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“I understand,” Myron said.
“I want to thank you. For helping him and all.”
“You’re welcome,” Myron said.
There was a brief silence.
“Something wrong, Myron?”
Win was still doing push-ups. His torso moved up and down with piston-machine-like precision. He did three sets of one hundred, twice a week. “If you do more than that,” Win had explained, “you will injure your rotator cuff.”
“Where are you coming in from?” Myron asked.
“I told you before—”
“Classified, I remember.” Then: “Are you still in the military?”
Silence. Long silence.
“Or were you discharged three years ago?”
More silence.
“Are you still in the military,” Myron continued, “or do you work IT at Dillard’s department store?”
Still more silence. Myron’s grip on the phone tightened.
Finally, Jeremy said, “You’ve been busy.”
“Do you want to explain?”
“Over a phone? No, I don’t think so.”
“When you arrive?”
“Sure,” Jeremy said. Then: “Myron?”
“Yes?”
“You’re probably expecting me to get all indignant and snap, ‘How dare you dig into my past’ or ‘I can’t believe you don’t trust your own son’ or something like that.”
Myron nodded. Of course, Jeremy couldn’t see it, so it was more to himself. But that was exactly what he’d been thinking.
“I’m not upset. I get why you did it. We’ll talk about it when I see you, okay?”
“Okay.”
“So don’t worry,” Jeremy said. “It’s all good.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Metropolitan Correctional Center is a twelve-story high-rise in the Civic Center of Manhattan, near Chinatown, Tribeca, and the Financial District. John Gotti was held here. Sammy the Bull was held here. Bernie Madoff was held here. El Chapo was held here. Jeffrey Epstein was held—and purportedly killed himself—here.
And now, with a ton of media fanfare around the edifice, Greg Downing was being released from here.
Myron and Win watched from a spot across the street.
“Greg could just exit from inside,” Myron said.
