Chapter Two

Win's office was one floor below Myron's.

When Myron got off the elevator, he still auto-braced for the hustle and bustle and pure volume of screaming traders shouting out buy-sell orders for stocks and bonds and investments, and, uh, financial stuff like that. Myron wasn't good with monetary instruments and the like, and he was okay with that. Win handled all money matters for the clients. Myron handled the agenting work—negotiating with owners and executives, soliciting endorsement deals, increasing a client's social-media compensation, branding, upping appearance fees, taking care of life's mundanities, whatever.

In short: maximizing earning potential.

Myron's job involved bringing in the money; Win's job was to invest and grow it.

The lack of workplace cacophony had something to do with how trades were made online or via computers nowadays. There was still the occasional shout across the room, but for the most part, every head was down, every eye was on a screen. It was creepy.

Win's private corner office was, not surprisingly, the largest. It faced both Park Avenue and uptown. There was the pretty bitching view, but there was also dark wood paneling and period art and the feel of a nineteenth-century men's club in central London.

"You know something," Myron said.

"I know lots of somethings."

"You're being coy. You're never coy."

"Sometimes I'm coy with the ladies," Win said. Then: "No, wait, I mean coquettish."

"Did you know Greg was alive?"

Win considered that. He spun toward the windows and looked out at his view. This too was something he almost never did. Then Win said, "A columbarium."

"What now?"

"You told the agents that Greg Downing was in a mausoleum."

"Right."

"A mausoleum is designed to hold a corpse," Win said. "A columbarium houses cremated remains."

"I stand corrected. Thanks for the vocabulary seminar."

Win spread his hands. "I give and I give."

"You do. Your point is, Greg was cremated."

"Correct."

"And, what, that makes it easier to fake a death?"

"Let's run the timeline, shall we?"

Myron nodded for Win to continue.

"Five years ago, Greg Downing was fired as head coach of the Milwaukee Bucks. At the time, Greg was immensely popular with a winning record for three different NBA franchises. It would be fair to say he was still very much in demand, correct?"

Myron nodded. "The Knicks and Heat both wanted to talk to him."

"But instead of fielding those offers, Greg, who was still a young man—"

"Our age," Myron added.

"Very young then." Win gave a small smile. "He instead pled burnout and claimed that he wanted out of the rat race. Did you buy that?"

Myron shrugged. "I've seen it before."

"Now who's being coy?"

"It was out of character," Myron conceded. "Greg had always been hypercompetitive."

"Game knows game," Win said.

"Meaning?"

"You were rivals for so long because you are both hypercompetitive. It led to great battles on the court. It led to great catastrophes off it."

Myron had no reply to that one.

"Did you and Greg discuss his decision?" Win asked.

"No. You know this."

"Just reviewing the facts. Greg simply took off. Ran away. Disappeared. He sent you an email."

"Yes."

"Do you remember what the email said?"

"I can find it if you want, but it just said something about needing a change in his life, looking to start his next chapter. He said he wanted to travel alone and find himself."

"Find himself," Win repeated with a disgusted shake of the head. "God, I hope he didn't use that wording."

"He did," Myron said. "Anyway, he started off in a monastery in Laos."

"And we know that how?"

"He told me." Myron considered that. "Why would he lie?"

Win didn't answer. "When did you next hear from Greg?"

"I don't know. I figured he needed to recharge the battery. That he'd be back pretty soon. But a week became a month then two months. He texted every once in a while. He said he was in Laos, then Thailand or Nepal, I don't remember exactly. Then…"

"Two years pass, and we get word he's dead."

"Yes," Myron said. Then: "What aren't you telling me, Win?"

Win again ignored the question. "How hard would it have been to fake his own death? Let's say you are Greg. You write your own obituary and put it in a newspaper. You say you died of a heart attack. You ship ashes—they can be burnt anything, really—in an urn. There's a memorial service. We go to it." Win held his palms to the sky. "Voilà, you're dead."

Myron frowned. "And then what, you sneak back into the country and murder Cecelia Callister and her son?"

Win stared out the window some more. That was when Myron saw it.

"Greg would have needed money," Myron said.

Win still stared.

"All those years away. No matter how frugal he was being. He would need to access his bank accounts. Did you meet with him?"

More staring.

"Win?"

"We have a dilemma."

"That being?"

"Client confidentiality."

"You're not an attorney."

"My word should mean nothing then?" Win turned away from the window. "If a client requests confidentiality, I should still speak freely?"

"No," Myron said, searching for a way around the impasse, "but in the specific case of Greg Downing, I am his agent, his manager, and his lawyer. Whatever he told you can be shared with me."

"Unless," Win said, holding up a finger, "the client told me not to tell anyone, including and specifically you."

Myron took a step back. "Wow."

"Indeed."

"Are you saying you knew Greg was alive?"

"I'm not saying anything of the sort."

"I sense a ‘but.'"

"But if I were to review his financial decisions with this fresh perspective, I could perhaps conclude that this isn't the total shock for me that it is for you."

Win didn't have to give the details—Myron got the gist.

"So hypothetically," Myron said, "before Greg ran overseas to, uh, find himself, he may have made some money moves. Opened offshore accounts, transferred assets into less traceable instruments, that kind of thing."

"If he did," Win said, "that's the kind of thing that would remain confidential."

"So Greg planned this."

"Perhaps."

Silence.

Then Myron said, "Greg never fired us."

Win closed his eyes.

"If he is alive, he's still our client."

Win rubbed the closed eyes.

"You know where I'm going with this?" Myron asked.

"It would be hard not to guess without some form of fresh brain trauma," Win said. "You want to help him."

"Want doesn't matter," Myron said. "If Greg's alive, we are obligated to help him."

"Is this the part where I say, ‘Even if he's a murderer?'"

"And then I nod sagely and reply, ‘Even if.' Or maybe ‘Let's cross that bridge when we get to it.'"

"‘Even if' is the less hackneyed line," Win said with a sigh. "Do I need to remind you that this will open a lot of old emotional wounds for you?"

"Not really."

"Or that you're not good with handling old emotional wounds."

"I'm aware."

"Your destructive ex. Your career-ending injury. Your biological son."

"I get it, Win."

"No, my dear friend, you don't. You never do." Win sighed, shrugged, slapped his hands on the table. "Okay, fine, let's do it. The Lone Ranger and Tonto ride again."

"More like Batman and Robin."

"Sherlock and Watson."

"Green Hornet and Kato."

"Starsky and Hutch."

"Cagney and Lacey."

"McMillan and Wife."

"Scarecrow and Mrs. King."

"Simon and Simon."

"Turner and Hooch."

Win gasped. "Don't we wish?" Then he snapped his fingers. "Tango and Cash."

"Ooo, good one." Then: "Michael Knight and KITT."

"KITT, the talking car?"

"Yes," Myron said. "Plus, it has to be the Hoff playing Michael. None of these crappy reboots."

"Michael and KITT," Win repeated. "Which one of us is which?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does not," Win said. "So first steps?"

"Follow the money trail from the offshore accounts."

"Negative," Win said.

"Why not?"

"We won't be able to trace the money," Win said. "I'm that good."

"Then look at the Callister murders maybe."

"On it already. And you? Where do you go?"

Myron thought about it. "To my destructive ex."