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On the bench up ahead, Myron spotted a bearded busker with a guitar and microphone and amp, and QR codes so you could tip him by Venmo or Zelle. Street musicians had gone high tech too. He sang about a banker who never wore a mac in the pouring rain, which he found very strange. Great lyrics until you really thought about them. Myron rushed past him. There was a large group of people lined up to take photos with the “Imagine” mosaic. Dave, the button vendor Win sometimes chatted up who also scheduled the Strawberry Fields buskers/musicians, was gone from his usual spot. That’s where Myron veered off the path. He found a thick tree and hid behind it.
He looked out. No Greg. No Emily.
“Where’s the phone now?” Myron asked PT.
Before PT could answer, Myron’s phone buzzed again. It was a text from Esperanza in full caps. Esperanza never uses caps.
CALL ME NOW!!!!
Myron didn’t bother saying goodbye to PT. He just hung up and hit Esperanza’s line.
“What’s up?”
“Oh shit, you were right.”
“What?”
“That hidden bank account,” Esperanza said. “The one Greg and Grace used for the house in Pine Bush. You told me to look into it.”
“And?”
“They got a credit card issued in the name of Parker Stalworth. Someone using that card rented a car in Horsham, Pennsylvania, two days ago.”
Horsham, Myron thought. Not far from Doylestown or Philadelphia.
It was suddenly all coming together.
“How do we trace this down?” Myron asked.
“Already done,” Esperanza said. “A screenshot from the rental-car surveillance video is coming to both of us now. Check your texts.”
Myron heard the buzz from the incoming photo. He glanced again down the path. No Greg. No Emily. No one he knew. Then he put the phone on speaker and looked down at the screen. The screenshot was too small to see. He tapped the photo to enlarge the image. It took a few moments to load.
The image, like all CCTV surveillance images, was shot from above. Myron saw the back of the rental-car employee’s head. The person renting the car wore a black baseball cap and kept their face down.
But Myron knew who it was. Suddenly all the pieces fell into place.
Esperanza said, “Myron, is that—?”
At that same moment, Myron sensed more than heard or even felt it:
Someone had sneaked up behind him.
He didn’t hesitate. He spun to his right, his arm coming up, deflecting the gun mere inches from the back of his head. In that split second—less than a second, less than a tenth of a second maybe—Myron spotted the same black baseball cap.
The gun fired.
The bullet hit Myron.
And Myron went down.
CHAPTER FORTY
From your spot by the tunnel opening, you watch Myron hurry up the path.
Why so fast? you wonder.
Strawberry Fields is bustling. Tour groups huddle up while guides speak in a variety of tongues. The pedicabs—think a mix of bicycle and rickshaw—are lined up on the seemingly always-closed-to-cars 72nd Street ramp. The drivers hustle for the tourist trade, cajoling pedestrians with smiles and maps and photographs of the park wonders they would encounter should the driver be hired. Several horse and carriages await new riders. The horses, you realize, will freak out when they hear gunfire.
