "You, on the other hand…"

"… have a cool-ass office with a pretty bitching view?"

Quick backstory: Not long after the draft, during Myron's first preseason game as a twenty-one-year-old Boston Celtics rookie, an opposing player named Big Burt Wesson slammed into Myron, twisting his knee in a way no joint should ever be twisted.

Bye-bye, basketball.

Hawes and Beluga thought this still bothered Myron, that it would be a good way to needle him and get under his skin.

They were two decades late for that.

Hawes's gaze met Myron's. "Let's stop with the games, Mr. Bolitar. Where is Greg Downing?"

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

"You don't want to cooperate?"

"If you're telling me the truth—"

"We are."

"If you're telling me the truth," Myron started again, "if Greg is alive—I can't talk."

"Why not?"

"Attorney-client privilege."

"I thought you were his agent."

"That too."

"I'm not following."

When young Myron realized that his knee would never heal properly, when he realized his playing days were over, he doubled down on "moving on." He had been a good student at Duke. He channeled his basketball focus into studying for the LSAT, aced it, got accepted to Harvard Law School, graduated with honors. After he passed the bar, he opened MB Reps (then called MB SportsReps because—try to follow with help from the italics—at first, he only represented athletes or people in sports). By being a true bar-associated attorney, Myron was able to offer his clients the fullest protection under the law.

It helped, especially when a client had a legal issue.

Like now, he guessed.

"We were told you'd cooperate, Mr. Bolitar."

"That was before I knew what this was about," Myron said. "Please leave. Now."

They both took their time standing up.

"One more thing," Myron said. "If you find Mr. Downing, I don't want him questioned without my presence."

Young Beluga's reply was a scoffing sound. Hawes stayed silent.

Myron sat there as they started to circle around the table. Greg. Alive. Forget the murders for a moment. How the hell can Greg be alive?

Young Beluga stopped and bent down over Myron. "This isn't over, asshole."

He had no idea how right he was.