Chapter Nineteen

Two hours later, Myron and Jeremy sat in a visiting room waiting for Greg.

Myron said, "Can I ask you something else?"

"I'll skip the old ‘you just did' joke," Jeremy said.

"Thank God." Then: "Did you know Greg was alive?"

"Not at first," Jeremy said. "He told me later."

"When? How?"

"He visited me. When I was stationed at Camp Arifjan in Kuwait."

"And, what, he just showed up?"

Jeremy nodded. "He had Grace call first."

"You knew about Grace?"

"I didn't before that call."

"So you saw him in Kuwait?"

"Yes."

"Why did he do it?"

"Fake his death?"

"Yeah," Myron said. "For starters."

"I think it was a combination of things."

"Like?"

"Like how he needed to escape the world."

Myron frowned. "Didn't running away do that already?"

"That's what I thought. But he didn't tell me about the murder in Vegas. That probably pushed him too."

Myron was about to ask a follow-up when the door opened. Greg entered. Myron expected him to be cuffed, but he wasn't. He wore a beige prisoner jumpsuit. Jeremy leapt from his chair and shouted, "Dad!" Myron tried not to let that sound pierce his chest. The two men embraced hard. Myron could see Greg's face over Jeremy's shoulder as he held tight. His eyes were squeezed shut. Jeremy clung to Greg as Greg gently assured him that everything was going to be okay. Myron wondered whether he had ever felt like such an awkward intruder in his life. He concluded that the answer was no.

Still holding one another, the two men—father and son, Myron thought, let's be honest about it—found their seats. Both had tears in their eyes. Myron just waited. He didn't want to be the first to speak. When they got a little more settled, Greg broke the silence.

Glaring at Myron, Greg said, "You're only here because Jeremy asked me to see you."

"Hey, don't do me any favors." Myron started to rise. "I can go right now."

"Guys," Jeremy said.

Greg continued to glare at Myron. "Did you set me up?"

"Are you serious?"

"Did you bring the feds with you," Greg asked, "or were you just a witless dupe?"

"I was trying to help you," Myron said.

"Guys," Jeremy tried again.

"Did a great job of that, didn't you?"

"I almost lost a toe," Myron said.

"A baby toe, don't be so dramatic."

"Guys," Jeremy said again, but this time there was some steel behind it. He wasn't the son of either of them in that moment. He was the military leader. Both men shut up.

Jeremy nodded as though satisfied. Then he said, "I'm going to leave you two alone."

Greg: "What?"

Myron: "Wait, why?"

"Because," Jeremy said, again adding that authority to his voice that didn't leave room for any protest, "Myron is an attorney. Anything you say to him falls under attorney-client privilege. You don't enjoy that same protection with me." Jeremy rose, turning his attention to Myron. "Signal me when it's okay for me to come back." He knocked on the door. A guard opened it. Jeremy slipped out.

Greg was still staring at the door. "That kid," he said.

"I know."

"Makes up for a host of sins," Greg said. Then, turning his gaze to Myron, "Makes it easier to forgive."

"For me or for you?" Then Myron raised his hand in a stop gesture. "We don't want to dig up old grievances, do we?"

"Or even new ones," Greg said. "So let's get to it, okay?"

He didn't add "for Jeremy's sake." He didn't have to.

"Emily said you knew Cecelia Callister," Myron began.

"I told you that," Greg said. "A long time ago."

"Emily says you were upset when Ben and Cecelia got divorced."

"‘Upset' is a pretty strong word."

"What word would you use?"

"I thought it was scummy on her part. Leaving her husband after getting pregnant. Not telling him whose baby she was carrying."

The echo with their past clanged loudly and obviously. Myron pushed through it.

"Did you ever sleep with her?"

"Cecelia Callister?"

"Yes."

Greg smiled. "Wait. You don't think—"

"I'm just trying to find connections."

"No, I never slept with her."

"So there's no chance that her son Clay…"

"Was mine?" Greg shook his head. "Wow. All kinds of weird karma stuff going around here, isn't there? No, Myron. There's no chance Clay was mine."

Myron sat back. "They found your DNA at the scene."

"That's what they say."

"You don't believe it?"

"I wasn't there. I didn't kill her. I haven't seen Cecelia Callister in thirty years. So when my lawyer told me that they had my DNA under her fingernails or something—I assumed that it had to be a mistake. I know the science doesn't lie. But sometimes humans do. Or labs mess up. There had to be something wrong. That's what I thought."

"Thought," Myron repeated. "As in past tense."

"Yes."

"So now you think…?"

"My lawyer had his own expert redo the DNA test from scratch. Took my DNA, compared it to the lab sample. It's definitely my DNA under the fingernails. It's too crazy. Do you want to know where my mind went at first?"

Myron nodded for him to tell him.

"I wondered whether I had a twin brother or something. Then I wondered whether, I don't know, I gave blood somewhere. Like years ago. Like maybe I gave a donation to the Red Cross and someone stole it."

"Twins don't have the same DNA profile, and they can't use stored blood—"

"Yeah, I know all that now. I didn't really believe any of it either. I'm just trying to show you how crazy my mind started to go."

"So what then?"

"I kept thinking someone has to be setting me up."

"Who?"

"Cecelia Callister was murdered on September fourteenth."

"Okay," Myron said.

"So look, I've been keeping a low profile for a long time. The beard. The hair. It's all a disguise. I've been careful. But there are things I still miss. About my old life." Greg inched a little closer. "Tell me your favorite basketball memory. Not a big shot or a championship. Tell me when you enjoyed just playing the most."

Myron was going to mention the one time he got to suit up in a Boston Celtics uniform, his one and only preseason game, the game where Big Burt Wesson, paid off by Greg Downing to avenge his wife's infidelity, slammed into Myron and ended his career. But now was not the time. It wasn't water under the bridge, but it was water best not to navigate through right now.

When Myron didn't reply, Greg said, "What I remember most, what I loved about the game, were those pickup games in the off-season. Remember?"

"At the JCC," Myron said.

"Right. Nowadays the kids play competitive ball all year around. AAU. All these leagues, all these scheduled games. They're a nice moneymaker for someone, but it hurts the game. And the kids. My favorite part of basketball? The part I missed? Old-school pickup games. A gym that smelled like old socks. Guys choosing sides. Shirts and skins. Calling winners."

"Yeah, Greg, I know what pickup basketball is."

But it was hard not to agree. Myron loved pickup. He still played it occasionally, when his knee could handle the strain.

"Okay," Myron said. "So you started playing in pickup games."

"I was careful about keeping a low profile. A different court every time. I found a church league game one week. I found some guys who played at a local Y the next. I dialed my game down, so, you know, I wouldn't dominate."

He wasn't bragging. Myron did the same. Guys think they are good. But they aren't pros.

"I'd even play lefty," Greg said.

"Yeah, but you always drove to the hoop with your left."

Greg smiled. "You used to overplay it."

"The rare righty who wants to go left," Myron said. Then: "Nice to reminisce but Jeremy is waiting. What's your point?"

"I played in a game sometime early September."

"Okay."

"It was one of those games where the guys get out of hand. You know. Too much testosterone."

Myron knew exactly what he meant. "It got physical?"

"Very. A guy elbowed me in the nose. I started bleeding. Another scratched me. At one point, someone hit me in the back of the head. Hard. I went down. I may have lost consciousness, I don't know. I don't remember much."

"When was this exactly?"

"I don't remember. Like I said, I'm pretty sure it was early September."

"So what you're saying is—"

"Yeah, maybe it makes no sense, but if my DNA is at that murder scene, like skin under Cecelia's fingernails or blood… I mean, I was bleeding pretty good that night. My nose might have even been broken."

"Did you go to a doctor or ER?"

"No, of course not. Come on, you remember what it was like. You shake it off, right? That's how we were raised."

Again that was true. If you could walk home, you didn't complain. Dumb but there you go.

"But I'm thinking about it now. One of the guys handed me a towel to stop my nosebleed. I don't know where that towel is now. And the scratch marks. You can ask Grace. They were pretty deep. So if I am being framed, if someone planted my DNA at a murder scene…"

"This pickup game," Myron said. "Where was it?"

"There's an outdoor court in Wallkill. I don't remember the name of it."

Myron nodded. "Okay, I'll check it out. Anything else?"

"I didn't do this, Myron."

"It's weird though," Myron said. "Jordan Kravat, Cecelia Callister. You knew them both."

"Tangentially," Greg countered. Then he added, "How many murder victims have you known tangentially?"

Touché.

"I know you don't owe me anything—"

"You're still my client," Myron said. "So I'll do what I can."