Chapter Twenty-Three

Myron slipped out of bed at five a.m.

He often lived out of the main guest bedroom in Win's apartment, the one that overlooked Central Park near 72nd Street. There was an eight-foot-tall Chagall—yes, a real one—on the wall between two windows that faced the park. From the George III–era antique four-poster bed of Jamaican mahogany, Myron's view (from left to right or right to left) was window overlooking Central Park, gorgeous Chagall, window overlooking Central Park.

There were worse places to stay.

Win was already awake, fully dressed, and reading a newspaper—a real-life actual newspaper made from paper—in the parlor. He drank his Earl Grey from a fine bone china teacup with the family crest on it. Myron took the burgundy leather chair next to him.

"How was your night?" Win asked.

"Pretty awesome. I didn't hear you come in."

"Probably because your night was—how did you so skillfully describe it?—‘pretty awesome.'"

Win was a night owl. He took walks in the wee hours. He drank a bit too much and womanized, if that was still the term people used, to all hours, but somehow, he always woke up early looking fresh and ready. Or he used to. Not that it would be noticeable to anyone else, but Myron could feel the years starting to surface just a bit on his old friend. The eyes were slightly more lidded. The hand lifting that cup of tea wasn't quite as steady. Maybe that was Myron's imagination. Or maybe Myron was projecting—he wasn't getting younger either—but he didn't think so.

"Did you, uh, use your app last night?" Myron asked.

"I did," Win said.

Win had a super-rich, super-exclusive, super-anonymous, super-luxurious sexual hookup app—Tinder for the uber-wealthy kinda thing. Myron didn't know all the details—didn't want to know all the details—but in sum, two mega-rich people match, meet in a clandestine gorgeous penthouse somewhere in midtown, and, well, do the sheet mambos.

"Don't ask for details," Win said.

"I won't."

"Everyone on the app is sworn to secrecy."

"Terrific."

"I mean, I could tell you about it without giving names. Make it a hypothetical."

"Hard pass."

"Why did you ask in the first place?"

"I was just wondering that myself."

Win smiled, turned the page of the newspaper, and refolded it. He did this with great precision, like a mathematician working geometric shapes or Myron's aunt Selma dividing a lunch check.

"Esperanza needs to see you this morning," Win said. "Her office. They're waiting for you now."

Myron glanced at the fancy Louis the Something clock on the marble fireplace mantel. "Kinda early."

"Yes."

"You said they're waiting," Myron said.

"So observant."

"They. As in plural."

"Not in today's world."

"Fair enough, except I know Esperanza's pronouns are she/her. Ergo she's not the ‘they' to which you refer."

Win smiled, nodded approvingly. "The ‘they,' my clever boy, refers to both Esperanza and Sadie Fisher."

Sadie Fisher was the founding partner of the FFD law firm—the first F, as it were, where Esperanza was the D.

"So Sadie wants to talk to me," Myron said.

Win didn't reply.

"Why didn't Esperanza just text me?"

"Because she didn't want to interrupt you and Terese in flagrante delicto."

Myron shook his head. "How old are you?"

"She preferred that I give you the message in person."

"Any idea what's up?"

"Some," Win said. "But it would only be conjecture."

An hour later, Win's limo pulled into the special entrance below the Lock-Horne Building. They entered the private elevator. Myron got out alone on his old floor. Back in the days when MB Reps ruled this land, this foyer had been painted in the we-are-serious-professionals neutrals of gray and beige. When Fisher, Friedman and Diaz moved in, they painted the walls a harsh rouge seemingly inspired by the lipstick color Esperanza and Sadie both now sported.

The law firm's receptionist was a young man named Taft Buckington III, who looked exactly like his name. Taft's father, Taft Buckington II—and this won't shock anyone, what with a name like that—was a member of Win's ultra-exclusive golf club on the Main Line known as Merion. The FFD law firm was all-female. When Win, an investor in said law firm, suggested that Sadie hire a token male attorney, her response had been blunt: "Shit, no." Instead, she hired young Taft to be both a receptionist and paralegal. It seemed to be working.

"Hey, Taft," Myron said.

"Good morning, Mr. Bolitar. I'll let Sadie and Esperanza know you've arrived."

"No need."

It was Sadie speaking. She and Esperanza strutted toward Myron side by side, heads high, shoulders back, as though on a runway, Myron thought, which was undoubtedly sexist thinking, but there you go.

Esperanza greeted Myron with a kiss on the cheek. He didn't know Sadie very well, but she did the same. They moved into what had once been Myron's office. It belonged to Sadie now. She had kept his old desk, but that was about it. The minifridge that held Myron's Yoo-hoos had been replaced by a printer stand. Gone were all his Broadway musical posters and sports artwork and keepsakes from his own playing career. Instead there was nothing on the walls. Nothing on the desk.

"Feels weird, right?" Sadie said.

"A little."

"I don't like having anything personal in here," she explained. "I'm not trying to make an impression. I don't want them to think I have a personal life or any life outside of this office. When a client comes in here, I want nothing to distract them. I want them to think I only exist to help and represent them."

Sadie took Myron's old seat behind the desk. Myron sat across from her. It was weird, this view. Esperanza stood and paced, metaphorically and nearly literally sitting on the fence. Sadie adjusted her librarian glasses and said, "Our firm is now handling Greg Downing's defense."

That surprised Myron. "Oh." Then: "Who specifically did Greg hire?"

"Me," Sadie said. "But we are all on the team, including as of right now, you. You're a bar-appointed New York City attorney, correct?"

"Correct."

"So everything we say to one another is covered under attorney-client privilege. We clear?"

"Crystal."

"That's the reason why Win wasn't invited to participate. Just to clarify. I would never leave him out otherwise."

Myron looked at Esperanza then back to Sadie. "I know you guys have done great work protecting your clients from rapists and stalkers, but have you done much criminal defense work?"

"Much? No. Some? Yes." Sadie took off her glasses and put one earpiece in her mouth. "And to answer your next question, no one at the firm has done a murder trial. I explained this to Greg."

"So if you don't mind me asking—"

"Why us?" Sadie finished for him.

Myron nodded. "I don't mean any disrespect."

"None taken. That would be my first question too, if I were you. And I asked Greg that. To cut right to it, Greg knows me, he likes me, he trusts me. He knows I'm good and I'll fight like hell for him, and even though I've never done an actual murder trial before, he knows I'll find the right people to help."

"Greg knows me, he likes me, he trusts me," Myron repeated.

"You want to know how," Sadie said. "Understandable. You are familiar with Greg's ex, Emily."

Myron glanced again at Esperanza. Esperanza shrugged.

"I am."

"Of course you are. I was being facetious. Greg told me the whole sordid tale that is your history. Do you remember Emily's younger sister?"

"Judy."

"Judy Becker now. Judy was my college roommate. We're very close. Like you and Win at Duke, I guess. That's how I met Greg. I've done light legal work for him and Emily for years. In fact, Greg introduced me to Win a few years back. It's why I thought of him when I needed office space."

Myron took this in for a moment. He looked once again at Esperanza.

"Why do you keep looking at Esperanza?" Sadie asked.

"We're close friends."

"I know. What do you think I'm not telling you?"

"Nothing."

"Then knock it off. It's distracting."

"Sorry. Old habit. I assume you talked to your client."

"Yes."

"And?"

"And—shock of shocks—Greg says he didn't do it."

"Do you believe him?"

"Is this the part where I say it doesn't matter or I don't care or whatever? I'm not getting into that right now, okay?" Sadie checked her watch. "I'm taking too long to spit this out, so let me just get to it. There's something weird about this case. Right now, the FBI is keeping it very hush-hush but there's a bizarre rumor going around."

"The rumor being?"

"They think this isn't the first time Greg murdered someone."

Myron almost turned to look at Esperanza, but then, remembering Sadie's reaction, he thought better of it. "Who else do they think he murdered?"

"Don't know."

"Do you know about the murder of Jordan Kravat in Vegas?"

Sadie nodded. "Esperanza filled me in."

"That's probably the murder the rumors are about, no?"

"I think," Sadie said slowly, chewing on the earpiece of her glasses, "it may be more than that."

"What do you mean?"

"Those FBI agents came to your office."

"So?"

"So the FBI doesn't usually handle murders."

"That's a little bit of a TV cliché," Myron said, "that whole ‘crossing state lines' thing. They help out a lot. Also, Greg was high-profile and supposedly dead. I figured that put it in their jurisdiction."

"Did you look up Special Agent Monica Hawes?"

"No."

"Her area of expertise is profiling," Sadie said. "As in serial killer profiling."

Myron blinked. "They think Greg is a serial killer?"

"Don't know. But I'm getting a vibe. Not a good one either." Sadie put her hands on the table and leaned forward. "That's why you're here. I'm hoping you could help us."

"How?"

"I know you and Win have a past with the FBI, and yes, I know that from Esperanza so you can now turn your head and look at her for confirmation. You have a contact in the FBI. An upper-echelon one, right?"

Myron immediately thought about his old boss PT. "I may."

"You're cute when you're coy. Actually, you're not. Anyway, please give your contact a call. We need to know what we're up against. Then please report back to us what he tells you."

Myron filled Win in on his conversation with Sadie and Esperanza. He understood why Sadie had to be careful about attorney-client privilege, but in the end, there was nothing said in that room that needed to be kept quiet anyway. Not that Win would talk. Not that they could ever get a guy with his resources on the stand. But even if they did, at the end of the day all Sadie wanted to know was what the FBI had on her client. There was nothing incriminating about that.

"I know you already spoke to PT," Myron said.

"And he made it clear he knows more," Win said. "No harm in reaching out."

Win put his office phone on speaker and dialed PT's number. He threw his feet up on the desk as the first ring trilled. Myron sat across from him and waited. On the third ring, the familiar gruff voice came through.

"Is Myron with you?" PT asked without preamble.

Myron said, "I am."

"Lunch at Le Bernardin. Just the three of us."

He clicked off.

"It's like he was expecting our call," Myron said.

"Indeed."

"What do you make of it?"

Win thought about it a moment. "The FBI must have a hell of an expense account if he's taking us to Le Bernardin."